this, my 24th rodeo

The conception of this post began with me thoroughly bothering the sweet barista at Starbucks (the only place open in this town after 6 pm on a Sunday, don’t get me started!) about the difference between an americano-misto and a decáf misto, which is obviously like the difference between the earth and Jupiter, so needless to say if it wasn’t for this great view of 4 older men reading their books/newspapers/stocks, I would be very on edge right now, so let’s all take a deep breath and remember: YOLO.

And since you only live once (this expression is so obvious it’s comical and annoying all at once) – well, you better make your 24th year THE BEST EVER. No pressure, silly.

And now that I’m 24, I’m alive and kickin’ on the ol’ Twitter, the Book (like a good neighbor, Facebook is always there), and actively using Instagram as the new Photoshop, because hello, Photoshop is expensive and confusing. I also got a grown-up job and I intend to work to live, but hopefully not live to work.

Props to Instagram. Insta-glam! Insta-awesome! Insta-frenz!

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there is NO subliminal message whatsoever

When I was 18, I thought that by the time I was 24, I’d be President of the United States and if that didn’t work out I’d maybe be married (I was a lot thinner then) and if that didn’t work I’d just have an awesome blog. So now it’s clear which path I took. (What is that poem Frost wrote? The path less traveled is littered with blogs?) The Presidency seems overrated anyway. I mean living in a WHITE house,  ALL the time? You can’t pull that stuff after Labor Day.

So on this here birthday I am celebrating with Swarovski crystal earrings (by default, wearing Swarovski makes me officially trendy-elegant), gorgeous flowers, and the fact that I’ve made it to 24 with no regrets.*

Goals for my 24th year:

1. Visit someplace new (like a new city, not like a new public restroom)

2. Get accepted to a graduate school of decent repute. NOT high repute. I’m not snobby.

3. Live the normal Christian life, day by day, bit by bit.

4. Have a “green tea month” and do yoga. Publicize it. Massively.

5. Wear patterned scrubs that would make Florence Nightingale proud.

The possibilities are endless, but the years are not. YOLO, y’all.

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My girl AC did this for me. This is why I’m friends with smart people.

*Regrets, I think, are just things you can do better next time.

 

#202: everything you see I owe to spaghetti

Truth is I don’t come from money but somewhere along the way I started liking nice things, like whole wheat pasta and brown rice and – dare I say it? – couscous.

I was reminded of this yesterday as I swiveled my hips freely and with concentrated sass in my first Zumba class in months…maybe a year. What I love about group exercise is that there is a corporate sense of energy, and if not energy then at least some guilt from everyone’s overeating. Let’s face it: this is America, overeating is a favorite pastime. We overeat like we check Facebook. Or as we check Facebook. Multi-taskers!

Group exercise also reminds me of back in the day (yes, I talk about back in the day now, I’m that old) when I used to be the instructor and I could boss people around AND get paid for it. I just feel like, because I got to tell people what to do and make them sweat AND GOT PAID FOR IT at the age of 19-21, well then my life has more meaning.

Speaking of meaning,  my mom is pretty much the hotness at getting dressed up, and she gets all puffy when I don’t wear mascara. Which is why I look like the mom in this picture and she’s the one wearing the hot pink pants. I just don’t have the blazing boldness (or small waist to hip ratio) to pull off pants like that, so I say “¡olé!” to my mother, because she is this.close to 60 years old and still shopping like, you know, your looks matter. ¡Olé, olé!

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*The title I found in an “artpiece” in IKEA. Even I, EYE, am not that clever.

**I am going to start a category called “pointless but true.” Which, honestly, is more than you can say about most things on the internets.