Bikram yoga – any Bikram class you go to anywhere in the world is the same – is 26 poses performed in a 90 minute class, in a room heated to 105 degrees F with 45% humidity, which leaves you CRAZY drenched in your own sweat by the end. It’s hard, but doable, which is the key for me to doing anything athletic. Still, after the first class, I thought, “all right then, never again BECAUSE I AM SO GROSS RIGHT NOW.”

But I’d paid for the intro week, so I went to another class, and then another, and on Sunday morning I woke up early and did my fourth class of the week, and in THAT class, something slid into place for me. I nailed this one pose that I had allllmost gotten previously. My achy right hip started to feel really good for the first time in a decade, which is huge for me. Epic. I am amazed at how strong I feel, both mentally and physically. It’s incredible.

There’s one weird thing, though: you kind of have to wear skimpy clothing; it’s just way too uncomfortable and hot otherwise. I’ve been doing short, tight shorts and a sports bra which I felt self-conscious in, until I just… didn’t. Because who cares? The class is so intense that no one is looking at anyone but themselves, and no one is judging my love handles. And if they are, you know, eff ‘em. I’ve gone through hell recently; strangers seeing the chubby bits around my middle and stretch marks on my hips don’t matter.

Ain’t nobody got time for that!

And I’m not THAT chubby any more, which I keep forgetting, honestly. The yoga studio has mirrors on two walls, and in my third class, I caught a glimpse of a reflection of a reflection of the lady behind me mid-class. Her arm in the air looked so strong and impressive, and her shoulder was so pretty. I got annoyed; she was wearing the exact same Target sports bra as me but looked so much better in it. Then I realized the double mirrors were distorting my vision, and I was actually seeing my own strong muscles, shapely shoulder, and graceful pose.

Graceful? Amber?

Apparently.

So! If you’re thinking about trying Bikram and needed someone to nudge you, consider this your encouraging words. I’m not sure now if I’m committed to going long-term, but I’m really glad I tried.

This week has been a rough one emotionally, and because I have pollen allergies that are being especially horrible. It almost feels like I’ve come down with pneumonia, and I spent most of days this week stuck between choosing gasping, sneezing and wheezing or taking an allergy pill that knocks me out completely in the middle of the day. (I usually choose the option that lets me nap, because duh, but it’s awful on my productivity.)

If you have some sort of voodoo allergy solution that works without turning me into a toddler, tip me off.

This weekend should be fun, though, Elizabeth is in town, and I’m going to try to check out the new Momofuku Milk Bar that opened a few neighborhoods over from me in Carroll Gardens. If you’re ever in New York, you HAVE to go and get a slice of crack pie. It’s visually unremarkable, but really, really delicious.

Happy weekend!

WHAT? It’s how I get through it.

Then I mapped it and realized that if we did the little loop, we were doing 4.5 miles and if we did the big one, we were doing a solid 5. That might not sound like a lot but when I realized this, I strutted around like some sort of Olympic athlete and spent a solid 24 hours feeling like a superior human – like I imagine marathon runners feel all of the time.

I didn’t think the walks were doing much, although it didn’t stop me from pulling my shirt up over the weekend and demanding Patrice inspect my doughy midsection for any hint at an ab. Just one.

“Maybe right here?” I said, poking my squishy stomach. “Like, sort of. Almost. You see it?” I twisted around and back, hoping to catch the light just right.

She shook her head and laughed. “You’re an asshole. Put your shirt down.”

But my thighs? They definitely look different from hauling my body all over the park every day, and I’m starting to feel stronger in my back.

No abs, though, not yet. But they’re coming.

It’s gotten worse: it’s started to happen on my front stoop, and it happened Friday night when my shoe hit the top step of my building.

I grit my teeth against the uncomfortable, sharp desperation that suddenly pummeled into me, hopping around and wriggling while I stuck my hand in all the pockets of my bag looking for my keys. They weren’t there, though; and as of writing this, they’re still either floating around Union Square, at one of the two bars I swung by that night, or endlessly riding the N train without me. New York City ate them, as it does sometimes with stuff.

I sighed and called my neighbors, pacing the street while I tried to not pee my pants.

“We’re away.” said my neighbor, but she called their roommate, who said he’d be home in an hour. I called everyone who has keys to my apartment and got nothing. Meanwhile, I broke into a cold sweat and wiggled around some more.

“I can duck behind this garbage can…” I thought. But no. I am not homeless. I’m a damn lady. I started to walk to my local bar… and then my body just gave up. Gave in. Betrayed me, on the sidewalk right outside my apartment, thirty fucking years old with rivers pouring down my thighs, out of the back of my heels, and down the street. It was like an out-of-body experience: I literally couldn’t believe it.

And then I laughed. What else was there to do?

When I recounted this story to Jen on Saturday, she said (after she caught her breath, having doubled over in hysterics in her kitchen) “You’d think being an adult would be more dignified than this.” Right. One would think.

It is worth noting that I was stone cold sober this whole time; I haven’t decided if this makes it worse or better. I hobbled to my car parked on the street and set my bag on the hood, determined to find those damn keys. While I was standing there, I could feel my body gearing up to go again. I just let it happen this time (at this point, I figured, it can’t get any worse.) and finally, I called Patrice while leaning on the hood with my head in my hands. In between sobbing and laughing equally as hard, I managed to tell her what happened.

“Oh no! Come over. I have soup. Take a cab.”

I couldn’t bear to get into a cab, though, so I walked squished the mile to her house on foot where she met me with a towel and let me throw everything, sandals included, directly into the wash. I took a shower and borrowed jammies while everything got clean.

You need friends like this.

“We might be married now.” I said, sighing into my glass of wine.

When I told this story to Rob, he said that he guessed about 40% of people our age have some sort of story like this, and, so: do you?

FESS UP.

It was a rough go for a few weeks there in January and February, but I don’t wallow. My baseline, the place I always return to after highs and lows, is “pretty damn happy”, and I’ve come to really like this about myself; it’s served me well and kept me sensible.

I’m not quite up to the baseline yet, honestly, but it’s coming as life swirls on. It’s mostly in friendships that I’m finding joy (girls night woot woo!), but some in work, hobbies, making plans for the future that are happy, and in rearranging this apartment to better suit a life solo.

In the house I grew up in, the light switch to the basement was in the kitchen at the top of the stairs and the laundry was in the basement across from the stairs, so if someone flicked it off absentmindedly while you were down there, you’d have to stumble all the way over and then up stairs to give yourself light again. If you were folding clothes and suddenly found yourself plunged into darkness, it was just easier to start hollering that you were down there so they would flick the light back on.

This whole thing has been scary, but when it happened and I started screaming “Light! Light!” and pounding on the walls, the response was a dozen little beams snapped on, held by good close friends, and oh, hey look. There’s a light in my own hand, too. And they are growing steadily brighter. Although it’s still dark, I’m no longer afraid.

I’m not broken or bitter, either and that’s it. That’s all I got right now. That’s my bottom line.

It’s a pretty good one, actually.

***

In other news: IT’S SPRING TIME!

Who let me drink and then use a big knife?!

It turns out that 30 isn’t so bad.

I headed to my favorite bar the night before around 11:30 and counted down to midnight there, surrounded by a handful of friends who all wore goofy party hats, bought me way, way too many shots (fuck you all), and made elderly jokes. We stayed out pretty late, and I got this text at 9 am:

There is a direct relationship between how much I love you and how much I hate today. Happy birthday, old girl.

At the spa they booked me with Richard, the world’s hottest masseuse. He introduced himself by asking me, “Are you ready to feel good today?”

Why yes. Yes I am. Richard.

Whiskey & Salt is a quirky supper club run by my friends; they told me I could pick whatever food I wanted, which was easy: soul food, the kind my grandmother (the black one) used to feed me. Fried (organic, free-range, humane certified) chicken, collard greens, green beans, yams, biscuits, corn bread, sweet tea (with vodka – my grandma left that out, but I thought it was a splendid addition), and the best goddamn mac and cheese ever. Plus four cakes. (Conversation post dinner- Me: Am I supposed to be able to bend? Kathryn: No.) And then they went Pinterest on my backyard with the decorations.

photo from Lara

photo from Christina

They showed up with supplies at noon and served dinner at 8, and while they bustled around my kitchen all day, I did the following: had a nap in the hammock, had a nap on my bed, fixed my hair, took my annual birthday photo, and occasionally wandered into the kitchen to get in their way and stick my finger in whatever was around that looked good. Usually frosting.

Friends arrived at seven – there were 16 of us at dinner all told -  bearing wine, balloons, cards, gifts, flowers, and sweet toasts that made me cry into my cake. It is an amazing thing to be loved.

This is my 30′s? I’ll take it.

***

1. This was the first night I arrived, Wednesday.

I flew in the knit dress and tank, and paired it with a hoodie (planes are cold), my trusty Chucks (good for booking it gate to gate for transfers) and thin navy colored corduroy pants (for warmth, and because I always opt out of the backscatter machines which means I get subjected to a pat down. Super awkward when you’re just in tights).

For dinner, I switched to a pretty cardigan, chunky necklace, cozy sweater tights and black flats. (I couldn’t do a damn thing with my hair.)

The dress is from a swap meet, tank from the Gap, tights from Target, flats from Charlotte Russe (here are similar vegan leather ones, and these vegan silk flats from Rocket Dog are stellar), cardigan from Naf Naf (my grandma bought it for me in Paris), and necklace from Target.

***

2. Thursday was the first working day for Community Leaders but we weren’t in sessions yet, so I opted for something casual. This is quickly becoming my favorite top. Who says horizontal stripes are no good? (The trick is to make sure they’re wide stripes, I think.)

The sweater is from a swap meet, jeans are from Madewell (and they’re on sale!), and my good old Chucks, in classic black.

Giggle courtesy of my roommates, who asked what I was taking photos for and didn’t bat an eye when I told them it was for my website. Only at a blogging conference.

***

3. Friday was the first official day of the conference. I wore something pretty, with colors I don’t probably wouldn’t attempt to rock in New York all together: black, pink and turquoise. I felt a little like Barbie. Later, I headed to a lounge where Ritani was sponsoring manicures. I opted for sparkly pink!

Dress is from Target, cardigan is from Old Navy, belt is from Express (here’s a similar one), tights are American Apparel and my shoes are Target.

***

4. Second dress of the week, this one is a thick, structured cotton dress with pockets and a 1950′s-inspired flare. Jen picked it out for me on a shopping trip about eight months ago, and she was SO RIGHT. Thanks, friend!

After the day before, I couldn’t even LOOK at a pair of heels, so I slid on my boots. I was in Nashville, darn it! My sweatery tights and chunky orange necklace made their second appearance.

Dress from Old Navy, the tank is a man’s undershirt I bought in a package of three, necklace and tights from Target, and the boots from J.Crew (ages ago, before I had a problem buying leather shoes).

***

I packed all of my underwear (bras, unders and tights) and jewelry in the calves of my boots and brought two pj sets (standard bottoms and tee shirts). I also brought a thinner weight blouse to travel home in that I wore with my jeans. I might have opted to just travel in jeans and  one of my pajama tee shirts (they fit me pretty well and are ok to be seen in public), but I was stopping in Baltimore to have brunch with Gavin and didn’t want to look like a slob.

I’m not an exceptionally creative clothing shopper, and there are no one-of-a-kind pieces in this post (and not many in my wardrobe). My style is pretty easy to copy. So, FREE YOURSELF of bag checking!

image source unknown

Thank you for all the love and support following my gross news. The decision I made years ago to blog openly and honestly about my whole life – not just the sunshiney bits – was not one made lightly, but oh! It was the right one. It’s tough to find a balance of what to share and what to keep under wraps, (my inclination was to keep it a secret for a while longer) and it’s difficult when people judge – harshly, some times! – what you do choose to share, but 99% of you have been absolutely lovely. Thank you thank you thank you.

Moments come where I will be feeling particularly sad and lonely, and just then yet another email pings in of another woman who has been there, and I feel fortified all over again.

We women are tremendously strong, aren’t we?

***

I’m off to Blissdom in Nashville for four days as a photography Community Leader, where I will help other bloggers by leading discussions and answering all questions photo-related. It’s a very exciting opportunity, and I’m humbled to be a working part of this incredible conference. Are you going? Please come say hello. (Unofficially, I have declared myself Community Leader of “The Dougie“, and if you ask, I will teach you.)

I refuse to end the week on a sad note, so tell me: what do you do to cheer yourself up during sad times? (I’ve already bought shoes and that totally helped.)

I’m heading to Wisconsin hang out with Tracy for a few days; we’re doing fun geeky girl stuff. She is one of those friends with a house that makes you feel right at home the second you walk in, and I’m excited to spend time there. There were also promises of a lesbian bar. Woo hoo!

Jake is going to be around, too. He gives epic hugs, and lets me touch his bald head. I like him very much.

Happy weekend.

new stamps snapped with my iPhone

I’m pretty sure this has never been confessed on this blog before: you can add “stamp-collecting” to the frizzy hair, glasses, buck teeth, goofy personality and homeschooling that made me a social pariah as a kid.

I’ve stopped collecting, but getting a brand new sheet of postage is a still tiny thrill for me and I will never be the sort to buy a practical roll of boring flags. I try not to buy the same ones twice, and now that I own a business that involves mailing things on a regular basis, picking out a pretty combo of stamps for each package is my favorite part of paperwork.

On 22 January postage prices went up, and they released some particularly pretty designs this time around.

Did you know that rather than going to the post office, you can order stamps online and have any amount of them them sent directly to you for just $1 (in the mail, of course!) These above are my latest; I think the butterflies are really cool, and the clock reminds me of the cover of one of my favorite books, the Phantom Tollbooth.

I feel so dorky, but it’s genuinely exciting! Someone please tell me you like pretty stamps, too. I can’t be the only one.