Let's do this, 2013

2013 is going to be my year. I know I've said this before (and probably every year since I could talk), but 2013 is the year. THE year. 

If you're a close reader of this blog or have ever actually met me, even for 20 minutes, you might think I'm prone to such grand proclamations, and you may also be wondering how some of those past resolutions are working out. Well, I'm not 33 for another two months! Get off my back! You never know what could happen, especially since this is the year of my romantic comedy. I'm certain of it.

I am moving on New Year's Eve. You might be thinking, "Wow, that sounds horrible," and you would be right. But, also, wouldn't it be the beginning to a perfect romantic comedy?! The single girl spends New Year's Eve just she and her movers while fielding calls from all the fabulous out-of-town parties all  of her friends are enjoying, drinking champagne alone and unpacking after her movers dump her stuff and leave. 

Sounds sad and lonely, right? But also and exciting and new? Maybe? Like the beginning of every chick flick! 

Options for how this will play out in the movie version of my life:

• I'll burn effigies to all the bad I want to leave in 2012 to start afresh in 2013!
• I'll end up passed out at 11:30, in bed surrounded by 5 empty champagne bottles with chocolate cake smeared all over my face and pillow (this may be the most likely way the evening plays out)
• The next morning I'll stumble to the trash chute, cake stuck to my hair, trash bag clanking with the unmistakable sounds of multiple empty booze bottles, all from me, and make quite the impression on my new neighbors who will inevitably be on their way to a New Year's church service, bright and early
• A few new neighbors—super hot guys, of course—will come knocking on my door on their way home from a cool party because they hear music and loud singing along, assuming they've stumbled into a rocking apartment party, only to find just me dancing on top of my dining table in my underwear, singing into a champagne bottle
• Or—fingers crossed—I'll emerge from the building in the morning, shielding my eyes from the blazing sun wondering why it's so freaking bright and how the traffic got so, so loud. Maybe I'll stumble backwards a step or two as I adjust to "outside" (let's be real, this part is inevitable, not the fingers-crossed part. I'm getting to the part we're hoping for), just as a really cute guy walks up the steps (here we go!). Maybe he catches me in my stumble. Either way, he pulls out two breakfast sandwiches, saying something like, "I always get more than I can eat, and you look like you might need this more than I do!" Then, laughing with me, he invites me to eat our breakfast together, and we fall madly in love. 

I have a feeling any number of these options may happen. The odds are highest for the most embarrassing or pathetic of them, of course! I'll keep you posted. 

The numbers are dire. Dire!

The Wall Street Journal tweeted yesterday that one in five women in Hong Kong will never find a husband as the gender imbalance widens. One in FIVE!

ACK!!! What if that statistic is relevant in DC?! I would totally be the one out of the five (in spite of all my sparkly magnificence, obviously. Obviously. Please agree!)!!

This was a funny joke to me until I actually did a little digging. Now, I’m bordering on a breakdown. The news does not sound better for me when you take a look at the actual comparative numbers. As I reported yesterday, for every 100 women in DC, there are only 89 men (according to the 2010 US census). Well, get this! For every 100 women in Hong Kong, there are 94 men (according to the 2012 World Factbook)!! That’s 5 more men than in DC! And, I’m not entirely sure how the gays play into this statistical meltdown I’m about to have!

I’m doomed!!! DOOMED!!!!!

That’s it. I need to move! Where should I move?! You know what I need? I need an insider at the US Census Bureau. We need to approach this logically, rationally and scientifically—you know, the same way as I approach everything.

The Census would have broken down all sorts of population statistics by state, region, city and—important to relocation imperatives—neighborhood. I’m almost sure that all this information could probably be found publicly, but in such a panicked state, who can sift through the vast and endless interwebs and then sort through numbers?! Do you know how long it took me to put the Hong Kong ratio of men to women into similar terms as I had the DC number?! I need an insider whose head doesn’t explode facing down so many digits!!

So, please, spread the word that I am in search of a number cruncher from inside the US Census Bureau who can run the numbers and tell me, down to the neighborhood, where I should move to ensure I am not the ONE in FIVE who never gets married. I will be sitting here, with my head between my knees.

Thank you.

Man hunting in Alaska

Did you know that for every 100 women in DC there are only 89 men? And, a depressingly/delightfully significant number of those 89 men are gay, gay, gay. Conversely, in Alaska, for every 100 women, there are 108 men. Burly, sexy, manly men.

So, I went on a cruise to Alaska.

Let’s just take a minute to reflect on the cruising population. At least on an Alaskan cruise and not including the 28 members of my family that were on the boat, obviously (what solidarity and support my family has, right?! There were so many of them on such a trip just to help me find a man!!*), cruisers are not what you might define as “eligible bachelors.” As it turns out, an Alaskan cruise is a popular vacation for family reunions and the retired community. It’s definitely not the top choice for hot, thirty-something men looking to cut loose, party and meet the loves of their lives! Imagine my shock! No matter, my sights were set on the man-packed land excursions!

Let me show you a picture, literally, of what the ports looked like where we stopped for a few hours at a time.

It’s hard to step out of the shadow of the cruise ship and the cruisers to experience the swarms of Alaskan men I was promised by the statistics (statistics!! That’s science after all!) when you’re in a town with a population of 600 that exists solely to cater to tourists.

One local Alaskan man tried to run me over in his minivan while I was taking the above picture and when he started backing into me. “What a potential meet cute,” you’re thinking, right? Well, you didn’t see me screaming at him and his toothless expression of overwhelmed surprise/fear.

Our stop in Juneau was more promising. The scenery was gorgeous! The hike we went on was beyond incredible! The guide, adorable! And, from California. Not local. Not Alaskan. Not single.

Everyone we met seemed to be a transplant from another outdoorsy city in the “Lower 48,” shipped in for the summer months to cater to the tourists. But, they were cute and endearingly passionate about whatever it was they were guiding us through. So, maybe there are more of them in the places from which they came?

Alaska turned out to be a bust on the quest for marriage material. But, there is hope! There have to be other regions that boast high numbers of eligible men. I saw some of their ambassadors while in Alaska. I’ll just have to start traveling to these other regions that promise high concentrations of men!

People travel all the time based on special interests: good hikes, beaches, white water rafting adventures, spa vacations, yoga retreats, safaris, wine tours… How is this any different?! I may have just created a new genre of vacationers!

You’re welcome, travel industry.





*The cruise was really for my grandma’s birthday. She loved it, and it was an awesome celebration! My impending nuptials were raised again and again, however, amid a flurry of familial support. My cousin in the hair care business, for instance, is on a quest for the perfect shampoo combination to put my tresses at maximum man-attracting potential. It really takes a village, doesn’t it?

I'm hooked

Phew! Sorry I haven’t posted in a while—I’ve been so busy running!

And then realizing I HATE running. And then stopping running.

As it turns out, that running thing was a passing fancy. But, I have landed on a new obsession that seems to have stuck! The Bar Method takes all the most defining, muscle toning and lengthening aspects of pilates, yoga and ballet and crams them together in an intense hour-long session of pushing yourself to make your whole body shake. Seriously, the relief in coming out of some of the exercises is so extreme, it approaches orgasmic sometimes. It hurts, and I LOVE it!!

Bar Method is everything I’ve been searching for and missing from all my years in serious ballet training in all the other crazy workouts I’ve tried, notably Crossfit (are you kidding me?! What was I thinking?!), spinning (the most pain there was not from the muscle strain) and running (the worst of all of them, hands down!). I love it! I can’t say that enough!

There is an interesting phenomenon I’ve come to realize in my Bar Method classes, though. Everyone wears Lululemon outfits. All of them. All the time. This is something I’ve been marveling over for a month now. How can it be that so many people would spend SO much money on workout clothes?! Lululemon is pretty expensive to be so widely popular. Don’t get me wrong, it’s really cute stuff, but they’ve got pants for over $100—workout pants!

Then, as happens when one starts to obsess over something, I started noticing Lululemon all over the place. Everyone on the metro carries their lunches and shoes into work in Lululemon bags. Lululemon is EVERYWHERE! How is it possible that such an expensive brand is taking over the entire world?! The ENTIRE WORLD!!* Everyone everywhere is wearing Lululemon! Head to toe!

I became a broken record, talking to anyone and everyone with whom I came in contact about how this could be. The clothes must be magic, right? They must be. Are they magic? Why are so many smart people willing to spend so much money on workout clothes? They’re just going to get all sweaty! Upon the third hour of my obsessive ramblings one day, one friend finally said, “I don’t know. Let’s go to the store that’s a block away from here and check it out.” And so we did. And so I tried something on.

It is magic. Lululemon is magic. Everything is so well and thoughtfully made! Zipper pulls on hoodies become hair ties! Drawstrings melt back into seams so they’re not in the way or even visible! Everything’s made in a miraculous way that flatters every body type and wicks moisture away as if it’s been naughty! It’s incredible!

Of course, I walked out of there with the most beautiful workout top I’ve ever owned, and now I’m hooked. My friend had to put her foot down and not allow me to wear my new top to a bridal shower we were going to later that day. Oh, but I wanted to, though! All those women I’ve seen all over everywhere are most definitely onto something! I never want to wear anything else.

So, all in all, I’m pretty sure that it’s only a matter of time before I’ve amassed a closetful of Lululemon and am only ever seen wearing the adorable workout attire anywhere I go (likely because I won’t be able to afford any other types of clothes!). As a friend recently said to me, though, there are worse expensive habits to have developed, like cocaine. At least I’m not doing cocaine. Perspective.

And, don’t worry, those fancy sneakers I bought are still getting plenty of important use. I’m doing the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer 3 Day in October, so training for that (I mean, I know it’s just walking, but it’s walking SIXTY MILES in three days!! That’s a loooooooong way that deserves some attention ahead of time) has me walking all over kingdom come, and footwear, apparently, is very important. It’s good that I just happened to have already picked up some fancy, supportive shoes with serious inserts, huh?!




*Editor’s note: Ok, I realize I sometimes tend towards the dramatic and that there are probably large parts of the earth that have not been overtaken by expensive active wear, but in my corner of Washington, DC, and Arlington—admittedly pretty yuppie corners on which to be basing assessments of world domination—it’s totally taken over!

I am a “runner.”

That’s right; you read correctly, I am a “runner.”

I hate to run. Hate it. But, I better learn to love it since I’m a “runner” now. Running is like a cult, though, so I’m sure the Kool-Aid will be passed around soon enough, and I will drink heartily because I am a “runner” now.

I went to a very serious running store last weekend and bought very expensive running shoes and inserts. The inserts make it REAL. I am a “runner” now. The guys at the running store put me on a treadmill with a whole computer and video setup to evaluate how I run and inform what shoes I need—and inserts as it turns out. Inserts make it serious.

As the computer indicated, I run sort of on my toes. After all, I was a ballerina! The running store guys thought that was mildly peculiar. Dancing seemed to them as weird as their love of running seems to me. But, I’m one of them now. A “runner.” Get used to it!

Once I announced to the store that I was becoming a “runner,” people there—actual runners—were excited to welcome me into the club.

Me: “I’m a ‘runner’ now!”

Store guy, a runner: “That’s great!! You should come to our fun runs! They’re great! Very social!”

Me: “Social?! I’m way more into socializing that running! I’m IN! I mean, I’m a ‘runner’ now, but I’ve always been social!”

Store guy: “We have fun runs on Tuesday and Thursday and a ladies’ fun run on Monday. You should come to any of them!”

Me: “Whoa, whoa… This seems intense. Which one is the slowest? I’m just a novice ‘runner.’”

Store guy: “Come to the ladies’ run! That’s a good one, and we’ll make sure you’re in a good pacing group. It’s a nice, flat course they go on, too.” 

Me: “Like a really slow pacing group, right? How far do they run?”

Store guy: “It’ usually about 2 to 4 miles.”

Me: “That sounds long!!” 

Store guy: “Haha! You can turn back at any time.”

Me: “That sounds like quitting!!”

Social running seems like an excellent way to meet running friends, maybe even running guys. We’ll bond over being runners, and then we’ll fall madly in love and get married (and, obviously, engaged before I turn 33 on February 21, 2013). Maybe we’ll then run around a beautiful tropical island on our honeymoon!

So, now I have to train up for a 4 mile run so I can seem like I know what I’m doing when I go “fun” running and then really “fun” running on my island honeymoon. This “running” thing seems like a lot of work. And, training to meet a man! Sheesh! Maybe the “love” of the “run” will be enough, and the fiancé will be a bonus?

Well, either way, I have way more friends who will run with me than who will go to a dance class with me, and working out is always more fun with someone else. Maybe one day it will be a really special person who will work out with me! And then maybe he will be the one to want to go to a ballroom dance class with me because it’s what I like. “Running” leading back to dancing. I like the way that sounds.

Living with a BOY! Yikes!!

With all this talk about my upcoming engagement (haven’t you heard all the buzz?! It’s everywhere!), it’s making me think. I mean, sure, the ring is going to be gorgeous, but it doesn’t end there, from what I hear. I mean, eventually, I’m going to have to live with this guy! And, that could get tricky!

I’ve never lived with a boy—well, except for my brother and a guy-like roommate. My brother was 12 when I left for college, so I don’t think my experience living with him will be the basis for any type of grown-up cohabitation. At the very least, hopefully there will fewer Legos all over the place. And, let’s talk about that one roommate: he had a bathroom completely decked out in cartoon ducky and froggy bath accessories. He also spooked easily. I’m pretty sure I scared him. Me! Sweet, little kitten! I’m really hoping my fiancé won’t share too many characteristics of his. Here’s crossing my fingers.

So, living with a boy… Seems frightening! There was a Sex In The City episode that one of my friends can quote in its entirety all about Secret Single Behavior. Those ladies were on to something! There are a few things I’m not sure a guy really wants to know about me, so here, let me share them on the internet instead, because that seems reasonable:

• I can spend hours staring at my face in a mirror, examining every pore, emerging wrinkle and hair follicle.
• I have almost as much make-up and beauty products as any medium-sized Sephora store. While this is no surprise to anyone who walks into my bathroom, I have a feeling it would be much less cute when my six different types of eye cream edge the lucky gentleman’s shaving cream right out of the medicine cabinet.
• Sometimes—gasp!—I like to sleep in full-butt underwear. Full. Butt. Underwear. Embarrassing! And, likely not sexy.
• I often have nothing in my refrigerator except eye masks and beauty peels.
• I don’t clean that often.
• I drink wine in the bathroom when I’m getting ready to go out sometimes. Ok, most of the time. (One time I knocked over the wine glass, shattering the glass and spilling red wine all over the toilet and shower curtain, which looked very, very horrific and wrong.)
• I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, irrationally convinced that something in my apartment is going to catch on fire and catch me off guard. Of course, this fear could be alleviated by buying a fire extinguisher to have on hand, but that just seems too simple.
• When left to my own devices, I sometimes eat the same thing every day for a week (let’s be real. I don’t know how to make all that many dishes!). And, you can count on whatever it is involving sour cream.
• I can spend hours playing spider solitaire.

So, there you have it. Landing the proposal is one thing. Getting the guy to stick around after we’ve moved in together might be another challenge all together!

Know what is *not* awkward?

Introducing your dad to your gynecologist.


I know, you’re thinking, “In what scenario would that even happen?!?!?!” Well, don’t worry; it didn’t go down as creepily as I suppose it could have.

My dad and I are ballet buddies. We have season tickets to the ballet series at the Kennedy Center, which means we see every ballet that comes through the venerable theater together. My dad is super into ballet since I was a very serious ballerina for a long time. He built sets for and stage managed many of my performances. He was eventually talked into performing in many of the performances in character roles such as Uncle Drosselmeyer in the Nutcracker and Dr. Coppelius in Coppelia. He started taking adult ballet classes. He even had these tight sweatpants he would wear to class. Those sweatpants weren’t so cute, though, 20 years later when he tried to bust them out with the family this past Christmas. We immediately sent him back upstairs to change.

All this is more interesting when you juxtapose it against his professional career. He was a green beret in Vietnam. He was one of the founding members of the Delta Force, on the team that established and got the Delta Force certified as a thing and then went in to Iran to get the hostages out in 1980 (right after I was born!), and he was paramilitary for the CIA. So, he’s kind of a badass. In tights.

Last night, we were at the Kennedy Center to see Billy Elliot, an add-on to our regular ballet series. As we’re walking into the magnificent grand foyer (where, if I had infinite amounts of money, I would have my wedding reception—after my already established engagement this year—because it’s so beautiful!), I spotted the good doctor. Now, I LOVE my doctor. He’s awesome, and I’ve been seeing him for more than ten years. Considering what a hypochondriac I am, that’s equated to about 1,000 visits with each other.

As the shout of his name was coming out of my mouth—in other words, too late—a couple thoughts went through my head:

• “Wait, outside of the exam room he probably goes by his first name, you know, like normal people. I’ve never used his first name with him! How weird is it that I’m shouting Dr.?!”
• "Uh, do doctors like to see patients socially?! Is this weird?!”
• “Who’s the crazy girl screaming in the Kennedy Center?!”

Oh well! It’s happening now, like so many of the act first, think about it later situations I get myself into! Introductions were made all around without actually acknowledging how we knew each other. I did keep calling the good doctor, “Dr. HisLastName,” though, so I’m pretty sure it was wildly apparent that we were not grab-a-beer-after-work buddies!

I also felt the need to make it very clear that this older gentleman I was with was my DAD and not my DATE. When you’re hanging out in the glittery theater set, one sees a quite a few May-December romances, and I’m apt to nip in the bud that impression from following us around whenever I can. I’ve considered making a button to wear that says, “This guy’s my dad!” Not only would that help clear some things up, but maybe it would also help my dad meet some nice theater-going ladies who think it’s sweet that he goes to the ballet with his kid!

Anyway, I’m not sure that knowing my gynecologist has met my dad is going to make my next appointment more comfortable for me or the good doctor! So, now there’s that…