The Beginning of the Beginning.

Last year on this day, I sat in my parents' house (still my place of residence), single, and terrified.  I had just spent a week working as hard as I could on my course syllabus for my students as part of my first year of teaching a freshman English college composition seminar, as part of my degree requirements for my Masters in Literature.  I wasn't even that nervous about the actual classes I was planning to take for my degree; it was all about how nervous I was about teaching. More nervous than any performance I had ever done in my life.

I quickly dove headfirst into all of it.  I focused all of my energy in three areas: teaching, my own scholarship, and the gym/yoga classes (the gym to stay in shape, the yoga to calm/center my mind).  I can remember a few days of one particular week last year in early November when I ran 7 miles, about three times in the span of 6 days, just because I was so stressed and needed an outlet.  It worked, but I wore myself to the bone.

This year, I have a new game plan.  One that will involve less killing myself in the gym and more focus on what really matters.  So, I have revamped my "How To Survive Graduate School" list from last year into "How to Not just Survive, But Kick Graduate School In the Ass (While Maintaining an Actual Real Life)".

1. Don't be so concerned with what other people think/do/read/teach/write.
Last year I was incredibly intimidated by everyone in my department to the point that I shrank back and didn't want to engage in debate (this was fixed by the end of the year...).  Now, I have more confidence in my skills and am willing to do what it takes to make my voice heard if I've got something to say, and I don't plan to sink my head down in defeat if someone disagrees with me.  I'm smart, I've written several very well-received seminar papers, and my students have given great evaluations.  With the students, I don't need my students to like me (although that's fun, let's face it...I bonded with a few students last year and they were fantastic).  I need them to write strong academic papers in correct MLA format.  If they hate me, they hate me.  But I'm about as intimidating as a bar of Lindt dark chocolate, so I don't think I'll be getting any haters.  (although Haters Gon Hate...)

2. Take care of myself (physically).  AKA, put in work at the gym but don't overdo it.
My stress relief is exercise.  Always has been, always will be.  Now, more than ever, I rely on exercise to bring focus and strength to my day.  Plus it makes my biceps look great and I don't want to fall into the "I'm a stressed graduate student, therefore Butterfingers have no calories!" trap.  I want to be healthy.  But I don't want to just get up at the butt crack of dawn and plug out 7 miles because I'm stressed and need to run away, or plow out 60 minutes of random cardio on the elliptical.  It wears me out and causes the muscles I work so hard for in the summer to disappear.  Because all of these seminar papers and exams and grading and my students' output were so out of my control, I used the gym and my diet as my constant.  This year, I want to maintain healthy eating (read: no protein bars for lunch unless I'm running around and seriously cannot sit down to eat) and a healthy muscle tone, while not going insane.  I want to get up, go to work, do a Jillian Michaels DVD and a bit of cardio, and then get the hell on with my day.  Or, do a bit of cardio and then a Power Yoga class, and that's it.  Whatever I'm in the mood for that day, no set pattern except no two days in a row of the same muscle groups. Also, the stress of the semester aggravated some of my history with disordered eating and exercise patterns (and my really ass-backwards schedule, with classes very late in the day instead of first thing, didn't help matters.).  Note: With my earlier classes this year, I can push my workouts back until either mid morning or early evening, which have always been my preferred times of day to work out rather than the morning because I feel stronger and can tackle heavier weights, but also I'm not as inclined to just plug away on the elliptical for an hour and not really do a 'workout'.  I want to be in 'shape', not just 'skinny'.  

3. Take care of myself mentally.  AKA: More fire pits with friends, less sitting alone in my room freaking out about my library orders.
I wish I had done more leisure activities last year.  I wish I had gotten more pedicures, and not just because running has absolutely destroyed my feet.  I wish I had just sat in a Starbucks and drank coffee and read for leisure, although reading for leisure doesn't exist when you major in English.  I wish I had celebrated the fall more, because it's my absolute favorite season. I wish I had hung out with my classmates more.  I wish I had seen my nephew a little more often than I did.  I wish I had waited until mid-morning to go to the gym with my sister more often, because we'd just talk on the elliptical the whole time.  I wish I had gone to more football games, not just because I love tailgating and everyone I tailgate with, but because it was back when I was first starting to date my boyfriend and it killed me that I was excusing myself out of hanging out with him when that's all I wanted to do. Truth be told, I was worried it would take away from my schoolwork - the thing I wanted to make top priority - and closed off.  I wish I hadn't excused myself out of so many opportunities to see him during the fall, because our time is so fleeting together during the school year.  This year I plan to take as many chances as I can get to see him as well as my friends.  My calendar is packed this fall, most of it nothing to do with school and everything to do with living a healthy social life that will also contribute to my success and efficacy inside the classroom.  Living life will lead to better papers, because experience breeds knowledge.  Plus, more excuses to land face first in Pumpkin Spice Lattes can only be a good thing.

4. Keep in mind the GIANT Terminal MA Exam in January.
I'm technically done with my coursework in December (thanks, year long credit accumulation 'trial', for allowing me to basically coast through my grad degree with no more than two grad seminars a semester!), but that leaves one last giant hurdle to leap over: the six hour Terminal MA Exam in January.  The exam covers  criteria on the MA Reading List, which spans Beowulf to Beloved, and covers about every single topic in theory you can think of.  It scares the absolute crap out of me but at the same time I want to ace it.  Also I don't want to turn into a quivering pile of throw-up during my holiday break, aka the crucial study time for the exam.  I want to be able to have a Christmas, after all.  I plan on getting as much reading done as I can, and really study everything I can, and then just let it go and see what happens.  At the same time, I also have two seminars this year that I really have a lot of work for - think up to 50 pages of revised prose by the end of the semester -  so I have to be cognizant of the time I'm allotting to those as well.  But I won't be directing my focus towards that exam until the weeks leading up to Christmas, then the week directly following the holiday season.  When the tree comes down, the books come out.  I'll of course take time off to celebrate my favorite holiday.

5. Be a Human Being.  Not a Greendale Human Being, just a Human Being.
Show up. Do the work. Keep myself in good physical shape. Spend quality time with my family and friends.  Take time for myself.  Don't be afraid to ask for help.  I pushed everything down last year and told everyone I was fine, and then ended up having a complete breakdown mid-March.  I'm not going to let that happen again.  I don't want to overthink it.  I just want to show up.

Alarm is set.  Breakfast is prepped in the fridge.  My outfit is sort of finalized but it'll probably change when I get up.

Last four months of official graduate study.  And here.  We. Go.

ally

Notes from the Olympics: Part Two.

There are so many things going on in my head right now.  I am tired.  I am sore.  I am ecstatic.  I am bone tired.

The days bleed together into my head.  The mornings were the most normal we got: Get up, go for a run, pick up coffee for my two roommates, eat breakfast, check email.  After that, the entire day would be really random.

I also honestly have no idea what to say about Thursday morning.  Indeed, I can't really remember what we did on Thursday morning aside from a trip to Lillywhites in Piccadilly Circus to get some presents.  That store is like if Topshop created a sporting goods store - over the top, insanely huge, and panic attack inducing.

Following that trip, my boyfriend and I went to Selfridges and Co. because he heard about a stall in their food section called Brass Rail that purportedly carries 'The Best Salt Beef Sandwich in London'.  Apparently it was worth the claim.  Also, Selfridge's has a "Food of America" aisle, containing Kool-Aid, Oreos, Betty Crocker and Pillsbury cake mixes, Marshmallow Fluff, and Cheez-It's.  It is neon, artificial, and horrifying.  British teens ooh-d and ahh-d at all of it while I stared in absolute shock and felt like screaming "Not all of us eat like that! I eat kale! I drink coconut milk! I bake vegan cupcakes!"

Thursday night, we all went to the O2 Arena for our semifinal game against Australia.  I'm not going to lie: If you didn't see me sitting with my family, it's because I had my head between my knees to avoid vomiting from stress.  I don't do well during close games, but then again you probably all knew that.  I honestly wasn't comfortable until we were up by 15 in the fourth quarter.  I know how good Australia is, and if it weren't for Penny Taylor's knee injury they would have been even better.  Also, the game could not have ended any sooner or else I'm pretty sure Diana would have kicked an official.

After nearly dying of heat stroke in the London tube, my best friend and I were invited to watch the women's gold medal soccer game at a local bar but we cried uncle.  Our feet were simply too worn out and we were starving.  We proceeded to get sushi (for me) and Indian food (for her) and sit at at the apartment for a few hours, spending some quality girl time together.  It was very much needed.

Friday was quite possibly my favorite day of the entire trip and it had nothing to do with basketball.  My boyfriend and I took a three hour train ride to Liverpool, England, to tour Anfield Stadium and walk around for the day.  It is my new favorite city and I would love to come back for an extended trip.  Aside from being absolutely beautiful and full of very nice people, the overall air it gives off is one of peace and calm.  It might be because it's on the water, or because we had nowhere to be except to make sure we were on the train in time for our ride home, but I was overwhelmed by peace the entire day.

The Anfield Stadium tour was awesome, too.  I've always been a fan of soccer but never devoted to one club like my boyfriend, and this trip solidified me as a genuine Liverpool fan as we wandered through the locker room, the old "Boot Room" turned Press Room, and of course the stadium itself, which was eerily quiet and perfectly groomed despite a game being played on the pitch just over 12 hours earlier.  I stood in awe of the way the people of that city revere their team; in the museum we got to watch old game footage and the shots of the original Kop grandstand seating scared the shit out of me.  I guess it's true for other footy clubs in Europe, but we never really get the sense of that devotion to football over in the states.  But then again, the British don't really do baseball and basketball like we do, and of course they don't have American football.  Maybe that's the way people get about my Dad's team, and I just am too 'inside' to see it?

Saturday was Portobello Road day, and my best friend and I met up with her cousins for a stroll around Bayswater and the outdoor markets.  Our verdict? Interesting, hipster-clogged, and ridiculously overpriced.  I bought exactly one thing, and it was a present for a friend.

That night was the night we had all been waiting for.  The gold medal game, against France.  We got to the O2 at around 7:30 and navigated the ridiculous crowds for some sushi (yeah, I know.  A giant tub of arena sushi is probably not the best thing to eat.  But dammit I wanted sushi) before getting to our seats.  And we were in the nosebleeds.  I'm not talking about 'oh, that's kind of high up' nosebleeds.  I'm talking about 'If I stand up I might die' nosebleeds.  I spent the first half of the game crammed up against my seat back, terrified and experiencing vertigo in dizzying waves.  Once the second half started and I was a bit more comfortable, the game viewing became a much more pleasurable experience.

I would also like to point out as a moment of personal pride that I did not get felt up by a security guard or by TSA once during the entire trip.  The rest of my travel party was not so lucky.  Either I'm just super innocent looking, or the TSA people saw how flat my chest is and knew I couldn't be smuggling anything in there.

The game was the game.  Candace Parker and Angel McCoughtry stood out, the defense was overwhelming in the second half, and Sue and Diana kicked it into high gear to really put France away.  Truly, as I sit here right now, I can't really recall the game in its entirety.  But the ending? That I can recall perfectly.

I remember the countdown to the final buzzer, shaking my head in disbelief as the gold medal became reality.  I remember spotting my sister, dancing in the crowd across the way with another flag, singing "Born in the USA", and jumping up and down when my Dad spotted her from the floor and waved.  I remember seeing Diana look down at her medal.

I remember looking up at the final score, as Lady GaGa's "Edge of Glory" came blasting out of the speakers, suddenly thinking about my Pop-Pop and Dennis Burden, and feeling tears come streaming down my face.  We stood there, holding each other in a giddy, weepy lump, watching the scoreboard.

As the awards ceremony started, I looked down to the lower level and saw my Mom waving frantically at us.  "Come down!" she screamed.  We very, very carefully made our way back to the aisle and ran onto the concourse, to the escalator, and screamed down the stairs, flags waving in the breeze, to my mom, aunt, and Nonna.  Mom was already crying by the time we got there, and I gave her a tremendous hug.

It wasn't that ridiculously overwhelmed feeling I get when my dad has won National Championships, that uncontrolled sobbing that has unfortunately been captured on camera more times than I care to admit.  It was more of a grateful reverence, a culmination of three years of incredibly hard work by my dad and the various incarnations of the National Team.  It was for Team USA, for the entire Olympic experience.  

That night is a blur.  I'm not saying I got to try on Diana's gold medal (coaches don't get Olympic medals, which makes sense but damn I wanted to see them drape a gold medal around my father's neck), got my picture taken with my entire family, and Todd stalked the entire USA team for the night until he got all of their autographs, but that's totally what happened.  The next day is also a blur, save for a lovely brunch and a ridiculous dinner at a steakhouse with my family in which about forty desserts were ordered.  The next day we flew home and that was it.

Three years of traveling, waiting, preparing, and stress, and it's all over.  My feet were swollen 2x their normal size from all the walking, my back still hurts, and I'm pretty sure it's going to take me a month to detox all the sugar and gluten I ate (I have a slight sensitivity...it's okay if I eat it in small amounts but I basically ate gluten every single day I was in London, more than once.  My body has spent the last two days punishing me for that.  Ah well.  C'est la vie.).

I spent 10 glorious days traipsing around my favorite country (with a side trip to Ireland).  I got to hold and wear a gold medal.  I got to do it all with the people I'm crazy about.

Of course I'd do it all over again.

ally

PS.  People are already asking about Rio.  I have no idea.  And if I did have any idea, do you think I'd put it on here? ;)

Notes From The Olympics, Part 1.

This will be a long one.  I originally didn't want it to be, but then again, I thought I'd have more time to post.

I have had barely enough time to sit down over the past few days, and when I do sit down, it is accompanied by a loud popping sound from my entire body as it tries to figure out just what the hell all that walking/climbing stairs/walking was about, followed by a "Ohhhh, God," issued from a collective mouth made up of my best friend, my boyfriend, and myself, as we collapse after a long day of movement.  Suffice to say, my time at a computer is limited.  So here's what you need to know right now.

We flew into London last Friday and arrived at our apartments close to midnight, after getting truckled to a pub near our residence and chowing down on sandwiches while watching the game.  The bar, the Fitzrovia Belle, had some of the best tomato chutney I have ever eaten, particularly at 10PM after a 4AM wakeup call, 6 hour flight, and hour-long trek from Heathrow Airport.   We then collapsed into bed.  Saturday was full of walking around and exploring things that my brother and his girlfriend had never been to (Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, Tower Bridge, Oxford Circus, Piccadilly, the West End, Downing Street, the ridiculously awesome Lloyd's of London building that looks like it landed on this planet from something out of Doctor Who...we walked around a lot) and reuniting with my mom at the Team USA hotel, followed by a meetup at our official "Husky Hangout", a pub near the apartment.  It was there that I tried my first Rekorderlig.  There is a cider native to Europe called Rekorderlig, and it comes in Strawberry Lime.  It is delicious. And dangerous. And delicious. 

I always need to be careful to recognize just how incredibly wonderful my opportunities have been.  Sure, travel is very stressful.  There's always going to be things to contend with, personalities that clash, incidents that happen.  The key is picking your battles and deciding how you will react.  At the end of of the day, I'm with the people I love in my favorite city on the planet, and in a few weeks I'm going to be wishing I was here when I'm attempting to foist a love of academic writing on 18 year olds.

We also got to watch Jessica Ennis win the women's heptathlon.  For those of you who aren't familiar with "Jess" as she is known here, she is an absolutely beautiful and talented heptathlete and is my new favorite of these games (with Alison Schmitt and Missy Franklin close seconds).  She is also the British Michael Phelps.  Her picture is everywhere here.  When she won the heptathlon (by a wide, wide margin), the reaction of the crowd in her home country was absolutely mesmerising.  I'm getting chills just thinking about it.  Plus, it gave me perverse pleasure to watch her sculpted frame rip through the events of her discipline while drinking alcohol and eating.  It's the little things.

Also: We give NBC a lot of shit in the states for tape delay, but when the Olympics are on, you can be sure that starting at 7PM you will get 5 hours of dedicated coverage to the Games.  I have seen less of the games here than I did at home, and that's due to the lack of a 'Prime Time' block where you see all of the huge events going on.  Sure, our commentators are awful compared to the more precise commentary here, and I strongly believe Tim Daggett needs to be shot out of a cannon, but at 7PM you get to see all of the big events from the day. 

On Sunday I went for a long run just to explore the neighborhood and to take advantage of summer air that didn't feel like a moist strangle-grip on my throat, then took some time to rest and read in the apartment.  Jetlag is a bitch, people. The first time I woke up at 6:30, which is when I would normally wake up in CT, was this morning.  My boyfriend and I then took the afternoon to walk around the neighborhood, buy things for the apartment, and just walk around.  I've been to London before, and it's beautiful, but because of that earlier trip I didn't feel the need to go explore everything in sight.  My cousins got the day to explore and my best friend has family who lives in Europe, so they were all out doing their own thing.  It was great, because usually on team trips we're herded everywhere and anywhere with the team and now allowed to create our own schedules.  We then watched the game at a bar because USA didn't have tickets for us for that game.  Irony, eh?

Following the win, my parade of cousins and I schlepped to another restaurant to eat and watch the 100 meter sprint.  And when I say 'watch the 100 meter sprint' I really mean 'watch Usain Bolt'.  The entire place fell silent as we waited to see if Usain Bolt lived up the overwhelming hype.  Then we walked back to the apartment through the gay district of London. Loud, proud, and awesome.

Monday my best friend, boyfriend, and I got up at the disgusting hour of 4:30AM to catch a flight to Dublin.  It was an exhausting day but incredibly worth it.  We walked nearly the entire city, taking time to stop at the Long Room at Trinity College (OMG) and The Book of Kells, the Molly Malone statue with her tremendous iron cleavage, Temple Bar for their shoppes where I bought The Night Circus (woah. what a good book) and ended our day at The Guinness Storehouse.  Note: I did not say Brewery.  This was more like a museum-style tribute to the makers and drinkers of Guinness.  I don't really like Guinness, but I gave it a shot considering we were in Dublin, at the fount of the stuff's creation.  It was definitely a different-tasting brew than the one we get in the States.  Fresher, maybe, is the word for it.  I was in bed by 7:30PM that night and slept till 7:30AM, officially knocking out my jetlag.

We flew home and got our stuff together for the quarterfinal game in Olympic Park, and walked to Oxford Circus to catch the tube.  Everything was going well.

I had foolishly overstuffed my small purse with things from Dublin and the trip, and had left a wide zipper hanging open, allowing my phone to peep out.  I felt a hand tug the back of my purse and lift it up.  I immediately pulled it across my body and looked behind me to no one.  Whoever had filched me had simply vanished into thin air.  I knew before I even put my hand into my purse that my phone was gone.

I had just bought my iPhone a week ago as an early birthday present from my Mom.  It didn't have a lot of stuff on it, only pictures from the trip and random text messages I had saved from various people.  But I am kind of famous in my family for being dumb with my belongings, or at least not being super careful.  So you can imagine my reaction to this situation. The feeling of overwhelming violation, stupidity for leaving my purse open in a town notorious for pickpockets, and a general sense of exhaustion and failure all overwhelmed me at the same time. We managed to get the phone frozen at the Apple store, but I won't be getting a new phone until we get back to the states.  Aside from having to make sure everybody knows where I am and staying close to friends/family and not being able to wander off on my own as much, things seem to be okay.  And it is just a phone after all.  My wallet was securely snapped into the bottom of my purse, and my ID and passport were safe.  That was the big thing.

We made it to the game in time for the 4th quarter, and made the long, long, long trek home.  We had been told by the people at Olympic Park that the trains coming out of West Ham would make for a shorter journey.  They did not tell us the trip to the West Ham station would take 25 minutes of walking, after we had spent the previous day walking all over Dublin.  I'm shocked my feet are still attached to my body.

We spent Wednesday decompressing after the long two days of travel, making sure my sister and brother-in-law had flown in safely that night and getting them settled in their apartment, and getting dolled up and heading to a get-together thrown by our UConn liasons.  It was was there that I got to see most of the team and say hello.  During the introduction of the UConn grads on Dad's team (all 6 of them!), I was looking down at my camera, fiddling with the dials.  Mom poked me in the ribs and motioned me to look up at the stage.  "Diana is looking at you!" she whispered.  I looked up at saw D pointing at me with a "THERE you are!" grin on her face, and I gave her a wink and a thumbs-up.  She leapt off the stage after initial introductions and made a beeline over to me for a hug.

I've known Diana Taurasi since I was 14 years old, and that kind of generosity and cheerful, welcoming spirit is something she's had ever since then.  If anything, it's increased.  It is very easy to be in her presence. I also got to finally say hello to Sue, and give her a hug after the enormously tragic loss of Dennis Burden, her stepfather.  I knew Dennis as long as I've known Sue, and it was a huge shock to learn of his passing last month. So giving Sue a hug was high up on my agenda.

After the meetup we all went out for a far-too-fancy-for-my-liking dinner at an Italian restaurant.  So fancy they don't allow shorts.  My brother in law had to go back to my parents' hotel and find a pair of my Dad's pants to change into. The food was covered in butter.  Me likey.

I need to stop this right now, as I am currently gearing up for a field trip to Liverpool and a tour of Anfield Stadium.  But part two is coming! Including our first full game since arriving in London, the semifinal game vs. Australia at the O2 Arena.  Oh, forgive me...the North Greenwich Arena.

ally

PS.  As a 'thank-you for being on this trip' present, I went to Sainsbury's last night and purchased 50 Shades of Grey for my best friend.  She then proceeded to read selections out loud to us in a vaguely British, outrageously over the top accent while we ate sushi. My abs actually hurt this morning from laughing so hard, both at the content and her delivery.

PPS. Our neighborhood, Bloomsbury, is picture perfect. Well, there was that one guy we saw on the way to the grocery store last night leaning up against a tree, and I wasn't sure if he was relieving himself or 'relieving himself', but that's just been a blip on the radar.

London 2012: The Bucket List.

March 15th, 2009.

I was 23, living at home, having dinner with my family.  I don't remember what day of the week it was.  Mom and Dad kept talking about "the announcement in April." I had no idea what sort of announcement they were making.  It was almost the end of the season, we were probably going to win the national championship, and I was currently stuffing my entire life into boxes to prepare for a life-changing move to New York City to start my life as a working actor.  That changed my life, for sure.  But not in the ways I thought it would.


After about fifteen minutes of back-and-forth, with Mom and Dad discussing this mysterious announcement and my clamoring "What announcement?" I finally exploded.  "Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?!" (Note: I have made a simple rule with my parents.  Whatever curse words they have used around me, I am therefore allowed to use around them.  I will let you figure out what curse words those are, but suffice to say there are VERY few that are off limits.)

Mom laughed.  Dad made a joke about how he was retiring, which he quickly backpedaled after seeing my face go purple.  After about five more minutes of my begging, Dad finally said, "Okay. It's either that I'm retiring, or I got hired to coach at the Olympics."

Silence.

"...You're going to be the head coach in London? In 2012? At the Olympics?"

"Yep," Dad beamed.

Silence.

When I finally did manage to speak, the words out of my mouth were something like "HOLY SHIT OH MY GOD HOLY SHIT AHHHHHHHHH!"

A few weeks later I was allowed to tell  my best friend, while we drove to the mall to buy some last-minute NYC supplies.  We were at a red light near the shops when I turned to her and said, gleefully, "So.  Dad's going to be coaching in the London Olympics." This was my small way of inviting her to come to the games.

I have visited London in the past, in March of 2008 with said best friend, but it was only for three days and it was a very hectic three days of trying to cram as much stuff as we possibly could in our waking hours.

This time we'll be there for ten days, and it all starts tomorrow, when we fly out of Boston to Heathrow Airport and start the trip of a lifetime.

Three years is a long time.  In between that announcement and now a few things have happened.

In 2009 I was getting ready to move to New York for theater.
In 2009 my blog was a teeny little baby.
In 2009 I had just gotten dumped via phone, by a guy who is currently doing sports news on a local TV station in Missouri.  My best friend from college was there when I took the call, and supported me through it.
In 2009 I hadn't gotten Twitter.

Now? I'm teaching at a university while also doing graduate studies, my blog has recently exploded, that best friend is MIA (note to all girls out there; don't be friends with crazy/pretentious people because they seem 'fun'. They aren't fun. Not at all.), and my boyfriend is coming to London too.

After a few weeks of wondering how I would handle the blog across the pond, I have decided that the best thing to do for both my writing and my sanity is to blog while I can.

That could mean eight posts. That could be two. I don't know how busy I'm going to be over there but judging by the plans I've made with the best friend and the boyfriend, I'm going to be extremely busy.   Plus I haven't seen my Dad in a month.  So, there's that.

I have a few things to accomplish while we're over there.

See the Tower of London. Tour Anfield Stadium. Explore Dublin. Prevent best friend from kidnapping Michael Phelps. Prevent cousin from kidnapping Ryan Lochte. TOPSHOP. Prevent sister from kidnapping Cullen Jones. Prevent myself from stalking the entire USA women's gymnastics team and kidnapping Missy Franklin. Drink a snakebite and black at a proper English pub. Have Indian take-away. Go for a run in Hyde Park. Visit a yoga studio in Bloomsbury. Ride a Trafalgar Lion, or at least stand next to one. Make a "Call Me Maybe" video at famous British locations, although I really doubt anyone can beat the USA swim team one.

I should probably also really start thinking about designing my course unit for my upcoming English classes...maybe.  But I'm not stressing about it.

Tomorrow starts the craziest, most exhausting, ridiculous, and amazing 10 days of my life.

Here we go, London town.  Get ready.

The Auriemmas are coming.

If only I could finish packing...

ally

PS. I'll be posting photos on Instagram (@alysamarsiella) and obviously tweeting my brains out (@allyauriemma), in lieu of days when I can't blog.  So, go follow follow!

My Short Skirt.

That title sounds highly provocative, doesn't it? Well, the subject matter I'll be dealing with today isn't exactly groundbreaking but it is the first experience I've come across where someone has been conditioning me with a sense of gendered control that I can remember.  At least, when it's happened to me personally.  

My short skirt is not an invitation
a provocation
an indication
that I want it
or give it
or that I hook. 

This past Saturday, I went out in a group to a bar in New Haven to hear a friend's band play.  We've heard them a bunch of times, and aside from their own original songs which are killer, they also play a ton of great covers of everything from Al Green to Outkast.  I had a Cherry Pinnacle and club soda and enjoyed hearing the band play, dancing so hard I broke a good sweat.  There was also a guy dancing near the band setup that clearly should have been cut off about two hours earlier, moving his body like a swimming pool noodle that got thrown into Jell-O pudding and sweating like he'd taken a shower on the dance floor.

I looked good.  Not going to lie.  My hair has passed the awkward stage between pixie and shag cut thanks to some at-home trims I gave it to stop its transformation into a mullet, and it behaved that day, which is new.  I wore a purple dress from Forever21 I had bought back in December for about 15 dollars (because I'm cheap) and leopard print ankle boots (because I'm worth it).  The dress was not clingy in the least, which was great because I had just stuffed my face at dinner and it was built to move, which was great because I was planning on dancing like a moron for most of the night, and I did.  It's a short, swingy, moddish dress, which made me feel quite like a go-go dancer for most of the night, in the vein of Goldie Hawn on Laugh-In and not someone in Showgirls.

Halfway through the night I went to use the bathroom, did my thing, and headed back to join my friends.

My short skirt
is not begging for it
it does not want you
to rip it off me
or pull it down. 


Sitting near the entrance to the bathroom and in front of the bandstage was a group of older guys drinking beers and yelling to each other over the music.  One of the men, a guy in his late 30s, had called out to me when I had entered the bar earlier in the evening saying I had nice shoes.  I had thrown him a smile and a "thank you!" because that's what you do when someone pays you a compliment.  When I saw him on my way out from the bathroom, I didn't really think anything further of it, and went to walk past him.

He moved quickly.  He wasn't that much taller than me, but keep in mind I was wearing 5" platform heels, so I knew he was much taller than I was surmising.  I thought he was moving to get out of my way, but then I realized he wouldn't have had to move because I was going to his left, and he moved in that direction.  He was moving to block my path.

My short skirt
is not a legal reason
for raping me
although it has been before
it will not hold up
in the new court. 


His leg swung to the right of me, putting his body in my direct line of motion.  I looked up at him.  His eyes had the glazed semi-control of a man who thinks if he puts a look in your direction you are his property.  I only saw it for a split second, that arrogant sense of possession, but in that moment I felt a rush of fear.  Sure, this guy was drunk, so he wasn't exactly in full faculty.  I wasn't that drunk and wasn't planning on drinking any more that night.  And I could tell from a quick size-up that I probably had more muscle weight on me than he did.  But there was that moment.  And in that moment I could see...well.  I could see a LOT of bad things going down.

Maybe it was because I had seen The Dark Knight Rises the day before, but I summoned my inner Catwoman and forcibly stepped around him, and thankfully for this guy's sense of right and wrong (and the safety of his genitals) he let me go, offering up a "Nice outfit".  I offered a breezy "thanks" over my shoulder for the semi-compliment, but the damage had been done.

I got back to my friends and relayed the incident.  Some were annoyed.  Some were shocked.  Some were threatening to start a fight.  But I was more confused, weirded out, and just plain grossed out.

My short skirt
is about discovering
the power of my lower calves
about cool autumn air traveling
up my inner thighs
about allowing everything I see
or pass or feel to live inside. 


Had this been about two years ago, when I was single, in the full throes of an undiagnosed eating disorder, and suffering a severe depression over my career and my singlehood, I would have analyzed that moment as a sort of failing point on my part.  I would have thought to myself "Well, that's the only guy in the bar that would hit on me?" and I would have sunk into a shell that was increasing its hold on me.  Had this been 7 or 8 years ago, when I was obese, I would have clung eagerly to that one compliment, hardly thinking I was worthy of a guy who A) respects me or B) doesn't feel the need to try and control my movements with his brute presence.

What gives guys the right to do this? Who gave this dude permission (aside from a few too many Bud Heavies and the gendered codes of 'who owns who' in this society) to throw his weight around in front of me, literally blocking me from moving? I'm a strong woman.  I lift weights, I run, I do hot yoga, and I kickbox on the regular.  Had this guy tried anything, I'm pretty sure I could've laid this guy out.

Yet for those .3 seconds he was in my way I had horrible, flashing visions of the sort of violation that no one, no matter who they are, should ever be forced through.  It bothered me for the rest of the weekend.

My short skirt is not proof
that I am stupid
or undecided
or a malleable little girl. 

When I was horrendously overweight I owned exactly one pair of jeans.  I hated going shopping.  I hated going to any social events.  I just hated everything.  Hated guys, hated girls - especially skinny girls, ohh, those jerks - and above all else, I just hated myself.

My short skirt is my defiance
I will not let you make me afraid
My short skirt is not showing off
this is who I am
before you made me cover it
or tone it down.
Get used to it. 

Thankfully, those days aren't around anymore.  But I still am uncomfortable when presented with the idea of anybody finding me physically attractive.  I mean, I believe it when people I'm close to tell me I look good.  And yes, there are times when I look in the mirror and think "I did something right today."  But I still have that insecurity tinting everything I do.  Add onto that a drunken stranger who tried to get in my way, and you have a stressball cocktail.  And that pisses me off.

My short skirt is happiness
I can feel myself on the ground.
I am here. I am hot. 

I don't really need any kind of validation from anybody to make my night great.  Sure, it's fun to hear that you look good, and it's great when it's someone whose opinion you really care about.  But at the end of the day, I wore that dress because it was purple and it was an easy dress to dance in to "Hey-Ya!"  I may have woken up the next day with a strained neck, but it was worth it.

My short skirt is a liberation
flag in the women's army
I declare these streets, any streets
my vagina's country. 

My point, if I have a point, is simple: women should be able to do whatever the hell they want without the interference or permission of a man. Nor should women make themselves sound dumb to reel a guy in. You know who like dumb girls? Dumb guys. Don't be a dumb girl. Be a woman. Be a great woman.
You do you.  Whether it's going out and getting slightly (okay, very) drunk at an Irish bar, to getting married to your life partner (gay or straight, don't matter), having an abortion, saying the valuable word 'vagina' without getting banned from your post in a House of Congress or Senate, to flying in space like Amelia Pond...women should have all of these things without running it by a dude first.

I don't get why older, white, rich dudes are the ones asked first about what to do with my uterus and/or vagina.

They should be the LAST people to ask about my sexual organs.  They should be the last person to even THINK about my sexual organs.  The fact that they're so concerned about my vagina makes ME concerned.  Shouldn't they be worried about the function of their own sexual organs?

My short skirt
is turquoise water
with swimming colored fish
a summer festival
in the starry dark
a bird calling
a train arriving in a foreign town 

I wore that outfit and those heels because it made me feel sexy and confident.  Sorry that intimdated you, or gave you the desire to tamp it down or possess it.  You'll never have it.

I didn't wear a single bit of that outfit for you.  I wore it for me, my sense of fashion awesomeness, and for its ability to allow me to engage in some fierce shaking like a Polaroid Picture.
  
my short skirt is a wild spin
a full breath
a tango dip
my short skirt is
initiation
appreciation
excitation. 
  
I will never understand the psyche of males who think it's okay to possess women, to 'instruct' them, to make them an Other in their Normal.  


But I am not a possession.  I'm just doing what I do.  Which is to be a powerful, articulate, smart, and otherwise gifted woman who finds a man's attempts to block her way at a bar (because let's face it, that's probably the only way he'd ever get my attention) pretty sad.


I am here.  I am in a short skirt.  And I am not going away.


But mainly my short skirt
and everything under it
is Mine.
Mine.
Mine. 
- Eve Ensler, "My Short Skirt." Written in 2001 for The Vagina Monologues.

ally

A Storm is Coming, Mr. Wayne.

Who else is pumped for The Dark Knight Rises?

So...that happened.

I honest-to-God NEVER expected a reaction like that.  Never.  I mean, I thought I'd get some nice comments and stuff, but what has transpired over the past few days is beyond any and all of my wildest assumptions.  I can't even begin to express my thoughts other than "WHOA" in the manner of Keanu Reeves.

In short?  These last two days have been insane.  I don't know how I feel about it, to be quite honest.  On one hand, I'm quite thrilled and honored and very, very grateful.  I've heard so many wonderful stories from so many fantastic people.  If I could, I'd hug all of you.

On the other, slightly bigger hand...I'm scared to death.  I don't really like all of the attention, if I am to be quite honest. I'm inherently very shy.  I have Anxiety Disorder and am prone to debilitating panic attacks.  My mom has diagnosed me as "Socially Awkward" which is accurate.  A friend of mine texted me today saying "You're world famous!" Which, unlike the Kardashians, made me want to run to my room and lock the door yelling "NO NO NO NO NO."

I didn't write that post to be famous.  I didnt' write it to cash in.  And I certainly didn't write it to get into the LA Times, although that was really awesome.  I wrote it because I was pissed off at a certain journalist for trying to make Coach Summitt's retirement about something else to get blog hits.  (He has yet to comment on my blog post.  I'm not very surprised at this.) I always really hesitate to do something public for fear people will think I'm just doing it because I'm Geno's daughter and it's a famewhoring manuever.  It probably stems from when I was in 7th grade and a girl walked up to me in class and said the only reason I got on the school basketball team was because of my last name, and the guys in my grade saw me trick or treating that Halloween and yelled "WHORE" until I ran home to look that word up in the dictionary and declared "That is SO false" to my apoplectic mom.

I tend to keep my head underwater, not making waves.  And I accidentally caused a hurricane.  Oops?

Maybe that's why my sojourn into New York City three years ago didn't work out in my favor.  Fame changes people.  It makes them jaded, and ugly, and selfish.  I just want to say something that will hopefully change the people I talk to for the better.  I grew up trying to be something bigger than what I was and trying to hide what I really am...a GIGANTIC dweeb that does a lot of yoga and probably should do laundry more often.  All I want to do is write, and write well, and to be a person of value to the world I inhabit.

I never had any anti-anything drilled into my head as a child or young adult.  I didn't grow up in a 'you must hate this person' environment, or in an entitled environment.  I never had an allowance.  I never had money thrown at me.  I pay all of my own bills myself.  I get embarrassed when my Mom offers to pay for my gas.The highlight of my childhood was getting that mermaid doll that sang underwater when I was ten - I nearly drowned playing with that thing.  I was encouraged to formulate my own opinions, but above all else, I was taught to be a good person.  I try to surround myself with people who, yes, challenge me, but also are just good people, because I grew up with good people.  If someone goes from being a good person to a bad one, they don't last long.

All I really need in my life to be really really happy, aside from my writing and my work, is my family, my friends, and my boyfriend.  And sweatpants.  And cookie dough ice cream.

But as my Dad has said a few times, you are a product of your parents.  My Mom gave me a big hug and said she loved me.  But the number one BEST response I got from my piece came from my Dad.  I hadn't heard from him because he was hanging out with his BFF Obama on Monday night, which obviously takes precedent over my little dog and pony show over here.  I wasn't even sure if he'd read the article yet, but I wasn't going to text him the link and say "I WROTE SOMETHING AWESOME AND YOU SHOULD TOTES READ IT LOVE YA KTHNXBAI".  Like I said, I'm not a Kardashian.  And I'd disown Dad if he got a Bruce Jenner facelift.

I was on my way back from work yesterday afternoon when I got a notification on my phone that Dad had sent me a tweet.  My friends and boyfriend love that my Dad's on Twitter.  I simultaneously love and loathe it. 

It read, "I am so proud of what you do.  Even more so for who you are."

I immediately broke down in tears.  Right there on Route 2 West, in Yantic, whilet.  Because that's all that needs to be said.

All I have ever, ever wanted in my entire life is for that guy to be proud of me.

So everything else is just supplementary.  I don't need anything else to be happy.  I've got it pretty darn good.

ally

PS.  I'll be blogging about all of the stupid things I blogged about pre-insanity.  Don't you worry.  There will be nerdery and musings that have nothing to do with sports. 

PPS.  The pictures Yahoo! News chose to represent Coach Summitt and my father in their story about my blog are, to put it bluntly, hilariously bad.  The LA times picked a rather lovely photo of Coach Summitt accepting her ESPY, which I quite preferred.  The other photos, though? OOOF.  My Dad looks like Mark Ruffalo mid-Hulk transformation.  (If you haven't seen The Avengers...look at your life.  Look at your choices.)

Rocky Top: A Tribute to Pat Summitt. (Yes. Seriously.)

Note: I have never told this story outside of my family.  It seems appropriate, given that Coach Summitt received the Arthur Ashe award for Courage at this past weeks' ESPY awards.  It's also appropriate because this year is the 40th anniversary of Title IX, something I will be discussing in another post.

When I was eleven years old, Pat Summitt called me.
I don't mean she called my house looking for Dad, or called home by mistake in search of an office phone.  No.  This was a deliberate phone call, by Pat Summitt, looking for me. "Hello, Alysa, this is Pat Summitt from Tennessee."  Verbatim.

I was eleven.  We had just started our rivalry with Tennessee.  To say I was terrified of Pat Summitt is understating the point.  She is an icon of the sport.  She's naturally terrifying because of her intensity, her drive, her winning history...it's PAT SUMMITT.  I mean, cripes!

And I say this as a kid who had spent the past four years on a bus with Rebecca Lobo, so I tend to be unfazed by athlete superstars.  This was a whole different kettle of fish.

This is also coming from a girl who spent the ENTIRE very first UConn/Tennessee game on January 16th, 1995, in the Gampel student lounge playing SuperMunchers on a Compaq computer.  So if this nerd was freaked out by Pat Summitt, it was a very, very, very big deal.

She had heard, I'm assuming from my father, that I had been saying to people that The University of Tennessee looked like a really good place to go to school.  I knew this information from two sources - the games I had seen on TV of the Lady Vols playing, and the media guides I had stolen from press rooms when I snuck back there during games to hunt for food or Diet Coke.*
*some kids collect stamps, I collected media guides of women's basketball programs and and tried to memorize the school mascots of every single Division 1 program.  It became a huge game with the team to see if they could stump me.  I could not be defeated.


I had watched our game tape of the 1995 National Championship about 29347 times.  I thought Michelle Marciniak was terrifying.  I thought Dana Johnson could rip me in half.  And I was particularly drawn in to the replay of Laurie Milligan's turnaround jumper at the foul line near the close of the first half.  I will not lie: I spent hours on my basketball court attempting to perfect that jumper.  "Milligan fakes, spins, gonna put it up from the free-throw line - good! Milligan hits! Connecticut brings it up and they're not gonna get a shot off, Laurie Milligan with the clock rolling down, to bring Tennessee into the locker room, leading 38-32."*
*That is VERBATIM what the announcer said on the highlights video I have in my Mom's basement.  And yet I wondered why I didn't get a real boyfriend until I was 23.

When I heard that famous drawl on the answering machine, I started screaming and could not stop.  My Mom, listening in the next room, howled with laughter.  I was paralyzed with fright; not because of Pat, but because of the implications.

I thought Dad would garrotte me.  I felt guilty that she called me.  I mean, this was Pat Summitt! Tennessee! The supposed antithesis of everything we were at the University of Connecticut, our 'mortal enemy', was on my answering machine, addressing me by name, saying in a quite cheerful voice, "I hear you like orange!"

Benedict Arnold didn't have anything on me.  I began picturing my funeral.

Thankfully, my Dad thought the entire situation was absolutely hilarious and kind of cool.  I figured that was the end of it.  I'm positive I was so freaked out I never returned her call.

A few weeks later during the 1997 Dayton Regionals I ended up meeting Coach Summitt.  I'm not sure if it's inappropriate to call her "Pat" so I'll stick with "Coach Summitt" out of respect.  I don't remember how this meeting came about, but I think we were due to play them in a few days for the NCAA tournament.

I was shaking the entire time.  Being that I was very young but very aware of Coach Summitt's history and her legacy, I made sure I was polite and didn't say anything too ridiculous.  In fact, I don't think I really said much of anything.  I think I gaped.  She was gracious, and welcoming.  I can't recall what we talked about but she definitely shook my hand and looked me dead in the eye, which made me feel important.  I'm positive this meeting wasn't because she saw me as a potential recruit considering I was, well, the biggest little dork on the face of God's green earth. I was wearing a gigantic Nike shirt that probably could have doubled as a nightgown with a Nancy Drew book tucked under my arm, blinking behind oversized metallic purple rimmed glasses my sister had stepped on once during a game of one-on-one in the Seton Hall gym, so one lens stuck out and the other pushed into my cheek.  My hair was probably unbrushed and I had a unibrow that looked like a caterpillar took a vacation on my face. 

I actually spent most of that afternoon hanging around the gym with my brother and Coach Summit's son Tyler, who I recall as being an outgoing and energetic kid.  I didn't meet her then-husband RB, but he was around I'm sure.  We lost to Tennessee that year in the Dayton Regional Final - the year we lost Shea to that horrific ACL tear, the sad first of many sad firsts and ends in her career - and flew home, and that was that.  I haven't seen or spoken to her since.  But I will never forget that.

Let me just clear this up right away.  Pat Summitt is a titan of women's basketball.  She practically IS women's basketball.

I know.  I'm the daughter of Geno Auriemma.  I've met Barack Obama twice.  I've been in the Hall of Fame to watch my father inducted alongside Charles Barkley and Dominique Wilkins.  Tennessee is the grits and gravy-soaked Evil Empire and we're the cool Yankee rivals with good posture and Katharine Hepburn houses on our coastline.  I should be stoned for even suggesting a compliment towards Pat Summitt.

I would be the worlds' most ungrateful, insipid, spoiled, solipsistic idiot if I didn't recognize the importance of this woman in the women's rights movement and the game of basketball as a whole.  Women's basketball as an institution would be NOTHING without that woman, and I don't think hyperboles exist in this situation.

Everything my father has done in the world of womens' basketball, Pat Summitt did it first.  It's like that episode of South Park "Simpsons Already Did It". Pat Summitt is The Simpsons in this corollary. (Sentences I never thought I'd say.)  She got a 39-0 season before UConn did, she got a Championship 3Peat before UConn did, she got the best recruits before UConn did.  And she did it with grace and a sense of dignity that you cannot argue.  I won't try to argue it.  I am General Disarray, to keep up the South Park comparison.  Pat Summitt Already Did It.

Pat Summitt has a gold medal, and more championship trophies, and 1,000+ wins.  Whether you like it or not, she is the number one reason my father was even able to do half of what he's done.  And if I can give her those kinds of props, you can too.  She is the standard to which we should all aspire for in terms of grit, clout, proficiency, success, and determination.  And she did it without dropping nearly as many f-bombs as my Dad does.  So...she's probably a little classier, but Southern people just tend to sound classier than Philadelphia people do in general.  I think it's the accent.

When I read of her diagnosis of early-onset Alzheimer's last spring, I was heartbroken for her and her family.  Watching the games was too upsetting, because she wasn't the same coach I remember from all of those years seeing her patrol the sidelines like a lioness. 
When I read of her retirement this May I was saddened but not surprised, and wished her Godspeed.

When I read the reaction of the CT newspapers, read everyone's references to the UConn/Tennessee rivalry and the 'disappointment' that Pat and Dad didn't 'settle their differences or have another UConn/Tennessee showdown before Pat stepped down'...I was enraged.

How dare you, newspeople and sportscasters and the whole lot of you, make this about an isolated incident that is merely a footnote in the epic, a stone in the glass slipper, a crack in the Yellow Brick Road? Or the Orange Brick Road, if we want to be adorable about it (and I NEVER pass up a chance to attempt adorable).

Why can't you celebrate the stuff that happened before my Dad even got into the picture?  Hell, before Gampel Pavilion even existed? The gold medal, the national championships, the grand tradition, the countless record-breaking crowds?  Pat was winning championships before Dad even coached one game of women's basketball.  I'm not knocking anything my Dad has done.  If you've watched a championship game on TV, chances are you've seen me blubbering like a fool at the end of it at one point or another.  I know my Dad's legacy.  I'm just saying Pat was there first.

If I can get over that moment in time, you can too.  I mean, you can still wallow if you want, but it'll probably be easier to choose to move past it.  Be happy or be miserable.  The work involved is pretty much the same for both.

This has nothing to do with Geno Auriemma or the University of Connecticut.  Yes, I realize I could just say "Dad" in this instance, but really the parent/child relationship has nothing to do with this either.  I'm just speaking as a UConn alum and current UConn graduate student who is seriously annoyed with the childish behaviors of specific journalists regarding this issue.  The attention should be focused squarely on Pat Summitt, her legacy, and the new road the Lady Vols will now go down with Summitt's adjusted role as head coach emeritus.  A lot of support and well-wishes, by the way, should be accorded to the new head coach Holly Warlick.  She served as Pat's first AC for a long time and played under Pat as well, and will have no problem adjusting to this new role.  The transition should be pretty seamless and I hope they do well. 

And all of these stories about how it's 'such a shame' that Dad and Pat didn't 'kiss and make up' are forgetting one piece of the puzzle.  They had a great conversation and hug in Denver, during Dad's open practice at the Final Four.  When I read the recap by Mike DiMauro in the New London Day, I had to walk off to a private area because it was raining on my face.  Not because I missed my Dad and thought it was a lovely example of his class, something I really don't think he displays enough (and more people should be aware of the kind of person he is that has nothing to do with snarky comments or side jabs).  Nor did I cry because of "Oh, look at that, the conflict is over! Maybe we'll play them next year!? I'LL BE ON THE TEEVEE BOXES AND EVERYTHING IS ABOUT MEEEEEEE."

I cried because of a monument to the women's game who is currently battling a major, major disease that I would be far too weak to deal with.  I cried because that disease, that horrible, memory-leeching illness, could have easily been one of my parents, and I would not have the guts to endure that.   I don't know if I could have nearly the strength that Tyler has to watch his mother fight this battle every day.  To lose your memory is to lose a very deep part of yourself.  Memories constitute most of your identity.  They are a major signifier of self and person-hood.  To lose your memories can be conflated with losing yourself.

I cried because some things are just much bigger, and more important, than stones in your shoes.  You can take your shoe off and let those stones go now, journalists of CT newspapers.  And you know who you are, and you know what you do to piss me off every single time I read your articles or blogs.

They're just pebbles.  They'll go right back to the ground.  Let go, for the love of God.  And I'm what, 26? And actually LIVED this experience? And I am telling you enough is enough? That's probably a cue for you to focus on what really matters here. 

Pat Summitt's identity splashes over every part of the University of Tennessee, the city of Knoxville, women's basketball, and the triumph of women in sports in general.

I will treasure all of those memories that she has given our state as well, preserved forever on tape and DVD in the state of those epic matches in the tournament and regular season.

But I will mostly remember that this mutliple championship winning coach, on her way to another championship in 1997, called me on the phone, remembered my name, and looked me in the eye as an eleven-year-old with gnarled hair with a gaze that said, "You are on my level."

But no one is on her level.
She's at the Rocky Top.

ally

PS. Stay tuned for my thoughts on Title IX's 40th Anniversary and other blog topics I've been kicking around.  This month was bonkers but I'm a bit more settled down, now.

PPS.  I have a few plans for posts during the Olympics.  I'll probably be taking polls on twitter to get that sorted out as to how exactly I plan to post during that time.  Will let you know.

Father's Day.

It's Father's Day.

Pop-Pop, it's been 15 years, this past February.  I miss walking into your house and seeing the jug of wine and bottle of ginger ale, waiting to be mixed.  I miss hearing your thump-thump as you moved around in the rowhouse.  I miss your grunting, gentle voice.  I miss your look of bemusement when my sister and I jumped on you in this picture.  You're wearing a blanket my mother's mother made, and we didn't care that you were probably in no mood to have two irascible young girls crawling on you.  We just loved you.  We still do, and we miss you terribly.

Todd,

I remember when we met.  You'd been dating my sister for a few months, so she figured it was 'safe' for you to meet me (aka, you wouldn't run screaming when you realized your sister was related to crazy people).  She took me, you, and our brother Mike to Red Robin for the onion ring tower and burgers.  That was 7 years ago.  I knew you'd stick around for a really, really long time.  Since then, you married my sister (wise decision there, buddy) and the two of you have produced one of the coolest humans on the planet, my little nephew CJ aka lovebug.  You are one of the funniest people I know.  Thank you so letting me babysit your son; or, thank you for trusting that I won't accidentally kill him or something.  You're a pretty cool Dad, we get along extremely well, we both love 90s teen comedies (no joke) and I'm very thankful that A) I have a brother in law that's as cool as you are and B) I have a sister cool enough to see that you were a keeper, the way I did when I first met you over burgers and onion rings.

I can't put a picture of CJ on here because my sister would garrotte me, but here's a picture of you shoving cake in my sister's face at your wedding.  I love you, Todd.  Next time, I want a niece.  Somebody's gotta inherit all of these awesome shoes.

I took this picture.  I maintain it's the best picture from the entire wedding weekend.

Dad...

For teaching me how to throw a softball, and how not to overreact when you accidentally hit me in the leg with one;
For taking me to a Borders bookstore one birthday afternoon and letting me me roam through the store, and whatever books I found you'd buy them for me;
For driving me to school nearly every single day in high school after my carpool graduated sophomore year, blasting U2 in your wraparound shades and attempting to convince me you could sing as well as Bono (you don't);
For sharing my obsessive love of Arthurian literature.  When I told you I wanted to go into folklore as my concentration in graduate school, you shared with me that you always loved the stories of King Arthur; when I starred as Guenevere in Camelot four years ago, you were ecstatic;
For letting me know where you're sitting every time you come to a performance I do by letting a piercing whistle come from the darkened theater house;
For scaring away every single boyfriend or potential boyfriend I had from middle school up until I was 24;
For making me tape 60 Minutes because Eminem was going to be on;
For saying things like "I think Justin Timberlake is SO talented" and being drop dead serious;
For giving me the biggest hug on the night I moved to New York, yelling "I'm so proud of you!" as Mom dragged you away to a cab;
For giving me another hug a few months later when I broke down and admitted I didn't want to be in theater full time, telling me you stood behind any decision I wanted to make;
For watching Lonely Island Digital Shorts with me, not because I forced you to, but because you ordered me to put them on again;
For pushing me to be better: At school, in my health, in my career, in my life;
For providing me with nearly 27 years of amazing female role models in the form of your former and current players;
For making me watch video of historical college basketball players and teaching me the importance of people such as Oscar Robertson, Gail Goodrich, David Thompson, and Pete Maravich;
For taking me to the Basketball Hall of Fame when I was eleven and watching me GEEK OUT over meeting Gail Goodrich and David Thompson;
For making fun of me every single day of my life but never allowing me to leave your presence without a hug, because you're always kidding;
For agreeing that when CJ was born he would address you as Pop-Pop, not just because it's a family name for 'grandpa' but as a form of tribute to the Pop-Pop no longer with us (and for agreeing that while you'd be Pop-Pop, Mom would be "Nana", as there will always be only ONE Nonna and she's still alive and kickin';
For marrying my Mom.  Easily the best decision you've ever made in your life.  You'd obviously agree with me.  You also taught me to be incredibly picky with my own dating life, and while I hated my picky nature for a long time, I'm now deeply thankful I was;
For being my eating partner, pulling leftovers out of the fridge and picking at them when Mom yells at us not to eat things out of the pan, and for making fun of all the healthy food I eat by calling it 'granola hummus';
For sitting through my production of The Vagina Monologues with a straight face;
For being the worst dancer on the planet;
For eating ice cream with a fork.

For being the best guy I know.

Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.

November 2011, at a fundraiser.  I changed into my brother's sweatpants 15 seconds after taking this picture.

Happy Father's Day, Dad.


now if you would please quit stealing my ice cream.


ally

High on Summertime.

I've been out of school for nearly a month.  I received A's in all of my classes, and As on all of my papers, one of which I'm planning to submit to a conference or journal.  I don't say that to brag...well, not too much.  I say it because those As are indicative how much I worked this year.  This year was absolutely amazing, but I worked my ass off.  I barely saw any of my friends or family.  On the weekends, I planned wonderful date nights in which no work would be discussed, but I would inevitably start feeling guilty about all the grading I was missing, or the reading I should be doing.   But now, we're done.  I should probably be doing my reading to prepare for the MA Exam which occurs next January.  I should map out my workload for next semester.  I should get my reading materials together for the class I'm teaching, and additionally lament that I voluntarily got an 8AM Monday morning teaching time.  But I haven't been doing any of that.  It'll probably bite me in the ass eventually, but it's summer.  Here's what I've been up to in the past month:
1. Rehearsing my brains out for a production of Eve Ensler's The Vagina Monologues.  This play is one of those things I've always wanted to do, but they always produced it at UConn when I was preoccupied with another play (and UConn was really stringent about not letting us do ANY sort of theatrical work that wasn't through its Fine Arts department). I've finally gotten to be part of it, and it's been greater than my wildest expectations.  It's funny, searing, explosive, heartbreaking, and ultimately very educational. Did you know it's legal to sell guns in Texas, but illegal to sell vibrators, and if you are caught with intent to sell, you could be fined up to $10,000 or face up to a year of hard labor?  This play both infuriates me and delights me.  It will also be the only time you will ever hear me say the "C" word in public.  So get it while the gettin's good.  www.cheneyhall.org for showtimes/ticket prices.  We opened last night and the crowd was in an uproar the entire time.
2. Read A Clash of Kings and A Storm of Swords in the span of one week (yes, the latter book is 1000+ pages.  What of it? I drink a lot of coffee), went to go buy the fourth book, A Feast for Crows, in George RR Martin's A Song of Ice and Fire series and was pissed that Barnes and Noble only had it in hardcover, and proceeded on to Patrick Rothfuss's Kingkiller Chronicles.  I'm still thinking about Tyrion, though.  It feels like I'm cheating on someone.  Sidebar: The finale was fantastic, wasn't it? Although knowing what comes next really bummed me out, because I know what all the repercussions are going to be.  If they keep everything, that is.  And there was so much that got left out! Dany's other visions in The House of the Undying, for example.  But kudos to the showrunners for bringing back Khal Drogo, because who wasn't moved by that vision of what Danys' life could have been if Mirri Maz Duur hadn't gotten involved??  I'm pretty pumped that they kept Arya's interactions with Jaqen H'ghar, too, because it shows how much she's devolving into this cold, unfeeling persona that is only going to be more and dispassionate as time wears on and she sees what death is and how she can manipulate it.  Valar Morghulis!
3. Saw Florence + the Machine at Mohegan Sun.  Partied in Brooklyn and ate vegan pizza in a hole-in-the-wall that was the best pizza I have ever eaten in my entire life, then drank beer in a brewery as a cat wandered around the premises and a guy puked on the floor in front of our table.  Saw The Avengers twice in one weekend and had my face blown off by awesome.  I'm hoping Snow White and the Huntsman is good, and I'm praying Prometheus is as good as the trailer predicts.
4. Watching the Celtics attempt to kick Lebron back to South Beach.  Come on, Celts.  One more game.  Grit and Balls.  I'm sad I won't be able to watch, as I'll be in performance!
5. I registered for the Niantic Half-Marathon and I intend to CRUSH it.  I have zero reasons not to complete the race.   My training plan starts precisely the same day my show closes, which is exactly 12 weeks (not counting the week I'll be in London).  I want to kill it but not kill myself or my knees.
6.  The Olympics are officially 48 days away.  We land in London in 54 days.  I can't even begin to explain to you my gratitude, excitement, happiness, and overall OMG-ness about this entire situation.  I'm so unbelievably thankful that we're getting this opportunity and that I get to share it with my whole family, my best friend, and my man.  Plus, LONDON.  Only my favorite city on the planet.

Other than that? It's summertime.  I'm attempting to relax.  While at the same time cognizant that there's a gigantic, 6 hour MA exam waiting for me in January.  I need to remember that, and start preparing for it.  But right now, I want to soak up as much sun as I can so I can look back on it fondly this winter while my pasty behind sits in a chair, plowing through as much Chaucer and rhetoric as I can stomach. 

It's a smile, it's a kiss, it's a sip of wine, it's summertime.

ally

PS. I do have a summer job.  Two, to be exact.  One is at the children's theater I've worked at for the past 3 summers, and the other is as a host in a restaurant. They're fun, they pay well, and I love who I work with.  That's all I can ask for.

On Gluten, Gluten Sensitivity, and Why I'm Semi-Gluten Free.

Whenever someone hears that a celebrity is going off gluten to lose weight or to 'feel healthy' or to 'do a cleanse', they immediately scoff.  I do it too.  I used to be one of those people who thought that the only way anybody has a gluten problem is if they are clinically diagnosed with Celiac Disease, or some other gluten intolerance that dooms any sufferer with serious complications if they were to ingest it, such as a worn-out stomach lining, cancer, or even death.

A few of my friends have gone off gluten.  Some have done it with the good will and faith of their doctors.  Some have self-diagnosed, which I don't agree with.  It bugged me.  I never really thought gluten was a bad thing, except for when people get diagnosed with Celiac.

(note: I don't think wheat is bad.  I miss it.  I wish I could eat it every day.  So unless you have legit symptoms, don't go gluten free!)

About two years ago, I started getting really bad stomach problems.  I also suffered from a foggy head, bad joints, 'dead leg' syndrome, failure to recover during workouts, chronic anxiety/panic attacks, and dizziness/fainting.  It was like I was constantly in a state of 'wine hangover'.  I also suffered from a whole truckload of digestive issues, which I won't go into here in detail but suffice to say they were really bad.  I also lost a serious amount of weight.  I actually work out more now than I did then, and I was emaciated.  I look back at pictures and you can see my jawbone sticking out in some of them.  You could count my ribs, yet my scale numbers actually went up because I was holding on to so much water and other things in my intestines.  I was completely inflamed from the neck to my hips. I went to a doctor at the UConn health center who told me I had a "tipped pelvis".  I have no idea what that had to do with my other symptoms, but I submitted myself to the CT scan and other tests and they all came out clean.

In January of 2011, I realized I needed to get help or else I would be confined to my house for the foreseeable future.  I was laying in bed, clutching my sharply protruding abdomen, weeping quietly to my mother and sister.  At one point I said aloud, but very softly, "I hate myself."

My mom took me to a gastroenterologist.  She was kind, supportive, funny, and warm.  She told me I was holding on to so much in my stomach because I had IBS by way of spastic colon.  They tested me for celiac, and for Malt Lymphoma and I was negative to both, thank God.  But then the doctor told me that just because I tested negative for celiac didn't mean I wasn't sensitive to gluten, or maybe even slightly intolerant.  Now, I tested positively for lactose intolerance, which I knew before the blood test. But if I had to cut out gluten too? I'd be devastated.

We quickly came to the realization that while I was sensitive to gluten, it wouldn't harm me physically if I ate a small amount every once and a while.  The doctor advised me that once I was done with my colonoscopy (yes, I had to get that done.  the actual procedure is no big deal, but the prep is awful) I should try cutting back on gluten for a few days,  to see how i feel.  Her advice mainly stemmed from this criteria:

1. Eat Greek yogurt every once and a while to stimulate proper probiotic development in the bowels, thereby erasing some of the problems associated with my body's reaction to gluten;
2. Eat gluten only 2-3x a week (I have since dropped this to 1-2x), but if I am in a place where there is NO gluten-free options available, it's okay for me to eat something with gluten in it;
3. Take a muscle relaxant for the other symptoms related to stressed colon, and a probiotic to develop more healthy bacteria in the gut.  I take these every day, the relaxant 3x and the probiotic in the morning before I get up.  I also take a multivitamin, a fatty acid pill, and a B-Complex/Biotin pill because I don't eat a lot of red meat and it helps my hair/skin/nails.  The gastro also mentioned that gluten insensitivity can result in malnourishment and weight loss, which I had read about in the cases of those diagnosed with celiac but I had no idea it would extend to me!

I had the colonoscopy, and did not change my diet prior to the procedure.  Afterwards, I was diagnosed wtih acid reflux, gluten insensitivity, and IBD (Irritable Bowel Disorder).  I was advised to start eating gluten free most of the time, so I started the next day.

The difference was remarkable.  I lost 7 pounds of inflammation in a month (SERIOUSLY), but my muscles finally began to develop after a year of doing heavy lifting and hot yoga with no results.  I felt my energy go through the roof.  I felt FULL after I ate, not a feeling of dissatisfaction.  My workouts got really fun.  My stomach became regular.    I was a well-oiled machine.  For most of the summer, I was not only in the best shape of my life but I was also full of energy and vitality.

Then I started graduate school.  I got stressed.  I got lazy.  I got annoyed with having to pack 'special' meals.  I started dating someone and I didn't want the burden of throwing all of my intolerances at someone right off the bat (although spoiler alert: he's become my biggest supporter).  That doesn't make for a cute picture when you're trying to convince someone you DON'T spend your days looking up medieval manuscripts and researching the intricacies of Calvin and Hobbes, and are actually a fully functioning member of society.  Sort of.

The 'little bit of gluten' became a lot of gluten.  Every day.  Then I started getting really into beer, mostly because I was sick of getting made fun of at parties when everyone was drinking Miller and I was clutching a glass of wine, looking like THAT girl.

I realize that all of this could have been avoided if I didn't give a flying fuck what other people think.  But dammit, I'm not Superman.  I didn't notice the difference at first.  But then I started realizing I didn't feel like my normal, peppy, focused self.  I actually felt like shit.    Also, joint pain in the tune of incredible displacement pain in my knees, and a foggy feeling in my head.  I was exhausted but I hadn't changed my routine all that much.  In fact, I was working out less than I had been when I was disordered, and eating MUCH more than I had been when I was anorexic, and I still felt excruciating pain in my joints.  This kind of pain was never present during my over-exercising days, not even when I was running 20 miles a week.  It freaked me out.  A lot.

Then my sister mentioned her doctor recommended she go gluten-free, because of some foggy-headedness and other symptoms that sounded freakishly similar to mine.  I was stunned.  Could it be a familial thing and not just something I was suffering from? My stomach started bothering me all the time.  I began to have the same symptoms.  So I went back to my gluten-free diet near the end of the school year and felt better almost instantly.  Oh, gluten.  You sneaky little bastard.

Like I said, I didn't remove gluten ENTIRELY from my diet.  If I accidentally eat something with gluten in it, I'll live.  I do have some survival skills for anyone who is attempting to cut down on gluten or eliminate it al-together.

1. There are SO MANY OPTIONS out there right now for us! My supermarket has an entire freezer devoted to exclusive sale of g-free products.  I personally love Udi's G-Free Whole Grain Bagels; I just ate 1/2 of one for lunch, with some egg whites, hummus, and sriracha, and some gluten-free veggie chips on the side.  Plus, it forced me to get creative and to stop putting limits on my food options.  I try foods/products I never would have dared to if I didn't have this sensitivity, such as millet, amaranth, and tapioca bread (respectively: awesome, AWESOME, and blaaaah).

2. Don't worry about not getting carbs.  I'm a runner/yogini and I always get worried I'm not getting enough carbs in my diet.  But rice, amaranth, quinoa, sweet potatoes/regular potatoes, millet, polenta...all of them are nice and carb-loaded AND gluten-free.  I love brown rice wraps for lunch, gluten-free oats with yogurt for breakfast, and sweet potatoes for dinner.  Maybe not on the same day, but I love them.  And also, this is a good way to perhaps amp up your protein.  I'm pretty sure that might have been the reason I put on so much muscle in the past year, but I think the lack of inflammation helped, too.  There are so many blogs out there about going gluten-free, too.  I love gluten-free goddess, gluten-free girl, and edibleperspective.  Also...I love rice cakes.  I really do.  I know they get a bad rap for being a 'diet' food.  But rice cakes smothered in almond butter, honey, and raisins? That's been my breakfast for the past five days, and I have yet to get sick of it.  I also eat a piece of fruit with it.  It's so damn good.  (the apple cinnamon rice cakes are AMAZING)

3. Have an understanding support system.  I am really lucky to have an awesome family and a SERIOUSLY supportive boyfriend. My parents are awesome about my g-free lifestyle.  My dad sometimes makes fun of it, calling my meals 'granola hummus' and such, but my mom always keeps gluten-free bagels and breads stocked in their freezer as well as rice pastas and other such g-free products in the pantry,  When she makes spaghetti, there's always g-free noodles boiling in a smaller pot just for me.  She also makes me cheese-free risotto...which doesn't sound good in the slightest but I doctor it with nutritional yeast so it keeps the cheesy flavor.  My boyfriend helps  me out in all the ways he can, which I'm tremendously thankful for, but also will advise me not to do something if he thinks it'll upset my stomach, like the time I decided I NEEDED a gigantic Bavarian pretzel at a restaurant.  Speaking of bad decisions...

4. If you eat something with an allergen in it-provided it isn't a lethal one, obviously-just be cognizant of what you will feel like afterwards.  I do sometimes go "FUCK IT GIMME PRETZEL EXTRA MUSTARD AND SAUERKRAUT PLZ" when I know it's probably going to make me feel icky in the morning.  But like I said, I'm really lucky to only have a sensitivity and not a full-blown sick reaction to the stuff.  The least that will happen is I'll just be a little tired the next day, so if I know something (like the Bavarian pretzel) will most likely be the only gluten-y thing I eat that day, I'll have it and it won't bug me at all.  If I go all out and use my 'cheat meal' of the week to just eat all of the gluten in the state of Connecticut-gluten at appetizer, meal, AND desserts-, I will spend the next day feeling like I've been hit by a car.  And I've actually been hit by a car, so I know what I'm talking about.  However, last week I went to NYC with friends and we hit up a pizza place for dinner.  They had a vegan cheese option, but no gluten-free option.  I ate it, because I'd rather have ONE allergen hitting me than both.  Had I eaten a cheese/wheat combo...woof.  And one time I went to a place that had gluten free buns, but their turkey burger did have some bread crumbs in the mixture.  I ate both and was fine.  Additionally, lactose is the thing I am the most allergic to, so while I can be a bit lax with the gluten thing, I avoid dairy like the plague unless it's Greek yogurt or goat's milk products, which can actually be beneficial to the gut.  I CAN have a bit of ice cream cake every once and a while.  Too much, and I am NOT someone you want around you the next day.

5.  Toughen up, and make your voice heard.  Because people won't understand.  I'm not a victim.  I will never be one, and certainly not because of stuff I can't eat.  That being said, for the first few months of trying to be gluten-free I felt ashamed, and even almost guilty.  I tried not to be a whiner about my allergies/sensitivities.  I thought explaining my intolerances would make me a boor or a burden.    I remember joking with a guy on a date about the people who ask in a high-pitched, Type-A shriek 'DOES THIS HAVE GLUTEN IN IT?!' at a restaurant, while on the inside terrified that the breadstick I was housing would make my stomach hurt and ruin the evening.  Then as we continued dating, and I grew as a person dealing with these roadblocks both outside and inside the relationship, I realized....the people who didn't understand my allergies are just dicks.


People automatically think you're g-free because A) you want to lose weight or B) MILEY CYRUS DID IT AND OMG or C) you have an eating disorder.  If I tell someone I'm lactose intolerant and gluten-sensitive, and they get weirded out, fuck that noise. And just for the record for those who equate gluten allergies with starvation - as I said before, those who are allergic to gluten not only get inflamed when they eat it, but they drop weight when gluten is in their system because their body starts to derail its intake.  Since reducing gluten I've gotten in the best shape of my life and my grocery bill is larger than my entire family's bill, combined.  I run/ellipticize, kickbox, and do hot yoga, and in two weeks will start training for a half-marathon (more on that in another post).  I eat like a truck driver.  I eat tons of protein, vegetables, fruits, nuts, seeds, and yes, carbs.  I'm also a classic foodie.  I LOVE food, particularly ethnic food. I could eat Thai or Indian or Chinese food every single day if the sodium levels didn't make me explode.  I've told people "If you put it in front of me, I will eat it."  I'm also really lucky that I'm of the constitution that really genuinely loves salads, oatmeal, and healthy food.  Now I eat those foods because I know it'll help me operate at my peak, rather than sluggishly dragging my feet.

6. Know your shit.  No pun intended.  I did a LOT of research on my allergies; what the exact symptoms are when I eat an allergen, what helps me feel better if I've accidentally consumed an allergen, and how to get my body on the right track afterwards.  Also, I've been vetted by 4 different doctors, all of whom diagnosed me with the exact same things, so I know for a fact this is how my body operates.  I'm not doing it to lose weight, I'm not doing it to be en vogue.  I'm doing it because it helps me feel healthy.  Also, it really helps your cause if you can back up your allergies with a list of the procedures you've had done (people tend to believe me after I mention 'colonsocopy' or 'prep cleanse' or 'muscle relaxants', or side effects that come with consumption of said allergens.  It makes people really sympathetic.  Or grossed out.

My point is, do I have a reaction to gluten? Yes.  Is it going to kill me if I eat some? No.  But do I feel better when I don't eat it? Yep.  My body feels best when I don't have it in my diet. So I try not to have it.

Now, if I could only give up Diet Coke.

ally

PS. Keep your eyes on this space for news about the big race I'll be running in September.  I sadly had to drop out of the Warrior Dash because I got cast in a play, and I didn't want to risk breaking something during a performance weekend.  But I'll be in training all summer! ;)

There is no one like me.

I don't know where it comes from.

Perhaps it's all of the magazines that order us to compartmentalize our 'likes' and 'dislikes' into disparate categories, because we need to be boxed and separated up into finite groupings such as "Sensual" or "Romantic" or "Eclectic".  If you like the Eclectic dress option but prefer the Sensual fragrance, what does that make you? Apparently a freak of nature, according to Cosmo.

Why do we, as women, urge other women to single themselves into these options that have no fluidity or grey area? Is it possible to be more than one thing at once? Apparently not if you follow these dictums. 

Why do I HAVE to be a Zooey Deschanel every single day when on certain Saturday nights I feel more like Jennifer Lopez?  And then like a P!nk on another day, or a Michelle Williams, or a La Roux? (Right now, with my newly dyed red hair, I'm definitely a La Roux.  Or a RuPaul.)

Gendered competition exists everywhere.  We participate in it as women every single time we cringe at another womans' choice in jeans size, or dissect the shape of a strangers' nose/butt/breasts/legs. 

Yes, I moved to NYC when I was 23.  Yes, I was operating mostly on my parents' dime.  Yes, I was getting my rent paid for me.  I pretty much was handed a card saying "You will never get an opportunity like this again so make the most of it."

What did I do? I lived at the gym, in the library, and in my apartment.  I didn't come out for air until six months later when I moved home, tail between my legs, and with a giant hole in my heart where my adoration of musical theater and drama had been ripped out of me.

I did not, as the girls on Girls do, spend my days eating cupcakes, complaining about my parents' paying for all of my stuff, sleeping with guys who never called me back (although I did date a few guys in NYC, I was so isolated, so protective of my newly-slender body, that they couldn't get close enough).  I spent my days by myself.  Competing against myself.  Slowly growing to despise myself.

And it just kept getting bigger.

It took a long, long time to be fully okay with everything I was, and everything I wasn't. 

Now, I'm in graduate school.  I'm on the other side of 25.  Day in and day out, I am surrounded by pressure to deliver perfection.  A B+ is cause for depression.  A bad evaluation on a student form can be the difference between acceptance and dismissal.  It's like I'm operating with a gun at the back of my head in the shape of a ballpoint pen.

At the beginning of the year, I was fully accepting of that pressure.  Indeed, I strode into the first week of classes back in August with a "COME AT ME, BRO" attitude.  I flew through those first two months without any worries.  I knew I had a one-track mind, and was planning to spend the next two years and the rest of my days fully immersed in scholarship.  My schedule was laid out, like a red carpet, welcoming me onto the path of least resistance.

Life has a way of reaching up at you when you think everything is going juuuust the way you think you want it to go, and punching you in the face.

This year has changed my life.  I won't get into the details, but if you know me in person, you know that things have happened that have changed me irrevocably. All good things.  Nobody died or anything.  But it has been a year of reflection and self-inspection so profound and intense that there have been moments I've started crying at phrases as simple as "Why did you leave the dishes unwashed?"

I always want to be the BEST at something.  I've gotten so used to the competition of being 'the BEST', that I forgot to just be myself.

I'm probably reading way too much into this situtation.  But I think that I'm passed that area of my life when the future was a gaping black hole, poised to swallow every single hope and dream I have and.  The future looks pretty sparkling to me.  So there are a few things I need to take care of in order to secure that promise.  Stop beating myself into the ground, for one. 

I have two more weeks of the semester.  Two more weeks of lockdown paper writing and scholarship and grading.  This summer, I plan to laugh, drink wine, eat so much mango I'll turn into one, run because I love it and not because I'm training for anything, do all of the yoga classes I didn't have time for this year, reeeeelaaaaaaaaax, and be.my.self.

My best self.  Which is just my own self. 

which would be the best gift i could offer anyone.
ally