Confessions of a Drunken Ex-Lova

I wish I had a jaw dropping story about my first hurricane experience to entertain you with, but it was actually fairly quiet compared to many other areas on the east coast. I ended up going into Brooklyn and staying with the family - more for boredom precaution than safety. There were no issues with flooding whatsoever, we had power throughout, and a total of zero trees came crashing into the windows and on top of our cars. How mundane. Three bottles of wine later, and 'Irene' went back to being a tragic name saved for crazy aunts and sketchy neighbors. The most eventful it got was a drunk dial from my ex-boyfriend at three in the morning. And that's hardly the thrill I was looking for.

I hate drunk dials from old lovas. I'll admit, I fall guilty to making one or six of them back in the day when I had my first gin and tonic, but the thrill of it all has worn off after my old 23 years. There is no reward left in hearing a slurred "I miss you", "I made a mistake", or, in this case, "When are you moving back home so we can finally get married". Uh...what?

Now. We know I like to make light of things, which is why I can find the good in this. Yes, I'm flattered...I may be single, but I'm getting drunk marriage pre-proposals over the phone. And though it took four years, I now have a right to say the "I told you so" that I promised him I'd be able to someday after he left me brokenhearted in my basement a week before my high school graduation. But that 'I told you so' is never as sweet as we hope it to be, and this drunk dial wasn't quite as entertaining as I wish it was. Because though we were young, and it was a long time ago, and this boy probably had an obscene amount of Grey Goose before making the call, there were once real feelings there...wounds that have taken a long time to heal, leaving me guarded and wary of experiencing the same hurt that he put me through again.
My biggest fear in love is not that I can't find it, but that I won't find it with the right person. Having myself convinced that there was just one specific person meant for me left me feeling completely paranoid with all of my major life decisions. I worried if I made the "wrong" choice, I would only be keeping myself from the person I'm suppose to be with (A.K.A the "wrong choice" of living in New York). And that is why this phone call pissed me the fuck off. Because though we were young, and it's been four years, and there is almost always Grey Goose involved, this is not the first time we've had this conversation. And after those four years, I have yet to find someone that makes my heart skip a beat like this boy did.

His drunk dial came conveniently soon after the bar conversation I promised I'd share with you - the one concerning relationships, and the one that's made me look at all of this in the right perspective. I shared my 'only one specific person' fear with a 40-something year old married man who raised some valid points, completely shifting my mindset on the entire situation. As males usually do - he brought in logic to something I had fantasized in my head. He reminded me that life is all about choices, and who you end up with isn't necessarily because of fate or destiny, but rather because of the decisions you make that you believe are the best for yourself. I shouldn't have 'the love of my life' in the back of my head every time I make a major decision for myself. I need to do what's best for me, and by doing that, my love will come along.
So initially, yes, this phone call upset me, because it brought back that old fear of wondering if staying in New York and still being single isn't just a coincidence. It made me fantasize about the relationship I could have if I ever moved back to the Midwest. But then I remembered the wise, buzzed words of the man at the bar, and I hit myself with a dose of reality. This boy broke my heart. He absolutely humiliated me. And now, after four years and him finally realizing how fucking awesome I am, I'm entertaining the idea of what it would be like for me to throw away everything I have here and for us to make it work - all in fear of him being 'the one' and me being too stubborn to admit it? Reallllly, Leah. I don't want to be with this boy. I just want what I used to have with him...and there is no move big enough to bring that back.  
So, thank you for the flattery, ex-boyfriend. I'm happy you finally realized I am good enough for you. You're about four years too late though, I'm over a thousand miles away, and it's going to take a lot more than a drunk dial to convince me something is good enough to leave what I've made for myself here. That is one decision I am sure of.

Morning News According to Me

There are a few scenarios in which I really don't appreciate living alone. Knowing a hurricane is coming in a very short while is one of them. It's not that I'm nervous...I'm just a little confused. What exactly does one do during a hurricane? Should I be stocking my fridge? Loading up on arts and crafts to entertain me for an unpredictable amount of hours? Or should I be nervous? Hurricanes fall under the staggering category of 'things not found in the Iowa', and this Midwestern girl isn't quite sure what to do. Just to be on the safe side, the coffee, nail polish, trashy magazine, and wine selections will be fully stocked. I'm assuming my yoga class will be canceled, and this makes me annoyed with the whole hurricane business before it even begins.

Speaking of weather - apparently many people in New York felt the after effects of an earthquake in Virginia earlier this week. I was not one of them, and I have earthquake envy. I did feel one while I was in Greece, so the envious feelings aren't as strong as they may have been, but it sounds like I missed out on some thrills - unless New Yorkers are being their dramatic selves when it comes to caution with nature, which is a definite possibility. Try driving here in a snow storm, and plan on the other drivers being more of a risk than the weather itself.

In other news, Derek Jeter is allegedly single again - reading this over my morning coffee made the cup(s) that much more fulfilling. I quit one of my two bar jobs, hoping to clear some space in the schedule for that little thing we like to call school. I have developed a mild addiction to hummus, I'm attempting a vegetarian diet again (more on this later), and falling asleep to Jim Brickman seems to be the cure to any jet lag hangover. Along with a questionable dosage of Nyquil. Only four short blocks away, my new Starbucks has a fabulous seating area with comfy couches, along with a lesbian barista that appreciates the ta-tas and controls my drink order ($), promoting it to be my new study space for the year. I may finally attempt to go jean shopping today, which has not gotten any easier since the sixth grade, and obviously you'll hear about my traumatic experiences shortly after. Another thing you'll hear about - the incredibly enlightening conversation I had about relationships with a complete stranger while I was bartending. As illegitimate as it sounds, he may have said exactly what I needed to hear to finally make me feel at peace with being single.

Enough with my news caps, I need to prepare for this hurricane the only way I know how to. My stops today include the mall, the liquor store, Starbucks, and the gym. After that, I'll be ready for any mother nature predicament that New York will come up with next.

I Be Up in the Gym

...just workin' on my fitness. Because I'm Fergalicious. Obviously. But after almost three weeks away from my normal eating and exercise routine, I better as hell be up in the gym, because there is nothing vicious about the body after a mojito, gyro, souvlaki, and tiropita filled vacation.

I've said it once before, and I'll probably be saying it until the day I die - I hate gyms. The funky smelling recycled towels, awkwardness of panting and pouring sweat three feet away from a complete stranger, and enough eye contact with Sexay Biceps to make you wish you actually put make up on before working out...it's just too stressful for an activity that's suppose to reduce stress. But aside from the 'cons' that kept my running on the streets and boardwalks, shopping around for gyms may lead you to find some great incentives to join at a fairly decent price. Those incentives, along with my desperation to be rid of the new found handles that are no where near being loved, are exactly what lead to my latest plastic purchase.

For me, nothing will ever beat the feeling of running outside. It's more than a physical release...it's time for me to vent mentally as well. Unfortunately, any type of outdoor activity has its' limitations, and with classes soon being added into my schedule, those limitations lead me back down the escalators at the mall and through the doors of XSport Fitness. Their 24 hour availability was the first thing to draw me in - nothing pisses me off more than being dressed and ready to go, only to discover by the locked doors that the gym is not ready for me.

Another incentive XSport offers is an impressive, fee-included selection of group fitness classes. When thinking about switching up your work out routine, or if you're nursing any type of injury or soreness, a fitness class is always something to consider. I love to do pilates and yoga, and used to attend classes frequently, so the thought of it being a regular part of my routine again only pulled me further into a gym membership.

The last consideration to determine my decision, the factor that always represents any 'final say' for me, was the price tag. This is where XSport may not have won out in the end if it weren't for my careless spending habits after I first moved to New York. I was actually a member for the first few months that I lived here, but thanks to the $165.00 one-time-only membership fee, and $49.00 monthly price tag, my shopping habits couldn't support the cost, and I gave up my membership as soon as the sidewalks began to peek through the snow. It was a lot of money then, but the membership fee has proven to be a good investment for me, with the first and last months' payments being all I needed to sign up. Not only that, but my student ID knocked me down to only $35.00 a month - the same rate as most fitness centers in the area, making my choice of gym pretty mindless. And no, I have not actually found my student ID card, but I brought along enough paraphernalia to be worth half of Adelphi's bookstore, and combined with my Midwestern charm and on-cue smiles, there was no way Guido Juice-head trainer could say 'no'.
**Just a side note - it may just seem like an incredibly unflattering photo of you, representing where your money will be going for the next 65 years, but a student ID comes in quite handy with reduced rates. I have yet to find mine (I'm still convinced I will), but it would have saved me a few Euros at museums and historical sights visited in Greece. Restaurants, tourist attractions, fitness centers, even merchandise such as Apple computers, offer student discounts. All you need to do is flash that unfortunate photo, and smile pretty to prove you look better in person.

A final motivational thought for joining a gym - actually having to pay for a membership is incentive to get your ass to the gym and get your money's worth. A monthly bill alone won't pay for that vicious, Fergalicious body. You gotta be up in the gym, so every time you turn around brothas gather round, lookin' at you up and down, 'cause you delicious. D to the E to the L-I-C-I-O-U-S.

Traumatic Travels

Want to see what I look like after a total 27 hours of traveling?

Me neither. Sorry. But pretteee, huh.

What was the most wonderful vacation happened to have the most horrid ending. Starting the moment I woke up. I'll sum it up as briefly as I can, and just tell you that after taking Tylenol on an empty stomach, I was vomiting more impressively than my most impressive hangover. Thanks to the pharmacist's recommendation, I had to stick a dissolving tablet in a place that I believe has one purpose, and one purpose only. After all had failed, and I was still in the bathroom with only an hour to spare before my taxi came to take me to Athens, I made a visit to the most illegitimate, sketchy doctor's office I hope to ever be in. There were no diplomas hanging on that wall to say the least. A nice, pleasant little shot in the ass was received, and I was sent on my way. Under a different last name than my own. Heh.

Take my morning and add in a two and a half hour car ride to the airport, nine hour plane delay, potential Greek passengers turned rioters, countless minutes standing in lines, and a busted open suitcase on the luggage belt. It's safe to say I'm happy to be home.
I can already tell I'm going to be a little mixed up with my sleep schedule for a while. It's 2:00 PM and I'm considering hibernation for the rest of the day. After my last 27 hours...hell - I'd even take just the tablet-in-the-place-it-shouldn't-go excuse, productivity is not expected. The bags are unpacked and the fridge is stocked...my work is done for the day.

Self Help for the Stubborn

Before I even begin this post, let me assure you that I do not live within the 'self-help' section of Barnes and Noble. I'm much too cynical of a person to regularly indulge myself in someone else's criticism of my life. I went in for the sole purpose of finding my guidebook to Mr. Right, and left with more than I intended on buying. Typical. After a summer filled with Cosmopolitan and trashy romance novels, I was ready for something a little more enlightening. Literally spotting it on my way out of the store, I ran across Christine Hassler's “20 Something, 20 Everything”, my current read for the remainder of the summer.
With my 23^rd birthday coming up next month, I'm obviously well into my twenties. I've accomplished a lot for myself in the short time I've graduated high school, but sometimes I feel as if I'm not making the most out of the so-called “best years of my life”. I can list all that I've done, produce my blue print for what I have left to do, and yet I feel as if it's not enough. And despite their achievements and goals set for themselves, after endless Skype sessions and coffee dates with friends, I know I'm not alone. Hassler's book focuses on all of the above and so much more, shedding light on how prominent these feelings are amongst women post high school. Intertwining real-life scenarios with thought provoking questions, “20 Something, 20 Everything” therapeutically addresses concerns and issues that commonly arise within the ever changing and unsteady years of the twenties.
While I work and write on finding balance in health, schooling, work, and my social life, the most important, and often most difficult, aspect that needs constant attention is the balance of one's own self. It's difficult to be completely content in any area of your life if you aren't content in who you are as a person. With all of the decision making and life changing experiences that happen in your twenties, knowing and accepting yourself needs to be a priority. The book “20 Something, 20 Everything” not only forces you to look at who you are, but also what you want out of life. Hassler strips away the motivational cliches', promising, “...it will be more fun than studying, more rewarding than going to a psychic, and cheaper than seeing a therapist”. I will vouch for her when I say I've had plenty of experience in all three, and over halfway through the book, she's honest on all parts.
While my summer reading thus far has been anything but intelligent and inspirational, trust me when I say that Hassler's book is worth looking in to. Be ready to do some writing – making up for the financial cost that therapy rapes you of does not mean skimming through a large print book to find all of life's answers. I really considered skipping portions of the questions, and I can already say I'm happy I didn't. It may be time consuming, but so are my nights out drinking and riding mopeds. So that's hardly an excuse.
So my lovely readers, if you can relate to any of the feelings mentioned, if you're wanting to do some self-reflection, or if you're just looking for a little nudge in the right direction, I cannot recommend a better book. And that should mean a lot coming from a cynical, stubborn lush who once told a therapist that their degree meant nothing and declared they would never know more than her.

My Mr. Wrongs of Greece

While “Why Mr. Right Can't Find You” has been read cover to cover, I have unfortunately also learned lessons in dating through experience during my time in Greece. There's never a dull moment in my love life - which is interesting, because there never seems to be a successful moment either. I can't even take a short European vacation without being bothered by boys' bullshit. From the past, short two weeks here, my freshly experienced advice to anyone dating outside of their own country:

Just because he claims to speak English, doesn't mean he actually can.

I don't know if they think it will impress me, or maybe it's their form of a pick-up line, but I have had countless encounters with faux-English speakers. We get through the greeting, he can usually tell me his name, and once in a while I get an age, hometown, or career, but beyond that, the conversation goes downhill pretty quickly. According to the multilingual standards of the guys I've met here, I am a native English speaker, completely fluent in Spanish, know quite a bit of Greek, and my one word knowledge of Dutch translates to speaking “some” of the language. Unless he has proven his understanding of the language and can keep up past “where are you from”, don't get too excited when a guy claims to speak your language. The conversation will be pretty succinct, and you'll be back at square one, almost missing your American, English speaking douche lords.

Just because he's from a different country does not mean he will actually call when he says he will.

I'd been catching his eye all day, because he happened to be sitting next to my potential gorgeous Greek soulmate. But alas, it always needs to be the friend that is interested, and he was the one who approached me. He actually spoke plausible English, so we were able to carry a conversation. He seemed very interested, and asked for a way to contact me. I gave him a number where he could reach me, and he obviously never called. Sound familiar? Just because he's not American, doesn't mean he'll call.

They're not motorcycles, they're mopeds, and once you turn 16, you shouldn't date anyone who drives one.

I'm not really even sure how to present this dating experience except to tell you I was re-telling the story to my sister on the phone last night, and we were both having trouble catching our breath because we were laughing so hard. Conversation came easy with this guy in particular, and I eventually accepted a ride offer on his “motorcycle”. After walking to Guam and back in my stilettos, we finally approached a black replica of my 7^th grade boyfriends' moped, sans florescent orange flag. I know they are more popular to ride in Europe, and acceptable even after turning driving age, but I realized quite quickly that driving through the country side on the back of a moped, my five inch heels awkwardly clinging to the sides and hoop earrings getting tangled in my hair, is much more glamorous in the movies. Things got creepy fast when he took me to a discrete location on a dirt rode, tried to impress me with a mediocre view of the moon, and directly requested "kiss me" in an accent that went from romantic to repulsive in .2 seconds. After my request to be brought back, and his annoying remarks of "you don't like me" in the now-tarnished accent, I got my wish, and we hoped back on that sexy ride. Just to make the experience that much better, the moped proved its' worth, needing some pushing in order to make it up the country hillside. In my stilettos. I stopped trying not to laugh, made a mental note to blog about it, and concluded that mopeds need to be left to the juvenile.

Clearly European men have not influenced the success rate of my dating life, but I can't say I'm bothered. If anything, I'm thankful. They've done the unthinkable - made me actually appreciate my American counterparts. The next time at home I'm let down by a guy who doesn't call, I won't be disappointed - I'll just be grateful he drove a car and it all unfolded in English.

Forgiveness from the Lady Bits

Men really have no idea what women go through for beauty. I reached a new level of understanding with this statement recently. Ladies, if someone ever tells you that waxing any where below the belly button and above the knee is 'not that bad', they're lying. One hundred percent. This is coming from a girl who was consistently body slammed by her older brother throughout childhood. I really think I can handle a natural labor after my waxing horrors.

Much of the pain may have had to do with the fact that I applied our freshman year drinking motto, “go big or go home”, to my first ever waxing appointment. Let's not misinterpret this – my lady bits have always been well maintained, I just considered hot wax being poured all over them to be unnecessary and avoidable. But curiosity finally got the best of me, along with a calendar filled with three weeks of beach time, and my appointment was booked. Because I'm Dutch, and wanted to make the most of my first-time customer's half off coupon, there was no child's play involved, and we definitely went straight for the brazilian. I felt like my lady bits would never forgive me. I am hardly being my dramatic self when I say I was literally light headed after a while. Although I do have to say, now that the pain has dulled and I can finally see straight again, Jennifer did some good work down there. I consider the woman a saint after the verbal slurs she endured that morning. Definitely had to tip over 20% after that one. Now I feel as if I need to get my money and pain's worth and spontaneously flash her work for others to see. Good thing they're more open minded with things like that in Europe.

I considered waving my white flag and surrendering approximately 19 times throughout the appointment, but I can already say I'm happy I put myself through it, because I am in a swim suit more than clothes for the majority of this trip. I was a solid fourteen shades lighter than everyone else the day I arrived in Greece, so I hope to at least leave looking a similar ethnicity to them. I typically attempt to avoid personifying the phrase “beauty is pain”, but in the case of waxing my goods and not having to give it a second thought while here, I'll take it.