Time Flies

People say time flies when you’re having fun. In certain cases, I think time just flies.

When I went to my high school the other day to run at the track, I could see the tent before I even drove through the entrance. I always thought it was so pretty and classy, the graduation tent. Big, circus-like but not in a bad way. It was a production. It was important and it was on location - a bonus.

It was something I saw every year and couldn’t wait for my turn to sit under it.

How was that a year ago already?

I remember moving up from eighth grade like it was yesterday. My teachers chose me to be the female “MC” for the ceremony out of all the girls in my grade. Some could say that’s where my interest in broadcast journalism started, in the sweaty, smelly gross middle-school gym strutting my strapless neon chevron dress down the runway - I mean the stained and taped gym floor.

I also remember my first preseason as a freshman. My first day of high school. Getting my license. Going to prom. Last preseason as a senior and captain. Last first-day of high school. Going to prom again. Graduation rehearsal. Graduation. What I wore, what I ate for lunch that day and what other business I had to tend to afterward are all things I recall as well.

Another thing I can remember is how much I wanted to leave high school and go to college. By the end of it I was so sick of everyone and everything. I was speaking to people who were going to my college more than I was speaking to people at home at one point. I was more than ready to start a new chapter and to wipe my slate clean.

How was my soon-to-be graduating self supposed to know that I would be wiping my slate clean yet again exactly a year later?

Change is a tricky concept to fully understand. It’s hard to realize it in the moment that it’s happening. It’s also hard to distinguish change from simply not knowing things you thought you did.

Unfortunately, I have a perfectionist mindset. Yes, I said unfortunately. I have a hard time going with the flow and like to know what’s coming. I have a plan for everything and I don’t like surprises.

Well, a lot changes in a year. A lot happens in a year. And a lot of surprises take place.

When I was 9 I decided that I was going to have a son named Tobey and a daughter named Rebecca and that I was going to marry a man with an Australian accent who lives in America in order to avoid the sharks and scorpions.

My ideas for my future have changed slightly since then, but to different baby names and different criteria for my husband. Where I was going to college however was something that I was set on.

Things change.

It’s like ordering jeans online. You have a great image in your head of you in these rocking pair of jeans, but you just won’t know what they look like until you try them on. Well. I had this grand idea of what my college experience was going to look like and let me tell you. What I experienced my freshman year was NOT it.

Going to college is hard. Being away from home is hard. Living on your own is hard. And it’s hard to not get wrapped up in the mess of it all. I could feel myself changing into someone I wasn’t comfortable with and it was a weird feeling.

I was making decisions I wouldn’t have previously made, doing things I wasn’t comfortable with, and a lot of times trying to fit into this mold that I knew I was never meant to fit into it.

With that being said, I lost myself a little bit. A really easy task for a then 18-year-old young woman to accomplish. That and spending a lot of money on Chipotle and clothes. Really easy to do.

At the beginning of the school year, I refrained from talking a lot to my home friends in order to let myself start anew. Something I feel like a lot of people do. But by the end of the year, I realized that I had isolated myself even more from people at home than I already had months before.

My original intent was to live my best life at my new school with my new friends and catch up with people at home every once in a while. Then it turned into me not wanting to talk to people from home because I had no exciting news to share. It also turned into me not wanting to see people or adults over school breaks because I wanted to avoid the “how is school?” question.

Eventually, I got over that. The last month of school was the hardest because I was so close to the end. I just wanted to be back home. I found comfort in seeing random people on the weekends when I would come home and talking to people about what I was going through. I started to talk in my home-friend’s group chat again and started engaging more.

Not because I had things to talk about or because I wanted to share what was going on, but because I felt better hearing from them. It felt normal. I started feeling nostalgic about high school.

A lot of people say they hated high school. The lunch food, the drama, the cliques. I hated all three of those things. I couldn’t wait to get away from it all. But now that I’m a year out of high school, I realize that none of that mattered and none of it matters.

What matters is doing what will make you happy. I know that sounds cheesy but it’s true. Don’t stay in a place that isn’t making you progress. Don’t go to a party just because you feel like you have to. Don’t get dinner with someone because you feel like if you don’t it will cause drama.

It’s refreshing to know that I still have my group of friends to rely on. At the same time, it’s interesting to notice who I haven’t stayed in touch with. Some were ones I thought I would talk to all the time. We talked maybe once all year. You notice who texted you on your birthday and who didn’t.

A lot changes in a year. I went into my freshman year thinking I wanted one thing and ended my freshman year realizing I wanted the complete opposite. I’m really glad that I was able to recognize myself changing and the situation I was in, and I’m excited for the year ahead!

I went to the track again today and the tent was looking extra special. All of the chairs were underneath, the custodians were having their own jam session while setting up the band instruments (great running music) and there was a good vibe in the air.

Congrats grads! Happy Father’s Day dads!

As Sharpay Evans once said, “It’s out with the old and in with the new, goodbye clouds of gray hello skies of blue.”

Hello skies of blue is right.

The squad.

My bestie.

The OG ladies.

Yes. Jack is wearing a towel.

Maybe Next Year

I have always been the type of person who has strived to be the best in anything that I was doing. Sports, assignments, jobs. A perfectionist is what some people call it. I don’t like the label.

That feeling of wanting to excel didn’t kick in until I was 12 or 13.

When I was in fourth grade and finally old enough to choose my own position on the soccer field, I chose defense. Why? Because at that time, it involved the least amount of running. I was lazy. Unmotivated. I was placed on the B team and couldn’t care less in that moment about making the A team. Maybe next year.

Next year I did. And my dad was no longer my coach after being so the last 10 years. I finally put it on myself to step up and be better. I realized that I was going to have to change my attitude and work my way up on this new team.

I then did that with every team I was on. I left travel to play club. I made varsity as a freshman and was a three-year starting defender and co-captain my senior year. I wasn’t okay with not starting and I wasn’t okay with making mistakes. If I didn’t get a drill, I got frustrated to the point of tears. I don’t like not understanding things that should be easily understood - or easily in my mind.

Choosing defense when I was 10 was something that stuck. I also chose the number 14 for my jersey, because that was Troy Bolton’s number. That stuck too.

Remembering my attitude toward running when I was 10 however, makes me think of how I could never imagine myself then running the length of the soccer field willingly, much less a marathon.

My dad on the other hand was a forward on the field and just ran his 11th marathon. Clearly he’s kept in decent shape.

One would do the trick for me. That would fulfill my fitness goal and knowing that my body and brain were capable of doing such a thing would be rewarding. The bragging rights would also be a plus. But 11? Straight up unnecessary. Down right extra. But that’s not all folks. He’s not done.

He was already looking for the 12th before he even ran the 11th.

He always does that. He’s never going to be done. We got a text in our Fam chat the other day out of the blue saying, “Thinking about Baltimore in October.” The only appropriate response I could think of? “Good morning Baltimore.”

I hope that one time I’ll be running one with him. So does my mom. Maybe next year. But probably not.

Let me tell you. Nothing, and I mean nothing, makes you feel worse about yourself than watching a marathon does. You see all sorts of people running 26.2 miles and think, gosh. I suck.

There are the 12 year olds. The pre-pubescent children who are somehow able to accomplish more than I ever did at at that age in the span of four hours. When I was 12 it took me four hours to get up off the couch and get away from the Zoey 101 marathon.

Then there are the 100 year olds. Well, not actually. But it sure looked like it. And you know what, kudos to them. GOOD for them. But also, jeez. I am decades younger than you and I get winded walking up my driveway to get the mail.

And then there’s my dad.

A very fit man who was running his second marathon in eight months. A man who had been waking up every morning at 4 for the last year to run before going to work. I woke up at 4 that morning to text him some Gifs from The Office episode where they run a marathon, one of which included Andy Bernard’s bleeding nipples. Yes. That is a real thing that I have witnessed many times now. You just don’t forget the eye contact you make with a man who has that situation going on. You just don’t.

Dad responded to my bleeding Bernard Gif with one of dachshunds dressed as hotdogs running. If you know, you know.

He was ready to go and out the door by 6.

If I had that kind of commitment and mental focus needed to run a marathon I would probably be on the path to becoming a Rhodes Scholar. Probably.

Similar to wanting to be the best on the soccer field, my dad (who used to feel the same way) now feels that way when he’s running. When he doesn’t finish in the time he had hoped, he gets down and is upset with himself.

If I tried to run a marathon, the place would be shut down, lights off with no finish line to cross by the time I reached it. But I get that competitiveness from him and that need to be the best.

We both beat ourselves up for doing things that to us seem bad but to everyone else a huge accomplishment.

One day I would like to train for a marathon, or at least a half marathon. Once I have the time and energy to truly focus on it and not back out if I get bored or sore or if it’s raining. I like being the one that people root for and I like the adrenaline I get when I do something amongst the cheers.

But for now, I’m okay with being the one who cheers everyone on.

This year, I was standing on the curb of the 10-mile mark dancing to Fergalicious, Cotton Eye Joe and The Macarena. That was my contribution to the marathon. I broke a sweat.

After every race, my mom suggests that perhaps it’s time for my dad to retire from the full and cut it back to half marathons - as if that’s even “cutting back.”

My dad’s response? Hmmmm no. Maybe next year.

After Dad’s first marathon in Southampton in 2009.

Gary flexing after running The New York Marathon in 2016.

All smiles after Hartford Marathon in October.

Approaching the finish line in Burlington last weekend.

Post Burlington.

Nineteen Candles

Out of the 6,942 days that I have been alive, I’d say just under 50 were spent without my other half.

And I don’t mean ~my other half ~ in a cheesy, lovey-dovey, Instagram-story birthday-post kind of way.

I mean my literal other half. The one I was in utero with for nine months.

My twin, wombmate, ex-roommate, now neighbor, complete opposite, resilient, carefree, Vermont-loving sister, Alexis.

Out of those 6,942 days, there were 18 birthdays that we spent together.

The first was when I was first introduced to cake. And then proceeded to smash my head into it. I have yet to live that down.

The fourth we had a Groovy Girl themed party.

The fifth our mom tried to surprise us by having the ice cream truck come to our house. I eavesdropped and knew all along. We were a big hit among the five-year-old crowd for a while after that.

The 10th we rented out The Cliffs and had a rock-climbing party. How crunchy of us.

The 13th we became a Bat-Mitzvah and were #twinning. We should’ve gone on a trip to Italy instead of having the party. That one was on me. My bad.

The 16th we spent the first half together and the second I was playing soccer.

The 18th was our last at home.

The 19th was our first apart.

Last Wednesday Alexis and I spent our birthday 6 hours and 17 minutes apart. I in the Lehigh Valley and she in the Groovy UV. At midnight, I was with some friends and she was in bed. We FaceTimed and texted saying we missed and loved each other. But it was weird. It didn’t feel like our birthday and it really didn’t feel like mine.

Having birthdays during school was always something I hated. In elementary school it was fine and a routine. Mom would come in with cake or donuts or something that everyone, even with allergies, can eat. The whole class was included and it wasn’t a big deal. You even got a homework pass. Boy could I use that now. What did I need it for in the fourth grade? Coloring a map? I love to color now. BIG stress reliever.

In middle school, it was no longer your mom bringing in the goods but your friends. Your locker was decorated and cookies or slutty brownies were brought in to lunch. Everyone would sing happy birthday and make a big scene in the cafeteria and then all of the girls and guys who aren’t really your friends would come up to you and hug you and sing to you and then take a cupcake.

I’m sorry. Have we met? Get your hands off of my cupcakes. We weren’t friends yesterday and we won’t be friends tomorrow.

High school was whatever.

The one thing I hated was how one person would hear someone saying “Happy birthday!” and then feel obligated to say it and then you are stuck saying an awkward thank you to someone you haven’t spoken to since freshman year.

College is just weird. I found myself telling some of my friends a month in advance when my birthday was because I was hoping that maybe some of them would remember. No one here knows. Maybe Facebook reminded them halfway through the day after I already had class with them but for the most part it’s a new crowd.

I woke up and put on my L.L. Bean fleece, a baseball hat and some leggings and called it a day. I didn’t care what I looked like. I wasn’t wearing a pin that said “I’m 19!” on it. I was wearing makeup to cover up my stress-related acne and a hat to cover the bags under my eyes. Oh the joy of being 19.

Some very nice friends of mine decorated my room, rather than my locker, but other than that it was just another day.

I actually went home after my classes to have birthday cake and Chinese food with my parents, my best friend and her mom. That part felt normal. We usually get Chinese on our birthday. The only thing is Alexis is usually there too.

I called up her boyfriend in the morning and told him that he should probably have some Chinese take-out ready to go when she returns from her evening class. So, she also ate Chinese food with her friends, per my suggestion. She was in a rather sour mood over FaceTime though and I knew that she just wanted to be home. Might I add that she hasn’t been home since January and I haven’t seen her since? And that in a month she’s off to be a counselor at sleep-away camp for the entire summer?

No like it’s fine. I love being an only child and having to endure Dad’s constant burping and snoring and Mom’s - I actually don’t know what Mom does that’s parallel to the burping. Playing Candy Crush?

We ended the night watching old home videos. My god. Was I a little brat or what? Alexis I am sorry I bullied you. You didn’t deserve it. It’s not you. It’s me.

People always say, time flies when you’re having fun. I just think time flies.

It’s weird to think that for the rest of our lives we might not be spending our birthday together. OUR birthday. Not mine. Not hers. OURS.

People who aren’t twins, triplets or those crazies who are octuplets just don’t get it. For all you millennials out there, it’s like all of a sudden not having your phone one day. And then still not having it the next. And the next. An integral part of your life is now missing. Human sister, techy phone. Same thing.

Our 21st is going to be a predicament; I already know. Someone is going to have to make the sacrifice and make the trip to the other’s school so we can get crunk at a college bar and make ~memories.

Shot not.

When the clock struck 12 on May 1, 2019.

Happy birthday Soster.

Hint of Bite Size

Picture this: Your favorite Tostitos chip, Hint of Lime, transformed into a bite-sized delectable delight, all the while maintaining it’s crisp limey-ness that we all know and love.

This was the vision I saw one day last December while eating some Hint of Lime chips. I thought how great it would be if I could just easily pop one into my mouth , as opposed to trying to stuff in the pointy triangle chip, resulting in numerous cuts and eventual canker sores.

For those of you that know me or follow me on Twitter (all 43 of you), the real ones, you would know that for the last five months I have been an advocate of the “Hint of Bite Size” chips — I came up with the name myself —so much to the point where I emailed Tostitos telling them my great idea. I figured it would be a way to make us both a little extra cash.

Where did I get the balls, the audacity, the idea to do that?

It all started when I was 12.

I was a heavy collector of Dum Dums Lollipop wrappers because I was in the wallet making business - that is, the candy wrapper wallet making business. I don’t remember how much I sold them for, but they were pretty high-end if you ask me. I made them with pockets on the inside for cards and everything. If you want one you’ll have to get on the month-long waiting list.

Anyways. I opened up a pop one day to find that it was missing a half. I was outraged. This. Would. Not. Stand.

I go on my family’s Dell desktop from the dinosaur age and look up the Dum Dums manufacturing company. I needed to file a complaint immediately.

I wrote a strongly worded email discussing the disappointment I endured and how this would be a huge setback to the business, Dum Dum Wallets. Clever name - I know.

Whenever the next time I checked my oh so busy email was, I discovered that I had received an email from a woman named DaWanda from Dum Dums. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Literally, this woman wrote me a novel. She was deeply sorry for the travesty I had gone through and wrote out the entire manufacturing process, explaining that sometimes, shi* happens.

She asked me for my address because she wanted to send me a bag of FREE lollipops to make up for it.

This of course sparked the idea that I would just send complaints to all the food companies I liked and accumulate a stock pile of free food - like extreme coupon-ing, but extreme scamming.

I will forever hate Apple, because due to the technological difficulties I encountered with my email on my laptop, all of my old emails got erased. Including the one from DaWanda from 2013. It would’ve been the perfect addition to this post.

I should send an email to them next and see if I can get a free computer.

So. Back to the chips. I emailed Tostitos in December and expected a response within a week, as DaWanda had done.

A week goes by. Nothing. A month. Nothing. Two months. Nothing. To this day. Nothing.

I then decide to Tweet Tostitos and try and get their attention that way. Nothing.

I was flabbergasted. I was just trying to make them more money than they already do, and they were being so rude and ignorant. I then checked their Twitter page and saw that a girl, much like myself, had Tweeted them recently inquiring about the SAME idea, only, apparently they were already an existing limited edition item. Good to know.

Realizing that it probably wasn’t going to become a reality for me, I gave up hope. Limited edition meant I would never know about it and it was never going to happen. It would remain a vision.

That vision remained a vision until today.

This morning, my friend who was familiar with the situation told me that her sister had purchased the limited edition chips at a Wegmans near Penn State. So what do I do?

I call up the local Wegmans to see if they have them in stock. They did. This was at noon. I had to wait until 8 p.m.

The anticipation all day was almost unbearable. The hype was too real.

We get to Wegmans and my heart starts racing. What if they aren’t here? What if someone got to them first?

I kid you not when I say I sprinted down the aisle and sighed in relief while jumping in excitement when I saw them on the lower shelf. I started clawing at the bags, taking all of them off the shelf. All six of them. Six? And it was fully stocked? People…come on.

I walked around the store with them in my arms, like a mother and her newborn baby. I couldn’t believe that the day had finally come.

I couldn’t wait to taste them.

Back in my dorm I opened up a bag and inspected the chip. It was definitely bite sized, but it looked less hint of limey. I was skeptical.

For good reason.

It is not nearly as limey enough. Being underwhelmed is an understatement.

13 dollars later, six bags and a whole lot of unnecessary angst later, and we have a retired wallet maker with a disappointing vision turned into reality.

Will any of this stop me? No. Have I already gone through 3/4 of a bag? Yes. And I have plenty more bags to go.

Oh hold on. I just had a new vision. I got it.

Bite-sized Doritos.

Looks like I have an email to write…

Sweet Home Hannah Montana

When I was younger, I never had to worry about what my weekend plans were going to be. I made it a point to schedule my play-dates to end by 6:30 p.m. at the very latest, ensuring enough time to get acclimated for the night ahead.

Friday nights were for new episodes of Hannah Montana followed by Suite Life on Deck. 

Saturday nights were a similar situation, only with iCarly followed by Victorious.

Weekends during my childhood were a constant for me. No matter what, I always knew that come 7 p.m. on Friday, my entire family would be seated in front of the TV, watching Disney Channel.

Honestly, I think my dad was more excited at times than I was. He was always home from work in time. No late nights. Just him, his girls and Hannah. Now, not so much. I see what your old priorities were dad.

He even cried at the iCarly finale. Respect. It takes a real man to cry at the end of a Nickelodeon show.

As I got older, the variable changed, but the weekends still remained a constant. No matter what, I always knew that come noon on Saturdays, my entire family would be seated at a table at Lange’s Little Store and Delicatessen.

Ever since I got to college, for the first time in my life, my weekends have been a toss up. No longer was there a time where my family was all together for two days straight. In fact, unless each of us texts what we are doing in our family group chat, I have no clue what my family is up to.

Granted, I am the one providing the most coverage with my day-to-day life. I send upwards of seven messages at a time and receive no response. Hello? Is anybody out there? I just wanted to share with you guys that I ate oatmeal for breakfast or that I was sweating in class. You know, the need to know information.

Sometimes my dad will send a selfie on a plane headed somewhere for business or on the couch with my dog, and my sister will send a text saying “Guys! It’s 40 degrees today!” thinking it was a real victory up in the arctic of Vermont. My mom sends various old home movies of my sister and me when we were younger dancing in our princess dresses and heels.

Empty nest syndrome is clearly hitting her harder.

All I know is that my parents are sitting in front of the TV and eating sandwiches from the Little Store. But they’re doing it without me.

Going off to college has been a huge transition for me, although, I can’t say I didn’t see this coming. Sleep-away camp was a torturous time for me filled with bugs and crying myself to sleep listening to my parent’s wedding song. We aren’t going to delve deeper into that last part anymore than I have.

In part, I think it has to do with the fact that I don’t do well with change. My life is essentially a check-list of to-dos.

Up until college, my years were filled with soccer games, practices and tournaments. My last two years of high school were filled with both soccer and my first real job working as a counter girl at a local soup shop, and later a hostess at the shop’s restaurant. Whatever time I had on the side was spent babysitting, watching Netflix or doing whatever work I had - which was next to none as a Second Semester Senior.

The rigidity in my schedule left little time for spontaneous acts of change. And that was okay with me.

Along with finding comfort in familiarity, I also value my own space and find myself to be a very independent person. It’s hard to find alone time when you’re essentially at a “play-date” every day with hundreds of new faces, but this time I can’t schedule them to end by 6:30 p.m. on a Friday.

Unfortunately, that’s when many of them are just beginning. The social scene. The night on the town. The rager. None of the above involve watching Hannah Montana on the couch, by the way.

Now that my freshman year is coming to a close, I look back on the things I did to try to ease my transition and reflect on how much I have changed.

Club soccer was something I participated in during the fall season and that helped me keep up the type of schedule I was used to. I’ve always loved having a team and a different group of girls to surround myself with. It wasn’t something I was ready to give up. I go to the gym as often as I can as a stress reliever and as a way to get a good sweat - and a way to watch Food Network on the hanging TV. It has become such a huge part of my routine that I even feel gross after I don’t go. My marathon-running dad must be so proud.

I always go to Johnny’s on Thursdays to get a salad with grilled chicken (and a full box of chips on the side to counteract the healthy meal.) I also always go to Upper on Wednesday nights to get the best, worst Chinese food I’ve ever had. I leave a random day in the week for Chipotle - but we keep that as a wild card to live life on the edge.

Being part of the paper, and especially being an editor this semester has added a huge time commitment to my schedule. It’s kind of like my soup job. I now have something to help balance my other work. I enjoy it almost as much as I enjoyed ladling chicken and dumpling soup.

Despite these changes to my routine, my end goal remains the same as it did when I was a kid:

Get my work done in a timely manner and ensure enough time to get acclimated for the night ahead. Only now, that night consists of me in my bed watching The Office, not on the couch watching Disney Channel.

As my dear childhood friend Hannah Montana once said, “I know changing can be scary, but it's a part of growing up. It's how we find out who we are and who we're gonna be."

The Three Musketeers: Honest Abe, Andy Bernard and Frank

Sunday, my class went on a field trip to Gettysburg. When you hear Gettysburg, you might think “Bloodiest Battle” of the Civil War. Or, Gettysburg…hmm….Lincoln? Or. In my case, you might think: Gettysburg…hmm…Andy Bernard?

My Geology of War class took a trip to the Gettysburg National Military Park. In order to spare yourself of the 2 hour long bus ride that had an insufficient amount of air conditioning, outlets and food (that was totally a me issue), I have something you could do.

Might I recommend simply watching The Office Season 8 Episode 8: Gettysburg?

That’s exactly what I did the night before the big trip, as one should. I was filled with excitement watching Andy Bernard give his colleagues a tour of the park. He’s so intelligent. Did you know he went to Cornell?

Andy had made the office matching hot pink hats that said “DM does GB” on them. Once we were on the bus, I asked Frank, my professor, firstly, if he has ever seen The Office. He said no. I’m not going to get into that right now. I then asked why he didn’t make us all matching hats and to say he was disappointed that he didn’t come up with the idea on his own is an understatement. Next time. Looks like I’m retaking Geology of War.

Part of me was confused as to why I never received a permission slip to bring home to have signed by my parents for homework points, to then cut off the signed part at the bottom of the page along the dotted like and bring it back to Frank. Then I remember I’m technically supposed to be an adult now and that my parents probably couldn’t care less about how I spend my Sundays, even if it was being historically and geologically stimulated.

The whole ride up, I couldn’t stop geeking about how we would be going to the same place that The Office was filmed. I had been to Scranton before and I don’t think that I was that excited. Everyone was probably annoyed but who cares I was happy leave me alone.

Like any place I go to, the first two stops were: restroom and gift shop. I can’t go anywhere without buying a souvenir that I don’t need. In the fifth grade, my class went to the United Nations. I bought a little Israeli flag that stood on a base. 11-year-old me definitely felt like I was a mature Jewish woman making my ancestors proud. It was three bucks.

Due to my excessive amount of cheer and giddiness, you’ll understand my sheer disappointment and sadness when I found nothing Office related in the gift shop. After taking a lap around once, I decided I had to ask an employee. It couldn’t be true. I must’ve walked past it.

I walk up to the fudge lady, the lady selling fudge at the gift shop at the military park because what else, and asked “Did you know there was an episode of The Office that was shot here?”

She did.

“Do you guys sell anything Office related?”

“We don’t.”

“Well, you should.”

I was distraught. I figured we might as well hit the buses and turn back around. I walk up to Frank and tell him the bad news. “Frank, can we go back home now?” He said no. I’m not really sure what response I was expecting from him.

What a bogus gift shop. They had an overwhelming amount of mugs, overpriced glass-bottled soda (which I bought because duh), toy guns and confederate outfits (which I had to dress up in because duh) and just another history-book author sitting at a book-signing table watching people walk by and not ask for a signature. Sad.

The trip itself consisted of 10 stops. We saw Lee’s Monument, the Pennsylvania Monument, the place where the Confederates held their line, then we drove to the opposite side to see where the Union held theirs and a bunch of other cool significant educational places.

We drove by McDonald’s and Wendy’s too. Frank said those weren’t there during the war.

There was a random guy walking along the fields. He was just your average Joe, mid-twenties, glasses, probably hasn’t been to pilates recently, had a notebook and looked eager to learn. But, of course I was like,

“Guys. OH MY GOD GUYS. LOOK.”

My friends were like WHAT WHAT WHAT?!

“GUYS LOOK IT’S LINCOLN.”

My class hates me.

Our first stop was at a railroad. First thing that Frank said was, “Do not fall over the ridge. That would be much less than average. It would probably suck.” It really would.

Did you know that the rock along the railroad there is red and is called Sandstone? And that as it goes along the bridge, it turns gray and is called Mudstone? I wish I could give you more information than that. But I can’t.

Speaking of knowledge, I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone who knows so much about history and war as much as Frank. He was so happy to take us on this trip and he’s so happy to teach us. It was a Sunday for crying out loud and he chose to spend 10 hours of it with us. He’s one of the good ones. Strangers on the trip were even asking him questions and he was so excited to answer. Kind of like me except not because I am not that knowledgable about anything.

I almost forgot. We saw dinosaur prints. I sat my butt down on the very surface that a dinosaur once stepped on. Who else can say that? Huh?

Between getting cozy with Honest Abe, literally following in Andy Bernard’s footsteps and learning a ton from the best of the best, Frank, I’d say it was a great day.

Boy. The three of them in a room together. That would be something else. A lot of rock talk. I’m sure.

Enjoy the photos. Click on them to go through them all.

Rock on.

To All The Fish I've Ever Killed

Ever since I could remember, I’ve wanted to be a mom.

For our fourth grade yearbook, we had to put our dream jobs under our pictures. I couldn’t choose just one obviously, so I had three: a mom/ author / singer.

First, let’s notice how mom came first. Second, let’s all agree on the fact that the singer dream probably isn’t going to come true. The “sing like nobody is listening” sign hanging in my bathroom will stay there and my car will be where I belt. No, I don’t sing in the shower anymore. It’s a long story - one that includes my mom, a video camera and me in my shower. My glass- doored shower.

I’ve had names picked out for my four children forever. It started when I was nine. The names have changed, but I have had baby fever before I even knew how babies were made.

I acquired my first child when I was about six. A little young, I know. But I felt like I was ready.

His name was Norman Cassidy Klein (I gave him my name. I was a very progressive six-year-old.) He was a small baby boy and loved to swim. He wasn’t much of an eater though, and I think that’s where our problems really began.

He was in a tank with my sister’s kid, Alessandra. Who sees their fish for the first time and thinks, “I know. I’m going to name her…Alessandra.” Long story short, Alessandra was a big fat bully and stole all of Norman’s lunch money. He starved and a week later was dead. I gave him a proper burial because I felt that’s what he deserved, not some insignificant, insensitive flush down the toilet. With my fifth, that was precisely what I did. By then, it just, it’s different.

I replaced Norman with Goldy. Alessandra won.

I replaced Goldy with Roxy. Alessandra won.

I then decided to take a break from the whole parenting thing. Clearly, it wasn’t working out.

Finally, Alessandra died. Unfortunately, my mom decided it was enough with the fish for a while.

About eight years later, I get Alby. He was a carnival fish. I didn’t really expect him to last very long. We all hear those miracle stories of carnival fish living years and years. Well, not mine. Alby was gone within a month. He was the longest lasting fish I had ever had, and I took it really hard when he died.

Was it me? Should I be helicoptering more? Was I an absent parent? I felt like a failure.

Fast forward to last week. March of my freshman year of college. I was in the middle of meltdown #840293 of the year and decided at 2 a.m. to take the 7:50 a.m. bus home to the 914. I’m not exactly sure how, but once I got home, I hopped in my car to simply deposit some money in the bank, but something came over me.

All of a sudden I was in the fish aisle of my local Petco.

My initial thought was to get 100 goldfish. They were being sold for 37 cents. What. A. Bargain.

The fish guy came up to me and asked what I wanted to do. I told him my plan. He rejected it. I didn’t have a tank and clearly that was a requirement. He told me that goldfish get up to eight inches. I said, “mine don’t.”

It was time for Plan B. B for Betta fish. I walked out of there 20 dollars poorer and one handsome Betta fish richer. His name was Spaz. He was a beautiful boy. Red, Blue, and well, Spazzy. Just the way I liked it.

My parents weren’t even surprised when I brought him home. They were like oh. Another one? They knew it wasn’t going to last.

I brought him back to school in a Lululemon bag because he deserved nothing but the best. He was my pride and joy. I brought him down to the lounge to watch the Duke game. I brought him to my friend’s room so he could get something new to look at. When I left for class I even left a framed photo of my dog facing him and later one of my sister and I so he wouldn’t feel lonely.

He died three days later.

I don’t want to go into much detail. It happened a week ago and I am finally able to muster up the words to write about it. To say I was distraught is an understatement. I was a wreck. How could this have happened? I know exactly how. It involves Spaz in a sink and me trying to get him back into his bowl 24 hours before his death. Don’t ask. Story for a different time.

I now have a 0-5 track record with fish. Norman, Goldy, Roxy, Alby, Spaz. I am so sorry you had me as your caretaker. You deserved better. I hope you’re all together in the ocean somewhere or wherever.

All I can think is how am I supposed to raise human children if I can’t even keep a fish alive. I guess we’ll have to wait for Norman to be born. Oh, yes. I decided to name my firstborn son after my firstborn fish. He may not be with us anymore, but his name and legacy will live on forever.

Norman and I the morning he died.

Me sporting my funeral attire: a Lizzie McGuire hat and cargo pants

His grave. Why I chose to write the “K” in lowercase cursive, we will never know.

The handsomest boy in the whole entire world. Spaz.

Fourth grade yearbook. Oof.

Blackjack and the Wolfpack

Have you ever been to a casino at 7 in the morning? Have you ever been escorted to the bathroom by five men varying in all ages and sizes?

I have.

At 2 a.m. I decided to hop on the 7:50 a.m. bus and head home for the weekend. Super spontaneous and spur of the moment. The bus leaves from Sands Casino, which is about a mile down the road from my dorm.

There had been a concert at the casino back in November so I had been once or twice before. The only difference being it wasn’t at the break of dawn.

I hopped in my Uber and he asked if I was going to the bus terminal. I was like that’s so nice thank you. But I couldn’t stop there. I add:

“Oh no. I’m actually going to gamble at this fine hour.” To which he responds:

“I’ve been there. I’ve done that.”

It was awkward for the remaining mile.

The people that you encounter at a casino at 7 in the morning are just so…interesting is the word we will go with today. Zombie-like works too. Walking living zombies with looks of defeat or looks of persistence, both with eye bags and bedhead even though we all know they didn’t make it up to their rooms yet.

The night was young. Or should I say, the morning.

Now, I’m not a huge gambler myself. The only gambling I have ever experienced was the presence of the sports-gambling addicts that were the senior boys from my high school. And, March Madness. I make brackets. They don’t do well. This year, my bracket was shot after game #1. Not day. Game. Literally the first game.

I also suck at all the card games. Uno, Slapjack, Go Fish. You name it and I’ll lose.

If you know me, you know that on top of being an inexperienced card player, I have the tiniest bladder in the world.

Pee before you leave! I’ve been told since I was out of diapers.

I want to make it known that I did. Mom. I did use the bathroom before I left. That doesn’t mean I won’t have to again.

Arriving to the bus terminal with ample amounts of time, I decided to go to the bathroom one last time before the hajj back home. I knew the drill. I walked into the casino and once I reached the officer I asked if I could use the bathroom. I was probably way too cheery for the environment we were in and the time element.

He asked for my ID. Sir. I am 18. It is 7 a.m. I am not trying to fool anyone. I would just like to pee.

Well. I needed an escort to the bathroom because I’m a child at risk of going to spend my life savings on a card game. I stood there waiting for five minutes, watching each person walk out of the casino, by me and out the door. Poor souls.

All of a sudden. A plethora of men walk my way. This was not an escort. This was an entourage.

A group of four men approach me. One clearly the alpha of the pack. The others were scrappy, varying in fitness, age and confidence. It was the scene straight out of Grown Ups when they all walked onto the court: also varying in fitness, age and confidence.

I walked with my new clique all the way down the casino to the bathroom. Again, I stared at the people who were in there. Poor souls.

I soon realize that this group of men are actually trainees and are being trained by the alpha. As we walk to the bathroom he was narrating the protocol. Once we got there, the alpha explains: “So we don’t follow her into the bathroom. We stand here and wait for her to be done.”

Wow. Thank you guys for not following me into the bathroom. Didn’t realize I’d be getting the celebrity treatment this morning.

In the bathroom there was this older, short women drying her hands. I just wanted to get in and get out but no. She had to say, “Oh wowwwwww loooook who else is up!!!!!”

Bye.

Can’t a girl pee in peace without getting cheered at in solidarity of being awake at a casino at 7 in the morning. I guess not. By the time I left, she was still trying to figure out how to dry her hands. Poor soul.

On the way back, the alpha gave the 60-year-old man a wack at leading the pack. He was all confident and excited. I was playing along. I couldn’t help but thinking it was a little late in the game for trying out a new profession, but maybe that was his life-long goal that was finally coming true. I commend him.

I thanked my four new friends once I got to the lobby and waved them goodbye. They told me to have a great day and I did from there on out.

Not going to lie, I resonated with Taylor Lautner while walking with the boys. I was the only female. I felt the power. I felt like I was leading them, not the other way around.

I feel like a lone wolf without my pack. I’ll probably have to go back sometime soon to see them escalate in the ranks. I’m really proud of them already and can’t help but feel like I contributed to that training session.

You are welcome officers. Never leave a wolf behind.

Little Store, Big Heart

It’s hard for me to put into words the exact feelings I have for the place I consider to be a huge part of my growing up. Lange’s Little Store and Delicatessen, the small, simply furnished family-orientated deli that my family has frequented since the very beginning.

I take pride in the fact that I am a second generation Lange’s-goer. My dad grew up in Chappaqua and his family used to take out from there when they were younger. I’ve been going for as long as I can remember.

If you aren’t the kind of person who likes to run into everyone you know on the weekend, I wouldn’t recommend going to the Little Store at lunch time on any given Saturday or Sunday.

I however, live for the social scene. And although my dad doesn’t like to admit it, I know it’s his claim to fame. It’s actually quite annoying - the fact that I can’t go into that place with my dad without running into someone from his childhood. An old friend, an old coach, a father of an old friend. You name it, we see it.

We get it. My dad’s kind of cool. Whatever.

But the one person I never tire of seeing is the legend himself. The man behind it all. The one and only, Mr. Lange.

Sweet. Funny. Caring. Kind. If there was a Mad Libs page for this guy, only those kinds of adjectives would fill the page. I have never met someone like him. I think of him and I see a man with a big smile with his arms open wide.

When my family is there eating, he walks up the stairs and joins us. We bond over our love for Cape Cod and dachshunds. In high school, he would always ask about my soccer games and my sister’s basketball games. He also gives great advice.

Today he told me that we learn something new everyday. Something we’ve all heard before, but for some reason coming from him, it sounded different. He told me that he still learns something new everyday.

Lange’s is a place, much like the Harry Potter haven on Newbury Street, that many people find comfort in. The hot plates and breakfast sandwiches too.

When my grandpa died, he was there for my family. My parents opened the garage door at my grandma’s house a couple of days later to find platters of food atop of my grandpa’s car. No note. No ringing the doorbell. No nothing.

When I didn’t show up one Saturday with my dad because I was home sick, he noticed and sent my dad home with a large container of chicken noodle soup for me.

And when our town experienced a tragic loss two summers ago, Lange’s seemed to be a place of comfort for all. After the funeral, my sister and I felt that we needed a Lange’s sandwich to make us feel better. I guess it was a common thought. We saw many of the same faces there eating sandwiches that we had just seen an hour before sitting in the pews. Including members of the Lange family.

In my eyes, it’s the staple social hub of Chappaqua and a place that embodies what it means to be a community.

I felt a sense of pride as a high school freshman having just made the varsity soccer team, walking into Lange’s and seeing my face on the varsity poster hanging up on the wall. I then felt a sense of pride as a sophomore, junior and senior going in and hanging up the poster myself. I felt a sense of pride whenever I was introduced to someone as Gary Klein’s daughter while waiting in line for my sandwich. And I felt a sense of pride today when I gave Mr. Lange a hug goodbye and he said, “aw my buddy,” as he patted my back.

The people that I see in Lange’s have changed over the years.

I see younger families come in after AYSO soccer games on Saturdays and think of my younger self. I see the returners year after year and think of how Lange’s has been the go-to lunch for me and my cousins whenever we all ate at Grandma’s. Turkey, coleslaw, Russian on Rye bread. The Klein sandwich.

The one thing that I missed when I went to college: Lange’s. I was back three weeks after I left, sitting in the dining room with my parents. Mr. Lange asked why I was back so soon. My response?

“I needed my Lange’s fix.”

Although the people, decor, my order and myself may change. Two things never do: Mr. Lange and my beverage selection.

I always get a Snapple. Which means I always get a Snapple fact. Mr. Lange was right. I learn something new every time I walk into Lange’s Little Store and Delicatessen.

Today’s fact: “Real Fact” #845: a lemon contains more sugar than a strawberry.

Mudbloods in Massachusetts

People find comfort in all sorts of things. Mom’s cooking, the smell of the laundry detergent from home, family traditions or just the simple ability to sleep in your own bed.

I never thought that I would find and feel that same sense of comfort in a little shop on Newbury Street in Boston.

The Fairy Shop is a store no bigger than your average master bath that embodies what it means to be a true Harry Potter fanatic. Every crevice is taken advantage of and filled with wands, Hedwigs, sorting hats, chocolate frogs and more.

The owner sees the store as an art gallery almost, and changes the theme whenever a new idea comes to him. Alice in Wonderland, Lord of the Rings and Unicorns have all been previous themes that inhabited the space. If I had the capability of creating a store based off of something I was passionate about at the time, I would’ve had a store that size filled with Silly Bandz when I was 10.

I told him that he can’t change the store for at least a couple of months until I can bring my sister.

Alexis doesn’t find that sense of comfort in anything more than she does in a good ABC Family Harry Potter Weekend Marathon.

She knows every word to every movie, and although she never read the books, (she’s not a big reader) she is still a die-hard HP fan. I was never that enthusiastic about it.

I read three of the books and obviously have seen all of the movies. But I never wondered what house I would be in or craved the experience of going to Harry Potter World at Universal.

Sure, I played Harry Potter on the playground when I was younger and my wand was a stick. Didn’t we all?

I was the Herbology professor. Why. Who gave me that position. I quit.

Sure, I tried to say some spells out loud because I thought it made me sound cool. Because that was what was going to win me over with the boys. The fact that I could recite a fake Harry Potter spell.

I have vivid memories of different Harry Potter Weekends from different ages. One of which was when we were in the third or fourth grade. We had just gotten back from the Christmas Tree Shop where I had purchased a new Littlest Pet Shop to add to my collection. It was a rainy Saturday, which called for peanut butter and fluff in the oven.

I just remember sitting at the dining room table, eating my PB+F with my new toy and watching the Goblet of Fire.

The simpler times. Life was good.

Similarly enough, it was a rainy, gross day in Boston when my mom and I found shelter in the Harry Potter haven. We were probably in there for almost a half hour just walking in circles and touching and looking. We spoke to the owner to hear why and how and everything in between.

The twinkly lights were calming and memorizing. The soundtracks from all eight movies played in the background and I even said to him, if there was enough room for chairs in here, I would’ve easily taken a nap. It was so soothing.

No longer was Harry Potter something that I felt was over-done. I felt more at peace in that store than all the times I’ve tried meditating.

Not only did I gain a bag of gummy slugs from that store, but a newfound appreciation for all things Harry Potter.

No matter how old I get and all the things that get thrown my way, Harry Potter will remain a constant sense of comfort.

Hogwarts 2022. Rush Gryffindor. Who needs sisters…Wizards for life!

One Year Wisdom-less

I have been quite fortunate throughout my life in the sense that I’ve never broken a bone, no concussion, nada. I’m not a klutz. I’m calm, cool and collected (pause for laughter).

But the one thing. The ONE thing that I was not blessed with were the immensely impacted wisdom teeth. Thanks Mom. Thanks Dad. You ruined me.

Today marks the one year anniversary of my wisdom teeth removal. And usually, people use anniversaries to celebrate a milestone in their lives. Celebration. Yeah right.

To say that that procedure, recovery and experience was the most painful thing I have ever gone through in my entire life is an understatement.

So, for the sake of my one year anniversary, I will be sharing my experience and providing you with in depth footage and detail. You are welcome in advance.

The week before the surgery, my sister and I were in Chile with our friend. It’s like it was our last supper before the electric chair. One last hoorah. One last hoorah filled with very attractive people, my future husband and great food.

The day before the surgery, my family and I went to go see the U.S. Women’s National Soccer Team. Another last hoorah.

Ironically enough, I can’t remember my actual last supper. I would imagine it to be dumplings or Chinese food of some sort, because duh. What else would it be?

The surgery itself took less than a half hour. But I was out cold for awhile. I was completely put under. Out like a light, if you will. Refer to the footage in the gallery I am providing down below. I have tried to make my videos go viral. Ellen. If you are somehow reading this blog, please put me on your show.

Somehow I got home, jamming out to Bruno Mars while playing with my tongue and chubby face, and that was the beginning of my 10 day stretch at home. I didn’t feel fresh air on my face for 10 days. I simply couldn’t go outside. I was ashamed. I was distraught. I cried when I looked in the mirror. Don’t tell me I’m being dramatic. I was truly a sight for sore eyes.

I was THE living and breathing Snapchat filter that made your face a block.

I was fine for the first few hours and then it hit me. I needed meds. But of course, me being the weak link that I am, can’t hold down pain medication. I turned green and pale and nauseous. So, Advil it was.

The amount of ice cream I ate made it so I don’t want to ever eat it again. Mashed potatoes, I don’t even like, but that became a hot commodity. Orzo pasta, GoGo squeeZ and more. I cried all the time. I was in so much pain. My face was so fat so it hurt to cry. IT HURT TO CRY.

I couldn’t brush my teeth. I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t do anything but cry. It’s like I went through a Benjamin Button situation where I reverted back to being a baby for 10 days.

A week later, just when I thought I was getting better, I woke up the morning of my senior musical - the day that my big break was going to happen in the theater world - with a fat face . Well, significantly less fat than before, but noticeably more fat than it should’ve been. My dad insisted that we go to the doctor.

I had an infection in both sides of my mouth. They had to basically re-open my sockets and drain all the yummy stuff that was leaking from them.

The bafoon of the doctor that I had that time, different than the one who performed the surgery, was like “Oh wow. An infection on both sides? There’s a 7% chance of that happening.”

THANKS. THANKS SO MUCH.

I missed the matinée but made it for the last performance. Obviously the show couldn’t go on without me, aisle dancer #52.

Once I finally recovered a month later, I was finally bouncing back to my normal self. I was back to work, putting cans of soda on my face, back to school, talking less than usual because of the pain, but I was suddenly sick all the time.

I am convinced that they took my immune system with the teeth. Without my consent. I was no joke sick on and off from March to August.

Am I any less smarter now that my wisdom have been forcefully (and not to mention awfully executed) taken away from me? That’s a heavily debated topic, one that I don’t have time to discuss right now. I would say yes and no. But definitely yes.

Kids. Do not. And I mean DO NOT get your wisdom teeth out. Suffer through the pain. Get dentures. Rip them out yourselves if you have to. But do NOT go get them done.

They will botch your surgery and then make you come back for another procedure where they tell you you should’ve been washing out your sockets with the plastic syringe they never gave you in the first place all the while attempting to make small talk with you while your mouth is being cut apart.

Sorry, Megan isn’t available to talk right now, please leave a message and she’ll try to get back to you after you’re done with HER surgery.

Pour Some Moravian Sugar Cake on Me

Yesterday, I experienced the collision of two worlds. 

The first world being my religious side. Well, my not-so-religious side that I really only pay attention to when the time comes to eat the food courtesy of my Jewish upbringing. That and the day I became a woman in the eyes of God of course. 4/27/13. Don’t cry because it’s over smile because it happened. Challah bread is something that we have always had in the house. No, not because my family observes Shabbat every Friday evening, but because you can make a mean panini with that bread. 

The second world being the recent nuisance that is my histamine intolerance. You are better off Googling what that means because I can't tell you. It basically just means I'm not supposed to eat all of the foods I used to. One major food group being sugar. 

I've been doing really well on the whole diet actually, as well as one who is being deprived of all she’s ever known, can.

I used to eat candy or some type of dessert every single day at home. And here, I have been doing pretty well with it. But yesterday, I found myself in a sticky situation. No pun intended. 

Last night, I was out on the town with a few of my lady friends eating dinner. Which then, of course led to me being out on the town with a few of my lady friends eating dessert. Because as we all know, there is always and I mean always room for dessert. 

If you live near the Lehigh Valley area, you must go to Penn State Creamery and get a slice of what I now call heaven, or a slice of what they call Moravian sugar cake. 

I'm not even entirely sure what it is, how they make it, what the ingredients are, or why it's called that. 

Do students at Moravian eat it for breakfast lunch and dinner? If so, consider me apart of the Moravian class of 2022. Go Greyhounds! 

What I do know, is that it was essentially love at first sight and I knew I was going to like it. The tell-tale sign of this being when I asked for a sample expecting a little crumb but instead receiving a generous 1/3 of a slice heaping. Thank you. No really, thank you.

I regrettably contemplated it for too many seconds before saying, what the heck, I'll have a slice. As if you weren't going to get one Megan. Right. 

The employees are really on top of their game there. First, they practically give me half the cake as a sample. Second, they read my mind when I thought how good it would be heated up. 

My first thought after taking my first official bite was that it tasted like sugary challah. A challah imposter, if you will. Hence, the collision of my two worlds. 

It was light, not dense. It had crusty melted sugar on top. It was perfect. 

But of course, everything in this world comes full circle. 

As I was halfway through my slice of heaven, the only song that would make sense to play at that time came on. The song sung by all of our favorites. Pour Some Sugar on Me by Def Leppard. 

So of course, I had to sing at a relatively high volume, "pour some Moravian sugar cake on me ooooh in the name of love.” 

Keep in mind that we were the only ones in the store at the time. Could I hear the employees laughing from the back of the store? Yes. Did I care? No. 

Quite frankly, it would've been a missed opportunity if I didn't sing those lyrics. 

You heard it here first folks. Go and get yourself a piece of Moravian sugar cake today. Before it’s too late. Or before I get there first.

Ignore my appearance, but here’s me eating my cake.

Here’s a close up of my cake. And my friend’s face.

Mask off Part II

For those of you who need a quick recap on Part I - I encountered a girl the other week wearing a surgical mask instead of a scarf.

Keep in mind that the weather that day wasn’t even that cold.

Today, us folk in the Dirty B encountered similar weather conditions: parka is overkill but jean jacket is risky. I was walking back to my dorm when I saw something walking toward me in the distance. Not very far, just a couple yards away, but a distance nevertheless. I saw a person walking toward me without a face.

Obviously this man had a face but I for one couldn’t see it. It took me a second to process but this man was wearing a full on black ski mask with a hole for his mouth and two for his eyes. You know, like the ones that criminals wear when they go in to rob the gas station?

To say I was startled and concerned is an understatement. As I got closer I didn’t want to make eye contact in fear that something would happen. As if.

As he walked past me, I looked down and a couple feet later I looked back. And then a couple feet later I looked back again. And then one more time, just to make sure he wasn’t going into Hawks Nest and robbing them of their fried-pickled dignity.

I’d like to note that it was probably 40 degrees out with zero wind chill. None. Zilch. Null. I was rocking my purple corduroy jacket and was a tad cold but definitely not freezing to the point where I thought:

Darn. I should’ve worn my ski mask. Or. Rats. My surgical mask is in my other coat pocket.

To each their own, I suppose.

I should set him up with surgical mask girl. Seems like they’d really hit it off.

Teen Mom

Mom. Dad. Don’t be alarmed. It’s not what you think. I’m not pregnant. I exercised!

As I’ve grown up, I’ve been sometimes referred to as a “mom” by my friends because of the clothes I wear, things I say or the way I act.

But today folks, today I felt like a true mom. Why? Because I went to a Barre class. What is Barre you might ask? Not ballet. There is a ballet bar that is used but unfortunately we don’t get to hold onto it for much time. It’s a lot of core work - which is great because true fans know I can barely do a push-up - and discovering muscles you didn’t know you had. Or needed. Or wanted.

Now it’s not the fact that I went to the class, it’s the fact that my friend and I were easily the youngest ones there.

We got to Barre late and when we walked in, they were doing an exercise facing the door. I was greeted with about 15 glares from sweaty middle-aged women in Lululemon workout gear - oddly enough, I felt welcomed and like I was at home.

I’m all for women trying to stay active and find their “crystals” as our instructor said today, but not when I’m the youngest one there and being out-barred by a 50-year-old.

I was quite the athlete back in the day and by back in the day I mean about six months ago. My favorite part of preseason was the soreness I felt the day after a tough workout. Let me tell you, I will be feeling much more than a soreness tomorrow. I moved muscles today that I didn’t know could be moved.

We were doing this exercise where you lay on your side with your elbow propping yourself up, your knees are bent and in the air, your feet soles are touching, and you move your upper leg up and down to look like butterfly wings almost. That was poorly explained but we’re rolling with the punches.

Our instructor was making her rounds to see if everyone was doing it right. I see her coming in the mirror and all of a sudden a stampede of a charley horse comes on. She laughs and tries to be comforting. I felt defeated. Of course none of the moms had charley horses, that would just be absurd.

I will be going back this week and I will strive to be better than the Baby Boomers. I just have to. If not for me, for my fellow Gen Z folk who need to prove our superiority and our ability to move just as much if not better than them.

When I was a master at the kind of bar that matters.

The Tale of The Pre-Pubescent 18-Year-Old Girl

Middle school is a period of time that everybody should be able to Pass Go and Collect $200.

Nobody should have to endure the sweat-smell-filled hallways and stuffy classrooms or the awkward stages. I thought I was out of that god-awful phase of my life, but suddenly I feel as if I’m back in the halls of Robert E. Bell Middle School with braces, red dip-dyed hair and peace-sign covered clothing. It’s as if I am going through puberty all over again. * Brb as I go cry in my room while I listen to Drag me Down by One Direction*

There are a lot of similarities between college and middle school: new school, new friends, new boys, mediocre dining halls, cliques, awkward stages and more.

It’s like I am a pre-pubescent 18-year-old. I might as well be 13 all over again. Or 11, or 12. None are preferred over the other. I have awful common sense, am blinded by the constant worrying and self-conscious spell that I am going through and I spend my Friday nights with myself, Austin (no not my boyfriend, my stuffed animal panda) and Netflix.

My acne, my mood and my hormones are out of control.

I have been fortunate enough to never have needed Accutane or any serious acne medication. So although I don’t feel it, in retrospect, I have been blessed with the gene that doesn’t result in chronic year-round acne.

However, almost every summer since I was 13 I have had cystic acne on my chin every summer. How much grosser could that word sound. Cystic. Bleh. All of a sudden, I have been getting, what in my eyes is awful, acne and I can’t seem to rid of it. Self confidence has been going through the ground, not the roof.

I was an avid sweater. A sweat machine, if you will, all throughout middle school. I now realize that that was probably in part to hormones along with my weird histamine intolerance. I remember my first sweat stain like it was yesterday…

I was in the fourth grade. I was wearing a thin blue graphic-tee with the American Idol logo on it. We were having a party. I don’t remember the reason, but did you really need to have a reason to have a class party in the fourth grade? No. It was nearing the end and all of a sudden I felt an overwhelming sense of wetness under my armpits. I go to the bathroom and see two huge sweat stains. I was scared. I panicked. I didn’t know how to deal with this. So, naturally, I ask my teacher for two pieces of string so I can tie my sleeves up, just like I did at soccer games.

I have since learned to deal with my sweat stains, but I now find myself sweating in my sleep. Not fun. But also, that could be in part to the aggressive heating system in the dorm.

It doesn’t take much for me to cry these days. It’s like Marley and Me is on repeat in my mind. I went home last weekend and met up with my friend from high school and her parents. It took five minutes for me to be laugh-crying after I said that my sister has a boyfriend, a fabulous group of friends and goes snowmobiling on the weekends. It’s like she is apart of 90210 or One Tree Hill - does she even GO to school?

And boys? Gosh. Could I BE more awkward? At this rate, it looks like it’s just going to be me and Austin forever. Which is totally fine, it is. Ideal? Not necessarily. Will I settle? Right now, I don’t see the other option so, yes.

Peace signs, braces and puppy posters. Could I be more sixth grade?

Because dying my hair with red Kool-Aid was something that HAD to be done.