I’m lucky to never have felt the sting of death.
My paternal grandparents died when I was too young to comprehend what it meant or felt like to lose someone special. My parents, siblings, and relatives are alive and well, mostly. My friends too. Pets have passed, and while devastatingly so, mourning that loss hardly compares to the deep-rooted sorrow of losing a loved one.
Early this week, I stocked my slow-cooker with roast, carrots, celery, onion, broth, and a slew of herbs in preparation to feast like a queen, for no particular reason other than it was Sunday, and it sounded delicious. The timer buzzed two hours later, I lifted the lid, and an aroma most divine sucker-punched my schnoz. It tasted incredible.
I twist the knob to the left letting hot water pour from the spout. It hits the ceramic and floods the tub, steam rising. Lavender, rose, and eucalyptus notes saturate the air transforming basic bathroom to luxury spa. It’s dark.
Ladies and gentlemen, snag your lip balm and ready your smackers—holiday season is upon us. Between an opportune mistletoe encounter, or a New Year’s Eve spit-swap at the stroke of twelve, there’s something to be said about a powerful peck.
It is inevitable that the people I love the most will disappointment or hurt me. This statement is not rooted in pessimism—it’s a statistical fact. Those with unlimited access to my heart are the ones with the greatest probability to cause harm.
In all facets of love, we are the most vulnerable.
As a creature of the sun, I hold a deep appreciation for some of life’s finer offerings made possible by warmth; open windows, seasonal produce, and near-nakedness. And you know, being warm. For approximately five months a year, wool and central heating are long forgotten, and I’m free to prance about my apartment wearing nothing but skin and mane with no threat of hypothermia.
One swipe of the thumb and Facebook wildly scrolls through what looks like a digital bridal publication. Alas, this is not a trendy wedding mag—it’s my news feed. Settling into my mid-twenties, I’m coming to terms with the inevitable life shift affecting my peers. We’ve arrived at the age of engagement—engagement in marriage, in home buying, in babies.
Yesterday afternoon, I spent an hour digging through plastic bins full of artwork, grade reports, stories, and relics from my childhood. Aside from the warm fuzzies provoked by nostalgia, it was incredibly funny revisiting my youth from my teeny, first-person perspective.
Wikipedia describes your stereotypical Type A personality as “ambitious, rigidly organized, highly status-conscious, sensitive, impatient, takes on more than they can handle, wants other people to get to the point, anxious, proactive, and concerned with time management.” With the glaring exception of ‘anxious,’ I am guilty of nearly all those traits.
I was 13 years old when The Italian Job hit DVD in 2003—this was a pivotal moment of my youth. When Charlize Theron pulled the e-brake of her red Mini, gracefully launching it into a parking space, and exited the vehicle with a confident, back-handed click of her key fob, my life changed forever.
SO VICARIOUS 