to understand me, you have to
1.) watch the unbreakable kimmy schmidt and
2.) go to soulcycle.
and when the two of them come together (see: the unbreakable kimmy schmidt, episode 11 – kimmy rides a bike!) you have entered my universe. i like my fictional television characters squeaky clean with a side of wit. i like my cardio dark, heart-pumping and with a side of techno. i’m still sore from yesterday’s class but i’d be lying if i said i didn’t walk out of the studio – still dripping sweat and bouncing along to the beyonce in my head – and pull up the soulcycle app to research class options for the week.
the only thing stopping me from going full throttle, cultish devotee to the class? the $30 per session price tag. even my kimmy schmidt obsession only costs $7.99 per month for a netflix subscription. so, for now i’ll only casually worship at the altar of my favorite ex-cult member. while squirreling away my pennies to cash in for a class or two at the cult of soulcycle.
here’s what i’ve been up to of late (given that i’m fantastically terrible at writing real words about my life):
- making pre-fall resolutions.
- trying to wear real clothes to the office – dress for the job you want, amiright?
- not eating at the same restaurant twice.
- working. lots. making the wearing of real clothes to the office a real test.
- looking back on the past year and really, truly feeling good about what’s been going on.
- fighting the good fight against not-so-good people.
- eating a ton (literal) of trader joe’s stoneground wheat crackers with mediterranean hummus. i know what i said about hummus. and i regret it.
- giving some deep thought on the upcoming election. easy to do when you live in the capital of this here democracy.
- monitoring my electricity usage. hello, living alone again!
- setting the world record for most glow sticks worn.
yes, yes, yes:
kerry is a red carpet goddess. she kills it, without ever looking overdone. shine on.
black that’s not boring. like only lady gaga (and that bod full of tattoos) could do.
and the no, no, no’s:
i love me some marchesa. but this is not love. this is eyeball fashion abuse.
take it or leave it, peeps.
i checked my mail at my new apartment today for the first time. i know, i know. it’s been nearly 3 weeks since i moved in but mail these days is a depression-inducing mix of bills, someone else’s mail, pizza coupons, and more bills. i just can’t bear the walk to the mailbox. that and someone dumped their leftover beer in the mailbox garbage so it sorta smelled – welcome to the neighborhood!
mail to me, however, means this is home. and home this is. people know i’m here (including the government). this is my place. and that’s a concept that gives me the warm fuzzies. a sense of place.
this is where i make dinner and watch the packers on a sunday night. this is where my pictures are hanging on the walls. this is where my bed is made just so and my makeup brushes are politely stashed on the bathroom counter. this is where i kick off my shoes and roll my eyes at my junk mail and leave my stinky running shoes in the middle of the floor. this is home to me.
one of my girl friends came over the other weekend. she looked around, surveying my studio, and said, “it’s all of your stuff in a new space and it feels like you.” a chair, a picture on the wall, stinky running shoes on the floor. and some junk mail in my mailbox.
it’s my place. i can just sense it.
it’s been a year. one of the bad ones. but, when it’s been a year in my world, it’s also time for a fresh start in a new apartment. and so, come wednesday morning, i’m packing it all up (including the emotional baggage) and moving back into the district. the world begins again anew on january 1st or with the cycling of the moons. but my world starts over with the exchanging of keys and a security deposit.
be a pal, won’t you? and help me with that box of silverware and wine glasses? or, perhaps the emotional baggage piled by the front door?
i think i’m ready. even though i didn’t know how to write a blog post. literally. didn’t recognize this new fangled wordpress situation and didn’t know how to write a new blog post. but – as you can tell by the words written here – i figured it out. and i think i’m ready to figure it out some more.
literally. and figuratively.
i’ve deemed this the year of parisian everything. coffee and champagne and coquettishly undone hair. books and museums and high heels. stripes and leopard and a stride full of grace and power.
a little bit slouchy, a lot incognito, but all chic.
leather and metals and sneaks. perfect for noshing a baguette, kicking serious booty and looking tres stylish.
a frothy ball gown, serious updo and the quintessential it girl.
that certain je ne sais quoi that american born, francophile tom ford has mastered.