Confession: I've been rolling a little high for the past few months. Sure, I set out to live large a couple years ago, but lately, I've been pushing my limits. And do I ever feel it, now.
It started with Niall's death at the very end of September. At 31, young, charming and spry, Niall suffered a fatal heart attack. When a friend called to relay the news, I could only scream. Niall was a lot of things to me, but who really cares about that. He was, he was... He was a vibrant soul, and he lived his dreams.
The dude, like any real-life "rock star" also loved to have a grand good time. Niall could drink anyone under and swagger away with style. He always had fun doing it, too. I'd only ever seen Niall happy.
So when I learned of the loss of his life, it was like this little kick to live mine even more. His death was a flashing beacon reminding of life's caprice.
In turn, I decided to accept every invitation I received--whether it was a last-minute media trip to Kenya (heck who wouldn't welcome that), or a late-night egg toss game (again, who could refuse). And I started staying out until the wee hours regularly--not necessarily drinking, but always living it up.
Until now. I skipped out on tonight's party. I am so exhausted, and though I have four fun event-filled days and nights ahead of me, I'm looking forward to when I can sleep. Or wait, back up. Do yoga, take a hot bath, read. Then sleep.
I guess, looking back, even Niall slept full, wholesome nights sometimes. (Sometimes.)
When I think of him, now, it takes my breath away. It literally socks me in the chest. But I'd bet if Niall were reading this, he'd chide me with his Irish lilt. Or actually, more likely, he'd laugh at me. As per usual. Because in order to party and live like a rock star, you've got to have the energy to rock. Which is why, while it's still this night and not a wee hour of tomorrow, I'm going to sign off here and hit the sack. And then I'm sure I'll keep dreaming of the good life.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Embracing the Badness
My car just broke for the third time this week so I'm feeling a little violent. And though I'm super annoyed, pissed off, and @#$%*#$) $%(*@Y$( (@*&$(*@!!!!!!!, I'm thinking it's OK.
See, I've always been this supposedly perfect girl. Good grades, no vices (sorta), star athlete, and sigh, nice to everyone. My f'ing nickname is sometimes Sunshine. Or Kitten. (Though, those in the know know where that one came from.)
So when my bad self emerges--in the form of anger, deviance, impulsiveness or recklessness, I kind of like it. It's so opposite of how I'm perceived--it's kind of fun.
What's the point of this blog entry? Maybe this: It's good to be bad. Texture makes life rich.
I remember discussing the Existentialists back in AP French class, and the subject of perfection came up. And what went down is that it's frickin' boring. Perfection is imperfect in that it lacks substance.
Right. I'm going to hit the shower to um, cool off. And maybe while I'm at it, embrace my bad self. Yo.
See, I've always been this supposedly perfect girl. Good grades, no vices (sorta), star athlete, and sigh, nice to everyone. My f'ing nickname is sometimes Sunshine. Or Kitten. (Though, those in the know know where that one came from.)
So when my bad self emerges--in the form of anger, deviance, impulsiveness or recklessness, I kind of like it. It's so opposite of how I'm perceived--it's kind of fun.
What's the point of this blog entry? Maybe this: It's good to be bad. Texture makes life rich.
I remember discussing the Existentialists back in AP French class, and the subject of perfection came up. And what went down is that it's frickin' boring. Perfection is imperfect in that it lacks substance.
Right. I'm going to hit the shower to um, cool off. And maybe while I'm at it, embrace my bad self. Yo.
Friday, January 11, 2008
Better Be Good
This first post should be awesome, monumental, magnifique. But it would be contrived if I tried hard to not disappoint. I'm going to just write. So, here goes.
Lara, here, the author of the now defunct Fit or Bust--a made-to-order blog for the Women's Health magazine Web site. I posted weekly missives for a year and a half, and was recently notified that I wouldn't be able to write them anymore.
I was kind of bummed at the news.
I got used to pouring my heart onto the page for anyone to read. And though I was hired to write about fitness, I found myself writing about life, instead. It just seemed more important to me. I mean, you can only be truly fit if you're living a matching lifestyle. But more than that, "life" was more representative of who I am and how I want to be. And I grew balls and did something I'd hope everyone will do--follow their dreams.
Sure, I sound sappier than a Vermont maple. OK. But I think I slipped into a lifestyle or 'groove' that many find themselves glued into--you know, the kind where you're stuck in a chair, stressed out and out of your head, your face dotted with pimples.
But there came a point where I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't even know myself anymore, and my mind was like this bouncing circus act, with no encore nor reprieve. I started to sprout gray hair and my ass got fat. Worse, I got a little bitchy, a tad too edgy, and so far from the happy-go-lucky gal I'd always been.
It kind of happened with the handcuffs.
In the midst of my mind's (and job's) chaos, I took a mini-break to Park City, UT, to hit the slopes and reconnect with some old friends. I still worked daily, called into conference calls, and sported my stress in all its non-glory.
One night, an ex-boyfriend picked me up to take me to dinner, and when I sat in his car he handed me a jewelry box. We'd broken up a million years prior, so I was mystified. When I opened the box, there lay these handcuffs I'd played with when I was 23.
"I just wanted to remind you of who you are," he said.
Somehow, the dude had kept the suckers in his closet for nearly ten years. And when I touched them, my heart ached for myself. It was like this revelation--this mini-time warp that sprung me back into my free-spirited truth.
In "growing up" and carving out a career for myself, I'd become boring. I lived by rote, and worked to live. Yet, I wasn't really living.
So a few months after reclaiming those handcuffs, I packed up and moved to Park City. I also quit my job and left a wonderful boyfriend. But I stepped back onto my path--the one I'd always taken where I followed my nose, and followed my heart.
We only have this one life, so we may as well live it.
Here goes...
--Lara
Lara, here, the author of the now defunct Fit or Bust--a made-to-order blog for the Women's Health magazine Web site. I posted weekly missives for a year and a half, and was recently notified that I wouldn't be able to write them anymore.
I was kind of bummed at the news.
I got used to pouring my heart onto the page for anyone to read. And though I was hired to write about fitness, I found myself writing about life, instead. It just seemed more important to me. I mean, you can only be truly fit if you're living a matching lifestyle. But more than that, "life" was more representative of who I am and how I want to be. And I grew balls and did something I'd hope everyone will do--follow their dreams.
Sure, I sound sappier than a Vermont maple. OK. But I think I slipped into a lifestyle or 'groove' that many find themselves glued into--you know, the kind where you're stuck in a chair, stressed out and out of your head, your face dotted with pimples.
But there came a point where I couldn't take it anymore. I didn't even know myself anymore, and my mind was like this bouncing circus act, with no encore nor reprieve. I started to sprout gray hair and my ass got fat. Worse, I got a little bitchy, a tad too edgy, and so far from the happy-go-lucky gal I'd always been.
It kind of happened with the handcuffs.
In the midst of my mind's (and job's) chaos, I took a mini-break to Park City, UT, to hit the slopes and reconnect with some old friends. I still worked daily, called into conference calls, and sported my stress in all its non-glory.
One night, an ex-boyfriend picked me up to take me to dinner, and when I sat in his car he handed me a jewelry box. We'd broken up a million years prior, so I was mystified. When I opened the box, there lay these handcuffs I'd played with when I was 23.
"I just wanted to remind you of who you are," he said.
Somehow, the dude had kept the suckers in his closet for nearly ten years. And when I touched them, my heart ached for myself. It was like this revelation--this mini-time warp that sprung me back into my free-spirited truth.
In "growing up" and carving out a career for myself, I'd become boring. I lived by rote, and worked to live. Yet, I wasn't really living.
So a few months after reclaiming those handcuffs, I packed up and moved to Park City. I also quit my job and left a wonderful boyfriend. But I stepped back onto my path--the one I'd always taken where I followed my nose, and followed my heart.
We only have this one life, so we may as well live it.
Here goes...
--Lara
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