Boring Adult Things

Oh Hi There – I Hate You

No, not you. Not my dear reader.

I hate you, my first two wrinkles, appearing unexpectedly on the right side of my forehead.

No, I don’t forgive you for intruding on my bathroom mirror image, appearing as a reminder of my stress and new, wonderfully startling march toward bodily decay.

I think it’s really uncool that you pop up as a result of ongoing mental anguish and probably some body abuse over the course of a woman’s lifetime. We women who operate under anxiety are warriors, dammit, and you’re just the icing on the cake. It should be people who are carefree hippies prancing through lily fields that get wrinkles; they’ve got everything else going for them – it would be like some sort of karma to even out the stress levels in the world.

I shouldn’t care about these evil monsters creeping their way across my forehead, but I do. I’ve grown up as the baby of my friend groups; the oldest of my family but the impressive ingenue of my peers. College at a young age is a great carpet ride of surprised guffaws and easy darts to the finish line. The expectations are low for the kid who’s consistently 2 years younger. Yes, I did start my first job before I was able to (legally) drink; oh, humble humble, it’s no big deal. Whether I was good at it is irrelevant.

Well, it was a big deal; it was a big deal to me. Not to outright impress other people, but to feel like I was somehow ahead in the race against the world. Beating myself out against my own goals and sprinting toward some untold finish line that now has slowed me to a crawl. I’ve realized that in this marathon I’ve made into a sprint, the finish line is death, and it’s prefaced by a long, long jog uphill once you get about 1/4 of the way through. Adorable.

Needless to say, I’m not the girl who will age gracefully. As always, I will age willfully. There is little in this world I haven’t achieved when my mind is set on it, and now I’m wearing that fierceness on my face. So fuck you, little wrinkles; I’ve got bigger fish to fry. And if I decide to blast you away one of these days with some poison in my head, I will give zero fucks. This is my life and you two little assholes are just living in it.


Climb Every Mountain, Or Really Just Any Mountain

My dad apparently thinks my exercise experience of late has been frantically lifting Doritos into my mouth (not wholly far off), because his latest email to me about our potential mountain climbing adventure reads:

“Climbing uphill is nothing like walking or running; it’s very hard physical labor.”

Thanks, Dad. As if it wasn’t already intimidating enough to have your 56-year-old father in better shape than you.

(This isn’t entirely inaccurate: last Christmas, we went on a 5-mile run together and I ended up shitting in the woods. SHITTING IN THE WOODS LIKE A BEAR. Yes, I had food poisoning, but it wasn’t the best intro to him that I’m a capable jogger, with a soft j).

I’d of course also venture to argue that much of last year, I ran 12-15 miles a week and took several yoga classes in addition. I also ran not just the 10k I set out to achieve, but a 15k as well (which was incentivized by chocolate at the end; a related but entirely more appealing conclusion from my run with Dad).

I can freaking train, dammit. And this bucket list was worth nothing if not to challenge myself.

I’ve traveled to Ecuador and road-tripped Thailand. I’ve saved money. I’ve learned Spanish, taken auto classes, learned to knit, read the classics, published a book, swum with sting rays, surfed in Hawaii, won major business, and volunteered weekly for six months.

If nothing else, I’ve proven to myself that I have willpower, which is something I didn’t realize until literally just now. Climbing a mountain will be, what, 8 hours out of my life? BRING IT, MOUNTAIN. I WILL SHIT IN YOUR WOODS LIKE THE CHAMPION I AM.


Boring Adult Things

In Treatment

It should be no surprise to anyone who reads this blog that the last few months have been rough for me. Brandon’s informed me that I’ve literally been flinging myself around in my sleep, to the point of actually losing a ring in the middle of the night and stealing all the covers, waking up with spine issues and headaches. I’ve been in a pit; sick, depressed, angry – unable to sleep, and when able to, haunted by nightmares.

I’ve removed what remained of the tumor in my life and although the after-effects are still present, they are fewer. It’s amazing how much emotion-based poison flowing through your veins can destroy you, even as placebo.

So with that said, I hope that over the next few months of blog posts, you’ll see a happier and healthier Alexis.

I’m riding my bike to and from work, re-embracing the exercise I’d abandoned recently. I’ve completed 5 or so auto classes, so I’m comfortable crossing this piece of the puzzle off the list. I’ve embraced a new challenge in my career and find myself working on countless clients and facing new and exciting obstacles each day. I’m writing music and getting better at the guitar – and our work band may even play one of my originals soon. How surreal that will be…

We’ve cut the cable cord and tried to embrace some R&R where we can. We bought Alice a Thundershirt because that lil shit is a freaking ball of anxiety (not helped, I’m sure, by my own anxiety). I bought a Prius (and HIGHLY recommend Carvana for the experience). We adopted out a kitten. I began a charity venture. I’m seeing more friends. I’m drinking less wine.

It’s all surface changes but it’s seeping inside, and replacing the hatred and disgust is a slow, super-slow feeling of peace. And for all the decisions I’ve made this year, the one I am most grateful for is the decision to leave a past that was hurting me far in the distance, even though I love those I’ve left behind. We all must forge our own paths.

And with that said, onward and upward in this life adventure… 30 and beyond.