Today I awoke to an inbox full of ocean, courtesy of the gentleman. ”Good morning from the sea!” read the subject line. Next time take me with you!
This Christmas I gave myself the gift of discipline. In the last week I have run 40 miles.
I am taking a new approach to training for March’s National Marathon. Even though I need to break 3:40 to qualify (again) for Boston 2011, judging each day’s work-out on speed alone becomes exhausting and takes a lot of joy out of the sport. Sometimes I feel like running really slowly, stopping to take pictures or answer a text message or even walk a few minutes.
A good friend and elite runner once told me that to run fast, I have to run slow. In other words, if I try to break records each time I hit the pavement, I’ll burn out or break something before I even make it to the next race’s starting corral. I applied this philosophy to last week’s schedule; I took my sweet time on those long runs, stopped watching the clock, and listened to my body. The result: higher mileage and recharged batteries. Come next Monday I’ll be in fighting condition to battle the wind tunnels of Manhattan without destroying my self esteem in the process.
Sometimes I sprint. Sometimes I cruise. A mile is a mile no matter how fast I cover it.
(Fantastically festive photo courtesy of Emily.)
Sister Face, a.k.a. Sweet Baby Jane, a.k.a. Brewster Boo the Metagalactical Panda Bear, has the sads tonight. Nothing I do will cheer her up! And I’ve tried it all:
All for naught. Sister Face! Stop being sad. Be awesome instead!
Okay.
During my five-year college reunion in May, I snuck into my old fraternity house, which at the time was being used as some sort of community service dorm. As I wandered about taking pictures, a student approached and asked politely, “Excuse me, who are you?” Instinctively, I turned around and yelled menacingly, “Who the fuck are YOU?” The girl scurried off, but the incident made me introspective. Here I am, twenty-seven years old, with a relatively successful career, regular car insurance payments, and pillowcases that match my comforter. Yet at the same time, I can’t drink one beer without drinking twenty, I can’t converse with a girl without trying to take her home, and I can’t even step foot in a fraternity house without immediately regressing into an asshole. While college is many years behind me, vestiges of the experience remain deeply ingrained in my personality. Welcome to the world of a recovering frat boy.
Of course, I’m not the only one. There’s an entire faction of twenty-somethings out there who live seemingly mature lives - but only to the naked eye. Take my friend Mike, a successful software developer in New York whose downtown apartment has actually been passed down for years to successive generations of graduates from his fraternity like an off-campus party house. Or my buddy Justin, a writer here in L.A. who is looking to move to a new place - but has yet to find one big enough to fit his beer pong table. Unfortunately for him, “Hardwood floor quickly soaks up cheap beer” is generally not an amenity typically found on Craigslist.
Recovering frat boys aren’t required to have ever been Greek. In fact, they don’t even have to be boys. On average, every other Evite I received from girls over the past year has been for some sort of elaborate costume/theme party that reminds me of sophomore year. If you’re a strong, independent woman in her mid-twenties who is still throwing parties entitled Pimps & Hos, Forties & Hos, or Golf Pros & Tennis Hos, you are most definitely a recovering frat boy. Dressed like a whore.
To me, the phrase, “Let’s grab a drink” is both the rallying cry and secret password of the recovering frat boy movement. For some reason, no one uses that phrase until they’ve graduated college, and then they use it so frequently that it becomes virtually devoid of meaning. If you really think about it, you only actually grab a drink with about ten percent of the people you say that to. Of that ten percent, most think you literally want to have a solitary cocktail and exchange pleasantries or discuss current events (these people are often married or lawyers). The remainder - who you quickly recognize as kindred spirits - take “grab a drink” to mean “play beer pong and find that party where chicks are dressed as tennis hos.
Why is it, then, that so many of us, whether subconsciously or not, have adopted this quasi-Peter Pan lifestyle? These days, it’s no longer, “I won’t grow up.” It’s more like, “OK, I’ll grow up, as long as I can still throw up once a weekend.” I think the answer is simple: because we can. The world is changing. Getting married in your twenties is no longer the norm; in fact, those unfortunate souls who do are now outcasts, scorned and shunned, spit on and kicked to the side of the road by the rest of us single folk. And that means we now have more time to live our lives the way we want to and, most importantly, have evolved the ability to do so while still excelling in the adult world. People ask me all the time how long I can continue calling myself a recovering frat boy. Those people are usually sober and annoying. And my response is always the same: “Who the fuck are you?”
I recently met a chick a few years older than me and we got to talking. She mentioned that before moving to where I live, West Hollywood, she had lived in Malibu for ten years. As she continued, I got distracted because I realized that I have never done anything for ten years, let alone live in the same place. I think that’s another important aspect of recovering frat boy culture: transience. We are always on the move because we’re not ready to be held down. This can be both exciting and annoying (who wants to keep finding room for that beer pong table?). For me, though, it’s heartening to know that whatever city I’m in, I can always find friends and fans who like to work hard and play harder, often to the point of blacking out, sometimes while dressed as a golf pro or tennis ho. To you I say, “Let’s grab a drink.”
by Aaron Karo, courtesy of P.A.P.
(Emphasis mine.)
Upon arrival to the home town, Sister Face surprised me with a gift certificate for ten toasting sessions so I can ring in the new year without my pasty pallor. Bring it on, 2010.
TAN MEANS NEVER HAVING TO SAY YOU’RE SORRY.
I am all about American style: what defines it and where to find it. Even in a nation so diverse there is still an element that makes a look or a place or a person distinctly “American”. The French have that je ne sais quoi, but we have something else entirely: youth, sport, ease of movement - a practical sensibility that somehow transcends all the cultural influences that have stacked up over four centuries and thousands of miles.
So what is the American aesthetic? Who has it? How can it be acquired?
Now, for Erit Americana, I will try to answer these questions each Wednesday with a ten-question interview of a woman whom I believe best embodies the sensibility. Some of my subjects will be ladies I know personally; others I simply admire from afar. Their taste and inspiration vary tremendously - but the same could be said for anything in this country, be it cuisine, cars, or baseball teams - and it is that inclusiveness that makes the American aesthetic so vibrant and, sometimes, so maddeningly elusive.
By highlighting these women and their influences, I hope to in turn inspire myself and my readers to take a fresh look at their own wardrobes, their surroundings, and their country, and embolden the reticent to define their own American style.
This week kicks off the new feature with the spotlight on my sorority sister and Saint Louis’ impeccably dressed Kate Huether. Kate is a talented graphic designer and edits a fabulous shopping blog called Joy & Cake. Read her interview here.
Now that my temp job is dunzo I have lots of free time to do fun stuff.
For example yesterday after brunch with the Cupcaketologist, I scooped up Sam and we tried on bling bling at Topshop. That’s me on the right with the C. Sam is wearing an S. If you’d like a tinfoil replica please send a request and some cash money. I’m setting up Pay Pal right now.
Then today I didn’t feel like sending any resumes so I ran a half marathon instead. Central Park was gorgeous except for the part where I wiped out on some ice at 100th Street on the east side.
Running in snow is always a pain in the ass because slush piles and hordes of tourists drive me into literally the middle of Broadway. Last winter I braved icy sidewalks in the Bowery; 2010 will get more park action. That’s exciting!
