Last week, though (like the bad little blogger I’ve been lately) I only just realized, marked five years for me as a blogger. Reflecting on that time, both upon blogging and the content on which I write, I’ve experienced quite a bit of Life over those years…

I fell in love. And out of love.

I went to London, Jamaica, the Dominican Republic- twice, Philadelphia, San Francisco, Napa, Seattle, Alaska, Las Vegas, and South Carolina. And New York- how could I forget New York?- again and again and again.

I met a boy. And another one. And then another one. Until there came the one who’s stuck by me- so far at least.

I got a dog and am convinced within myself I’ve met my soul mate.

I wrote letters to Jessica Simpson and openly adored Tina Fey.

I got fucking WHOOPING COUGH like it’s the Eighteenth century or some junk, birthed a kidney stone as though I’m some infirm old fucker, and managed to garner food poisoning while stranded in Vegas for 48 hours after a flight cancellation.

I observed and questioned motherhood first hand. I feared babies and their ability to, like bees, smell that fear.

I gave voice to my angst for pregnant smokers, Drunk Bus, Facebook, Icky Couples and other such Toolbags.

I threw a pity parade for myself as friends got engaged, married, had babies, and moved on.

I swore a lot and not always as a result of Who the Fuck is Sharon.

I fell into a depression. And I admitted the one thing I’ve always kept secret and for which I still feel ashamed.

I authored posts about which I am proud and not so proud, and still others I have, at times, felt disappointed went nearly without comment.

I celebrated birthdays and turned 30. Then realized, holy fuck, I’m now IN my thirties!

I bitched about work and covered my ass by requiring a password as my blog took on a more “real life” following.

I said good bye.

I wrote and I didn’t write. And other times I wanted to, but avoided what needed (still needs) writing.

I discovered Twitter and became completely addicted.

I left my home of six years and moved in with a man for the first time in my life.

I baked, took calligraphy, made Thanksgiving turkeys, and ugly Christmas sweaters.

I met other bloggers and became close with several others, and others still whom I have yet to meet in person but hope to one day soon. I greatly admired/ still admire several others from afar.

I Dressed for Dinner.

I found inner peace. Other times, not so much.

I drank. A. Lot. Of. Wine.

I allowed two people and 60 minutes to throw me into what wound up being a mid-life crisis that I still wrestle with some days.

I moved from Blogspot to WordPress and became “Nic Narrates,” then rebranded with my own site.

I contended with the Bathroom Troll. And other related topics.

I mourned for those bloggers who blogged off into the sunset…Charming But Single, Petite Anglais, Anonymous Coworker, Little Red Cape, Ashton Likes, and Surving Myself.

I wrote the things I cannot say to my dad, my mother, my brothers, and my grandfather.

Five years.

In five years, I grew to embrace blogging, found my voice, and began to identify myself as a writer foremost. I’ve been heartbroken, infatuated, furious, defeated, whimsical, sarcastic, jaded, humorous, naive, envious, and sentimental.

In five years, I’ve let you in, let you “know” me. Let you have a bit of myself and tried always to be honest with you despite the discomfort of knowing who else may be reading.

Thank you for indulging me (and my obnoxiously nostalgic links). More than anything, thank you for joining me along the way.

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I got the idea from reading Alice Steinbach’s Without Reservations, which I very much enjoyed and would recommend.

So, six weeks ago I sat down with a croissant, a café au lait, and a pen and I wrote. I wanted to capture the moment, the little and the great, the feeling of being there if only for four days. When I finished my breakfast, I sent my words on their way, then promptly forgot them. Until, that is, they returned to me this past Monday, a particularly bad day…

Like a miracle, the worn paper fell from a pile of junk mail I was about to throw out. As I picked it up, the recognition was that of seeing a lost friend. It couldn’t be! But it is. That’s right, I had almost forgotten! On the back I had written:

Sunrise spot. Napping in the shade. Coffee in the afternoon at Taino. Learning the bachata. Fruit smoothies. Hablo espanol un poquito. The color of the ocean. The beach waiter, Henry, always ready with another drink. Writing “bliss” in the sand at dusk. Listening to the downpour from the balcony rocking chair. Birds at sunrise. Massage on the beach. Wiggly toes in the sand. Feeling all at once- happy. Not being able to turn and walk away.

As I read each word again, I couldn’t help but smile, remembering. And I felt grateful for even this small kindness that I’d found a way to extend to myself.

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Like most women, I hate shaving my legs. I hate it for a lot of reasons, but mainly because I wake up really early to get ready and commute 90 minutes to work, which means I’m typically awake between 5 and 6 a.m. Shaving at that hour is next to impossible in that 1) my eyes are barely open, 2) I haven’t allotted myself enough time to do it adequately, and 3) I wind up cutting myself multiple times.

Adding insult to injury, as a Chicagoan shaving often proves to be an exercise in futility. The minute I catch a chill or step out into the COLD ASS pre-dawn air, goosebumps form and then it’s game over. Instant stubble. Why is that anyway?

But lately, although I may dislike the chore of shaving, I’ve been having a whole other slew of problems. For some reason, for five days after shaving my legs, my janky ass pores pitch a hissy fit. It’s not razor burn or dry skin, but my shins continue to itch horribly. I’ve tried organic products- shaving cream, oatmeal based lotions, sea salt exfoliating scrubs between shavings. I even went to a dermatologist last summer about it, though it proved entirely unhelpful (her answer was to “take a break” from shaving in the middle of August. I don’t know about you, but a leg full of hair isn’t exactly how I want to accessorize my cute strappy sandals and sundresses). All to no avail.   

So I finally caved. I decided to try waxing. Certainly, the idea of not having to worry about shaving and avoiding the reaction I’ve been suffering from seemed well worth the cost and pain. Or so I thought.

Walking into a local waxing establishment, I believed I had come prepared after a week of not shaving. But when I bared my legs, the motherly Korean lady began to study them and doubt. She pawed at my calves, craned her work lamp closer, interrogating the hairs into submission. She hemmed and she hawed, made odd guttural noises that you’d never want to hear in a hospital or a car repair shop. And then she was off. She vowed to “try.”

Unceremoniously, she slathered a random swath of wax across my shin. I wasn’t prepared for its heat, but in a moment the burn was covered with a canvas strip of cloth and she was smoothing it out. And then….RIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIPPPP!

I felt the pain shimmy all the way up to my forehead; the skin at my temples shivered, the sudden sting on my leg lingered. We both leaned in to examine the results.

Success. Partial success. As gross as the canvas strip now looked, there were stragglers. They mocked us. But, valiantly, she carried on and waxed despite her complaints of my hair being “Too thin! Your hair too thin!” Um, sorry lady. Believe me, I’m not enjoying this either, I thought.

In the end, the results yielded my looking akin to a hastily plucked chicken. We termed it, “much better,” though in reality I think we both we’re thinking, “good enough.” But before I could gather my things, she tried to force a bikini wax on me. She stood pointing to her own lady bits and said, “I have lot of hair here but it not hurt.” Not only did I want to laugh at the utter absurdity of the bold-faced lie she’d just told, but I was horrified that she had just grabbed her hoo-ha and described her pubic hair all before I’d had a chance to get coffee.

“No, thanks,” I told her. “Maybe next time.”

As for that next time, would I do it again? Yes, just not at the same place. This establishment had the wherewithal to classify some of its waxing options as a “Bikini Dance for Women.” That “dance” included (and I quote): Samba (Brazilian), Gogo (Regular), Hip Hop (Hip), and Cha-cha-cha (Anus). Yes, it says “anus.” GDF, Emo, and I all agree it should say “bung hole” instead. Even though it would still be a gross description, at least it would be funny because “bung hole” is definitely a funny word.

So yeah…I think I’d pony up for a more spa-like atmosphere. I’d also toss back a few shots before going in for any future waxings. And, as far as working my way up to a bikini wax, my thoughts are thus: go big, or go home. For me, it’d have to be a full on Brazilian, and at this juncture, I honestly don’t think I could both drink enough and not have to be carried into the place to successfully execute that one.

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Before I threw myself into the ocean, giggling at my absurd doggy-paddling and tippy-toe bobbing lest I get my face wet; before I took my first picture of my toes in the sand (because when you’re alone you wind up with a lot of those pictures, I guess)- all I could think was, “What am I doing here?”

Not everyone can travel alone. A lot of people are shocked to hear about the trips I’ve taken and continue to take solo. They question my safety or how much fun I can possibly have. They give me the once over and accuse me of unseemly shenanigans and illicit beach-side hook-ups with strangers. And sometimes, they think [quite comically actually] that I’m brave.

The thing is, I don’t know that I’ve ever been scared to travel alone. I certainly can’t remember ever thinking that way at least. There does always seem to be an “Am I really doing this?” moment, but it quickly passes. This is what I’ve been wanting to do for as long as I can remember.

I grew up camping at national parks out west and going to Disney World and Florida beaches each year with my family. I vacationed the way they wanted to vacation, ate the food they wanted to eat, saw the towns and museums they wanted to see. I’m grateful for those experiences and memories, but I also spent the better part of my adolescence planning how I would do it instead one day. On my own terms.

Now that day is here- arrived a couple of years ago actually- and it’s become one of two things that I consistently do for myself in order to keep hold of sanity and happiness and to find optimism in the day-to-day. For whatever reason, knowing I have a trip on the horizon makes each day more bearable when all I want to do sometimes is yell at people to “SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP!” as I did at the TV last night during The Marriage Ref. At times, the prospect of traveling is the only thing that can pull me out from the figurative (and sometimes literal) covers that I crawl under to hide.

But I didn’t wind up traveling alone overnight. It’s been a natural progression for me. First, learning to eat alone- breakfast, then lunch because they’re the easiest to manage. Sometimes I’d even venture out to a movie alone- matinees in the beginning, then Saturday nights amidst date night couples. Not long after that, I’d find myself going to a musical, the ballet, or the symphony- when you’re “only one,” you can get a surprisingly amazing seat even at the last minute. Somewhere in the midst of my twenties I realized that I’d rather enjoy the things I love alone than not be able to enjoy them at all simply because I might not be able to share them with someone else.

So I went. I ate those dinners and drank that wine. I applauded at the end of Avenue Q on my birthday. I cheered the ABT for their skill and beauty. I strolled through Central Park in the fall and skated at Rockefeller Plaza at Christmas. I toured London- the Tower and the Abbey. And I’ve now been to the D.R. three times. Alone, and not at all lonely.

But standing there on the beach at that moment, something about vacationing alone had changed for me. The solo traveler shtick didn’t feel the same as in years past. If traveling alone was a pair of comfortable go-to shoes, they suddenly pinched my feet. For the first time, I wanted someone to join me.

In the days that followed, I went on to enjoy my time in the sun, relearned the bachata, kept my top on, befriended the entire resort staff it seemed. But the whole while, I kept thinking of how much I wanted to be sharing it- the sunrise spot, the balcony rocking chairs, the early morning beachfront massage, even the terrible food at the lunch buffet- with him.

xoxo, nic

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BUT….

It’s that time of year again. The time when competitive sports become interesting before their long winter (AKA baseball season), the time when words and phrases like “and 1,” “brick,” and “in the paint” once again become a part of my lexicon. When I marvel at Krzyzewski’s perma shoe polish hair, and am reminded of such animals as terrapins and catamounts and lobos, oh my!

March Madness is nearly upon us and while my body valiantly attempts to absorb this z-pack, I’ve also tried to absorb what sports commentary was available on ESPN for free (read: very little). Thus, my final four this year consists of Kansas, Kansas St., West Virginia, and Villanova. I know, I know…what, no Kentucky? Kansas St. over Syracuse? Really? Yes, really. Suck it, haters.**

And for those of you who are “meh” about The Madness, there’s that other bracket. My final four there? Lady Gaga, Taylor Momsen, Juliette Lewis, and Rhianna. I think Little J is the dark horse here in that while she may be young, she doesn’t have an excuse for being such a dumbass about fashion like Lady Gaga (it’s her thing), Juliette Lewis (she’s just cracked out anyway), and Rhianna (who actually can pull off most of her crazy). Little J, I am not amused.

That’s all I’ve got, kids. Back to drinking green*** tea and not sleeping at my desk. And you, well, you’ve got some brackets to fill out. So get to it, yo!

*Or applied.

**My apologies. Blame the cold medicine for my snarkiness. Also, GHatorade. 

***Because it’s green and it’s St. Patrick’s Day. Ahhh, snap.

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Punta Cana 2009

And this?

Punta Cana Sunrise

And this too?

Punta Cana Awesomeness

This is where I’ll be, topless and tanning, INSTEAD of playing baby games at that bullshit “Couple’s Shower.“  Oopsie. I’m sure that will go over real well. 

Sixteen days and counting!

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Black wool pea coats and puffer down jackets. Black berets and black gloves. Black dress shoes and ballet flats and knee high boots in black tights. Black trouser pants and skirts and suits. Black messenger bags and laptop cases and satchels. Black iPhones and Blackberrys.

Black. You’d almost think they’re all headed to a funeral. Maybe they are. They are, after all, on their way to work. An all black funeral procession dreading that 8 a.m. conference call. Dreading that “chummy” office banter- pedantic and forced and not all that funny really. Dreading the 3:30 vending machine run for overpriced but absolutely necessary Snickers because it satisfies. Dreading the pre-meeting to prepare for the meeting that will be followed by the post-meeting recap. Dreading brainstorming sessions with “the team” to throw even more words about synergies onto the heap already accumulated.

Black. They’ve accessorized their dread with sullen, sallow, vacant faces to match. So even should the sun brave the gloom, it’s always dark dark dark on this bus with those faces and their dread and all that black.

Briefly standing there, I scan the huddled masses- one onyx coat sleeve blending into the next- and TRIUMPH! find a coveted seat. It is then that I proceed to virtually slap my seatmates across the face. WAKE UP!

I’m on my way to a funeral too. But I’m the girl in the blood-orange toggle coat.

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