January Pants

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So last year my boyfriend and I decided to finally buy a house. No, not the perfectly good 1920 rowhouse we'd been living in for five years, but another house. Because that's what you do. We also decided to do it right before Thanksgiving, and then spend the holidays frantically shuttling stuff back and forth, making mountainous donation piles, staring wistfully at our pinterest boards, and wondering when our house would start to get its act together.

Soooo ... now it's January. And normally I hate January. It shows up for no good reason after the end of the holiday season, to mock you. And where I live, it doesn't even snow to trick you into thinking the holiday feelings were stretching out into the new year. Nope. It's JANUARY. Big, stupid, mocking, and 50 degrees. You can't do anything in 50 degrees. In 60, you can go for a hike. In 40, you can dream of snow. In 50 you start to wonder what season it's supposed to be.

Anyway. So while my head has been spinning with all the things I want to do with my house, I stumbled upon Apartment Therapy's January Cure. Apparently the genius folks over at one of my favorite blogs have found a way to tackle the January Blahs by giving you a list meant to distract you from the fact that WE'RE IN THE MIDDLE OF WINTER AND IT'S STILL NOT SNOWING. I know I'm late to the game, since this started on January 2nd and it's now January 9th BUT! There's nothing stopping me from grabbing onto the tail of the bus, Back to the Future-style, and join the home improvement.

I've already done Day 1: Make a List of Projects and Day 2: Make an Outbox, thanks to the moving process. The other day I sat on the floor and stared vacantly at the fireplace for a while, which in my mind counts as Day 4: Get a Fresh Perspective in 10 Minutes. This is going to be a piece of cake!

What's everybody else doing to conquer the January Blues? Or am I the only one afflicted?

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Which Way's Macy's?

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Some of the bizarre perks to being a rollergirl are the events you get involved in. Some are charity based, some are guest bartending based, and some involve you freezing your tookus off skating in a parade for two hours, avoiding horse poop to the best of your abilities. This was my second year skating in a parade - the first year I definitely took a more subtle approach. Instead of waiting in the cold pre-parade line up, I sat on the curb by my house, laced up and ready to go as my neighbors stared sideways at me. "I'm in the roller derby, " I said. "Really, I'm going to join my friends as they come by."  "Seriously, I'm one of them, I swear." They sipped their coffee suspiciously and tried not to engage me in further conversation. Finally the parade marched on, my fellow skaters whizzed by, and I was able to prove that I did actually know them. "See? See?? I'm cool!" Well, until a block later when I bit it on an asphalt crack.

This year I decided to attend the whole kitten caboodle - skate in the whole parade - and BOY what a mistake that was! I don't care who you are, you cannot be festive and wearing skates and wearing enough to remain warm in 30-degree-snow-flurrying weather. Not possible. Not even the giant inflatable candy cane balloon that kept blowing into our line of vision could cheer us up as we wondered things like "What's taking so long??" and "How come the Ravens football team gets to sit in a warm BUS, the big wusses??"

But eventually, thankfully, the parade started, we de-iced our toes and numbly skated along, trying to stay upright on the pothole-ridden street and emit tidings of happy jolly derby cheer. And it wasn't long before the community spirit hit us. We thought WE were cold - there were people of all ages sitting, standing, bundled up, lining the entire parade route. We were going to advertise the league, say hi to our fans, participate in fun local camaraderie. But these people on the sidelines - they were freezing their balls off just to say hi, smile, and encourage us on.

And that has to be, by far, one of the best parts I've experienced since moving to the city. Neighbors who will come out, hell or high water, all rosy-cheeked and drunk at 2:00 in the afternoon, just to show their support.

The title of this post is courtesy of John Roberts. :)

Snow Shovels and Butt Cracks

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I've been buried under snow for most of the week and it's been wonderful. I always love a good excuse to cancel out of the normal, day-to-day schedule and detour off into freedom. Hell, even if it's raining, I'll accept cancellations from friends. It's not just that snow blankets everything and forces it to calm down and shut up for a minute, but it also forces people to pause and reset. It forces you to be local, get out and walk, and laugh at everyone teetering about on the ice. The other morning, I trekked off to Dunkin Donuts, where on my return trip I immediately slipped and planted myself into a snow bank, coffee and bagels and everything in tow. Luckily our snow banks are so massive right now, I was at more of a lean than an actual horizontal position. I still yelped, though, so I couldn't play it off as intentional.

Then, while navigating neighborhood backroads, I noticed all the people digging out their cars who've clearly never before had to do anything of the sort. I saw shovelers in hip-huggers, their butt cracks exposed for all the world to see, impractical high-heeled boots, and overly large sunglasses that wouldn't stay in place. Random garden tools being used in place of anything actually useful on snow. Trendy haircuts destroyed by awkward knit caps and sweaty brows. Obscene statues serving as placeholders for parking spots. It was like a yard sale that people were forced against their will to participate in. The snow exposed everyone -- along with their habits, their athletic prowess, their questionable snow outfits, and what furniture they were willing to put on public display.

I Choose Pretty Over Safe Any Day

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While driving home in the pretty pretty snow that everyone around here bitches about so much, I realized how rare it is to get moments alone on the road. The snow covers everything evenly and you're not quite sure where to direct your car. It's still and quiet and I'm forced to drive slowly and take it all in. I could choose whether to crawl along, surrounded by nervous drivers on all sides on a salty highway covered with streetlights, or ... I could choose the secondary roads they don't plow. The roads my car might have trouble twisting around the corners and getting up hills and slipsliding into gutters. The roads where I get to be responsible for my own safety and destiny. Have I always been this stupid -- to choose the long, arduous, more visually appealing road than the safe, quick, boring one? Yes. It's the same reason I choose grocery stores that are more expensive - they have better lighting and smaller aisles. The same reason I put on lipstick even when I'm sick - it makes me feel better. The same reason I make the bed every morning - it convinces me that part of the room is clean.

I was listening to my favorite paranormal podcast today and the hosts took turns going to a hypnotist to regress into their past lives. They had totally different experiences while under, but their trancy, slurred responses to questions  about where they were and what they were wearing were mesmerizing. I've wanted to go to a hypnotist since I saw Dead Again and convinced myself that my past life, too, would totally be glamorous and full of intrigue. In reality, I'm probably the guy in prehistoric times who gets eaten by the lion, a la Albert Brooks in Defending Your Life. But I do kind of wonder if I'm the same now as I was in the past, despite the circumstances. Have I always chosen aesthetics over safety and survival? If we're to believe there are past lives buried in each of our subconsciousnesses, then we have to believe they carry part of who we are now in every single one. So I probably have never been any braver, or smarter, or more interesting than I am now.

And in a weird way, I find that kind of comforting.