I Believe in Pie and Butterballs

If you follow me on any of my social media, you will know that I recently ran the Rock 'n' Roll Las Vegas Half Marathon. I have been an avid runner since high school, running for track and cross country teams and devoting a lot of my free time in college to working out. Running is part of my identity, a part that very few people would guess without knowing me relatively well. In fact, I often get looks of surprise when people find out I am a long distance runner. Why?

Because most people imagine all runners to look like Olympians. Tall, lean, all leg, and no chest. In all my 5'3 glory, I am none of those things. I am a stocky, curvy woman who has a stomach that I like to fill with bread and cheese. My thighs and calves, thanks to miles and hills and treadmills, no longer fit into any skinny jean. And I wouldn't change that for anything.

What I would change is the way people react to my body. I can see it in their faces (and have had it said to my face): If you're a runner, why aren't you skinny? or I mean, I want to work out, but I don't want my thighs to get bigger...

So what does any of this have to do with pie and Butterball turkeys?

One thing I have noticed about the holiday season is that people bake a whole lot of guilt into those pumpkin pies and candied yams. How many of us sit around the table on Thanksgiving and stuff ourselves to the point of discomfort while simultaneously making comments about how fat we are? 

So many carbs!

I should really go to the gym.

Why did we buy such a big turkey?

One more piece of pie...oh, I really shouldn't...

Honey, you don't need another dinner roll.

The holidays usher in joy, delicious food, and also a lot of judgement surrounding what we eat. So much of the focus is on food--shopping for it, preparing it, eating it, putting it in Tupperware...and also regretting it.

Well, I can tell you that I have never regretted pie on Thanksgiving. I can also tell you that as a runner, I don't sit around the table at the holidays (or ever) and think, "I need to go running. I need to work this off."

I don't run to melt away carbs. I run because I am an athlete, a little bit insane, and obsessed with a sport that gives me life. And I will always be a stocky 5'3 because that is how my body was built, and I make no effort to change my diet to lose weight. Maybe someday that will change, but for now, I don't believe what I eat should make me unhappy and feel like I need to hit the treadmill. I may not be 130 pounds and I definitely don't fit into pants that aren't at least a size 8, but that doesn't matter.

It also isn't a bad thing if you never work out and you are 120 pounds and fit into a size 4 pant. Eat what makes you feel good. Make your mental health a priority and eventually, judging yourself will become a real waste of time. For me, happiness doesn't involve making excuses for a body that doesn't look like a runner's. 

I believe in pie with whipped cream.

I believe in Butterball turkeys with stuffing.

I believe in baked potatoes with sour cream.

I believe that celebrating with family shouldn't come with a side of guilt and a self-promise to eat salad for the entire following week. We work so hard to make delicious food to enjoy together...can't we just sit down and eat it?

I think everyone should eat until they are stuffed on Thanksgiving. And no one should feel the need to justify the feast.

It's a holiday. Don't judge anything. Just eat something.

I Don't Know Who We Are Anymore

I have known Danielle since we were in the 6th grade. We lived in a small town where everyone was a Girl Scout and afternoons were spent with American Girl dolls who had more outfits than we did.

I knew I wanted to be a writer with a rich husband who would someday buy me my own island. Danielle knew she wanted to have a steady job, a log cabin, and eight children. Over a decade later, I am still an irrational dreamer (although I now understand a private island is probably unnecessary) and Danielle is still a logical rock of a person.

We bonded over mutual social awkwardness and something else, something inside the souls of little girls who are searching for who they are. She gave me someone to tell my stories to and I gave her a friend honest enough to tell her not to wear boy's clothes. We did the birthday parties and the play dates and the romps in the woods until the day she left for Pennsylvania and a little bit of innocence was robbed of both of us.

We began to write to each other, testing out this new thing called email that tied us with an electronic heart string. We tackled middle school in tandem, and later the nightmares of high school. When I experienced loss for the first time, Danielle was there. When I had my heart shattered and then stepped on, Danielle was there. When I graduated high school and struggled to choose a college, Danielle was there.

She is the person who knows what I sound like when I am crying too hard to make a noise. I am the person who knows why she cries.

This is something that has always made "us" an "us." We know the pulses and beats and pains of each other, a relationship built over years of sobbing/laughing into telephones and asking each other the questions we were too afraid to ask anyone else.

And now, in the rush of 2014, we are still tied together by the knowledge that we know each other. We have always known who we are when we are together. As a strong-willed and mildly dramatic female team, we have always managed to figure out our current phase of life.

Until now. At a chaotic twenty-two, we are both in very different places and yet we are standing in a fog on the same dimly lit street corner. The other day, we were having a conversation and Danielle said, "I don't know who we are anymore, but I think I like us."

It's true. Two people who have always been able to look each other in the eye and say, "This is who you are. Don't worry," are now looking each other in the eye and thinking, "My God, who is this girl?"

So many times in the past months Danielle has said to me, "Stop it. You are an adult." She's right. I am an adult. But twenty-two is still a question mark. We are in a phase where we are old enough to date men who act like men, but are unsure of whether we should refer to them as boys. We pay bills on time, but my bank account is still technically "student." Our parents can't get to our medical records without permission, but I am still under my father's insurance until the age of twenty-six.

Twenty-two is to be in limbo. It is swimming in the ocean alone except you're tied to land with a mile-long rope. I feel like an adult when I am working and when I fill the car with gas. But I still feel like a kid when I find myself playing Taylor Swift on repeat and when I walk into my room that hasn't changed since I was twelve.

It's a weird age, and I don't think the confusion of twenty-two has much do to with whether or not you are in school. Danielle is a questioning student while I maneuver in the world of freelance writing and job hunting. During the day, I am a professional and a woman. When I put on my cashier's uniform and ring up groceries, I am sixteen and people ask me, "What college do you want to go to?"

I tell them I have a degree, and get that look that doesn't need a sentence: Why are you at Shaw's? 

I'm at Shaw's Supermarkets because I'm twenty-two. Yes, I have a degree. Yes, I work in my field. Yes, I still have a mind-numbing part-time job for which I wear a button that says, "Ask me about Cuisinart."

I am many things. But for some reason, I am now someone my best friend does not recognize. And I don't recognize her.

We are twenty-two, and we are who we are.

The good news is we think we like us.