Two Dudes and Country Music

There is nothing better than a great solo workout. I really can’t think of something I enjoy more alone than zoning out and breaking a sweat. It’s not that I hate working out with others, but I generally find that my patience for humanity is much lower if you decide to text after every circuit, or pause to dramatically talk about how much you are sweating.  I guess what I mean is that your workout buddy holds a very special position in my personal life. This person sees you at your least glamorous, most smelly, and absorbs the often times obscene site of your ‘just did 100 burpees face.’ Clearly a great workout buddy is no ordinary pal.  This is why when I was in the situation to workout with two dudes I wasn’t sure how this would play out. I knew all of the risk factors of hitting the gym with your girlfriend.  The texting, the talking, the unwelcome sweating, endless butt routines, and the ever common ‘lets just go get food instead’ suggestion.  Hitting it with some dudes was a different story. Would I even be able to keep up? I could already hear the ridicule of whipping out some 5lb weights. How would we all get a good workout from the same moves? Oh gosh not to mention the ‘gasping for air’ face.

Below is the best example I could find of this face…

 

After many workouts both alone and with amazing friends, I figured trying it out with the guys would at least be a guaranteed sweat session.  Whether they were workout buddy material was still left to establish.

We all met up a tiny garage gym.  I could hear the country music humming as I walked up, oh joy sob songs of women and tractors to get us motivated.  Maybe a little judgmental I know, but hey when you normally get moving to Pandora’s power workout play list Garth Brooks is downright inappropriate. I walk in to grunting, pull-ups, and a box fan to circulate the air sweat…yikes, no more yoga mats and Lululemon for me.

So here is why I decided doing it with dudes is actually a great idea:

1. My kind of man talk: so maybe I didn’t have much to contribute here.  I knew the man talk was coming.  There was primarily talk of protein and working out, how huge your lats will look, the right form…yada…yada. Which makes a heck of a lot more sense than what goes on during a girl geared sweat session. No who has the cutest sports bra on, where has the best Pilates, how your butt got so perky, did the boyfriend really say that, why my yoga pants are better than yours…etc.  While I am equally as guilty of LOVING to discuss these riveting topics (really I do…everyone wants a perky butt), the conversation was focused to the task at hand which made the workout feel more rewarding.  I felt the focus of a solo session. Working out with your best friend demands a different mindset and is almost more challenging.  You have to mentally be able to run and jump around while telling the dramatic story of what happened Saturday night, which in my opinion can be equally as hard as trying to juggle while standing on your head.  Less talk=more effort elsewhere. 

2. Sweat…everywhere: The group setting made for an extremely competitive motivation. I sure as hell wasn’t trying to be the slowest in the room which resulted in an extremely manly amount of sweating.  Imagine droplets flying all over the room, the floor slippery with body stains (it sounds more gruesome than it actually was). There was no shame about the infamous swamp ass, or taking your drenched shirt to your dripping wet face, it was more a badge of honor…as dirty as that sounds.  As someone who appreciates a good sweat it was a highly successful experience.  

3. No mirror gazing: Apparently in garage gyms there are no fancy mirrors to adore how ripped your abs look after crunches on the Swiss ball.  Putting the vanity aside was also a welcomed change.  After many instances of seeing the meat head man flex after a round of bicep curls at the gym I was fully prepared for the gun show.  Luckily these dudes kept moving too much to stop and stare.

4. Okay fine…let’s do push ups: Knew this was coming. I really did have to resist my feminine urge to turn every move into some type of squat. It’s like all of these Jillian Michaels flicks have conditioned women to this booty focused mentality. I really liked the challenge of even considering focusing on my arms. These little toothpicks are easily the most forgotten zone due to my having zero upper body strength.  I would hang upside down from a pull up bar and do crunches before I attempt any sort of actual pull up. While we didn’t do an intense upper body routine, I woke up the next morning feeling like my back had cemented over night.  Who knew after avoiding upper body strength for so long those muscles even still existed…I’ll take it!!

 5. No bootys or bikinis here: Brazilian booty, bikini body (insert frilly workout series here)…instead of the girl power look good embellishments, our moves were basic and without fabulous adjectives to make them sound less miserable. Basic squat with weight and lunges did not need to be translated, what you see is what you get with dudes in the garage gym.  The simplicity of the moves not only allowed for everyone to know what was going on, but isolated the specific regions that were being worked. It took out the forced Zumba fun that makes me cringe at the thought of shimmying for fitness. 

The two dudes themselves

Possibly the highlight of doing circuits with these workout dudes was when they compromised to let me change the music selection. Literally Jamey Johnson  “Lead Me Home” was playing…wait what did you say? Sorry I passed out mid squat. We experimented with Beyonce radio which needless to say is a classic. Whether they admit it or not I knew it was a hit. 

Contrary to my anticipation these dudes were excellent workout buddies.  Really I just enjoyed the chance to change it up a little bit.  The sweating, push-ups, and bikini-less focused bodies proved to be an awesome workout. Next time I plan to suggest more workout jam classics…maybe Rhianna Radio? I know baby steps…

-R

Life with the Air on

After living in my new apartment for two and a half months I am still trying to get my act together and be a grown-up. These 90 degree weeks forced us to cave and turn the air on which proved to be a huge’ suck it up and accept the fate on the next bill statement’ moment for all of us…a coming of age  to some degree.  Weeks of waking up in my own dripping sweat in a state of constant dehydration weren’t enough to spur hitting the on switch. No, what drove me to break down and alleviate the sweat box we had created was due my mom was visiting.  I couldn’t have her thinking this was some new crash diet or a new minimalist lifestyle choice (which would have been her first assumptions) that would just make me look bad…

Once I turned the air on it was like all of the unacceptable half-assing things we were doing to avoid fully living in our place grew mouths and declared how pitiful this situation was, like sentencing yourself to a state of constant heat stroke.  Whatever the on button turned on was much more than the cooling system.  The other issue I ended up breaking down on was the fact that none of our walls have anything actually hanging on them, in places where there could be something, things are awkwardly propped up in order to display the fact that even we thought it sounded fun to make this house a home.

 

So after finding a hammer and a total of four nails I was ready for my Martha Stewart moment. There are these white shelves that have sat in the corner since day one. The shelves are adorable, the kind of shelves that you look at and think ‘damn I’ve got such sohpisticated taste’. I even tried to be really official and measure the nail points, but an inch of miscalculation (which should have been anticipated after a turbulent stint in geometry 4 years ago) forced me to have to remove my first and extremely anti-climactic nail in the wall. I searched high and low, finding nothing that was designed to help DIY idiots remove bum nails from ancient walls. I had to settle on jimmying the mess with crayola scissors. Great…even my make shift pliers were half assed.

Issue number 3000 in this undertaking occurred once I realize the walls, which apparently were built with the same materials that guard the Swiss Bank vaults, didn’t allow the nail to go deep enough to support the shelf. This left my precious shelves hanging disturbingly lopsided teetering on crashing to the ground, it looked absurd.  After looking at the hack work I did to my pretty clean walls I felt beyond dumb.

finished product! somewhat lopsided I’m sure but no cardboard visible

The fan of the cool air hummed in the rafters okay… deep breath, fix this shit! I could not let my first attempt at home decorating be a complete and utter fail. Rummaging around for answers led me to some old cardboard that happened to be white, the answer to my problems.  I carefully folded the cardboard and wedged it in, filling the gap that allowed the shelf to droop. How’s that for half assed??!

Needless to say it was a below average first attempt at domesticating my apartment of 2 months (2 months too late). Two simple white shelves turned out looking like a Goldberg machine.  Who knew four nails, scissors, and trash cardboard could accomplish such a project.  The shelves will probably come crashing down next time the wind blows through the window too hard, but until then I am loving living life with the air on.  Luckily this embarrassing attempt is only the beginning of my home improvement spree.

-R

Life with the Air on

After living in my new apartment for two and a half months I am still trying to get my act together and be a grown-up. These 90 degree weeks forced us to cave and turn the air on which proved to be a huge’ suck it up and accept the fate on the next bill statement’ moment for all of us…a coming of age  to some degree.  Weeks of waking up in my own dripping sweat in a state of constant dehydration weren’t enough to spur hitting the on switch. No, what drove me to break down and alleviate the sweat box we had created was due my mom was visiting.  I couldn’t have her thinking this was some new crash diet or a new minimalist lifestyle choice (which would have been her first assumptions) that would just make me look bad…

Once I turned the air on it was like all of the unacceptable half-assing things we were doing to avoid fully living in our place grew mouths and declared how pitiful this situation was, like sentencing yourself to a state of constant heat stroke.  Whatever the on button turned on was much more than the cooling system.  The other issue I ended up breaking down on was the fact that none of our walls have anything actually hanging on them, in places where there could be something, things are awkwardly propped up in order to display the fact that even we thought it sounded fun to make this house a home.

cool tapestry that was hung no problem

So after finding a hammer and a total of four nails I was ready for my Martha Stewart moment. There are these white shelves that have sat in the corner since day one. The shelves are adorable, the kind of shelves that you look at and think ‘damn I’ve got such sohpisticated taste’. I even tried to be really official and measure the nail points, but an inch of miscalculation (which should have been anticipated after a turbulent stint in geometry 4 years ago) forced me to have to remove my first and extremely anti-climactic nail in the wall. I searched high and low, finding nothing that was designed to help DIY idiots remove bum nails from ancient walls. I had to settle on jimmying the mess with crayola scissors. Great…even my make shift pliers were half assed.

Issue number 3000 in this undertaking occurred once I realize the walls, which apparently were built with the same materials that guard the Swiss Bank vaults, didn’t allow the nail to go deep enough to support the shelf. This left my precious shelves hanging disturbingly lopsided teetering on crashing to the ground, it looked absurd.  After looking at the hack work I did to my pretty clean walls I felt beyond dumb.

finished product! somewhat lopsided I’m sure but no cardboard visible

The fan of the cool air hummed in the rafters okay… deep breath, fix this shit! I could not let my first attempt at home decorating be a complete and utter fail. Rummaging around for answers led me to some old cardboard that happened to be white, the answer to my problems.  I carefully folded the cardboard and wedged it in, filling the gap that allowed the shelf to droop. How’s that for half assed??!

Needless to say it was a below average first attempt at domesticating my apartment of 2 months (2 months too late). Two simple white shelves turned out looking like a Goldberg machine.  Who knew four nails, scissors, and trash cardboard could accomplish such a project.  The shelves will probably come crashing down next time the wind blows through the window too hard, but until then I am loving living life with the air on.  Luckily this embarrassing attempt is only the beginning of my home improvement spree.

-R

DIrty Laundry

A huge obstacle I have encountered since being in college is how to wash my clothes without using some Dawn in the kitchen sink. After bumming one to many free loads at friends and family houses, I decided to check out the local laundromat. Of course I had to go late night, was tucked securely between an Ameristop and the Check n Go.  This place was crowded for 12am on a Sunday night. I realized that there were only three people in the whole place, but got confused when nearly all of the washers and dryers were filled. 

Turns out one of the laundry doers was occupying the entire row.  This amazed me even further as I realized that someone had to commit to not doing laundry for a very very long period of time in order to amass enough material to fill 10 units of washers and dryers.  I found my dryer in the deep corner of the building, it was one of the low tech dryers that didn’t have a touch screen and instead used what looked like displaced dial phone buttons as setting preferences.  To my right was a girl eating peanut butter out of a jar with her finger wearing a sweatshirt that said I make pretty babies.  She looked over at me sniffed up what sounded like a mouth full of butter, and too a gulp of her applejuice to wash it down.  As I stifled my gag reflex the dryer that was in use above mine buzzed stop.  Another girl wearing all black sauntered over bumping my laundry basket out of her way without a care.  The back of her sweatshirt said vampire and her pants were tinted with the print of a human skull. These jeans looked like they may have been a DIY art project, since I cant imagine a more original pants pattern being sold at just any old store.
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As I sat there taking in the scene around me I realized I wasn’t much better off.  I was wearing a zip up hoodie that was two sizes too big.  I had deliberately chosen not to shower after my workout thinking that if this look was suitable anywhere this was the place.  My hair was disheveled as I made the rookie mistake of touching the inside of the dryer which apparently was set warm enough to bake some brownies.  After figuring out which quarter insert to use I found out to my surprise that this place is cheaper than the sketchy basement machines at my apartment building…I guess the trade off was there weren’t any vampires in my building’s basement. As I grabbed the rest of my stuff vampire turned to me and commented that she liked my sweatshirt.  I reflexively responded that I liked her pants and she strolled away past peanut butter girl who was still digging away in the jar of jiffy. This certainly was a more exciting way to get some chores done. 

-R 

Snack Time

Snack time

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Coaching a bunch of boys ages 10-18 on the same tennis team is like some social experiment that depicts the male hierarchy from start to finish. When the older boys do one thing the younger half try to do the same thing only “twice as cool.” There is always a big man at practice which is subject to change depending on whether he can bum a ride from his mom up to the courts that day. One day two from the middle of the pack members tried to get the attention of the older crew by spinning around in circles while swinging their rackets at each other. This resulted in one puking from the heat and confusion while the other got hit in the face and complained of a head ache. Even though things like this happen on a constant basis the one thing that is common between the ranks of this unique team is that they all, like most teenage boys, love to eat! I have tried so many times to reward with food and with good conscious cannot come to terms with giving them unhealthy cookies and processed sugar that sends them home in a coma. One day I was naive enough to serve ants on a log. I guess that tactic loses effectiveness when the kid learns how to spell their name and realizes that celery tastes like a hand full of grass. The boys took the logs and launched them into the fence with their rackets in protest, okay dumb idea. Last time I redeemed myself by getting store bought cookies paired with some Laffy Taffy. The jokes and fake sugars were a hit until I read that the cookies had 170 calories (more than they probably burned the entire practice spent eating them). I was further horrified when one player ate 6 of them…there had to be another way.

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The boys have been winning their matches and doing really well at practices. I am so proud of them and am constantly amazed at how quickly they improve on a weekly basis. I spent an afternoon with one of my close friends and she decided to make these really healthy snacks. No bake protein balls. Thank you Pinterest for yet again solving all life problems.

These balls solved two problems.

1. My inability to bake: I will surely botch anything the requires precision and awareness of oven time

2. They have nutritional value with the disguise of a sweet treat. WIN!

The balls took about as much skill as it takes to flush a toilet. I was even a little embarrassed to try and call them a real ‘baked good’ but I’ll take a kitchen success however I can get it. After bragging about how wonderfully healthy and delicious these things were about to be, I unveiled them to the team. They skeptically grabbed them and devoured. My visions of the baked goods being used as make shift tennis balls were quickly alleviated as all of them begged for another OH YEAH!

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I may try out a few more similar recipes on these balls to see how healthy they can get, but would absolutely recommend something quick and easy like this for anyone in the situation of impressing a herd of boys ranging from “when do you get your braces on?” to “dude, did you ask that girl to prom yet?”

-r

Bar Blunders

Last week we went out for one of my best friend’s 21st birthday. I know you are thinking of every cliche that comes in hand with a 21st birthday…and chances are all of those things you are thinking right now probably happened x10 on this special night. Being newly 21 myself I was beyond excited to expand my bar horizons. I mean expand beyond the classy bars that I have experienced thus far which range from the night everyone at Woody’s got thrown up on by some reckless girl on a mission, or when the bouncer with braided sideburns wasn’t there at Northside for karaoke night.  Clearly I have a long way to go on expanding my bar sophistication. As we hit the town for my friend’s big night out we were all prepared for just about anything.  We went all over downtown Cincinnati, everyone clad in flat sandals in anticipation of this night that was just asking for an ankle sprain (everyone except the birthday girl in her 4 inch heels of course). Our first stop was going to this new roof top bar that just opened called 21c. It was one of those places where you had to put a name in, elevator to the top, and proceed to carry on your night with a city view and posh white couches.  This group of newly legal gals had no idea what places like this looked like. So naturally when our name got called we all chugged the gin and tonics that were ordered during the wait…primed to be on our best behavior. When we got to the top of the elevator ride I realized what it felt like to be the youngest person at the bar. Here are a few ways to avoid the happenings on the roof top at 21c.

1. Do not walk into the bar like a field trip class going to the museum: we roll in with half of  a first grade class (11 people) on this tiny rooftop space that barely has room to stand oohing and ahing the whole time. I’m not sure what was worse getting looked at like we were a stampede of rhinos charging in, or tripping over everyone’s feet in our snakelike shuffle towards a standing place. Smaller bars like this better accommodate more intimate parties and are usually in an atmosphere where the mood is softer and not as much ‘just chugged my gin and tonic’ drunk. Come on have a little fun people.

2. Resist the urge to simultaneously whip our your cell phones and not say a word as everyone snaps instagram pics upon first arriving, you look like tourists: I am fully guilty of taking tons of pictures at this place the other night. How could you not when all you have been used to seeing are frat boys doing shots and passing out on nasty vinyl bar floors? As I was snapping away I looked around and realized the other 10 people I was with were doing the exact same thing standing side by side

Such a fun group of people around the illegal to sit on hot tub

blocking the entire view for everyone else while we got stares that I’m shocked didn’t cause our phones to self destruct.  I think part of getting older is realizing that your world does not need to be documented minute by minute through a fancy “twilight” filter. Their less than friendly stares forced me to continue to snap in secrecy, but also challenged me to be more aware of being present in the moment as opposed to thinking about how cool I’m going to look online. 

3. Low lighting, expensive wine, and people eating seaweed appetizers while discussing the morality of city rehabilitation means use your inside voice: How could you blame us for this one, where we come from the louder you talk at the bar the more fun you’re having with your friends, which correlates with your overall coolness level.  When we walked into this place where 60 people collectively were not talking above a whisper it seemed only natural to try and turn the volume up by shouting about pictures and to come “see the view over here.” I’m sure there was some form of gasping at this gorgeous scene too.  I may have loudly inquired about getting a group picture only to see the woman to my right sipping some sort of martini that probably cost half my rent roll her eyes causing me to immediately realize how I looked like that 5 year old who gets overly excited about seeing the gorillas at the zoo.  Noted, be quiet at cool bars, or at least around expensive martinis. 

4. Do not sit on the hot tub cover: This just topped it off as I identified myself as the least sophisticated person at the bar by sitting on the hot tub cover instead of casually leaning against it like everyone else. The security guard who may as well been working for the FBI the way he was patrolling the place quickly called me out for my mistake, reinforcing the lack of awareness that I felt in this whole situation.

Best friend and I rooftop in down town post getting scolded for my hot tub fiasco

Despite how these suggestions make it sound like we had a horrible time at this ‘too cool for school’ bar, we really did have the best time.  The scene was gorgeous and an intimate feel that was ideal for starting out night of debauchery out. As someone who can be called overly sensitive and too concerned with others opinions, I am sure that I was hyper aware of the disapproval of our presence. It was amazing to start the night with a glamorous view with some of my oldest friends. We had an opportunity to chat and pretend like we lived the sort of life where bars like this were a regular event.  It was a much needed glance into how much fun being legal could really be. Luckily we didn’t stay at the fancy bar too long. We quickly found out way down to Tin Roof where people were spilling drinks and bouncing a blow up doll around the room. Now this is what I’m talking about! Back in our element with shots being hammered and stumbling blurry eyed into the graffiti bathrooms among the blaring country music… umm does anyone want to go back to 21c?
-R

How Fast Are You?

How Fast Are You?

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If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that in my life I could have paid for my college education twice. I work at a running specialty store which obviously employs a few serious runners among other fitness addicts.  Would I classify myself as a fitness addict? Absolutely! A runner? I try to pretend like I have ability in that department.  Logging about 20-30 miles a week depending on how busy things are, I clock in at average among my co-workers.  My average existence at work is comprised of hours and hours (literally) of fitness routines from tabata to yoga to biking. I don’t mean to be obnoxious but ask me any question about fitness and I promise I will have something to contribute. It’s not that I’m trying to look like Jessica Alba or anything (if only), but I really do get more excited about a workout  than I would a brownie ice cream sundae; which is saying a lot because there isn’t much I wouldn’t do to get my hands on one of those bad boys. But apparently all of those things (like that one time I scaled the South mountains of Arizona after running 5 miles) don’t matter because I didn’t log my time on running to win afterwards, scrutinize my GPS watch to mentally note how fast I am at every moment in my step.   
 
I have been classified as a non-runner due to my lack of passionate relationship with pounding my knees to shreds on asphalt roads repeatedly, and not enjoying hours of looking directly ahead listening to the blood pump in my brain. How could you not enjoy hearing your hoarse breathing that may as well be coming from a water buffalo sweating in the mud hole for miles on end? Or receiving the constant shouts from random drivers who somehow manage to find time in their day to shout at a total stranger (that is an entirely different soap box all together).
 
Don’t get me wrong I love to run. It has been an aspect of fitness that I incorporate into almost everything I do for years now. The freedom to be on your own and go wherever at your own desire is incredible. I am just feeling a little cynical after being surrounded by “the fastest people this side of the Ohio.” And after being told that I don’t run when I could have sworn I went for an hour yesterday.  If you are someone who feels a little anxious at the thought of never changing anything about your fitness chances are we may be in the same boat on this issue.  If I ever tried to become the kind of runner that these fast people claim to be I would probably have to start hurdling random street objects and giving high fives to spice things up a bit. 
 
The typical conversation goes…
 
New person: “how fast are you?”
Real Runner: “HA! Riley doesn’t run.”
Riley: “uh yea I do…”
Real Runner: “oh yea how fast are you…”
 
To which I really want to respond fast doing what? I like to think that I run pretty fast when there are sketchy people lingering on the sidewalks or hanging out in the park that my route runs through. Yesterday I ran way slower because my pony tail kept whipping me in the face. Do you know how hard it is to maintain pace while getting jabbed in the eye continually? When I am about to start my period I feel like a porpoise whale tumbling down the street, knowing that I look like I am running through cement. Sometimes I am so stressed out pre-running that I hardly notice I exceeded my distance by a few miles, and out did my intended pace without even noticing.  Especially when I run by my work…during those times just call me Riley Hall. 

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During high school fast was a term used to describe how bold you got with the boy in the back of the movie theater. In this case I don’t feel comfortable discussing my speed at work. I may even do my best to depict myself as slow in that department.

 
It’s not that they are trying to be mean or anything when they say that. I can understand how easy it is to exclude when you specialize in something… like me and squats or brownie sundaes.  But you can’t just count out those who are trying, otherwise we wouldn’t have any real runners in this world. Oh you ran into get coffee at a record time this morning? I have no misgivings to call you a runner at that point in time way to go.
 
Basically what I have been ranting about is that I don’t will never know how fast I am. I’m too much of a control freak for that…if I can’t give you the realest and most impressive answer with full confidence in my numbers, I will most definitely avoid your question.
 
I guess the next time it happens a better response than “who are you? And when did you know my life?” may be something like
 
“I’m fast enough…”
 
-R

Lemons

So I guess I wanted to write this blog because I like to pretend like I have some sort of ability as a writer, and have never tackled real life writing. Really writing stuff down has served as a form of therapy over the years, if not an insurance policy for my difficulty with remembering what I had for breakfast. Writing has always been some overly structured obligation or topic that I was told to cover. There is something that is terrifyingly challenging about writing your life out for someone else to read…I guess I’m dreaming big that someone would actually want to read anything I have to say…but for this post’s sake I’ll continue to dream.

 
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I have always been obsessed with lemons. Not in a sexual way that makes me some kind of weirdo. More in a way that I literally crave the taste, the sour citrus is magic on my toung and the smell can make me slip away from my worries and just inhale deeply…. maybe it is a little sexual? I eat lemon flavored anything and will experiment with putting lemon on anything. There have been countless days when I can remember reducing myself to a painful acid fueled stomach ache on account of drinking too much lemon juice in my water…oh it gets weirder.  On Pinterest I have searched the word ‘lemon’ more times than I would like to admit, and am drawn to anything that is colored that shiny yellow shade like a dog to bacon.  Regardless of my strange obsession you really can use it for and with anything you want…really! I was even more surprised at how perfectly lemon fit into my life when I decided to search the definition of what it meant one day. Turns out lemon is not only a term for one of the most glorious fruits in existence, but is also used to describe people.  By definition a lemon can be

 “a person or thing that proves to be defective, imperfect, or unsatisfactory” 
 

I know this sounds a little depressing but after reflecting on this past year and the current state of my personal life lemon may have more pertinence than simply garnishing every food I eat.  It has been a period of transition, embarrassing regret, and a tidal wave of unique relationships. This past year you could say ‘shit hit the fan’ for a little while. Really the shit has perpetually hit the fan multiple times in 21 short years of life…so much so that I think it should be documented somewhere.

A lemon person may not necessarily appear as a mess from the outside or to those who have no interaction with said person. They probably have felt like a disappointment more times than should be admitted, and things are typically a little unpredictable.  Lemon people also like to listen to moody music while writing things like this.

Whatever comes of these words is merely a contemplation of the life of a lemon person and how this person manages the day to day. It’s not necessarily a negative thing. We all have a lemon moment in life whether you are in the midst of serious relationship troubles, or simply craving some baked goods.

-R