Kristen

The 10-Day Green Smoothie Cleanse (Pt. 2)

So the cleanse is done (like a really long time ago, but don’t pretend you’re surprised that I’m just now getting to this).

While I cheated several more times (coffee seems to be the affair I just can’t give up), all in all, the cleanse was—

*drumroll please*

—totally worth it. Yeah, I got hangry. Yes, I was willing to cage fight for a hamburger. And while I didn’t experience super high energy levels or mental clarity while on the actual cleanse, I feel way better in general now. As an added bonus, I lost a whopping ten pounds. Now, I’m more cautious about what & how much food I’m putting in my body, and I crave vegetables instead of junk food. I didn’t experience any adverse effects, and my stomach didn’t hate me when I started eating real food again. The biggest battle was mental.

The book (yes I bought the e-book) was mostly full of information about how the cleanse would not ruin your body and was enough food and yes you’re getting all the nutrients you need. I knew all of that. But the author also mentioned that half of your mental battle was the people closest to you telling you that you’ll fail. I thought, pish posh, no one is going to care.

Wrong.

Surprisingly, your friends and family feel pretty comfortable laying a gentle hand on your shoulder and telling you, “This smoothie cleanse is really actually unhealthy” or “this is a fad diet and it’s not sustainable” or “all that spinach is going to give you kidney stones.”

Maybe I should have explained it to them all in more detail. I drank a half a gallon of blended greens and fruit each day. No one sits there and judges you for eating a salad and a banana, but as soon as you put it in a cup—-WHOA THERE, WHAT ARE YOU LIKE ANOREXIC OR SOMETHING NOW? I was still allowed to eat raw nuts, crunchy vegetables, and eggs. Plus, I think I cheated on more days than I didn’t cheat (I mean seriously, NO ONE has that amount of willpower).

Besides having to focus on the reasons why you chose to do the cleanse, attitude is everything. If all you do is sit there and think about who exactly you’d kill in order to eat a hamburger, of course you’re going to be miserable! Either go out and do something to take your mind off of it, or think of something else. You need to get creative.

When my roommate and I realized that two-ingredient pancakes consisted of two ingredients that we were actually allowed to eat, we made them every night for the rest of the cleanse. When neither of us saw a valid reason why the vegetables had to be completely raw, we roasted enough to fill a cake pan and ate them for dinner. It wasn’t a starvation diet. We got bored with the list of things we were allowed to eat and then we thought of interesting combinations of those things.

I kept up with the smoothies for breakfast for a while and then got out of the rhythm when life got a little busier. And you know what? I felt like absolute crap! I wasn’t getting enough fresh fruit and vegetables, and my on-the-go breakfasts were usually sugary and processed. I wasn’t just tired—I was exhausted. And I realized that I’d always been exhausted—right up until I drank those smoothies for ten days.

Ten days is not going to ‘fix’ you. It will jumpstart you, yes, but it’s not like you can just go back to the way you ate before. “Fad” diets don’t work once they stop.

So yes, the cleanse was hard. I didn’t ever get any of that ‘increased mental clarity’ I was hoping for, but maybe I’ll just start crushing up Adderall and putting that in my smoothies instead (Just kidding, I don’t have any of that).

Anyone else out there tried this cleanse?

The 10-Day Green Smoothie Cleanse

On day five, I cheated.

The coffee pot at work was sitting empty on the counter next to my unused cup. My head was clouded; my stomach growled.

Technically I am allowed no caffeine on this cleanse, but surely one cup of coffee couldn’t hurt…

I’m doing something called “The 10-Day Green Smoothie Cleanse”, which is exactly what it sounds like. I have a couple of friends who have done it and absolutely raved about their newfound energy and mental clarity–two words that are never associated with my name unless you’re starting off with “Kristen drank three pots of coffee today” or “Someone slipped Kristen an Adderall”.

I’m also super against fad diets and cleanses, not because I believe they’re inherently evil, but because I’ve basically tried them all and I come out after a week frazzled, hangry, and only a few pounds slimmer. I decided a while ago that I was done with all of them. If looking like a Victoria’s Secret model required me to never even look at pizza again, I wasn’t gonna do it.

That’s right, fat sounds awesome.

But it doesn’t feel awesome, hence the cleanse. I was on my 7th cup of coffee when I heard about it, and the words “so much energy” were enough to convince me. I convinced my roommate to try it with me. We bought the greens, the vegetables, the 20 bags of frozen fruit (did Costco write this book to promote their frozen fruit section?), and we began.

I’m a huge fan of smoothies, so I figured that this would go smoothie-ly (heh). I’d ween myself off of coffee in three or four days (quitting cold turkey would probably put me in the hospital) and the last six I’d go caffeine-free. Plus, during the cleanse, you’re allowed to snack on hard-boiled eggs, almonds, and as many vegetables you want! Over and over in the book, the author states that this is absolutely not a starvation diet. This is awesome, I thought. I won’t even be hungry.

By the end of the second day, I was ready to throw the book out the window and eat a raw steak with my bare hands. Just that day I’d eaten five hard-boiled eggs (FIVE) and had enough celery and carrots to feed a multiplying pack of rabbits. The book tells you that this cleanse will break your addiction to sugar and other junk food, but all it did was make me want to cage fight someone for a hamburger. With a hamburger. I wanted it to rain hamburgers during the fight.

The first three days are the hardest, I kept hearing. Your body is just detoxing. Detoxing? Was I that unhealthy before? Then came the realization that while I am allowed to have as many vegetables as I want, there comes a point where I would literally rather starve than eat another carrot.

Me: “I’m hungry.”

Roommate: “Have a stick of celery!”

Me: “I’ll kill you.”

Day four was ok, though I did drink a half a cup of black coffee to rid myself of a headache. My head had been in a fog for the last four days. Where is this mental clarity? I wondered. My roommate was having dreams about eating steak behind my back, and during the day when my mind wandered off, I’d realize I’d been thinking about toast the entire time. Not a boy, not my future travel plans, not the memory of wiggling my bare toes into hot sand—toast.

And yesterday–day five–I leaned my forehead against the cupboard in the break room and I stared at the coffee pot, trying to battle my hunger and prove to myself that I was stronger than coffee. You’ll never break yourself of your caffeine addiction if you can’t give it up, my inner voice told me. “I knnnoooooowww,” I whined. “But oooonnneee liiiittttlleee cup won’t hurt anything.”

Slowly, deliberately, like a child sneaking candy from a forbidden hiding spot, I poured the coffee in the filter and it began to brew. It smelled like heaven. I opened the mini fridge and found French Vanilla Coffee Creamer—angels sang—and decided that if I was going to cheat, I was going to cheat. I used the biggest cup I could find in the office, and I filled it to the brim with piping hot, fresh, vanilla-flavored coffee.

I had about two seconds to savor the forbidden coffee before a slough of customers showed up in my office, and by the time they were gone, the coffee was cold. I hadn’t even finished half the cup. Oh well, I thought. I’ll be good tomorrow.

….except I’m not being good today. As I was writing this, I glanced over at the pantry. I spotted the Costco bag of raw almonds. Almond butter would be delicious, I thought to myself. I’m allowed to have almonds. I stuck a large handful of almonds in my Magic Bullet and blended them. Then I proceeded to dump chocolate chips in the bullet as well, because this is America, and you’re allowed to sabotage your own cleanse with anything even slightly resembling Nutella.

*sigh*

Now my stomach hurts.

I’ll let you know how the last 5 days go.

No-So-Fashionista

When I studied abroad in England in the fall of 2012, here’s what I brought with me:

Leggings. A passport holder. One dress. Two pairs of jeans. Three pairs of shoes. A couple t-shirts. A snowboarding coat. My laptop, camera, and journal.

Here’s what I neglected to bring with me:

Proper club attire, proper winter attire, proper English attire (guess who showed up to class wearing a bright purple coat and neon green backpack? TWAS MEEEE) anything to style my (then) very short hair, a notebook for class, a pen….

I was SO UNPREPARED for school in the UK.

I had basically just packed for the first 10 days I’d be there, since my travel buddy and I spent the first week and a half traveling in London and Amsterdam. In a horrible turn of events, we’d completely overpacked for the hostels–day after day, we had to explain to people why we’d each brought two suitcases that we had to drag up several flights of stairs every day (“No, no, we’re going to school up in Sunderland, these suitcases are actually all we have for the next six months of school”) but once we got to the university, we had nothing. Neither of us realized we’d be in clubs 4 nights a week, and I stupidly thought that a coastal town would be warmer (Note: NORTHERN ENGLAND IS NOT WARM. EVER. NOT IN THE SUMMER, NOT IN THE WINTER, NOT IF IT’S ON FIRE, NOT EVER).

So there I was, dancing in smoke and lights, wearing leggings, torn up boots, and a tank top, not willing to let my wardrobe limitations prevent me from experiencing everything England had to offer. I’m sure that the other girls, in their short dresses and high heels, stood there and scoffed at the fool American. But I didn’t care. At least my feet weren’t hurting all night.

In Rome, it rained constantly, and all but one pair of jeans was sopping wet. These jeans were mint green, but they were all I had. I pulled them on over my last pair of dry socks, stuffed my feet in my soggy leather shoes, and zipped up my coat. I looked in the mirror.

You could see me from the moon. My coat, purple and white plaid, harshly clashed with my mint green jeans and my slightly darker mint green leather shoes (I had a small obsession with mint green in 2012), and I had to go out in public looking like this. But it was this or those soggy leggings I’d worn yesterday, so wore it.

…it’s a little embarrassing to admit that it was not the last time I wore that outfit.

534480_10151286946463633_251600959_n — FROM THE MOON.

But I long to be that girl again. There she was, 22, running around in ridiculous clothing and not caring a bit. Most of the time it was more about comfort than fashion (like when I ate so much gelato in Italy that even those mint green jeans wouldn’t slide over my hips), but mostly it was simple: This is what I have. This is what I’m wearing. Now let’s go exploring.

Now, I have a professional job that requires that I wear suits and heels every day. My closet is full of stiff blazers, dress pants, and button up shirts. My hair is long now, usually worn down to cover the tattoo on my neck. My look is sharper; smarter. But if I’m running late and accidentally pair that jacket with those pants–oof, shouldn’t have done that–my confidence level plummets. I don’t want to go visit our accounts. I don’t really want to talk to anyone.

Where’s that girl in the bright purple coat? Where’s that girl wearing ratty boots in the club? Where is she? When did my clothing dictate my personality, rather than the other way around? When did I start caring what people thought of me?

Alright, here it is. Here’s my New Year’s Resolution.

(27 days late, in true Kristen fashion).

This year, nothing is going to hold me back. Not my clothes, not the way they fit, not the fact that I didn’t have time to put makeup on. Nothing. If I was once the girl who embarrassed herself on a daily basis and still spent most her time smiling, then I can still be that girl regardless of what I’m wearing.

And I’m sure a trip or two back to England wouldn’t hurt either *ahem*

Dutch

So, I’m Dutch.

Being Dutch doesn’t just mean that I have ancestry from the Netherlands. It doesn’t just mean that there are blue-and-white ceramic clogs, windmills, and children placed randomly throughout my parents house. It doesn’t just mean that I grew up eating things like buttered ham buns at every family gathering and graham crackers boiled in milk for desert (which, by the way, is called Cracker Pop and it is delicious).

It means I’m a little tight with money.

For the true Dutchman/woman, money and value are everything. He/she will avoid waste like it’s the black plague. My grandmother used to wash and re-use tin foil, sandwich baggies, plastic cups/forks….her kitchen was like an organized landfill.

When my dad cleans out our freezer, he hesitates before throwing out horrifically freezer burned meat. Sometimes he still eats it. But even for the worst cases, no–he doesn’t throw it out. He saves it until the next barbecue, where he grills it up alongside of the good meat and then feeds it to the dogs.

If my aunt discovers that a half a gallon of milk has spoiled, she freezes it–apparently Dutch people also suffer from the delusion that frozen, curdled, sour milk should be used later for cooking.

Did something on the farm break? Don’t buy a new one! Just MacGyver it into something that will break again next month! Hey, that shirt is on sale for $2.49…just ignore the fact that it’s because it’s both hideous and made from baby cacti. And really, is $4 cheese really that much better than $3 cheese?

I like to think of myself as a reformed Dutchwoman. I don’t save foil, frostbitten meat, or curdled milk. I know when to replace a broken part rather than just duct taping it back together. I splurge for the good cheese (shoutout to you, Tillamook).

But I also don’t like to waste things. I’ll save a pair of shoes I’ve had for ten years because they could probably still go on a walk or two before the entire sole comes off. I patch jeans instead of replacing them. When I was training at Starbucks, my trainer had me make 8 or 9 drinks in a row, said “good job, they’re all perfect” and when she proceeded to pour them all in the sink, I almost screamed.

My sister-in-law recently witnessed some of my reformed Dutchness. My brother never really picked up on the whole “waste not” lifestyle, and I think she expected that I would be the same. Last year, we took a trip to Vegas (See? I will spend money. But you bet your buttons I flew coach), where she laughed at me when I wanted to box the leftovers for every meal and lick the last drops out of my margarita glass. I think the final straw for her was watching me pick up a $0.02 voucher and insert it into the penny slot machine.

“Kristen!” She exclaimed. “You can’t waste TWO CENTS?!”

No. No I cannot waste two cents. Because in those two cents lie two opportunities–nay, one opportunity if I bet ‘big’–and I was not about to waste those. I fed the voucher into the slot machine and bet two cents on one line. I pulled the lever.

I lost, of course.

But I mean…what if?

Behold, a new term: Dutchertunist. A person who takes an opportunity simply because he/she feels it should not be wasted.

I never like to miss out on anything. Are my friends all hanging out? I’m there! I might pay for it with a bad test grade but hey, if Daniel is dared to hump the door frame again, I’m going to be there to witness it. Is my favorite band in town? Of course I’m out on the town all night hoping that they will be too, because really, the only reason that me and the lead singer aren’t married yet is because he hasn’t met me! And I’d sacrifice some sleep and some money for a lifetime of bliss with some hottie that will sing me to sleep each night and produce silver-throated angel babies.

I travel. This Dutchertunist screams hey, I’ve got a free week, and she does not sit idle. She pores over ticket prices every night because she wonders if the sand and sun feel different in Australia than in America and if the kangaroos have accents. Besides, what if there’s some Australian hottie singer out there just waiting to meet me?

(Looking at you, Matt Corby.)

Stop being afraid to waste money. You’ll never regret that paycheck you dedicated to that night out where you met that person that you now think about constantly. You won’t care that you maxed out your credit card when you spent 6 months in Europe. The price tag on that big, expensive dining room table you bought isn’t visible now that the chairs are filled with your friends and family enjoying a meal together.

As far as I’m concerned, if you end your time on earth with a hefty sum of money but an empty photo album, you never really understood the point of being here in the first place.

So raise your glass, Dutchertunist. Here’s to you. Don’t waste life.

My Niece Is A Psycho

Ok she’s not really a psycho. She just looks like one.

A few months ago, I had an absolutely brilliant idea.
I’ve been getting into photography more and more, and my favorite photographers are always the ones with brilliant and interesting concepts. I’ve got a brilliant and interesting concept, I thought.

I’d steal my niece for an afternoon. I’d cover her in war paint. I’d teach her to shoot a toy bow and arrow, and she’d run around and stalk her stuffed animals in a fun, childish game. At the end of the afternoon, she’d sit down with her (unharmed) stuffed animals and they’d all have a tea party.

….except there’s really no way to animate stuffed animals in a photo, especially when you’re dealing with a squirrely six-year-old who has absolutely no patience for things like propping up her toys in order to make them look alive, and so this cute little afternoon of playtime turned into something that made my niece look like a sadistic psychopath that kills animals and then sets up their dead carcasses around her and forces them to have a posthumous tea party.

Whoooopsiiies.

“Here, smell this flower OH THATS RIGHT YOU CAN’T BECAUSE YOU’RE DEAD”

Yeah…that doesn’t look creepy at all. She’s just innocently snuggling with a dead animal, no big deal.

And so, ladies and gentleman, that’s how I singlehandedly turned my niece into a psychopathic murderer.

Dear Producers of Criminal Minds,

I expect royalties when you turn this into a storyline.

Love,

Kristen

Kristen Doesn’t Twerk

So, you’re white.

Here, let me help you with that.

So last week I was down in LA visiting some friends. One night, out of sheer boredom and probably some mental instability brought on by the fact that they didn’t have air conditioning, we decided to learn how to twerk. The five of us gathered around a laptop in the living room and searched “How To Twerk” on YouTube.

My only other experience twerking was in Las Vegas the week before; at a pool party called Rehab, a very drunk and lovely black girl stumbled towards me in the water with a big smile on her face. “TWERK IT, GIRL!” she screamed at me. “I don’t know how to twerk,” I explained.

“Well, I’m gonna show you,” she said. “Stand up. Bend over.”

(Usually not a command you should obey, kids.)

I did what she said. “Alright, bend your knees….good.”

She then proceeded to slide her hands BENEATH MY SWIMSUIT BOTTOMS AND ONTO MY BARE BUTT.

“NOW TWERK!” she screamed.

I twerked to the best of my abilities, as she used her (very strong) hands to help my butt shake itself up and down.

“YOU TWERKIN’!!!!!” She roared.

“I TWERKIN’!!!!” I roared back, raising my beer towards my posse of white people who couldn’t twerk either. I knew they were jealous. Black Twerking Spirit Guide (is that racist?) chose me, not them.

But on this boiling hot night in LA, Black Twerking Spirit Guide (racist? yes? no?) wasn’t there to help me. There were my two girlfriends, Brianna and Amy, who picked up on the booty poppin’ dance move quickly, and Amy’s two male housemates, who refused to twerk themselves but very graciously offered tips and held chairs.

“Here, Kristen; I’ll hold this chair, and you just try to hit the seat of it with your butt. There you g–no, nooo, don’t actually sit down—well, now you’re on the floor. That’s your own fault.”

Amy tried to help. “Maybe it would be easier for you if you started on the floor? Maybe get down on all fours…ok but you have to like, pop your butt more–no, like POP it…no, don’t thrust…alright, stand up, you look like a humping dog.”

(I did look like a humping dog. Not that there is proof of this on video or anything (there is.)).

What no one really explains about twerking is that its basically just like doing one long, painful squat while also trying to dance. If you a.) work out and b.) have an arsenal of basic dance skills, you will pick up on the twerking in no time.

But I have neither of these things. A workout to me is carrying my laundry upstairs. My arsenal of dance skills includes 1.) the awkward sway and clap, 2.) the Electric Slide. That’s it. Nothing else.

They offered more advice.

“I think you need to bend your back more,” they said.

No. What I need is a drink.

“You need to pop your hips more,” they said.

No. I need to travel back in time to when I was 6 and I need to demand that my parents put me in dance class. I need less Holland and more Africa (is that racist?). I need Black Twerking Spirit Guide (is that racist?).

Help me, Obi-Wan Twerknobi; you’re my only hope!

We were headed to a club the next night, and it was decided that we needed to practice in our heels if we were going to bust out twerking on the dance floor. So, despite the fact that I’d still failed to master the basic twerk, I put on my massive heels and I wobbled around the carpet. Now; if you can’t twerk on flat feet, you certainly can’t twerk in heels. It’s not going to happen. I fell down a few times before taking my heels off and going back to the basics.

By the time that I was able to twerk 3, maybe 4 times before losing my rhythm again (“You’re doing it! YOU’RE DOING I—ahh, you lost it”), the others were all working on a move called the “Red Nose”, which essentially is just twerking one hip at a time. I can’t even understand the basic concept of this. Do other people have more bones in their bodies than I do? Are you made of rubber? How are you doing that?

My back hurt. My quads hurt. My dignity had flown out the door hours ago and I fleetingly wondered if it was too late to chase it down.

It was. It’s gone. Byyyeeee dignity.

And so, I’ve accepted that twerking is something I’m just not meant to do.

But sometimes, when I find myself alone in the bathroom or in front of my floor-length mirror in my bedroom, and I’m absolutely sure that no one is watching, I like to squat down and try it again, just to see if I can.

I can’t.

I’m sorry, Black Twerking Spirit Guide. I’ve let you down.

Your dreams were just too big for me.

I can still do the Electric Slide like a boss, though, so not all is lost.

Orange Car Ruined Everything

Today, I went to visit a friend in Yakima, which is 2ish hours away from me by freeway.

I like taking the freeway, because if the sign says ’70’ you can go 79, there aren’t really any trees or rocks for cops to hide behind, and there’s some fun scenery in the distance.

But my absolute favorite part of any freeway ever is this: if someone decides that you are not, in fact, supposed to add 9mph to the posted speed limit, you can flip on your little handy dandy blinker and mosey right past them in the passing lane.

So I moseyed. I flew. I did whatever I wanted. I passed trucks, trailers, and old people so gracefully that I don’t recall needing to tap my brakes even once. The trip was going absolutely wonderfully, until….

F&%$#@ Orange Car.

Orange Car was about six cars ahead of me, and he found himself stuck behind a Slow-Moving Vehicle. Orange Car pulled out into the passing lane.

AND THEN ORANGE CAR DIDN’T PASS.

Slowly, every single one of us moved into the passing lane in the hopes that Orange Car would eventually speed up. He never did. He just sailed riiiiiight alongside the Slow-Moving Vehicle, making it compleeeetely impossible for aaaaaanyone else to get by.

To subdue my rage, I tried to think of any possible reasons for Orange Car’s apparent inanity. Maybe the Slow-Moving Vehicle was actually being driven by a friend he hadn’t seen in 5 years, and now they were catching up!…on the freeway, 70mph, screaming through their open windows. That could happen. Maybe Slow-Moving Vehicle was a total babe, and Orange Car was having a hard time keeping his foot on the pedal while smearing his phone number all over the passenger’s side window with a tube of lipstick that his current girlfriend had accidentally left behind (because you know Orange Car is a total skeeze). Or maybe the Slow-Moving Vehicle had pissed him off somehow, and it was up to Orange Car to exact revenge by making obscene gestures and bringing shame upon Slow-Moving Vehicle’s family. I don’t know. I’ve never been an Orange Car, so I’m not sure exactly how the ‘family honor’ thing works there.

Finally, after I’d had time to complete an entire list of reasons why Orange Car might be moving so slowly in the passing lane (Orange Car is being driven by a 10-yr-old. Orange Car is a robot. Orange Car is powered by Internet Explorer), the pass was complete. Slow-Moving Vehicle was left behind, and soon, the caterpillar of cars that Orange Car had created behind him would be able to disperse along the freeway. There was a large semi-truck about a half of a mile ahead of all of us, and freeway etiquette called for Orange Car to merge back into the right lane and allow us all to pass.

BUT HE DIDN’T. Orange Car stomped on his gas pedal (did the babe reject him? Had he sufficiently shamed SMV’s family and was now free to prance along?) and bombed down the freeway towards the semi. Suddenly, the string of cars (of which I brought up the tail end, so any sort of accident or pile-up caused by Orange Car’s idiocy would have been completely blamed on me) was going 80mph. We were all so determined not to let Orange Car piss us all off and then get away without any consequences that we all tailed each other, hoping to somehow collectively force Orange Car back into the right lane.

(Driver solidarity; rarely effective, but not to be messed with.)

Well, I thought, in another effort to quell my anger, look on the bright side. At least he’s going 80 and not 70.

And then, as if on cue, Orange Car pulled up alongside the semi and thought, Hmm, I’ve been going 80 for about a minute flat now. You know what would be fun? SIXTY-FIVE WOULD BE FUN!

Back in the caterpillar formation we went. Orange Car led the pack slowly, possibly because he was examining the mechanics underneath the truck next to him or possibly because he was working up the courage to zoom under it a lá Fast and the Furious, and our Driver Solidarity flared up again. We were all raging. We didn’t just want him to pull over anymore. We wanted blood.

(Ok, I did; I guess I can’t technically speak for everyone else. I’m just assuming that they all did too.)

This went on for MILES. Every time he slowly passed a car, he’d zoom up to the next one.

Suddenly, it hit me that Orange Car was the root of all society’s problems. Orange Car was selfish, rude, and in a position to drive (literally) everyone else nuts by forcing us all to accommodate his ignorance. This one stupid car literally made me want to go punch a puppy right in it’s cute little face. I hated him. I hated Orange Car.

If Orange Car had the ability to make me rage the way I did, I can only imagine what he’d done to other people in the past. Orange Car had probably been the reason behind many a stress-induced heart attack. He’d probably caused hundreds of 30-car pileups. I’ll bet every President ever only declared war because their government vehicle had just been stuck in traffic behind Orange Car. Why did Henry VIII kill 2 of his wives? PROBABLY ORANGE CAR.

This is both a rant and a public service announcement.

People.

Don’t be that guy.

Don’t be Orange Car.

YAAASSS EXERCISE

I really, really hate exercise.

I mean, I like the long-term benefits of it. Who doesn’t love having tons of energy and fitting into their hot pants without small children stopping to ask if you live on Drury Lane? I like being fit, but I hate becoming fit.

The one upside is that workout clothes are really cute. But you can’t wear workout clothes without working out; that would be ridiculous.

But fear not, ladies; I’ve come up with a theorem that encourages you to exercise and also justifies that moment of weakness you just had at Lulu Lemon.

Dollars spent on adorable workout clothing x numerical value of cuteness on the cute scale = calories burned

The cuter you look, the more calories you’ll burn. Boom. Done. Justified.

But besides the clothing, there is nothing about exercise that I enjoy. It hurts. It’s hot. It’s hard to breathe. I don’t like exercise because exercise is not the internet, or a couch, or food.

Hiking, however, is kind of the middle man between exercising and hanging out. You can walk. You can talk to your friends. You can pretend you’re an avid hiker by posting 357 photos to your Instagram along the way and tagging them all #NatureAddict.

My best friend is trying to get me more into hiking. We weren’t feeling too adventurous last time we decided to hit the trails, so we decided to walk part of the Loop trail in Wenatchee. It’s flat for the most part, and made of concrete. Neither of us were prepared for anything more than a quiet little stroll.

That ‘quiet little stroll’ turned out to be the worst decision either of us have ever made. The trail loops over the river, and about a mile into it, we stood on the bridge contemplating whether to continue on or turn back.

“I don’t know, we’ll cross over that black bridge down there–that can’t be more than a mile or two away, can it? Let’s just do it.”

A mile? A MILE? Turns out it was FIVE MILES and I apparently need to update my contact lens prescription. Around mile six, we were contemplating swimming across the Columbia River to get back to the car. By mile eight, we were bargaining with God. I threw myself against a fence in protest to the universe (didn’t realize some guy was walking directly behind us) and tried to invent a new, less painful walk by squatting down and kicking my legs out with each step (again, didn’t realize there was some guy behind us) before just accepting that my feet were going to fall off. They were going to fall right off and there was not a thing I could do to prevent it.

Ten miles, four hours, and all five stages of grief later, we reached the car. Never have you heard such whining in your entire life.

A few weeks later (after I’d recovered from the 10-mile trek on hard pavement), Seester and I went up to Wallace Falls near Seattle. She dragged me out of bed at 5:30am and we made the 2.5 hour journey over to the coast. I brought my big camera; she brought snacks. There were waterfalls and ferns everywhere. Life was good.

Until we hit the midway point. Something about the smoothie and iced coffee I’d had for breakfast was unsettling; I was sweating profusely due to the unfamiliar levels of humidity, and my backpack felt more and more like a dwarf hanging off my back, trying to pull me back down to a more reasonable elevation. I should have hydrated a little more the night before, but there was a Blue Moon sitting right next to the bottle of water I was reaching for and my hand accidentally grabbed that instead (my hand. What a stinker).

So we’re headed up this path so narrow and steep that they have put in stairs and a guardrail, and suddenly I’m like 97% sure that I’m going to throw up. This is a problem for two reasons: Firstly, because I’M TWO MILES INTO THIS HIKE. HOW PATHETIC AM I and secondly, because every time I throw up, I cry. And it’s not like I puke and tears silently run down my face. I wretch, and in that very same breath the sound morphs into a loud, pathetic sob.

My brother calls this “crarfing”. He coined the term as he listened to me throwing up in a bush the morning after his wedding as he, his new wife (or as I call her, “Seester”), and the entire wedding party + their spouses sat just on the other side of said bush, discussing how they’d all seen it coming, given my state at the wedding the night before. I laid on the ground beneath the bush, crarfing, listening to them all try to hold back their hysterical laughter and thinking any one of you jerks could have maybe TAKEN THE DRINKS OUT OF MY HAND but you DIDN’T and so I HATE you.

So I stopped halfway up this steep and narrow staircase and I saw the night of the wedding flash across my mind. There was a bush at the top of the staircase; I liked bushes. I could puke in a bush again. I hung myself over the rickety guardrail, and I spotted a few burly men just about to come up the stairs. If I pass out now, I bet one of those guys would carry me back down, I thought.

But I didn’t pass out, and I didn’t throw up. I leaned up against a tree until the burly men (and many others) passed me on the staircase. I finally made it to the top of the stairs, where there was a bench (probably a gift from God himself just for me). I passed the bush and thought next time, bush before hobbling toward the bench. Seester turned around. “Do you need to stop again?” She asked.

My mouth had just barely started to form the word “yes” when I caught sight of a man coming up behind us. He was power walking like his life depended on it, and he wasn’t even breathing hard. It took him two seconds to catch up to us. HIS ARM WAS IN A SLING. A SLING, PEOPLE.

My “yes I need to stop” turned into a “yeee…aahhh right! I want to keep going. YAAASSS EXERCISE!” I didn’t mean it, but I couldn’t be shown up by someone who was BROKEN. Pete’s sake.

As soon as he passed me, I hobbled backward and sat down on the bench.

Eventually, we made it to the top. The trek back down was easier, but I had a hard time getting back out of the car when we got home.

Tonight, Seester and I went on a run, and when I say ‘run’ I mean that we ran half and we walked half.

(Ok we ran a little bit and walked most of it.)

I put on my cutest workout gear (remember…the cuter the gear, the more calories you’ll burn). We went on a 3-mile trek, and afterwards, I walked straight onto the set of America’s Next Top Model and I won.

I’m just kidding.

But I was taken out by a german shepherd, who apparently didn’t find my outfit respectable enough not to ruin.

He dove straight into my knees. I didn’t stand a chance.

Keep in mind, people, that exercise is dangerous and not to be taken lightly. Think really hard before taking up running. It is a SAFETY HAZARD. Think about YOUR HEALTH.

“Kristen is a Hoarder” Episode 1: Clothing

Hi, my name is Kristen, and I’m a hoarder.

with the bear — “Do you even clean, bro?” No. I don’t.

Not like a crazy, needs-medication, has-her-own-A&E-show hoarder, but a hoarder nonetheless. I hoard clothes. I hoard makeup. I hoard anything that I can convince myself I’ll need someday.

My hoarding started when I was a mere youngster, but I called it ‘collecting’.

I’d tour people around my room. “This is my pencil collection. This is my teddy bear collection. This is my rock collection.”

“Kristen, that’s a bag of gravel.”

“No it’s my ROCK COLLECTION”

I did eventually put the rocks (ok, fine, it was gravel) back in the driveway, but now I hoard clothes. I have a huge problem with buying single pieces but not outfits; I’ll buy an ugly shirt simply because it’s on sale for $2.98; I’ll pick out a dress and be like I COULD TOTALLY WEAR THIS TO THE OPERA IF FOR SOME REASON I EVER WAS IN A PLACE WHERE THERE WAS AN OPERA.

And thaaaaat’s why 85% of my closet consists of things I don’t even wear.

I’ve got things I know I’ll never need. I’ve got things I don’t even like. But I’m so cheap that I won’t throw anything out before getting the proper mileage out of it, so they’re all just in the closet with the tags on them, waiting for the day where I pull them out for my future kids to wear to some obscene Let’s-Butcher-An-Entire-Decade-In-One-Night Party.

Like these clothes.

And these elephant pants.

I was clearly sleep-deprived, but SO STOKED.

To be fair, I really thought that these pants were the epitome of trendy and cool. I snatched them off the rack. I ran into the dressing room. I took selfies like there was no tomorrow.

The only thing I neglected to do with the pants was sit down in them.

Had I tried to sit down, I would have realized that it was next to impossible, given that they’re made of fabric that was imported straight from hell.

Probable conversation with myself: “I should make sure that this fabric actually allows me to move. But first, let me take a selfie” and then I got distracted by picking a filter (I wanted to look tan.)

At least that’s what I assume happened. It’s been so long since I bought them that I forget the actual circumstances.

Things I buy almost daily: a latte, maybe a snack, and a new scarf.

10% of my closet is dedicated to scarves.

And shoes.

I can’t stop buying these stupid booties. They all hurt my feet, but I keep looking for more. Apparently, I’m under the impression that a decent pair of booties will solve all my life’s problems. So far, none have solved anything.

I wonder if I should buy more… Yes, that should work.

The remaining 5% of my closet are the Things Kristen Actually Wears, which is basically skinny jeans, jersey blazers, and loose t-shirts. I mean, I have a drawer full of yoga pants too, but to categorize them with everything else just seems like we’re saying that yoga pants are only clothing.

PSA: Yoga pants are so much more than just clothing. YOGA PANTS ARE LIFE. And children, if anyone ever tells you any differently, you can just go ahead and smack them right in their dumb face. You don’t need to be hearing those lies.

Anyway, I’m Kristen.

I hoard things.

(I’m working on it.)

Secrets

I’m going to let you in on a little secret.

I have no idea what I’m doing with my life.

I have a college degree. I don’t smell exceptionally bad. I’d like to think I’m intelligent, and I have decent social skills (unless you’re 1. above an 8 on the hotness scale or 2. some sort of celebrity, and then I have a tendency to freak out and say something completely inane).

I figured it would be easy to get a job after graduation. I thought I’d maybe pay my dues working at Starbucks (which was mainly just a joke, because I’m an English major) for a year for a little extra income, and my book would be written by late 2013. Then my plan was to move to LA and try my hand at screenwriting.

Really, it was just a matter of time before I was lavished with celebrity friends and designer clothing after inevitably becoming an overnight success. I mean, my dad used to tell me I was really special. But like…did other people just know that, or was I going to have to tell them?

I completed my last semester in college by ~~hanging out~~ studying abroad in England, where I’m fairly certain I spent more time in planes than in my classes. I ran all around Europe, made like 462 new friends on Facebook (which is an important measure of your popularity, people. I don’t know why everyone is all like “Facebook doesn’t even matter in real life” FACEBOOK IS REAL LIFE, YOU IGNORANT WENCHES), and developed an unquenchable thirst for adventure.

And then after 6 months I came home…to Quincy (population: 5,000).

My credit card was maxed out. My piggy bank was woefully empty. All my “get rich quick” schemes were just NOT working out for some dumb reason, so I finally caved and applied for–ugh–a job.

I applied to Starbucks, and also to Pier 1, just in case Starbucks decided I wasn’t fit for a barista (in which case I would have had to burn the place down, because KRISTEN NOT FIT TO BE SURROUNDED BY COFFEE ALL DAY ERR DAY LIKE WHO ARE YOU), and I was offered both jobs. I took them both, not realizing the stress I would be putting on myself. There were days where I’d have to open at Starbs at 4:30am and then I’d skip on over to Pier 1 and work the closing shift there. At first, it was fine. I grew up working on a farm, I know what a 16-hr day looks like, I thought. The long days didn’t bother me too much, and I told myself I’d write when I got off work. Or after work the following day. Or on my next day off.

I never did.

I felt guilty for calling myself a writer.

I wondered if my expensive, private university education had been wasted on someone as unmotivated and worthless as me.

I dreamed every day of going back to England, and I started imagining what my life would look like in LA. As much as I tried to be content and thrive where I was, I felt like I was going to explode. I needed to get out. My prayers always went something like Dear God thanks for the jobs I have but could you please help me get down to LA? oh yeah I mean if thats the plan ok thanks God, talk to you tomorrow.

I lacked direction. I lacked motivation. After almost a year, even LA started to seem like a bad idea.

And then, an opportunity: I was told about a new YWAM base starting up near Portland (YWAM = Youth With A Mission, which is what I was doing in Argentina when I was 18), and I was asked to staff. I’d be part of the first school (DTS) to take place. We’d go on a two-month mission trip to either Ireland or Brazil. The theme was adventure, for Pete’s sake–what more could I have possibly asked for?

Dear God thanks for the opportunity but I still really want to go to LA

(If you haven’t picked up on this yet, I’m really stubborn).

Finally, after a few weeks, I decided that I needed to start acting like the Christian I claimed to be.

Ok God, tell me where you want me.

I quit both jobs. I visited a friend in Boston (which really confused the crap out of all my Facebook friends, WHO ARE ALL SUPER IMPORTANT, CLEARLY), and I finally accepted the fact that I was going to pour all my energy into YWAM and not my own lavish Hollywood dreams. I had direction again. I had motivation. I had all these amazing plans for the students who I had yet to meet, even though not enough students had signed up. It didn’t worry me. If this was God’s plan, it was going to happen.

But then…there were no students. Though we waited a few weeks, the DTS was eventually called off, and I again was left with no direction, no plan, no income, nothing. Nothing, strangely, except for this weird peace that tells me that this is the plan.

Dear God, what’s going on?

.
.

I find myself in an incredibly rare position.

I don’t have a job. I don’t have a husband. I don’t have any kids, or any prior commitments. There is absolutely nothing stopping me from packing a bag, going to the airport, and catching the first plane to Australia.

I can literally do anything I want,

but I am so terrified of doing the wrong thing.

Dear God…

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.
.

So I’ve been hanging out in Quincy, working on the farm, hanging out with my family, and writing for the first time in ages.

But what’s that? I feel something up my sleeve….

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