Big City Living, Long Legs and other Personal Problems

Oops I Sprained It Again

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That’s right, I’m a gimp. Again. Some of you may remember my unfortunate ankle sprains right around the time I began this blog. It coincided (extremely unfortunately) with my very first half marathon. It was approximately 18 months ago. I had been completely free and clear of sprains until now! WAHHH.

You probably assume I was doing some sort of crazy exercise when I sprained it, like jumping on Spiderbands that were suspended from the ceiling or something. But no, I was walking. On my own two feet. And before you ask me the most offensive question, like emoji-bf did when I first told him, NO, I was not on my phone when it happened. My phone was actually in my pocket! This was doubly lucky because I get to tell everyone that “no, I am not careless, I am just clumsy,” and it’s also lucky because I fell completely on the ground and my phone probably would have shattered if I had dropped it.

I was casually walking on my way from work to the subway to go teach two classes at the gym. I looked left and right to cross the street (112th street on the west side), and unfortunately, I was too busy looking for crazy New York drivers to look down at the crazy New York streets. There was a huge pot hole in the crosswalk. I learned a very important lesson: potholes are not just dangerous for cars.

I fell to the ground and 3 people stopped for me, including a dad holding his two little sons’ hands. As I was falling, watching my fitness goals and dreams blow up before me in slow-motion, of course I screamed “SHIT!!!” I looked up to try and hobble out of the street before I was run over by a car, and I spotted the dad and his kids and I apologized for my curse words. The dad kept asking if I was ok and said his kids had heard worse. I’m sure that’s true; it’s New York, they probably heard worse just that morning. I was in a LOT of pain. I felt tears stinging at my eyes but I knew I couldn’t cry in front of these kids. One of them had a cast on his wrist already, so I just hoped my ankle wasn’t broken like him and tried to hop to the sidewalk.

After many rounds of “I swear I’m fine” as I blinked back tears and hopped down the street, I walked into a Famiglia Pizzeria and asked for a bag of ice. I was on my way to the gym, which meant I knew I had a good hour to ice my ankle on the subway. As luck would have it, the only other person in the pizzeria was an NYPD officer. He saw me standing flamingo-style on one leg and he looked down at my ankle. His eyebrows flew up to his hairline as he saw the swollen ankle and he asked if he should call me an ambulance. I adamantly said no (although it would have probably gotten me to the gym faster than the MTA), and then he asked if he could “take a look at my ankle.” I told him no thanks, because the last thing I wanted was a stranger touching it. I could barely touch it myself. He asked me where I was headed, and when I told him “the gym,” he looked at me like I was crazy and decided I was beyond help.

I double wrapped a plastic bag full of ice, hopped down the two flights of stairs to the subway, and iced my ankle all the way to Brooklyn. The hard part, of course, was that I was supposed to then teach two fitness classes. My first class was Spinning, where I sat on the saddle of the bike, and propped my ankle on the handlebars on top of a bag of ice. I barked orders at my class for a full hour on the microphone, while trying to numb my pain. It was the first spin class I ever sat through without breaking a sweat. One of my regulars told me it was one of the hardest classes I ever taught. I guess I’m mean when I’m in excruciating pain.

The next class was supposed to be kickboxing. LOL. Considering I couldn’t even stand, I was definitely not jumping or kicking anything. I set up interval stations around the room and told them what exercises to do, for 1 minute on, 30 seconds off. I finished the classes with 5 minutes of core work on our backs (I could do this!) and then I had to ask for help to get me off the floor. Pretty comical.

Having a sprained ankle in New York comes with a unique set of problems, since I am constantly required to be walking and standing to get around in the city. I am in the middle of compiling a list of Sprankle Problems. Stay tuned. For now, here are a few awesomely gnarly photos of my cankle. Enjoy.

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Big City Living, Long Legs and other Personal Problems

Subway Dwellers

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Recently, there have been so many problems with the MTA and public transit that I don’t even feel like talking about it anymore. Check my twitter, it’s littered with tweets about the terrible trains. Examples:

https://twitter.com/LongLegsBigCity/status/1022229438333939713

https://twitter.com/LongLegsBigCity/status/1014131211869057024

Also, if you missed my post about the non-air-conditioned subway of death, check it out. Anyway, enough about the actual trains, for today, I’d like to talk about the PEOPLE I hate on the subway and in the subway station. I try not to do too many “list” posts, but it is required here. This is in no way an exhaustive list; I hate a lot more people.

  • People who don’t know how to use a Metrocard. Fine, I hate tourists, you caught me. But is it really that hard? Not too fast, not too slow, swipe it just right. It’s like the Goldilocks of the metrocard swipe. And for those of you who swipe the card with the magnetic strip up?? I have no words. Have you ever used a credit card? A debit card? A food stamps card? What good will it do if the magnetic strip is NOT IN THE READER?! If you tried twice and you haven’t figured it out, step out of the way, I’ve got places to be!
  • People asking for money. I could do a whole post on this one, but I’ll start with my least two favorite categories:
    • Special category of hatred: SHOWTIME. We know it, we’ve seen it; even the MTA has ads that try to combat these juvenile hooligans that believe the subway is their training center for acrobatics. I happen to like my eyes. Both of them. My nose too. I’d like to keep them intact, and your flying cartwheels are making me think I will not keep them that way.
    • Special category of hatred: man with a drum. This guy pulls out a massive drum, sets it on the floor and starts to retell some long history of drumming. Do I care? No. Has the long history changed since last week? Also no. Here’s the main problem with this particular busker, the drum is LOUD and it shakes the ground! I am here trying to read after a 12 hour day and I really do not need to have my head literally pulsating with each of his drum beats.
  • People who put a cigarette behind their ear the minute the train pulls into the station. I do not need to see that advertised. Also, you’re a bad influence for the children. There are a lot more fun ways to die than self-induced lung cancer via cigarettes. Is it that difficult to wait 2 full minutes until you exit the train and go up the stairs? Or will it take you 4 minutes to ascend due to decreased lung capacity? Either way, just wait. And while you’re at it, pull up an old D.A.R.E. commercial on Youtube.
  • Manspreaders. You have something between your legs. We get it. 
  • Smelly People. Do I really need to elaborate here? Shower and WEAR DEODORANT. It’s really that simple. Obviously I know there is nothing you can do about sweating. It’s 100+ degrees outside. It happens. But please do the rest of your fellow commuters a favor and shower daily. It should be a prerequisite before the subway turnstile. Not sure who would want the job of sniffer enforcer though…
  • People who try to get into the subway car before letting people out. I know, I know, you don’t want to miss your train. But where do you think you’re going to stand if you don’t let people off? Common courtesy here. And here’s a little known fact: they actually won’t leave the station if you’re still boarding the train. This is not Japan. Calm down.
  • People with baby strollers that are so large I can fit in them. Y’all. I am 5’11” and I should not be able to fit in your stroller. If your baby needs a stroller, they should be small enough that your stroller need not take up half of the car. If you can afford a $3,000 baby-mobile/miniature car, then grab a cab. Did you run out of money buying the stroller? Then trade it in. I hear ebay has a great black market.
  • People whose loose hair touches me. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. Ew. I have literally offered someone a hair tie before. It is JULY for god’s sake. Please, just tie it up. I am so happy for you that you took your biotin and niacin and your hair is silky smooth, but GET IT OFF OF ME. It is sticking to my sweaty arms and that is not fun for either of us.

That is my non-exhaustive list for now. I have many more people I hate, it depends on the day. Do you have any other particular categories you’d like to hear my thoughts on? Let me know below in the comments.

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Long Legs and other Personal Problems

Recovering Attorney – 5 years out and 4 years clean

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It’s that time again. Every year, 9 days after my birthday, is my law school graduation anniversary. Ironically, it’s the day after D-Day. Now, it may be a bit dramatic to compare my freedom from law to the freedom of the world and rescue by the Allied Forces, but whatevs. It’s the same for me.
If you read my post last year about being a Recovering Attorney, you’d know I was only working in law for 11 months, even though it felt like much longer. I have finally gotten to a point in my life where I don’t mention being a lawyer when I introduce myself, or when people ask me what I do for a living. Let’s be honest, in New York, it’s the first question out of anyone’s mouth after “What’s your name?” New Yorkers love to ask questions, and in general, we are more brutally honest than in other cities. It is not uncommon to hear 20 people at a party boasting about how they can’t afford their rent. They include figures about their electricity bill, their broker’s fee, everything.
I used to feel like I needed to mention I “used to be a lawyer” when asked what I did for a living. I stopped mentioning it for a few reasons. First of all, the longer ago I quit, the more fake it felt to mention it. I only practiced law in earnest for under a year, so a year after I quit, it seemed silly to mention it. And if you add in the three years I was in school, it was still only 4 years total. I felt it was time to stop mentioning it. But for a while, I still did. If you recall from my blog last year, there are only two good things about being a lawyer: the money, and saying you’re a lawyer. I had already given up the mulah (more on that later), and I guess I wasn’t ready to give up the “prestige” that comes with the title.
Despite my conscious decision to stop mentioning my history as an attorney, it’s often an inevitable topic because it’s tied to so many other questions: How did you end up working for rabbis? Why did you move to New York? Why did you live in Brooklyn before Manhattan? Etc. etc. etc. All answers lead back to law school and lawyering. But unfortunately, the questions don’t end there. I told you, New Yorkers love intrusive questions. Inevitably, once I tell someone I used to be a lawyer, it leads to more questions. For my 5-year-law-iversary, (or 4-year-non-law-iversary), I will tackle some of the FAQ’s I receive. I’m really writing this blog for my future self. In the future, when people ask me unending questions, I’ll just give them this URL.

Really? You used to be a lawyer?

For some reason, this is always the first question. Do people think I’m lying? Is this something funny that people do? Do they think Ashton Kutcher is going to come out and say “JK Emily is Punking You?” I have no clue. I always find this a strange question. I guess some people find it unbelievable. The funny part about people thinking it is unbelievable, is that it’s actually quite common. I have read many times that close to 40% of people with law degrees do not practice law. In fact, some people pair this question right afterward with the statement that they know another person who also quit law.

Plainly speaking, I am not alone. And yet people always ask me this question. Maybe it’s because my “personality” does not lend itself to being a good lawyer. I have heard this many times, too. I try not to be offended by that. What in the world does that mean? I’m not smart enough? That can’t be the case. I graduated law school in the top third of my class, I wrote on the top law journal, I took (and passed) two state Bar Exams… so what is it? When I try to rationalize this in my head, I decide to interpret it that I am too nice. Lawyers are mean, blood-sucking people. (Ok, I exaggerate slightly). This brings me to the second question I am always asked:

Why did you quit?

I could honestly write about this in a post itself. I’ll do a cursory list instead, and maybe fill it in for a 6-year anniversary post in 2019:

  • The people are mean.
  • I prefer fulfilling work.
  • I don’t like to work on the weekend.
  • I don’t like leaving work with the feeling that I’ve ruined people’s lives.
  • The people are really mean.
  • Even waterproof mascara runs after you have been crying for 8 hours.

What did your parents think when you told them you were going to quit?

This is sometimes the third question, but sometimes, it’s the first. I find this incredibly strange as a 31-year-old. Most parents had their own children by now. Some of them had careers they chose to quit for child-rearing purposes. So, shouldn’t they understand if I chose to quit, simply to go to another job? It’s not like I became a hobo. More importantly, aren’t parents supposed to say, “I don’t care what you do, as long as you’re happy?” In theory.

Two days ago, I had this conversation with a woman in her 50’s, and she said exactly that: “I know I’m supposed to say I only care if my kids are happy, but honestly, I don’t know what I’d think.” Here’s the deal: If you have a kid who is so miserable that she calls you crying every day, eventually you’ll agree that she needs to find another path. And that is exactly what happened with my parents. When I told them after 3 months that I was looking to leave the law firm, I don’t think they were thrilled. They gave me a lot of lines about “sticking it out,” and “I’m sure it will get better.” But as the months dragged on and I was more and more miserable, the tears increasing, the misery palpable, and the innumerable job applications unanswered, they finally came around. It didn’t take too many crying lunchtime calls before they realized it was probably best that I left. In fact, they even supported my idea of moving back in with them. It was not my first choice, but with my lease ending and my patience running low, it seemed like a good idea, even though I had not lived with them in 9 years.

It also helped that none of their money went into my law school education or housing, so they couldn’t say I squandered anything monetary. Sure, I squandered three years of my life, but NBD.

I should also note that I have very supportive parents. I’m not sure if every other parent out there would have been thrilled with my decision, but there also comes a point in your life where you have to make yourself happy first. I was lucky that in improving my own life, my parents had my back. Plus, now I work for rabbis. They couldn’t be more thrilled (and hysterical every time I bring up a Jewish holiday or Yiddish word).

Do you miss the money?

People seriously ask me this. I live in NYC where apartments the size of a closet cost $2K/month. OBVIOUSLY I MISS THE MONEY. An article just came out this week announcing that the first-year class of attorneys at big firms in NYC will now make $190K/year. LOL

I’m always completely honest on my blog, so I’ll admit I did not even make half of that as a lawyer. My salary was $84K (including a $1K bonus), and that was before taxes. So the reality is, I don’t make that much less now, percentage-wise. And if you were to divide that by hours worked, I make MUCH MORE now that I work in the non-profit sector (LOL again). So I do miss the money, but it wasn’t much money to begin with. It certainly was not enough money to buy my life and happiness. Don’t get me wrong, a certain amount of money may have bought me happiness, but $84K in NYC is chump change. #NotWorthIt

Also, since my student loans are income-based, I was paying more in loans. That brings me to the next question I’m often asked:

When will you pay off your loans?

GURL. I have no idea. The good news is, I now work in the non-profit sector, so I am a very eager participant in the Public Service Loan Forgiveness program. I wrote an entire blog SERIES about my loans last fall, and I wrote one post in the series about how I am paying them back. If I continue in non-profit, and if I continue to make income-based payments, the rest of my loans will be forgiven in 6 years and 2 months. If I do not continue in non-profit, or if the PSLF program is rescinded, that will not happen.

Also, please note that I said my loans will be forgiven, not that I will pay them off. The answer to when I will pay them off is: NEVER. They are literally growing every month. So yeah. Not happening anytime soon. Good news: they are discharged at death.

Do you miss it?

I already said this, but I did not enjoy anything about lawyering. I enjoyed SAYING I was a lawyer, but I never interacted with people because I was always at work, and the people at work already knew I was a lawyer, so no need to tell them. The other thing I sometimes miss is dressing up. It always felt like dress-up to me. But I did dry-cleaning last week for the first time in 3 years, and I definitely do not miss those bills.

Will you ever go back?

People ask me this all the time. And it’s usually the last question before I curtail the conversation with a swift and resounding NO. Last year, I recounted a conversation with my boyfriend about how likely it was that I return to law. I said 90% no, and he said he thought it would be 97% no. At this point, I think I am a 99% no. I would possibly go back in-house at a firm to do recruiting and career development, but not as a lawyer.

That covers most of the questions I receive. Do you have any others? I’m pretty much an open book at this point. The other question I get, obviously from people who don’t know me, is “should I go to law school.” I already covered this extensively, but, RUN. RUN AWAY FROM IT AS FAST AND AS FAR AS YOU CAN.
Have a great summer, and as you enjoy your time at the beach and in the park, think of all the lawyers slaving away in their recirculated air offices. Even on a Sunday.

 

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Long Legs and other Personal Problems

I Turned 30… Again

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Well guys, another year older, another day added onto my hangovers. Yes, I am now up to a 3-day massive headache hangover that tends to accompany severe dehydration and aching 31-year-old bones. My birthday was last Tuesday, which means I’m almost through with this hangover… until the weekend. I am now officially “in my thirties” and not just “30,” so I feel like I am qualified, in my old age, to impart some of my wisdom about my fellow 30-somethings. What have we learned in these 31 years? Besides to chug 4 glasses of water before bed and limit the sugar in our cocktails? A lot of things. And we know more than older generations give us credit for. (This is another list post, I apologize in advance.)

  • People in their 30’s don’t like being called Millennials. But also we acknowledge that we sort of are. “Millennials” are those crazy people out there who are somehow old enough to drink but were also BORN IN THE 90’S. WHAT!?
  • A lot of 30-somethings don’t know how to change a tire. But hey, you know why that doesn’t matter? Because none of us have cars because we can’t afford them because we have student loans! Oh, and also because no one buys a car nowadays anyway. Also because there’s this nifty thing called google that can tell you how to change a tire. And Youtube where they can show you a video about how to. And all of this can be found on the internet, which can be accessed from a mini computer called a phone that we have in our pockets at ALL TIMES. So the baby boomers can stop with this “change a tire” argument, like, now.
  • Us 30-somethings know that privacy is a thing of the past. Older people watched the Mark Zuckerberg Congressional Hearings and were absolutely STUNNED that Facebook could have and use your information. Us 30-somethings understand that it is just the way of the world and there’s nothing we can do about it. Google knows my coordinates at all time. Amazon knows every time I need to re-order laundry detergent. CVS knows when I buy blonde hair dye for the summer. Instagram knows when I mentioned Mexico in a conversation with my friend. (Ok, I admit, that one was a bit creepy.) I’m not saying that us 30-somethings think this is OK, I’m just saying we can cope with the reality of our world.
  • Separate but related, we understand privacy settings. Yes, this blog is public and the whole world wide web can read my thoughts, but you can bet your bippy that my Facebook is on STRICT lockdown. I would like to be employed far into the future. And no, I do not accept Facebook friends who I do not know. Why would I do that? And yes, my dad is on Restricted. He knows this. So are my boyfriend’s friends! I can’t have them spreading photos of him with his emoji-face all uncovered!! This is the biggest thing that older generation humans should ask for help about. It is far too easy to stalk a majority of people, because they do not understand privacy settings.
  • 30-somethings understand that the key to getting everything done is efficiency and convenience. That means that if it can’t be delivered (and returned), why bother? Amazon is KING and everything worth having can be purchased from your phone. Yes, the physical act of shopping can be fun every once and a while, (plus good cardio! More on exercise later…) but this is a whole event. It takes time – time we don’t have because we are busy working to pay off our student loans. And busy traveling.
  • 30-somethings understand that the world is a huge, vast place, and that we only have one life to live. As we say (or said) YOLO. Therefore, we like to travel. And no, Daddy, it is not a “waste of money.” Older people don’t understand that travel is actually a better way to spend money than having children at 24. It creates experiences, the only thing that cannot be purchased on Amazon. Also, it creates content for our social media. If I don’t post on Instagram about Spain, how will it know to advertise ham to me? Rhetorical question. Of course it knows.
  • 30-somethings do NOT understand that a wedding is a celebration of your love for one other human, and the legally-binding contract, tying you together for life. No, they do not understand this. Somehow along the way of our 30-some-odd lives, it was decided that a wedding is actually a way to bankrupt your friends, force them to travel to places they did not want to go, multiple times for multiple events, force them to wear unflattering clothing, force them to buy you multiple presents, all for the promise of an open bar. (And to those of you without open bars… shame on you.)
  • 30-somethings understand that music will only get worse. Yes, I am the curmudgeon old person, but I will stand by this statement for life: Boy Bands do not get better than *Nsync, BSB AND 98 Degrees. No, One Direction is not comparable. And old people, I guess I can agree that the Beatles had something going on but… still got nothing on Tearin’ Up My Heart.
  • 30-somethings understand that obesity is an epidemic. And even though understanding this has not stopped us from being complete gluttons, we also understand calories, food groups, good carbs, bad carbs, good fats, bad fats, etc., far more than any generation before us. Also, we understand the draw of fitness. The 30-somethings are leading the charge into fitness as a fun outlet, and not just as a 30-minute workout video for women-only, in leg warmers. But also, we understand that a restaurant that ONLY serves fried potatoes with 20 different dipping sauces has the possibility of being wildly profitable, because YOLO.

Speaking of wildly profitable, we are still waiting our turn to make money. I know I am not alone in saying that the “dream” or paying off student debt, owning a home, and feeling financially comfortable enough to have a child… it’s a long way off. Even at 31. But hey, #YOLO. It’s easy to forget about student loans when you’re galivanting around Europe. When I am done celebrating my birthday, I’ll have to tell you all about my travels in Spain. But before that, next week is my 5-year graduation-iversary. I can guarantee you another scathing report on the blog about why you should avoid law school at all costs. 5 years later, still singing the same song. Until next time!

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Long Legs and other Personal Problems

True Life: My Uterus Ate My IUD

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Yeah, you read that right. I had many possible titles for this post: My Missing Mirena, or rather, My Misplaced Mirena (because SPOILER ALERT, I found it). I even considered LongLegsBigUterus, but that didn’t really seem justified. I think it’s normal-sized. Things just go missing up there. It’s the Bermuda Triangle of the woman’s world.

As much as I try to keep my blog light, I also try to keep it real. And as they say on The Real World, “this is what happens … when people stop being polite … and start getting real.” This is the story of my last week, which was one of the most emotionally taxing weeks I’ve had in recent history. Quick warning: this blog may be what some people would call TMI, but whatevs, it’s already on Facebook, so what’s the big diff between my private Facebook and the public internet for all to see for all history, right? Plus, I’m doing a public service here, supposedly this is a relatively normal problem. More on that later.

My saga started with a normal doctor’s appointment. Thanks to recent research, women only need to go for normal gynecological exams every 3 years in their 20’s now, and every 5 years in their 30’s. These appointments used to be annual. I tell you this because it is a crucial fact. I had not been there in YEARS. So fast-forward to the very end of the appointment. As the doctor is still doin’ his thing. I’m just hangin’ out in the stirrups (guys, if you don’t know what I mean, google it), and I hear the doctor go, “HUH!” Just like that. With an exclamation mark. Now, you don’t have to be a woman to know that you never want your doctor checkin’ things out inside you and remarking “huh!” like he’s stumped. Doctors are supposed to know ALL THE THINGS.

Then the doc says, “alright, we’re all done. In case you were wondering why I said ‘huh,’ it’s because I can’t seem to locate your IUD.”

Me: “I don’t understand.”

Doc: “Well, it happens sometimes. It could just be the strings are nestled up in your cervix. Or maybe not.”

Me: “Excuse me??”

Doc: “Yes, well either way, you should probably check up on it, in case it has somehow migrated or come out.”

Me (in my head): “WHAT THE F*&^%. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE!? I DID NOT KNOW THAT WAS AN OPTION?! HOW COULD IT HAVE COME OUT? I THOUGHT THAT BY GOING THROUGH TERRIBLE PAIN IMPLANTING THAT SH*& IN PLACE THAT IT WOULDN’T JUST FALL OUT?!”

Me: (out loud… trying to be rational): “If it wasn’t in there… wouldn’t I pregnant?” (Sorry Mommy…)

Doc: *shrugs* “Yeah, probably. But we want to be sure.”

Me: “So… I’m scared to ask but, is it possible my IUD has been missing for 3 years?”

Doc: “It’s possible.”

The doctor then wrote me a prescription to go to a radiologist to get an ultrasound to try and “locate” it. Of course it’s just my luck that my doctor does not have a single ultrasound in the office. So I had to go somewhere else, try to get an appointment, pay an additional copay, and the worst part – I had to WAIT.

I immediately left the office and posted on Facebook, as one does when a piece of plastic goes missing inside one’s uterus.

As you can imagine, I received 18 comments. Mostly horrified women not knowing this was an option. Sort of like me. Some comments were from men. Funny comments like “Have you checked your pockets?” LOL. JK I didn’t laugh out loud. I didn’t laugh at all. This was not funny!

Seriously though, this is not a tiny contraption. How could it have disappeared?? This photo is from the Mirena website. It’s not something you’d “accidentally misplace in your body.”

The second I got to work I called the radiology office and tried to schedule an ultrasound. I had no qualms about screaming “transvaginal ultrasound” through the phone while sitting at my desk. All I cared about was finding my missing Mirena.

I scheduled an appointment for two days later, and the receptionist told me to “make sure I had an empty bladder” when I arrived. *eyeroll* *fake barfing sound*

When Friday arrived, I left work early to go to my appointment. I was so nervous, I left work an hour earlier than necessary, by accident. I had found out two days before, at my other doctor, that my file at had been marked with “white coat hypertension” for years, i.e. I freak the F*&^ out when I go to the doctor so my blood pressure skyrockets. They always have to take it multiple times. So of course, getting to the doctor an hour early to freak out even more is exactly what I needed.

I had spent the previous night googling how much this procedure was supposed to hurt. According to google, not too much. *SIGH OF RELIEF* However, as I got deeper into my googling, I became more and more scared. Pierced uteran walls? Migrating IUDs all the way up to the abdominal cavity? Should I have felt pain? Was there bleeding? Not that I was aware of… but maybe sometimes when I’m sore from exercise it was really my plastic IUD piercing through my internal lady-parts. There were blogs on blogs on blogs about this. This should have made me feel better – I wasn’t alone! But no. As one usually does when WebMD is involved, I started to imagine the worst: FIRE, BRIMSTONE, AND DEATH!

As I sat in the waiting room, I tried to practice yoga breathing. I’m no good at yoga breathing. My hands were shaking and I was reading the same paragraph in Hillary’s book about Russian internet trolls over and over again. Finally, the receptionist called me to pay yet another copay:

Receptionist: “You’ve been drinking water, right?”

Me: “Um no? They specifically told me on the phone to have an empty bladder.”

Receptionist: “Oh, because they booked you for the wrong kind of ultrasound. You need to be drinking. I’ll check with the tech.”

Tech: “Yea, you need to have 100-120 ounces of water. I’ll come back in 15 minutes.”

Good thing I was early! I started waterboarding myself. Chugging like an 18-year-old at her first frat party. (Sorry again, mommy.) I drank cold water so quickly that I became freezing. My whole body was covered in goosebumps and my hair was standing on end. I officially gave up on my book and started trying to play along with “Who Wants to Be a Millionaire” on the tv to distract myself as I chugged water. (By the way, fear of palindromes = aibohphobia.)

Finally, the tech told me I had drank enough water and called me back. Maybe she took pity on me because she saw me shivering.

Before the ultrasound started, the tech told me that she was going to go look for the IUD. And I said, “well, it has to be up there, right? Like, I’d notice if it came out?” To which she said, “you’d be surprised; it’s happened before where I go looking for an IUD, and instead I find a baby! HAHA”

… excuse me!? NOT HAHA. NOT FUNNY AT ALL.

It was my lucky day, I got to have TWO kinds of ultrasounds! The kind you see on TV where they put gross jelly/lube on your abdomen, AND the kind where they stick a huge dildo-y thing up inside you. For that second one, she let me put it up inside me myself. At least there’s that.

The tech saw me craning my neck to see the screen, so she tilted the screen toward me. I couldn’t see anything. After a few more excruciating minutes of silence, she said “ah, there I think I see it. See those white shadows?” I didn’t see it.

After a few more minutes, she said she was finished. I felt like Rachel in Friends where she started crying because she couldn’t see her baby on the sonogram, and she lied to say she saw it because she didn’t want the doctor to say she was a terrible mother because she couldn’t even see her own baby. (This video… at 2:47).

Of course I told the tech about feeling like Rachel, because I am awkward and weird. To which the tech said “Yea, I remember that, and she thought she’d be an unfit mom because she couldn’t see it. At least you don’t have to worry about the mom part!” GURL PREACH.

I asked the tech if that meant everything was ok, and I was in the clear. She said she was only a tech, and she had to send the photos to the doctor to read them. She said he would “probably” get back to me within a week.

At this point I was pissed. I was like EXCUSE ME? I ALREADY WAITED DAYS.

But of course, there was nothing I could do. I just went home and peed every 10 minutes for 4 hours thanks to the 20 pounds of water I had chugged. And waited. And waited.

Finally, after a very very long, celibate weekend, I texted my doctor on Klara, and he confirmed that the IUD was in place, and it was “working for contraception.” He told me the strings were probably just folded up, and when it came time to replace it, in 2-4 more years, I’d have to see a specialist with an ultrasound.

Saga over. Thank the lord.

I write this as a cautionary tale, not to scare you into going to the doctor every 6 months, but quite the opposite. I just want to let you know that it can happen. And to try to calm your fears about it. According to the world wide web, it’s relatively common.

I love my IUD. It’s no fuss at all. This is the first worry I have had about it in the three years since I’ve had it. It’s so easy that it could have been missing for years, and I wouldn’t even have known! Even with this minor blip, I still would recommend it to anyone. My doctor said that if you don’t plan to have a child in the next year, he recommends it. And it lasts up to 7 years!

If you have any questions, I’m clearly an open book, so feel free to ask! Hopefully this is the last I will be writing about it because I plan to try and forget about it for a few more years.

Signing off,

LongLegsProtectedUterus

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Long Legs and other Personal Problems, Miscellaneous

Resolutions

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Christmas is behind us, which means New Year’s Day is upon us. And nothing says January 1st like a resolution that will fail by February 1st, amirite?? As a fitness instructor of 11 years, I can tell you for a fact that the gym is about to be PACKED for 3 shorts weeks. And then it will empty out again.

But to be perfectly honest, I don’t hate resolutions OR “resolutioners,” as I call the 3-week gym goers. I understand wanting to better yourself, and trying to set a benchmark and a starting point. You’ve all probably heard the phrase “diet starts on Monday!” Well a resolution is just a yearly “diet starts on Monday” with a more memorable date, because it’s literally the first day. I am generally pretty sarcastic about these people who make and fail at resolutions time and time again. But the reason I mock them is not because I think what they are doing is wrong, I just think they are using the wrong method. Also, TBH I love when the gym is full for a few weeks, it makes my Spin classes completely full and a lot more fun! But do I love showing people how to set up their bikes knowing that they will not get on one 48 weeks of the year? Not as much.

So in my very humble opinion, what is the right method, if I am so sure that this is the wrong method? The right way is to not set yourself up to fail. When I worked at lululemon, we did a lot of work in our orientation and training on goal-setting. I know, I know, so culty. I will post about my experience working there another time. Anyway, the goals of the employees are actually posted in the store on display for customers. It’s true, ask in any lululemon where they are, and they are happy to show you. What does this have to do with resolutions? Well for one, there is accountability. Your goals are literally on display! And secondly, they really do not want you to fail because then everyone will know. So they set you up to succeed. The four things they tell you before you brainstorm and write your goals are: make them concrete and measurable, start big, and then break it down to make the short-term ones attainable, make them positive, and begin making changes immediately. They also say to write them down and post them on the wall of your job. Maybe you don’t have to go that far, but it’s not a bad idea to write it down and stick it on your bathroom mirror, or on your desktop at work on a post-it. Anything to keep it in the forefront of your mind and keep yourself accountable.

My lululemon goals from 2015! I found them in my email. Most of them still stand. And I actually achieved (or am still working on) my 1 and 5 year ones!

I feel like it may come as a surprise to some of you that I am a fan of resolutions, but I am. I like to set goals for myself, and honestly, a resolution is just a positive goal to change your life for the better. Also, PLEASE remember guys, a resolution does NOT need to be body or health-related! And it shouldn’t be something you hate. This should go without saying, but people do it all the time. If you hated pizza, would you resolve to eat it? Ok, bad example everyone loves pizza… If you hated broccoli, should you resolve to eat it? NO. Eat another vegetable you like! If you hate running, do not resolve to run. It’s simple. And again, it does not need to be “eat healthy 5 days a week” or “work out more.” Plus, TBH, these should not be resolutions anyway. Eating to fuel your body, or working out to lower your cholesterol should just be things you want to do to live better and respect yourself. But I digress.

So what are my resolutions this year? I always make a few so I have a backup if I fail (LOL). This year I have one new one, and two rollovers from last year. I am writing them here to keep myself accountable:

  1. Plan myself less; have 1-2 FREE nights/week.
  2. Get back in the pool and start swimming again. At least twice a month, hopefully once/week.
  3. Do more weight training to become stronger. At least once/week, hopefully twice/week.

The first one is my top priority, but I already feel like I may fail, especially since I just found out I’m already double-booked for weddings on September 2, 2018! I am going to work really hard, though. I feel like every single night of my life is planned, and I never get a chance to relax. On July 17th I wrote a blog about how I did nothing that whole weekend. Not only was that a lie (read my blog to see why), but July 17th was the last time that happened.

The second and third ones are rollovers. I resolved to do them this year, too. I failed. So what? Don’t be embarrassed by failure, just try again! Maybe this next year I will do better because I’ll live closer to a gym where I like their classes. Or maybe I’ll buy a swim cap and goggles to get one step closer to achieving my goals. Maybe I’ll do that right now so I can start making moves to achieve my goals. And I love to swim! See, these resolutions do not need to be painful.

Some examples of super not painful resolutions, all of which have been resolutions of mine in the past few years:

I love to work out, but I was tired of everything I was doing. So this past year, my main resolution was to try new things and find something new that I really enjoyed. And I did! Art runs. More on that later this week.

I want to inspire you guys to make a resolution and try to stick to it. Maybe it’s as simple as “put the laundry away on the same night as you fold it,” or maybe it’s tougher like “run a half marathon by year end.” Either way, it always feels good to achieve something, even if it’s something fun. Start using those vacation days, even if they’re staycation days, and start doing nothing! Resolutions can be fun. 😊

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Long Legs and other Personal Problems

My Worst First

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It’s been nearly two months since the #MeToo movement struck the internet. Two months and many many many sexual assault accusations. So many, that it’s hard to keep up. You can find a handy-dandy list of “Powerful People in Entertainment Who Have Been Accused of Sexual Harassment or Assault” on the Teen Vogue website. And that article was published before another hard-hitter was announced last week, trophy child of NBC, Matt Lauer. In fact, there are lists like this popping up everywhere, including the New York Times, which has a chart with the accusation, the fallout, and the response. These are the times we live in, we need a chart to keep track. But am I surprised? No.

When the monstrosity of a bomb of Harvey Weinstein came out, and then in quick succession Louis CK, Charlie Rose, and many others on the chart, my female coworker said to me, “I can’t believe it; can you believe it?” And my answer? OF COURSE I CAN. Why would it not be true that men in power, men who are famous and have access to flocks of women, use their power to prey on women? Why would men in power choose not to prey on women, when ordinary, run-of-the-mill men do it, and get away with it, every day?

Two months ago, when the #MeToo movement began, I had trouble posting on social media. I didn’t feel it was necessary because of course me too. Because like, DUH, EVERYONE WHO HAS A VAGINA HAS BEEN VIOLATED. My emoji boyfriend, in light of the Al Franken situation asked me recently if anyone has ever “cupped my butt” as women allege Franken did in photos. And my answer is the same: of course. Because I am a female and that is what it means to be a female. So why should I bother posting #MeToo? To enlighten people? Are there really people out there to whom it would be surprising or eye-opening to see that these things happen to women? The answer, I guess, is yes. People seem to be surprised every day there is a new celebrity found to have acted improperly, whether it be inappropriate touching, fondling, rape, etc. And yes, I realize I just used the phrase “rape, etc.” That is the state of the world.

Ultimately, I decided to post one tweet, simply with the hashtag. No Facebook post, no story of my experiences (yes, plural), and no explanation. It felt like glorifying the perpetrator to put any story on the internet. Also, I worried, “what if people don’t think my story ‘counts’ and it isn’t ‘enough’?”

Have bad things happened to me? Sure. Were there “little” things like butt-grabs? Unwanted advances? Unwanted kisses? Yes. Was there also someone who said I “had to say yes because I set a precedent?” Also yes. Were there things that I could have pressed charges for? Yes. Yes to all of the above. There were worse things than the story I’m going to tell, and there were things that were “not as bad.” And I’m sure there will be more. I’m in a relationship now, which insulates me from a lot of the unwanted advances that come along with dating, but I am still a female, and I still leave my house, which means I am still vulnerable to any and all unwanted interactions with the opposite sex.

This story is specifically about my worst first blind date. In my humble opinion, it was one for the books. Which also makes it one for the blog. It’s a personal story, but I’m hoping that people connect to it. At various stages in the story, there were points where I felt uncomfortable. Where I wasn’t sure if a line had been crossed, but I knew I was uncomfortable. We are socialized as women to be easygoing and accommodating. To go with the flow. Sometimes, situations are confusing in the moment with things happening quickly around you, spinning out of control, and you don’t know until years later, looking back, just how wrong it was from the beginning. In the moment, it seems like maybe you said one wrong thing, or maybe if you had just worn a different outfit, or if you had just been firmer, then this wouldn’t have happened and he would have understood. But the reality is, there’s not much you can do in hindsight except tell your story.

Let me set the scene: It’s 2011, I’m a 2L in law school. I have been single for a little more than 2 years, dating here and there, using tinder, OKCupid, the works, but nothing was sticking. I had met a few guys where we had 2-3 month flings (let’s not make them more serious than they were), and after a few months, when it got to the point where they had to probably make it official or break it off, they all ghosted. Or in the rare chivalrous case, they did the fade-away, and not the full-on ghost. Anyway, point is, dating was not really working for me. So one night, after lamenting the single life over a few drinks, my friend told me he wanted to set me up. He told me he had a friend from childhood that he thought was perfect for me. He was tall (check!), into athletics, martial arts specifically, (check!), he lived locally (Long Island… but sort of check!), and he was single (CHECK CHECK CHECK). Clearly my standards were not set too high. But the dating apps were trash, so I said sure, why not?

This wasn’t a totally blind date because my friend knew him, let’s call him Freddy, so my friend promptly texted Freddy and told him to add me on Facebook and sent him my number. Within 5 minutes of me agreeing to a date, we were Facebook friends. For the next week, I spoke with the mystery man. Freddy called me a couple times over the next week to chat. I was impressed. Guys NEVER call. I was lucky at that point in my dating life if a guy replied to one of my texts within 4 hours! Freddy and I chatted on the phone for over an hour. Sure, sometimes I felt like his questions were intrusive, and a bit inappropriate. Why did he need to know what I was wearing? But hey, I was in law school. The answer was “sweatpants and a hoodie” almost every time. Why not let him know what he is in for? The last time we spoke on the phone before meeting in real life, he asked me what color underwear I was wearing. In hindsight, maybe this was a red flag and I should have canceled the date. But in the moment, I was like “black, got to go to sleep, see you tomorrow!”

The day of our date was not special for any reason. At this point I had been on many many first dates. Tinder is great for first dates… 2nd? Not so much. I did not put much thought into my outfit for the date. I wore a casual denim skirt and cute shirt with flip flops, in case Freddy wasn’t as tall as my friend said. He had picked a divey bar on the west side, since he was coming from the Long Island Railroad at Penn Station.

When I got to the bar, he gave me a hug and we sat down and ordered a drink. Right away, he put his hand on my leg. I thought it was a bit forward, but as a female who has been out in the world a few times, I just took his hand and placed it back on his own leg. We continued chatting about random topics, and every once in a while he would slip in an inappropriate question, which I would laugh off. I was thinking, “this guy thinks he is slick, but really, I am slicker!” Plus, obviously I was not wearing the same underwear as the night before, duh. Yes, he asked me that.

Meanwhile, three more times in the next half-hour, his hand magically appeared on my leg, slightly higher than the time before, and three more times I silently placed it back on his own. At one point, his fingers were pretty far up under my skirt but again, I did not say a word, I just took his hand and placed it back on his lap. At thirty-five minutes in, he tried to kiss me. While we were sitting side by side at the bar. Without getting into the mechanics of how difficult it is to kiss while sitting side by side at a bar, I was able to push him away. I was not sure where I gave him the indication that I would be interested in kissing him. Maybe it was the three times I had silently taken his hand off my leg without making a big fuss. Or the fact that I had a sip of the second drink he had gotten for me without asking. Anyway, again, I was thinking, “I am a smart, strong female, and I do not need to get hysterical that a guy tried to kiss me.” So I calmly told Freddy that I dislike public displays of affection, and I would appreciate if he would keep to himself at the bar. I figured this was a good way to combat the wandering hands, as well, which were getting out of control. He did not try to kiss me again, although he whined about it, and his hand did make another appearance on my leg, higher yet, under my skirt this time. I told it was time for me to go.

He knew where I lived, so he told me he would walk me back to Penn Station where my subway was, and where his train was. At this point, I was pretty sure I wouldn’t be hanging out with him again, but since he was a friend of a friend, I said sure he could walk me to the train. The second we got outside, he “playfully” pushed me into the wall and said something to the effect of “we aren’t in public anymore, so now I can kiss you.” Then he also stuck his hand up my skirt. I squirmed away, walking faster toward the train. In case you were wondering, it was not playful. Or romantic. Also in case you were wondering, he was taller than me as my friend had promised. Significantly.

Again, in hindsight, maybe I should have taken this opportunity to invent a random errand I had forgotten about. But I was mostly concentrating on getting to the subway. So we continued walking. After what felt like an eternal two blocks, we reached the subway and he went down the stairs into the station with me. On any other occasion, I would have felt this to be a romantic gesture, but I was getting nervous that I would not be able to shake him. When I finally got to the turnstile, he asked me for a hug, and I acquiesced, as all females are taught to do. Little did I know that as I went to pull away, he would pull my skirt up. Completely. 100% showing everything underneath for full view of all MTA customers. I had been relatively reserved until that moment, but I couldn’t contain it anymore. I went off on him, screaming obscenities, pretty much every word that I know. I believe the last words I spoke to him were “are you f*cking kidding me right now!?” And as I turned around and swiped my MetroCard, I heard him say “text me when you get home, ok?”

I did not text him when I got home.

But he texted me! 4 times, in fact. By the time I got out of the subway (this was before we got texts underground), I had 4 messages from him about what a great time he had and how we should do it again sometime.

I felt like I had taken crazy pills. Who had a great time? Certainly not me. How did he have a great time? Did he enjoy hearing me scream the F bomb at him to the entire 34th street train station? I wasn’t too worried about him though, I figured I would just ghost, like guys do.

I called my friend who set us up, and since I am a female who only appeases others, I didn’t even tell him the story. It wasn’t worth it. I told him I didn’t think Freddy and I “clicked” and that we were “looking for different things.”

Me: looking for a caring guy. Freddy: looking for sexual assault. But I didn’t add that part.

I hung up the phone, went into my apartment, unfriended Freddy from Facebook, and answered his 4 text messages by saying I didn’t think it would work out with us as more than friends. Aren’t I so sweet?

I wish I could tell you that was the end of the story. It’s bad enough to end there, right? Unfortunately, it doesn’t.

A week later I received a phone call from a number I didn’t know. I was deep in the thick of applying for 2L summer internships, so I was answering every unknown number with vigor. I picked up, and was told that it was an officer with the Long Island Police Department. I was confused at first, because I didn’t remember applying there. But I kept listening. He asked my name, and he asked if I had recently been on a date with Freddy. Again, I was very confused. What did this have to do with my date? Did he report himself for pulling up my skirt in public? Did some good Samaritan see him put his hand up my skirt at the bar? The police officer went on to say that he was actually sitting with Freddy at the table, and they had questions for me. Again, I was baffled. Did he report me for saying no to getting it on in an alleyway?

Here’s something I didn’t mention before: Freddy is black. It was not relevant to the story before now. But as I continued to listen to the police officer, he told me that Freddy came into the station himself to report that he had received numerous death threats online. The officer said that Freddy received these threats from my friends via email, using the n-word, and telling Freddy that he should die because he went on a date with me and because I was white. Now, Freddy was not the first black man I went on a date with. Freddy would also not be the last black man I would go on a date with. And I certainly would not be friends with people who make death threats to anyone I go on dates with, black or not.

The officer asked me if I had told anyone that I was going on a date with Freddy. I kindly told the officer that yes, as is common practice for women when going to meet a stranger for the first time, I told my roommates and my best friend, none of whom are cyber bullies or racists.

I asked the officer if he had any information on who these threats came from, and if he could identify if they were, indeed my friends, because I was 100% sure that this is not the case and there must be some misunderstanding. He told me that the information was private, and he could not reveal it. I explained that I have a diverse and accepting group of friends, and they are not the type to cyber-bully, nor do I think they would go to those lengths to defend one date I went on. Then I asked him if my name would be on any paperwork because I was in law school and it was important for me to stay out of the court system.

Could I have said, “oh btw… Freddy also tried to finger me in a bar, and then forcibly kiss me in a bar, and then when I said no, he tried to do it in a dark alley, and then when I said no, he lifted my skirt up for all of Penn Station to see”? Yeah, I could have said that, but I didn’t.

I just told the officer that I did not know anyone who would make those kinds of threats. And the officer asked me to call him if I thought of someone who did it, or if “any new information came to light.”

For the next three weeks, I received periodic calls and voicemails from the Long Island Police. Never once did I tell them what really happened. And never once did I magically “remember” that I had a friend who was a racist cyber bully.

After three weeks of calls I never heard from the LIPD again. But I did hear from Freddy.

Two years after my worst first blind date ever, on December 6, 2013, Freddy’s photo popped up in my OKCupid inbox. I was expecting an apology. But no, it was as if we had never met. The message began “Hello, I’m Freddy. How are you doing? I see we have somethings (sic.) in common (tall, you stay in shape…”

I am not making this up. I went back years into my email to quote it exactly, minus the name. How does a person who reports a woman to the police, after assaulting her, look at her dating profile with multiple photos of her, and pretend it did not happen? HOW? I was so baffled, I just ignored it. I pretended it was another one of the many messages on OKCupid from weirdos, and I deleted it.

And that was the end of that. Except it wasn’t. Two years after the OKCupid message, in 2015, he friended me on Facebook. Again, I was baffled, but I just blocked him, since the unfriending back in 2011 clearly didn’t work. Thankfully, I have not heard from him since 2015. However, the friend who introduced us got married 18 months ago, and I wasn’t able to attend the wedding. I later learned that Freddy was one of the groomsmen, and I was relieved that I wasn’t able to go.

6 years later and I cannot put my finger on what part of this whole story hurt me the most. Was it the fact that I felt violated in public? The fact that I wish I had trusted my instincts and canceled the date before it happened? The fact that I wasn’t firmer with my words than just moving his hand? The fact that he pushed me against the wall and put his hand up my skirt and I still walked with him to the subway? The fact that when I called my friend, I didn’t tell him the truth? The fact that when I eventually did tell my friend the truth, he didn’t believe me? The fact that this man who clearly violated me, went on to report me to the police? The fact that he felt it was necessary to pull “the race card” for whatever reason he had? Or the fact that, years later, he pretended it never happened? I really don’t know.

But I’m telling my story anyway. It’s not going to fix anything. I’m not going to call the LIPD and say, “oh yeah FYI 6 years ago a guy made a false claim against me that I did not appreciate and also he tried to fondle me in an alley.”

Maybe I feel like being a bit of Silence Breaker myself. I may not get a Time Magazine cover, but I hope I empower someone out there to act on her instincts, or to say something makes her uncomfortable instead of just repeatedly moving a hand away. Maybe it will empower her to know that even if her hindsight is 20/20 and she looks back and rethinks her actions, realizing there were things she probably could have done differently, it doesn’t mean it was her fault that they happened.

So yeah, #MeToo. #MeToo so many times I can’t count. But this is one of my many stories that deserve a hashtag.

You should not have to be on the defense on a date or on the phone. You should not need to be on the defense in your place of work. But I’m not surprised that we still are. I’m not surprised that my single friends are still vigilant, telling their friends and roommates when and where they are going on their first dates, “just in case.” And I’m not surprised that Al Franken stepped down yesterday from the Senate. No, I’m not surprised. But I hope that soon, this will be the exception and not the rule. And I hope this story empowers at least one more woman to speak out and tell her story.

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Long Legs and other Personal Problems

How To: Professional Wedding Guest

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In the past 3 years, I have attended so many weddings, I call myself a professional guest. In the past 2.5 years, I’ve had emoji bf on my arm, and we have gotten it down to a science. This upcoming Saturday, we are attending yet another wedding, and in honor of it being the last one on the books for 2017, I am doing all of my readers a favor and imparting my sage advice.

Never, I repeat NEVER , agree to be a bridesmaid. Being a bridesmaid is more than the title, it is basically indentured servitude. I know this from watching my friends as they perform their serf duties to the almighty Queen Bride, not from actual experience, since I have ONLY had to do this one time. Being a bridesmaid means a lot of things. For starters, it means you’re going to drop $2 grand on the occasion, at the very least. You are required to be at all events, you need to fly to a destination bachelorette, you have to go to the bridal shower, you have to buy a godawful dress you will never wear again and it will unquestionably make you look like a rotund banana, you have to shell our hundreds of dollars for hair and makeup, and of course, you have to smile the whole time and lie to the bride. Am I exaggerating? Maybe a tiny bit. But if you are a bridesmaid, you should probably just declare bankruptcy and block off all of your weekends for the six months leading up to the wedding. Also, being a bridesmaid means being in all of the photos. This takes away from valuable open bar time. Which brings me to my next point.

Always find the open bar as soon as you enter the reception. This is possibly the best advice I can give you. Keep your eye on it, and always know if the line is getting long. If you are assigned a table, but not a seat, it is important to position yourself at the table so you can view the line at the bar at all times. You will thank me for this.

Take selfies. If you didn’t take selfies, did the wedding even happen? Also, you can take many photos of the bride and groom, but they hire professionals for that. Don’t waste your time. Take one photo of the happy couple, then stick with the selfies.

Learn the bartender’s name. Also tip him, but knowing his name is key. Back when I was a wedding guest novice, I was embarrassed when the bartender remembered me and my drink order. Now that I am a professional, I realize how useful this is. Why waste a valuable second explaining to the bartender that your vodka soda should have a splash of grenadine? This is a second that you could be burning calories on the dance floor!

Always have two drinks on your table before the toasts begin. Once you’re on a first name basis with the bartender, this should not be difficult. You should be on a first name basis before the toasts, if all goes well. The worst thing at weddings is being stuck at the table during interminable speeches with no alcohol and no clandestine way to escape to the bar. Once the toasts begin, you are trapped at your table for 10-60 minutes. Always be prepared. I learned that in Girl Scouts.

Dance!! Nobody likes a downer wedding guest. Also, no one is judging your dance moves. If someone is sitting at his/her table judging you, it’s only because he/she is jealous of your moves. Plus, killin’ it on the dance floor is a good way to get into a lot of wedding photos, without having to be in the wedding party. Load up on the liquid courage (it’s FREE!) and get it moving. Limbo, electric slide, wobble, even a little Mambo #5. It’s all a blast. Also, the more Fitbit steps you get after midnight, the less you have to get the next day. Which will come in handy, since you will undoubtedly have a slammin’ hangover (see tips above about boozing it out).

Bring Flip Flops. This goes hand in hand with dancing, and it’s the “adult” version of bringing socks to Bar/Bat Mitzvahs as a 13-year-old. How can you break it down on the dance floor if your feet hurt!? If you bring alternative footwear, you’re sure to have a better time.

Photobooth. The more props the better. Photobooth pics are better party favors than anything that the happy couple will actually give out. Also, the photo quality in photobooths is usually better than a phone camera. Some of my favorite wedding gems of the professional guest couple, (that’s us), have been from photobooths!

Borrow Dresses. It’s inevitable that you will be in photos. And it’s also inevitable that you will have worn every dress in your wardrobe at least once if you go to as many weddings as I do. Luckily, I have a best friend who wears the same size! I often shop her closet when I am out of options in my own. Other possible options for cheaper dresses: TJ Maxx or Rent the Runway. But I am a bigger fan of borrowing because it’s my favorite price: free!! Another option which may not work for everyone – wear your prom dress! I did this for a formal wedding last year and it was a huge hit (See: the feature photo and the first and last photobooth photos above.) 10 years later, still rocking it! It finally paid off being overweight in high school; it’s a bit too big on me now!

Buy a gift off the registry or give cash. Never go off-script here. I’ll never forget when my sister received what everyone thought was an ashtray for her Bat Mitzvah. Now, logically, of course we did not think any of the guests would have purchased smoking paraphernalia for a 13-year-old, whether or not she was officially a “woman” in the eyes of the Jewish faith. But still, who would buy a mini silver tray for anyone, anyway? This is a tidbit I think about whenever I go to buy a wedding gift. If they wanted a small silver tray, they would have registered for it. And if they didn’t register for it, guess what, they didn’t want it. Don’t be a hero and find something obscure they must have “forgotten” to register for. They didn’t forget. Or, give them some cold hard cash. It doesn’t have to be enough to “cover your plate” anymore, but don’t give $20 either, only your 90-year-old grandmother can get away with that.

I will report back next week after the Final Wedding of 2017 to tell you if all of my tips worked out. As of right now, I only know two engaged couples, so here’s hoping I don’t have a single wedding in 2018! My wallet will thank me.

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