My Life In A Not-So-Nutshell

Crowns. Sashes. Heels. Swimsuit. Butt glue. Batons. Makeup. Hair. Nails. Spray tan. Eyelashes. Curtain call. Jazz shoes. Shiny lights. Photographers. Newspapers. TV. Platform. Interview. Smile. White strips. Perfection. Rinse. Repeat. I spent twelve years of my life competing in pageantry. And today, I'd like to formally resign my title as Miss Pageantry and exchange it for a title I find to be a bit more fitting. Today, I'll assume the title of Miss Fuck It. The following is my telling of why. I gained such invaluable experience from my days in pageantry. I learned (shockingly & ironically) how to be professional in tough situations, how to think on my feet, how to formulate opinions on intense issues at a young age and adjust those opinions as I grew, how to tell people what I needed in a blatantly honest way (this usually applied to the lighting curator at the Adler Theater who organized the lighting placements for baton twirlers at Miss Iowa every year). I learn

God, what a completely f*cked time, right? Anyway, hi. How are you today? I feel like total shit. I barely left my bed. I ate approximately 456 grams of carbohydrates in the form of Reese’s peanut butter eggs, a burrito, and bread my mom made the other day.  Oh, shit. I'm so sorry.  Not the inspiration you were hoping for?  You know, I'm a recovering pessimist. I grew up having an attitude that made both my baton coach and my parents probably want to murder me. I once threw my baton so hard at the studio wall I got kicked out of baton class. I was 12. I had virtually no confidence growing up. Idiots in middle school made jokes and I believed those jokes and wound up with the self-esteem of what I imagine a literal fucking turtle having. I have a point here, I swear. As my confidence developed and years of traumatic experiences ensued, I told myself I probably had two choices in this life: I could continue to be a pessimistic nightmare and choose to believe

There's this cover of John Denver's "Take Me Home, Country Roads" performed by a female group called Mountain Man. I can't tell you why, maybe it's the way the chords are strung together or how beautiful their voices sound together, but this version, this one in particular, always makes me cry. It's just that good. (And now you know that my scoring system for how great I think a song is includes its ability to make me cry... listen, we've all got our flaws here, folks). This version of this tune makes me feel this sort of sentimental, nostalgic puzzle-like feeling. You ever felt like that? Like you're trying to piece together parts of your past, and figure out just exactly how X and Y met to get you to Z? Or maybe how Q and R met to get you to S which is a whole other fucked up land of its own because no one actually makes it to Z in this lifetime, right? Except when you like, I dunno, die? I didn't recognize I was grieving until I said

"Heart break is heart opening." I heard this once. I did not believe it for a long time until I took inventory of all the times my heart had been broken. (Note: this phrase checks out). A week ago, I was on the subway to a SoulCycle class. It was a normal Monday. I had the day off, so I didn't do a whole lot. I went to a dance lesson, I did some laundry, I ate lunch, the usual. On this subway ride, we stop at a station, and a man gets on the train who looks identical, and I mean identical, to my ex-boyfriend. Shortly after that stop, we got stuck underground. Now, if you live in New York City, you are reading this and thinking, "cool, big deal." I get it. It's a normal thing. But, shockingly enough, it's only happened to me twice in the 8 months I've lived here. So, the odds hadn't been great. I was sitting next to this woman, and I feel it. A specific panic sets in, one I am acquainted with, but hadn't felt in some time. I do all the t