Day 336: A Salty, Peachy Life

Mark, Jen and I slept late on Day 336 and enjoyed a very relaxing morning at their house before I had to head back to Atlanta.

We ate bacon and eggs, and watched Away We Go, a beautiful film starring Maya Rudolph and John Krasinski about a quirky couple trying to find a place they can call home to raise their baby. The movie was sweet and it made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Before I got on the road, we met Sean and Julie once again for a late lunch/early dinner at Salt Life. When we walked in, I recognized the logo on the wall. I'd seen the same one on bumper stickers all over town. I assumed this restaurant must be a Jacksonville favorite, until Mark explained to me that "Salt Life," was a campaign for beach enthusiasts that was later turned into a restaurant. The bumper stickers came first, then the restaurant. Weird.

After another round of frozen yogurt, I said my good-byes and began the trek back to Atlanta. On the way home, I realized I hadn't done anything for real that I'd never done before. I mean, the movie and the restaurant technically could've counted, but both seemed a little lame, so when I got to south Georgia on I-75, I decided to do something else that I'd always wanted to do.

Day 336's thing I've never done before was to stop at one of those neon-sign covered peach stands on the interstate and buy something.

I assumed, based on the tacky decor covering these monstrosities lining the highway, that they'd be full of chintzy souvenirs and crappy produce. But I found the exact opposite. There were rows and rows of fresh produce, homemade jams and salsas. None of it was particularly cheap, in quality or in price.

The man tried to sell me pralines and peanut brittle, and some peach gummy candy that looked a little suspect. I thanked him, but politely declined.

I opted, instead, for a $10 enormous bag of delicious Georgia peaches; far too many for a single person to consume in a reasonable amount of time, but overall a great purchase and an enlightening experience. This stop was worth it, and will not be my last.

Day 335: Group Dates

The morning of Day 335, Mark, Jen and I woke up at 7am to meet their running group for a three-mile run to the beach.

I'll admit, getting up early on a Saturday to jog is something that I wasn't all that thrilled about. It's also something that I never do in my regular life. I took it in stride (pun intended) and went along with this outing, adding, "exercising before noon on a weekend," to the list of things I'd never done before.

Plus Jen and Mark's running group is more than just a group of people to exercise with; the group consists of many of their friends they hang out with socially. And that was another reason I wanted to go.

The morning run was good, and perfect for the summertime since any later and it would've been too hot. Can't get much better than running through a golf course neighborhood to get to the beach. Plus, by 8am, the run was over, and we had the rest of the day to enjoy ourselves.

I wondered if I could start a running group in Atlanta with my friends. I'll bet I'd be much more likely to actually run if it meant I could use the time to catch up with them and hear about what's going on in their lives. Currently, my friends and I catch up at bars, drinking beer and eating fatty foods.

After our run we stopped for coffee before heading back to the house. Mark drove me through some of the nicest neighborhoods in Ponte Vedra Beach, showed me where he and Jen go to church and the Ponte Vedra Inn, a hot spot for tourists in the area.

We returned home and lounged for a bit, ate some bacon and eggs, and then decided to go to the beach despite the less-than-sunny temperatures. I couldn't come all this way and not hang out on the beach at least for a little bit.

Mark, Jen and I set up our chairs and enjoyed people watching and chatting about nothing in particular. We observed a middle-aged couple walking in front of us past our chairs. As they first approached on the left, they seemed to just be taking an innocent, slow stroll down the beach engaged in a deep conversation. Once they got closer, however, I couldn't help but notice that the woman was the only one talking. The man kept the same walking pace, but he looked straight ahead and never spoke a word that I could tell. I'm not even sure he was even nodding, or that he could hear what she was saying.

I wasn't the only one who noticed this couple. Mark and Jen and I laughed amongst ourselves, assuming the couple was in a fight and the wife was really letting him have it. But she wasn't really yelling, just speaking intently; neither of them appeared to be unhappy, the conversation just seemed unbalanced.

A short time later, the couple walked in front of us again, and it was the same thing. The man stared straight ahead, the woman barely came up for air chatting his ears off.

"Oh man," I thought to myself, "Please don't ever let me be in a relationship like that."

I am a talker for sure, but I think that I would at least recognize (and stop) if I ever noticed I was having a conversation with someone who wasn't listening or responding at all. Mark, Jen and I started brainstorming what could possibly be going on with them.

"Maybe they're having problems in their marriage," someone threw out. Clearly. And the problem is the wife talks to much.

"Maybe he's deaf," someone else said. For his sake, I hoped that he was. She would not shut the hell up.

Whatever it us, we were amused. We were further amused when we packed up our belongings to head back to the car and saw the couple again, this time sitting in beach chairs under an umbrella. He had his chair tilted back. Hers was upright. She was still talking.

We stopped for frozen yogurt on the way home, at a place similar to Yoforia, because I was on vacation and that's what I do when I'm out of town: I eat.

The plan for Saturday night was for us to meet back up with Sean and Julie and our friend Scott (who was in town for work) and go to St. Augustine, the nation's oldest city, and popular tourist destination north of Jacksonville. I'll save you a history lesson because truly I don't know it. I'll also save you too many details about how we almost didn't leave Mark and Jen's house after discovering that Footloose was on television.

But St. Augustine is where the Fountain of Youth is, and since I was already starting to notice my almost-30 skin looking a little tired and wrinkled, what better place to go? Only on our way into town, Mark and Jen drove right past it. They didn't even slow down.

"What about the Fountain of Youth?," I asked, surprised that the sign leading to the fountain was right across the street from a Pizza Hut and looked every bit as cheesy as something I might find in Myrtle Beach.

Mark and Jen said the Fountain is less than impressive, and not worth the stop. Still, I was looking forward to taking a dip and stopping time, keeping my face looking 29 forever. But I took their word for it, and decided it push came to shove, I'd just have to resort to plastic surgery.

Just kidding.

Kind of.

We parked our cars and hopped out with and started what Jen had already decided would be a St. Augustine pub crawl. That was the big thing that I did on Day 335 that I'd never done before.

On our walk to the first bar, I looked around and noticed how truly lovely St. Augustine is. The cobblestone streets, old buildings and palm trees made me feel like I was in Charleston, only with Spanish-influenced architecture.

We started our crawl at J.P. Henley's, a bar that claims to have the most beers on draft than any other place in St. Augustine. I believe it; I had a very hard time deciding what to order.

After a couple of beers there, we took off for our next destination. The walk during the pub crawl was one of my favorite parts of the evening. There were lots of people walking around and beautiful buildings and historical markers along the way. Our next stop was Taberna del Gallo (Tavern of the Rooster).

Taberna del Gallo is a 1740's Spanish Tavern. The waiters and bartenders dress in period costumes. We sat at a table outside and ordered drinks while Jen went on a search for a game that she said I must play while I was there. One of the waiters, dressed in knickers and a vest, located the game and brought it to our table.

The game, "Shut the Box," (I'm serious, that's what it's called) requires a pair of dice and a box with numbered tiles. The tiles, numbered 1 through 12, start standing up. She told me to roll the dice, so I did. I rolled an, "8," meaning that I then had to flip tiles over that equal the number, "8." Jen said I could flip a the "7" and the "1" or a "5" and the "3." The goal of the game, is to, "Shut the Box," and end with all of the tiles turned down, or come as close And my turn ended when I rolled the dice and could no longer flip down any tiles. The game was fun, and moved fast, and who doesn't love yelling, "Shut the Box," loudly in a restaurant full of tourists?

After we left Taberna del Gallo, we headed to dinner at Columbia, a restaurant specializing in Spanish cuisine and, according to Mark and Jen, very tasty sangria.

The restaurant was bustling with people and noise; dinner lasted several hours. I'm sure it was the pub crawl that made us think we were so hilarious, but we laughed a lot at that dinner. If I had been at any other table, I probably would've found our group obnoxious. We laughed at nothing, and everything.

The highlight of dinner, besides the food and drinks was definitely our peculiar waiter who unabashedly attempted to "up sell" us bottled waters and appetizers on in hopes to win a contest between the servers at all of the Columbia restaurants in Florida. I've been a waitress and I've participated in these ridiculous contests, so I felt for the guy. He just laid it out there. I've never seen someone work so hard for what I'm sure was nothing more than a $50 gift card to Best Buy and to be so shameless about it. He wanted to win this contest, and he didn't care if he put us on the spot and made us feel uncomfortable. We must've not cared all that much either, though, because we happily satisfied him and ordered bottled waters and appetizers, just like he'd asked us too.

I left full. And happy. But mostly full.

We stopped in Cellar 6, another bar/dance club for one more drink. I showcased some of my moves on the dance floor until I realized that the guy that I was dancing with was videotaping the whole thing and live streaming it on the web. I asked several times what the web cam was for, and when he refused to give me a good answer, I left the dance floor.

Shortly thereafter, we left St. Augustine and headed back to Ponte Vedra to Mark and Jen's. I was done. We were tired. It probably wasn't even midnight.

Again, another full day (and night) of activity in Jacksonville. That's what happens when you get up at 7am on a Saturday, I guess. I should try it more often.

Day 334: Really Good Decisions

Ahead of my highly anticipated trip to Jacksonville, I got an email from Mark, my childhood friend who is like a second brother to me. In it, he presented three options for my first day in Florida:

Option A: A friend offered me an opportunity to play golf at the TPC Sawgrass course for free (it usually costs $250)! It is an early tee time (7:30) and I would be the third person of the available four. There is one spot available for you if you want to play (Free).

A free round of golf on a course that the professionals play? Yes, please! My dad would be so proud and so jealous.

Option B: Jen was considering a spa outing. When you purchase any service (Mani, Pedi, Facial, massage, etc.) you can stay at the spa facility as long as you like and they have a really nice pool. Y'all could lounge at the pool after your treatment and then we could meet up for lunch. By the way this spa rocks we don't get to go very often but it is awesome. They also have a gym if you want to get up in there and work on your fitness!

I couldn't think of anything wrong with a day at the spa. Not one. Plus, I had been fairly stressed out at work, so a massage sounded perfect.

Option C – Do jack shit… wake up whenever and do whatever. Maybe ride some bikes to breakfast or just lounge on the couch.

Mmmm . . .bike rides . . .and breakfast . . .doing jack shit? I love them all equally.

Mark knows me. He knows me well. All of these options sounded like a perfect way to spend my first day in Jacksonville. There is no doubt that I'm a terrible decision maker, and with so many viable options, I actually had to ask Mark for more time to think about what I wanted to do.

I'll save you from the honest-to-God freak out that went on inside of my brain about which option to choose. My head is a dark, complicated place sometimes. Clearly a girl who stresses this much over such non-important decisions needs a trip to the spa. And just like that, my decision was made. I sent Mark and Jen an email; I told Mark to go play Sawgrass and told Jen to make me a massage appointment, preferably with a big, burly guy with strong hands.

I know all of you golfers out there are screaming at the computer, and there is a good chance my dad will never speak to me again after knowing I had the option to play golf for free and turned it down. But I think I made the right decision. I know I did. I mean, let's be serious -- I don't think my golf game is quite ready for Sawgrass. I don't think Sawgrass is ready for my golf game either.

Plus, Mark had to get up super early (he was already gone when I got up), and since I'd arrived so late, sleeping in was definitely a priority. Jen and I enjoyed a delicious breakfast (that included toast with cranberry lemon jelly which I instantly became obsessed with) and then we headed over to the Spa at Sawgrass.

One of my favorite things about spas is that moment when I first walk in and can feel the clam aura come over here. The lobby smelled like eucalyptus and mint; it was like stepping into a bear hug or a cozy blanket. After checking in at the front desk, we did as Mark suggested and "worked on our fitness" for a little bit before rinsing off in the luxurious locker room.

I don't want to go on and on about this locker room, because that's just mean to all of you who weren't there. Plus, I feel like if I tell you how incredibly awesome it was, I might portray myself as some redneck country bumpkin who hasn't ever seen a spa before, and that's not the case at all. I've been to many spas; several, in fact, for blog challenges (facial, Brazilian wax, reflexology). I love spas, and have for many years. But this was the first time I spent a significant part of my day at one. I mean, we packed bags, unloaded our belongings into a locker, wrapped ourselves up with the soft robes and slippers they'd provided and then helped ourselves to lemon lime water and trail mix.

All this, of course, right before we lounged dramatically onto a chaise lounge and waited for our big, burly massage man to beckon us for our hour long massages.

At one point, I asked myself, "Who the hell do you think you are?" And then I laughed as I added it to the list of other times I've asked that very question throughout the year. Thanks to some very good and generous friends, I've done some pretty amazing things.

The generosity continued when Jen let me have the only male masseuse on staff that day; he wasn't particularly burly, but he was talented and I was completely relaxed. I dreaded the hour ending, but I left feeling renewed, rejuvenated and confident that whatever the price, it was worth it.

And the massage just kicked off the day. We decided to make the most of our time, so next, Jen and I changed into our bathing suits and alternated between the steam room and the Jacuzzi tub before heading outside to the pool. The weather was overcast, but that didn't stop us from ordering a glass of champagne and toasting to our good fortune.

Sipping champagne in the middle of the day by the pool was another one of Day 334's things I've never done before. And it was splendid in every way.

I couldn't help but consider, as Jen and I sat there talking about life, that the atypical kind of day I was having was probably ordinary to some people. I felt so blessed and so lucky to be there, but there have to be people who enjoy such luxury all of the time. I paused, my champagne glass in hand, and tried to think of a plan so that my life could include more mornings at the spa, so that I could be more like those people. And then feeling my relaxation and my sanity slipping away, I stopped myself and said a small prayer instead. "Thank you God, for making this day possible. And thank you for allowing me the perspective to truly appreciate it."

We finished our champagne and enjoyed long, hot relaxing showers in the locker room before headed back to the lounge to get ready for the day. We met Mark back at the house; he was giddy because he’d birdied a hole on his golf outing. I briefly thought I might’ve made the wrong decision about going to the spa, and then I remembered how much I suck at golf, and remembered that I absolutely made the right decision. We headed to lunch Palm Valley Fish Camp, where good decisions continued. We sat at the bar, I ordered a delicious shrimp salad, we sat outside on the dock and looked at the river. I was truly at peace, and halfway into Day 334 (Day One of Jacksonville), already having so much fun.

After lunch, we drove over TPC Sawgrass to see the course that Mark had played earlier that day. Admittedly, I love golf as much for the landscaping of the courses, the outfits, and the clubhouse as I do for the game itself. Our afternoon visit allowed me to enjoy what I love without ever swinging a club. So I managed to achieve several of those things without actually playing.

TPC is every bit as lovely as I would've expected it to be, and it's a golf course I've seen in photographs and on television many times before, I just hadn't realized it until I saw it for myself. The Players Championship tournament is played there every May and the clubhouse is full of portraits from past tournaments and clubs of previous winners. I immediately started planning my return to Jacksonville for the TPC. I may not be ready to play the course myself, but walking around and watching the professionals do it would suit me just fine.

By the time we were done seeing the course, we headed back to Mark and Jen's house for a little pre-drink cocktail (Shark Bites, Jen's specialty) and obviously some more relaxing.

Before leaving for Jacksonville, I connected with my friends Julie and Sean, who also live in Jacksonville. We went to their house before dinner where I got to play "matchmaker" for two sets of friends (that's right, I allowed my worlds to collide). Turns out, the collision was a good thing, and we all enjoyed tasty tacos and plenty of tequila at Taco Lu and made plans for the next day.

When I look back on that day, I guess I don't really have much to show for it. No souvenirs, and no pictures even of the beautiful places I went and the beautiful food I ate. (This is my fault, of course. I took pictures, they are just lost in the snow in New York).

But it was a full day. A full day indeed.

I'm a good decision-maker.

Day 333: Destiny at the Pump

Day 333's thing I've never before was to drive to Jacksonville to to visit my friends Mark and Jen for the weekend. Seeing their house and sleeping in their big guest room bed were both things I'd never done before.

But something else happened on my trip to Florida that was also a first, and so superbly awesome, I had to take a picture and share.

I stopped for gas somewhere in middle Georgia, and did what I always do, trying to maximize my time and be in and out as soon as possible. I have my dad to thank for teaching me how to make pit stops efficient. He's a master. I started the pump and while the tank was filling, I went inside to use the restroom.

When I got back to my car, my gas tank was full and I was ready to head on my way. When I returned the pump to its holder, I saw that it had stopped at 38 dollars exactly. $38.00. I was shocked, stoked, completely dumbfounded. I quickly retrieved my phone and snapped a picture, sure that no one would believe me.

I had to laugh about all of the times I'd tried, and failed, to get the pump to stop on an even number. I guess sometimes when you relinquish control and just let things happen naturally, they can still work out the way you want them to.

Day 309: SHARK WEEK

Leading up to Day 309, I had been able to ignore the advertisements for the popular Discovery series, "Shark Week,"because I had given up television for a week. But on Sunday when nearly everyone updated their Facebook statuses to reflect that the annual week-long series had returned, I couldn't ignore the apparently popular program anymore.

Day 309's thing I've never done before was to watch an episode of Shark Week.

The episode I watched was "Shark Attack Survival Guide."

Despite being a huge beach-lover, and a naturally anxious person, I also happen to live in a constant state of denial that I will ever encounter a shark. The only shark bites I plan on coming into contact with are the kinds that are created by my friends Mark and Jen--they are cocktails made with spiced rum. They are delicious. And I drink them right up.

Still, of all the episodes offered by Discovery, this seemed the one I could benefit from the most. So reluctantly, I tuned in.

The show opens with a super intense host whose boat catches fire and he's forced to jump into the water. He talks about a scenario in 2002 when a fishing boat capsizes, forcing two fishermen into the water. Only one survives.

Two minutes in, and I'm depressed and my heart is racing.

I emailed Amanda, who was one of my 600 friends on Facebook who had promoted the show.

"I'm watching Shark Week for the blog. It's awful. They're talking about shark bites. The host is super intense. I have anxiety."

She convinced me to keep watching, insisting that it's not all like this. I didn't believe her. And I shouldn't have.

Because the host continued his uber dramatic presentation of how to survive a shark attack in deep water, in shallow water, in a deep water tank (you know, because I'm always in those during the summer.) Some of his suggestions/instructions made perfect sense, and clearly the point of the documentary was to inform viewers on what to do if ever put in such an awful situation, but some of what he said just sounded so asinine. I felt myself getting angry while also getting completely freaked out.

"Don't try to grab the shark." Honestly what dumb ass is trying to grab the shark?

(After a victim suffers a shark bite in shallow water) "Does he look bad?" Uh, yeah. He just got bitten. By a shark. Are you seriously asking that?

"Don't panic, keep your calm." I'm in open water surrounded by sharks. Are you f-ing kidding me?

"If you lose your cool, you're making it worse." If I ever get bitten by a shark, I will most definitely lose my cool. Count on it.

I appreciate quality documentaries and exceptional cinematography, even about subjects I don't care about (sharks), so I have to appreciate Shark Week for its high quality production. But any future Shark Week viewing for me will be done with the volume turned off. And in small doses. With my remote control on quick standby ready to change it to something a little less heavy.

And I'd like to think that at least a few of these suggestions might occur to me if, God forbid, I am ever attacked by a shark. I fear, however, based on the huge amounts of anxiety I had watching this program and now writing about it, that should that day ever come, I will likely scream, thrash, carry on like a banche and die instantly, not remembering anything that I was taught.

I just hope I'm drinking my favorite Shark Bite when it happens.

Day 181: My Mother, the Cheater

Day 181 was race day.

Having participated in the Cooper River Bridge race so many times, our group has our race plan down to a science. Park the car, run the race, meet at the massage tent at the end and then walk over to Tommy Condon's for a celebratory Bloody Mary and lunch.

Another day when finding something I'd never done before was going to be difficult. Only it shouldn't have been. I had discussed running the race in costume with my friend Mark, who is like a brother to me, but I never got it together. Other suggestions like running as if I was nine months pregnant and pretending to go into labor at the finish line or grabbing random dudes' butts along the race route were both thrown out as well by my mom's friend Meg.

All great ideas, but pulling off jokes like these just aren't as funny if no one is there to see them. Since most of our running crew runs at different paces, there was a good chance I'd end up alone wearing the costume, or running by myself from an angry man after I grabbed his butt.

Luckily for me, I ran the race faster than I'd ever run it before, making that Day 181's thing I've never done before: to run a 10K in under 57 minutes. Not very impressive to serious runners, I know, but I was happy with it and worked really hard for it.

My time was good, for me, but not good enough, apparently to beat my 61-year old mother, who ran the race in 48 minutes.

Surprising, especially since I've never seen my mom run a day in my life and if I ever did I'd have to assume it was because someone was chasing her.

My brother and his wife forgot to sign up for the sold-out race, but told everyone they were just going to run the bridge without numbers pinned to their shirts, a practice that isn't necessarily smart, but one that is easy to do.

This idea did not sit well with my parents, the rule-abiding citizens that they are. They probably feared the worst--that they'd later end up bailing their son and his new bride out of jail if they got caught, or worse, that snipers could be circling overhead, ready to taser them for running without a number.

I really didn't think it was that big of a deal, but not wanting to leave anything to chance, my parents agreed to relinquish their own numbers to Jeff and Katie.

I should tell you that my parents "walk" the bridge, which is supposed to mean that they wait until the runners go by, and then follow behind them on a modified route. But after years of walking the bridge the right way, my parents and their friends have created their own route. They get dropped off at the base of the bridge, walk over it, and once they get to the bottom, they veer off the route and either hail a cab or walk directly to the restaurant to meet the rest of us. The window of opportunity for anyone to catch them without a number is so small, that giving their numbers to Jeff and Katie made perfect sense.

So my brother ran with my mother's number and Katie ran with my dad's.

Problem solved. Or so we thought.

Instead of the chip thingy that is attached to each runner's shoe, it was an electric strip on the back of the numbers that was recording each runner's time this year.

So when my brother crossed the finish line wearing my mom's number, it recorded his 48 minute time as hers, making her the fastest female in the 60-64 age division.

When we returned to the house, and looked up the results, we were hysterical to learn that Becky Gallman, according to the Cooper River Bridge Run official results, placed first in her age division.

We praised her strong effort and even presented her with a plastic vase to symbolize a trophy.

Never did any of us think that her "win" would upset anyone. But we soon found out we were wrong.

After returning from Charleston, my mom received a Facebook message (yes, my mom is on Facebook and yes, I'm friends with her and yes, I think it's weird.) from a woman she didn't know. It's often difficult to gauge the tone of an email, but this one didn't seem terribly friendly.

It read:

You are listed as the winner of the female age 60-64 age category at the Bridge run 10K with a time of 48 minutes +. That is an awesome time if you ran it, Congratulations. If someone else ran with your bib number please contact . . .

This woman's email made it clear that my mom "winning" her age division may have been only hilarious to us. For all of the other 60-year old female runners who probably trained hard for the race only to get beat by some woman named Becky that no one had ever heard of it was quite upsetting.

My mom ignored the email, hoping she could just let the whole situation blow over. (Forgetting, apparently, that her daughter has a blog.)

She couldn't escape the attention, though.

Bridge go-er and family friend Tom created a mock-up of the Charleston paper with my mom's face on the cover. She received a congratulatory card from my friend Trish's mom, who had heard about what happened. And our neighbor, who was on vacation in Hilton Head, said he saw her impressive results in the local paper there.

A few days later she got a call from a man in Charleston, who is affiliated with one of the running clubs.

She said she could tell he felt badly for calling to "verify her time," and it was clear he'd been forced into it after receiving an influx of angry calls from runners demanding to know how this no-name runner, who hadn't ever participated in any other races in her life and registered as a "walker" could've accomplished this feat.

My mom told him straight-up what happened: that she'd given her number to her son so that he wouldn't run as a renegade. She said she had no idea that it would cause such a fuss, and apologized for upsetting any of the "real" runners. She said he sounded relieved that there was a reasonable explanation and hoped he could settle the storm.

"Next time," he said, still cautiously,"If you want to transfer numbers, if you could just take that electric strip off the back. . ."

My mom, laughing, told him, "Oh, you don't have to worry. We won't be doing this again."

The moral of the story here, blog readers, is that 60-year old women runners are no joke. Don't cross them. Or at least don't cross the finish line before them.

Day 180: An Old Island, A New House

Every spring, my family meets several other families in Charleston, South Carolina for a long weekend. The purpose of the trip, or at least what we tell other people, is to participate in the Cooper River Bridge 10K race. What it's really about, though, is getting together with old friends and new ones for a week of hanging out in a super rad beach house.

The house we rent changes year to year, and so do the participants, and there have been years when I haven't been able to make it for various reasons. The bridge we run/walk over has even changed from the Silas Pearman to the brand new Arthur Ravenel bridge in 2006. But overall, this weekend hasn't really changed.

And for that, I am thankful.

Because there isn't anything that I want to change about this weekend. For me, this weekend signifies the start of spring. I love it because it's an opportunity to come together with friends and family who have known me most of my life. I love it because it takes place in one of my most favorite cities in the world.

And I love that I love it as much now as I did when I was eight.

Good for me, that my parents created this tradition for me and my brother. We've created a lot of memories from this trip over the years.

Bad for the blog, as I had to find something to do that I've never done before. But if I'm being honest, there really isn't anything that I'd want to change about the weekend. I like it just the way it is.

On Friday, I did wake up in Charleston, thankfully, just as my mother said that I should. And like all Cooper River Bridge Run weekends, we started the long weekend with breakfast, followed by some inside jokes about previous beach trips, then a walk on the beach, some more jokes, and then lunch.

That's what we do: we eat, we run, and we laugh. Sometimes we laugh first. We laugh often.

After lunch, which consisted of two of my favorite foods: fish tacos and oysters, we walked back to the house and decided we'd lounge by the pool, and laugh (and probably eat) some more.

It was a great day. The same day that I've had, give or take some added spouses and children and an elevator in the house (fancy), nearly every year for 20 years. At around 3pm-4pm, I realized I was still short of doing anything that I'd never done before and I started to get anxious, which I was pissed about because here I was doing what I love to do with the people that I love to do with it.

I'm an anxious person by nature, but this blog takes it to a new level quite a bit because if I'm not stressing about doing something I've never done before, I'm stressing about being behind or not writing. So I was nervous. Partly because I had to figure something out, but mostly because I didn't want to leave the party (which wasn't much of a party, just more loafing by the pool).

I decided to take my nervous energy elsewhere, so I jumped in my car and drove to my brother's house so that I could get on the Internet and blog for a little bit. I thought it might make me feel better to get some work done, but I felt like I was missing something back at the house, so after an hour, I started to head back to my family and friends.

As I made my way across the Sullivan's Island bridge (one of the greatest drives I've been fortunate to have made numerous times), I made up my mind to stop stressing and just enjoy the weekend.

While crossing the bridge, I looked to my right, and saw peeking out above the trees the Sullivan Island Lighthouse and remembered that despite having grown up in South Carolina and living in Charleston for a year, I'd never been there.

So I went, making Day 180's thing I've never done before: visit Sullivan Island's Lighthouse.

I love lighthouses, because where there is a lighthouse, there is the sea, my favorite place to be. I was actually disappointed in myself for having never been to this one. My only defense was that I lived on the other side of the city when I lived in Charleston and frequented the Morris Island Lighthouse instead.

The Sullivan's Island Lighthouse has an interesting triangle shape and is painted black on the top, white on the bottom. It's positioned in the midst of a residential area, so I actually parked in the front of someone's house to walk over and take a picture. I planned on climbing to the top, or at least going inside, but since the National Park Service took over the control of the lighthouse's upkeep in 2008, the lighthouse will only be open to the public a few times a year.

So that's the new thing I did on this day, and I snapped a few artsy shots of the lighthouse too, also something I've never been able to do.

I've seen it, I know where it is, and I made my visit there happen quickly, so I could get back to enjoying the people most special to me, just as I have been doing for 20 years.

 

Charleston on Dwellable

Day 90: Polar Bear Plunge

Maybe it was a Christmas hangover (too much excitement from the Christmas crackers perhaps?), but I woke up on Day 90 feeling like crap. I was moping around the house when our family friends and neighbors Mark and Jen, who helped me crash that wedding back in November, came over to my parents to hang out.

At one point during their visit, we all started talking about the blog. This happens a lot when I'm around. My sister-in-law Katie and Mark are two of the blog's biggest fans. In fact, there was a bit of trash-talking between them as to who was the bigger fan. I challenged them to prove to me who was the blog's biggest fan by finding me something to do for the thing I've never done before on Day 90.

We tossed a couple of ideas around, none of which sounded appealing, when my brother Jeff, who I don't think reads the blog at all, looked out the window in my parents' kitchen at the lake and said, "How about a polar bear plunge into Lake Murray? The cold water will make you forget about feeling sick."

I had considered a polar bear plunge for the blog, but I always thought that I would do it into the ocean. I had done some research, and even considered taking a trip to a beach I'd never been to in order to make it happen. Many towns organize these plunges, and large crowds of people trek to the shore and then go running, as a group, full speed in to the surf. I liked the camaraderie of that kind of plunge. I also assumed that the only way I would actually do it is if I was surrounded by other people.

In my head, I also thought my plunge would happen after I had gotten a spray tan, and after I spent months in advance working out. And I assumed that if I allowed people to take pictures of me doing it, I would have applied the appropriate amount of waterproof makeup.

Evident by these pictures, none of these scenarios played out in my actual execution of the plunge. No makeup, no spray tan, little working out as I made Day 90's thing I've never done before perform a polar bear plunge. Yikes.

The total time from the suggestion of the plunge to actual execution of it was no more than 15 minutes. That included me putting my contacts in and changing into shorts.

Being that it was December, I left all of my swimsuits in Atlanta. The only suits I could find in my room at my parent's house were ones that I wore in high school, and that wasn't going to happen. I opted for a pair of dance team shorts instead, circa 1997. I'm not sure that was a better choice.

Everyone was waiting downstairs, cameras in hand, for the big event. Their excitement was encouraging, but I was beyond nervous.

I was hands shaking, stomach in my throat kind of nervous.

Concerning, especially since all I was doing was jumping off a dock into cold water. In South Carolina. I know others who have done polar bear plunges in much colder climates and even colder water. If Mountain Man plunged into the icy waters of New England in January, then certainly I can do this. And if I can't do it, I thought, then how am I ever going to have the gumption to jump out of a plane when it is time to sky-dive? There's no way.

So with the paparazzi ready to snap photos, we headed out to the dock. I thought about taking a long running start, but this whole experience was dramatic enough as is. No need to add to the drama. A short run would suffice.

It was time for the jump. I thought briefly about backing out, considering what the neighbors across the cove were going to think. But actions void of reason like this one require quick action. I had to stop thinking and just do it.

So I did. Jeff was right. I forgot about feeling sick. I couldn't feel anything. My hands, my toes, my arms and legs were all acting independently from the rest of my body. The cold water shocked me, but it was exhilarating. I didn't jump very far from the dock and the boat, but with everyone watching me waiting for my reaction, I felt like it took me forever to swim back. Like I was swimming through molasses.

My mom was waiting for me on the boat with a Snuggie and slippers. It was very comforting and very motherly of her. I'd like to take this opportunity to point out that this Snuggie was purchased in 2008 as a part of the Gallman's "As Seen on TV" Christmas. We were among the original Snuggie owners. So to all of you who got team Snuggies this Christmas and think you're so funny and clever for ordering something off TV, I want you to know that the Gallmans had them first.

The plunge didn't go down like I thought it would. It was unplanned, terribly ungraceful and imperfect. A lot like life, I guess. I certainly didn't expect this silly stunt to be emotional in anyway, but when I jumped into the water and looked back at the dock to see six of my favorite people smiling at me, I felt so supported and really loved at that ridiculous moment in time. They were all rooting for me to jump into the cold lake (probably so they could laugh at my stupidity). But they're really rooting for me in life. The water was cold, but I felt all warm inside.

Later that day, I checked Facebook and saw that Katie had updated her status, "Katie Calhoun Gallman loved watching my sister-in-law Steph jump into Lake Murray today" and it made me smile.

I loved it too.

Day 49: Wedding Crasher

A couple of weeks after starting the blog, I received an email from a girl from my hometown named Carrie.

"Love your blog," it read, "you should start a food fight as something you've never done before."

Love. It.

I hope she won't be offended by this, but I'm not really sure what Carrie is to me. I wouldn't be so bold as to call us friends, because we really don't keep in touch or ever see each other. To call her an acquaintance seems cold and not quite right. She's more than that. To say she's just some girl from my hometown implies that we once knew each other but have since had a falling out and that's not the case either.

Her first email kicked off an exhange between us, and she revealed she also had a blog that she hasn't yet had the guts to promote. Well, I love promotion, so her blog is: http://www.woodwardwayward.blogspot.com/. You know what, now that I'm thinking about it, I consider anyone that reads my blog a friend, so Carrie and I are friends. There. I said it.

One of the last emails that I got from Carrie came in when I was on my trip to California and Boston. It read, "Ever crashed a wedding? I know one on November 14th that's pretty low risk!"
I had to read it twice to completely understand. Did this girl just tell me to crash her wedding?

Hmmmm...My mind went to (where else?) the movie Wedding Crashers. Two dudes, making up aliases and going to weddings they aren't invited to to meet girls and hook-up. Ok, so this wouldn't be exactly like that. I'd have to go as myself, I would know other people there and the bride has thrown it out there, so it's not a full-on crash, but I liked the blog potential.

I shared this email with my friends who were invited to the wedding and were staying with me for the weekend. "Should I really crash her wedding?"

"Heck ya!" they both said, "Awesome."

With full support from those with an actual invite, I made Day 49's thing I've never done before crash a wedding.

I told my friend Katy what I was doing. She looked confused and said, "You go to weddings all the time. Why would you go to one that you weren't invited to?"

It's true. Like a lot of people in their twenties, I have made a second career out of weddings. I have become a professional wedding guest and bridesmaid, attending more than 60 weddings since college (at the request of a co-worker, I actually counted them) and have been a bridesmaid 12 times.

So Katy's inquiry was valid. Why, after finally having a weekend off, would you want to go to another wedding? This was going to be different, though. Dangerous. Well, not really, the bride told me to come. But still, having been to so many weddings that I was invited to, I'll know exactly what to do and how to act.

Carrie's wedding day arrived and it was beautiful. "A perfect day to crash a wedding!" I said to Mark and Jen.

In the days and weeks leading up to the wedding, I really wasn't nervous about pulling this off. But when we were getting ready, I started to get nervous. What if Carrie was just kidding about me crashing her wedding? What if she freaks when she sees me show up?

Mark and Jen assured me it was fine and it was going to be fun and a great opportunity for the blog. Plus, we all decided that a wedding ceremony is just like a church service. That's all it is. I'm just going to church, on a Saturday night. So what if there is a girl in a white dress standing up in front? No biggie. This was a big wedding/church service. There is a good chance Carrie and her husband won't even know I'm there.

The ceremony was lovely and I surveyed the crowd and saw several familiar faces from my hometown. I even saw a couple that was at my brother's wedding back in September. I was feeling good about just laying low, blending in and not revealing to anyone that I wasn't actually invited. A great plan, until the pastor invited everyone forward for communion, a practice that would require walking in front of the entire congregation and the bride and groom.

Sorry if it is sacrilege to say this about communion, but shit.

We filed out of our pew and began our approach to the altar and I felt like everyone's eyes were boring into the back of my head. "Who is this girl?!" I could hear them whispering. "She does NOT belong here!"

We made it to the altar and it wasn't long before I made eye contact with Carrie. Her eyes widened and a huge smile appeared on her face. I think she was genuinely surprised (or shocked or horrified) that I actually came. She nudged her fiance and whispered something into his ear. Not sure what, exactly, but in my head, I imagined it was something like, "Whit, please tell security that there is a wedding crasher who will be making her way to our reception soon. Have them ready to take her down."

But Whit smiled too, so maybe this was going to be ok. So much for laying low, though.

The wedding was a success and it was on to the second half of the evening, the reception at the beautiful Piedmont Driving Club on Piedmont Park. Shockingly, in the 60+ weddings I've been to, I hadn't ever been to a reception there.

I thought that after making eye contact with the bride and groom and receiving approving smiles that I would feel like I was home free, but as we're pulling up to the valet, I had another sick feeling. I shared it with the group.

"What if this reception is a sit-down dinner?"

I pictured us all walking in and Mark and Jen finding their place cards and ditching me with nowhere to sit. I told them that if that happened, I would walk to a friend's apartment, which was right down the street. But they were as much a part of this experience as I was, so they said if that was the case, we could share the two seats between the three of us. One person would just have to be up walking around at all times. That would likely garner strange reactions from the other people seated at their table, but it was a risk we were all willing to take.

We walked into reception, which was gorgeous, and I was relieved that there were no signs of seating cards or numbered tables. Safe again!

The reception was fantastic and I was ready to take advantage of all that it had to offer. Mark, Jen, our other friend Myles and I found a table and set up camp. From there we had access to the delicious food and the photo book (that's right, this reception had a photo booth).

We eventually moved closer to the dance floor to enjoy the band. We even got a bonus performance by the groom and his band. I felt safe on the dance floor and tried to stay huddled to my friends. I only left twice: one time to get wedding cake, and another time to talk someone.

She was the girl that was at my brother's wedding. She said, "So how do you know Carrie?"

This made me nervous, so I just started rambling, "Well, Carrie and I actually knew each other in high school. She went to Chapin, I went to Irmo. . ." and then I just decided to tell her, "but I actually wasn't invited," I went on. "She told me to come with Mark and Jen. They're staying at my house."

She smiled reluctantly and then I watched her quickly scan the room, presumably to figure out a way she could make her getaway. We'd already been talking for a while and she must've been worried that people might associate her with the wedding crasher.

Before we parted ways, she said, "Yeah, Matt and I were wondering what you were doing here."

Ouch.

I guess that's the tricky part about crashing a wedding where you actually know some of the guests. If there is any question as to your relationship to the bride or groom, chances are it's going to be brought up in conversation. I think I might've been better off just going to a complete stranger's wedding and not conversed with anyone.

I returned to Mark, Jen and Myles, who not only didn't mind being with the wedding crasher, I think they enjoyed it. And we rarely left the dance floor all night. In fact, it was the dance floor where I came face to face with the bride.

Carrie, like all brides, had been like a pinball bouncing from one group to the next, and while there were several invited guests who were waiting to talk to her, I couldn't miss my chance to tell her, "You look beautiful! Thanks for not calling security!"

She said she couldn't believe that I actually came, but she loved it. Or at least she said she did. She was so cool, I looked at the leftover crab claws and considered starting that food fight she had suggested. Knock out two of her ideas in one night. I figured it best to not push my luck, though.

Congratulations Carrie and Whit! You throw a great party. It couldn't have been more fun if I was actually invited.

Day 48: An Acquired Taste

Since I can remember, my dad's drink of choice has been Dewar's (scotch) and water. Apparently there was a time in his life when he liked PBR (his nickname was "PBR Charlie") but since I've known him he's always been a scotch man. Not just any scotch though. Dewar's.

My voice is on the deeper side for a woman, so when I am tired or coming down with a cold, I'm sometimes accused of being a seasoned scotch drinker. But the only scotch drinking that I have ever done has been purely accidental. It's a light enough liquor that when watered down, a scotch drink looks like water. And I've picked one up, more than once, taken a big sip thinking it was water.

Big mistake.

The handful of times I've done it, I've nearly spit the drink out, exclaiming, "Ugh, Dad, how do you drink this?"

But lately I've developed a curiosity about the beverage. There is something equally refined and bad-ass to me about a woman who drinks scotch. I think of scenes from movies or television shows where a woman storms up to a bar after a fight with her boyfriend and has the bartender pour her a scotch. Another woman heads home to her perfectly decorated house after a long day at work and pours herself a lowball of scotch from a crystal decanter. Do scenes like that happen in real life? I don't know, but there is a part of me that wants to be a scotch drinker, and not just sound like one.

So Day 48's thing I've never done before was to drink, and perhaps learn to enjoy, scotch.

The day started with much better intentions. I walked to the library, again, in search of a library card. And again, was denied because my public library doesn't open until noon on Fridays. Seriously, I wanted to know, why are they making this so hard for me?

I had friends coming in from out of town who know my dad pretty well, so they were on board to make the scotch challenge a success. They were more than on board, actually. In fact, Mark and Jen had a Dewar's and water waiting on me when I got to the restaurant where we were meeting.

"In honor of your dad," they said, and we all clinked glasses.

Sure. Only when I think of my dad I usually don't make the face I made when I took the first sip. Painful is the only word I can use to describe it.

My dad said scotch is an acquired taste. I think that means it tastes terrible and makes your taste buds burn, but if you make up your mind that you're going to drink it, eventually your body will have no other choice but to accept it.

I took another sip.

And, in between telling my friends the story of my trip to California and Boston, I took more sips. And pretty soon, scotch began to warm me up and relax me the way I believe it is supposed to. It still tasted pretty bad, so I took my sweet time finishing it.

We left the first restaurant and went to another venue, where I tried to order another Dewar's. The place didn't have it, though, so I was forced to try a different scotch. I can't remember the name of this scotch, but it was as unpleasant as Dewar's.

I finished two scotch drinks and never really enjoyed the taste of it. Maybe I've still got some acquiring to do. But I think I'll give it a few more tries before I give up on being a refined bad-ass woman.