Day 329: Book It, Baby!

When I started Project 29 to 30, I did so with a single goal, and that was to write. Writing was something that I had all but stopped doing since landing a full time job and real-life adult responsibilities; but there was a time when I used to do it a lot, and it was one of the few things I feel like I'm good at. Writing is one of the few things that I can lose track of time while doing, a feeling that is strangely satisfying, even if it has made me late for dinner dates and even work a handful of times.

Soaking up each day of my 29th year by trying 365 new things -- well, that was just a gimmick for me to have something to write about. I wasn't necessarily passionate about changing my routine or looking to cross things off a "Before 30" bucket-list; all of that was secondary to the challenge I set forth to sit at my computer everyday and write about my life.

I expected that the blog would be humorous and entertaining to the people who know me well. I knew that my friends and family would enjoy checking in on me from time to time to see what kinds of wacky adventures I could get myself into. I didn't expect for people, many of whom I don't know, to respond so positively to my writing, and my take on being 29. Months after the project began, I was completely floored, and truly flattered when people other than my mother would come up to me and say things like, "You could turn this into a book," and, more aggressively, "Who is going to play you in the movie?"

The remarks were sincerely touching and at times, overwhelming, and though I'm terrible at accepting compliments, after months of consistent, positive reaction, I'd started to consider that maybe Project 29 to 30 could be something more than just a silly blog for my friends and family.

The same was true for my friend Julie of Julie vs. Vegetables. Her personal decision to tackle her fear of cooking and eating foods she thought she hated became hilarious entertainment for me. And like my blog, Julie's had resonated with far more people than just her circle of friends. Thanks to endless flattering comments, Julie had started to consider, as I had, about turning Julie vs. Vegetables into a book.

She had done more than just think about it, though. And in her usual bubbly way, she could not contain her excitement after taking a book development class offered in Atlanta by local columnist and author, Hollis Gillespie.

"OhmygodyouhavetotakethisclassHollisisamazingIalreadyhaveanagent!!!!!!!!!," she said to me at the end of her blog party I had recently attended.

"You have an agent?," I asked her.

"Yes."

"Julie! That's amazing!"

Julie's blog is a riot and a great idea, so I wasn't surprised. I was incredibly impressed. And I'm not proud of it, but I was insanely jealous.

I wasted no time in signing up for the class and immediately started imagining all of the wonderful, and probably unlikely, possibilities. Getting a publisher, accepting a book advance, autographing my first copy, reading entries at book stores across the country, accepting an Academy Award for Best Adapted Screenplay and last, but certainly not least, taking over the world.

First things first, though, I had to take this class that Julie had raved about.

Day 329's thing I've never done before was to take Hollis Gillespie's class about pitching a book idea. I also started really imagining that I could be an author.

I arrived at the class, which was in the Castleberry Hill part of Atlanta. Between this class, and glassblowing the day before, I'd covered a lot of ground in Atlanta. I'd also dropped some serious cash, all in the name of the blog.

I walked through the glass door, clutching an old English notebook from my Alma mater UGA, and looked around at several people already sitting at the square table in the center of the room.

I deducted that with the possible exception of one very attractive woman, I was likely the youngest person in the class, a reality that both intimidated me and made me feel confident all at the same time. I recognized Hollis by her dark rimmed glasses and cool sense of style, before she ever said a word. She instructed me to have a seat wherever, so I did, and was welcomed by my classmates with friendly smiles. I don't know why I thought there might be some competitiveness within the class, but if there was any, I didn't feel it. In fact, my nerves were instantly calmed by the general and unspoken feeling of support I was getting in the room. Like we all had taken this ballsy, dramatic first step and now we were going on a journey together.

After inviting us numerous times to partake in the snacks that she brought us Hollis began the class at 11am with a general introduction to the class. She gives presentations a lot like I do, with a fair share of anecdotes and personal tales of her own experiences, which were both humorous and informative.

One of the first things Hollis did, presumably to boast her success rate with the class, was to talk about one of her most recent student's successes in landing an agent. I was delighted to see that Julie was the student she was talking about and she'd pulled up Julie vs. Vegetables on her LCD projector. Throughout the class, Hollis would reference all of the things that Julie did really right with her blog and the letter to potential agents, but within the first 10 minutes, I was already beaming with pride, as if I had something to do with Julie's success.

After the general overview, Hollis said we were going to go around the table and explain what our book was about, and how much of it we'd already written. She started with the gentleman seated to her left, and since I was sitting directly to her right, I knew this meant that I'd probably go last. I was quite pleased about that, prepared to quietly judge all of the other ideas while preparing to pitch my own.

The first man's novel was a war/crime/spy novel. Naturally, my eyes glazed over and I was completely bored. Not because the guy's idea wasn't good, but because that genre is simply not my cup of tea. Hollis stayed with this guy and his book for what felt like an eternity. Luckily she threw a lot of information out that had nothing to do with this guy's idea specifically (thank God), so I remained engaged in the class. This man hadn't yet written anything; all of his ideas existed in his head. Hollis said that was perhaps his biggest hurdle: he needed to get whatever was in his head out on the page and see what was really there.

Next to the war/crime/spy guy was a woman who claimed she grew up in the same Bronx neighborhood as several celebrities, none of which I can recall right now. Her book was about how growing up in the projects had shaped her life and theirs. She was concerned about upsetting someone with her real-life accounts. Hollis said she once called her brother-in-law a nasty name in one of her books and it caused some family tension for a while, but that it's all a part of being a writer and telling it like it is. I thought about all of the times I've glossed over situations in my life for my blog and wondered if writing the book version meant that I'd have to be brutally honest, even if it meant hurting some feelings.

The next person to talk was the super attractive young woman who had, I learned, in the last few years, been diagnosed with a rare form of cancer; she was wearing a wig and talked about her unimaginable experiences in treatment, and about finding out she'd never be able to have children. I think she had enough stories and information for five books. Hollis said her book needed focus to do well. Did she want the book to be a self-help book for people receiving treatment? Or did she want to talk about her spiritual journey battling a life-threatening disease? Or a funny tell-all about how much cancer sucks? She had written a lot, and had been featured on several cancer websites; her biggest obstacle was narrowing down her ideas, an exercise that would no doubt be difficult.

Next to her was a woman who happened to be married to the possible author of the war/crime/spy book. I was fascinated that these two writers were married to each other, though I'm not sure why. I'd dated a writer before, but for some reason the two of them taking the class together was interesting to me. I wondered if they worked on their books together at their house, and if they proofread each other's work. If one of them got a book deal and the other didn't, would there be tension in the house?

Anyway, she had two ideas for two books, both of which I thought were hysterically funny. One was about going through menopause and all of the not-so-appealing things that happen to your body when you do. The other, was all about being a southern belle married to an Italian man, with an Italian mother. She told hilarious stories about her mother-in-law, and she had the class roaring with laughter. She confessed she had anxiety about an upcoming trip through the Italian countryside with her mother-in-law. Hollis thought, and the rest of the class agreed, that her book could be about the trip, peppered with other anecdotes about her wacky mother-in-law from over the years. I can't wait to read it.

There were a few more ideas, one about a first generation Indian growing up in American culture with old-school Indian parents, and a woman who wanted to write a non-fiction collection of short stories about starting a small businesses.

I was genuinely impressed by everyone in the class. Obviously some books sounded more interesting to me than others, but overall, there were a lot of promising pitches.

By the time she made it around to me, we were running extremely short on time. Obviously I wanted loads of feedback from Hollis and from the others, but she had already shared so while talking to the others, I wasn't expecting we'd have a lot of time to talk discuss Project 29 to 30. I wasn't too concerned; I'd already learned so much. Plus, I felt confident about how much I'd written compared to all of the others. I'd already jumped into the deep end of the writing pool, and most of them were just hanging out in the kiddie pool.

When it was my turn, I felt a lot like I did when I had tried out for my own show on the Oprah network. I looked around at everyone and smile, quickly spitting out, "My name is Stephanie and my book is based on my blog, Project 29 to 30, which is about my quest to do one new thing every single day of my 29th year."

Hollis' eyebrows raised and she laughed, "No way! Cool. I love it." My classmates smiled at me, and nodded approvingly.

I continued, dropping Julie's name for effect.

"Julie, your former student . . . well, she and I are friends. She and I actually started our blogs at around the same time, and she recommended this class."

Hollis pulled up Project 29 to 30 on her computer which was flashing on the screen in front of us. She scrolled down.

"So," she said, matter-of-factly, "What are some of the things you've done?"

I started rattling off a list of the entries that usually impress people: polar bear plunge, sky-diving, taking a trip with someone I didn't really know that well.

Hollis continued to give me positive feedback both with her words, and her body language, as I asked her questions about a title, how to arrange chapters, and how best to incorporate the blog into the pitch, if at all.

She shared her opinions on each point. I knew she was on board with my idea and I was relieved. I was elated.

"Publishers love 'project books,'" she said, "You set a goal. You achieve it. You write about it. It's relatable. It's good."

Plus, she said, a blog shows them that you already have an invested audience, and that's good for business, plain and simple.

I was thrilled. This could really happen.

We talked briefly about the length of the blog and I told her I was averaging 1000 words per entry, setting myself up to have 365,000 at the end of the year-long blog. Since an average book is between 70-80,000 words, editing was going to be my biggest challenge. She nodded, but said that's the easy part. I refrained from telling her that I managed to come up with 500 words about making spaghetti sauce from scratch. Clearly editing and conciseness are not my strong suits.

Our class' guest speaker had arrived by then, so I expected Hollis would soon wrap it up with me. I felt like I had a clear handle on how to proceed, and I had the confidence that a publisher would respond well to my idea.

And then she hit me with a question I wasn't expecting.

"Did you fall in love this year?," she asked me casually and directly; it was as if she was asking if I'd taken out the trash.

Her question completely caught me off guard. I was ready to tell her about seeing a psychic or rock-climbing. Falling in love? Wow.

I instantly felt tears welling up in my eyes, and I looked up at the ceiling, begging them not to fall as I considered her simple question. For several awkward seconds, I couldn't find the words to answer her; and then I looked at her and began slowly shaking my head while I squeaked out, "Yes. Yes, I did."

Suddenly, scenes of the two men who had come in and out of my life throughout this past year played in my head like a mellow dramatic montage in a bad Lifetime movie.

Both had been the source of extremely strong feelings, a lot of laughs and so much fun; the time I spent with both provided a lot of adventure, and a great narrative to my story. But I'm not sure if I was in love with Mountain Man or FF.

I was in love with the story of Mountain Man. The innocent and special nature of our friendship that led to the amazing, romantic trip that we took together; despite the seemingly insurmountable geographic distance between us, and nearly everyone's belief that we could never work as a legit couple, I truly believed that we could and would be more than just a cool trip and an unforgettable story. With FF, I was in love with the opposite: he lived in the same town as me and seemed more realistic, more tangible; plus, our relationship was comfortable, practical, and drama-free. I liked that FF seemed to like me exactly the way that I was, and I fell in love with that for sure.

Neither relationship had turned out the way I wanted them to, and when they ended, there were varying levels of heartache, but I'm still not sure I could call it "love" in either case. Maybe it was their potential that I was in love with. Regardless, it had been months since I'd stopped thinking about them, and even longer since I'd shed any tears over them.

So why were there tears now? And why did I say "yes," when the real answer to Hollis' question was, "Nope. But I came really close?"

I think when I shook my head, "yes," I did so for fear that if I said "no," the whole room, that I was so far holding in the palm of my hand with my tales of adventure and excitement over the last year would've completely deflated. They were rooting for me, and I could feel it. I’ve got a great story, and it's funny and it's reflective; it's going to be a great book. As long as, of course, there's a love story.

I said "yes," because I was afraid that if I said, "no," then the 328 other things that I had already done wouldn't matter. And if that's true, I just wasn't ready to face it.

I used to joke with my mom that if I ever won a Nobel Peace Prize or became President, I'd better lock down a husband first, because all anyone ever wants to know about me is if I'm dating someone and if he's the "one" (whatever that means.) Where I come from, professional accomplishments pale in comparison to finding a suitable mate.

But it's not just other people putting that kind of pressure on me. I'm perhaps harder on myself about my failures in the relationship department than anyone else is. Love was supposed to come easy, and it was definitely supposed to arrive before I turned 30. With just six weeks to go until my birthday, I had to face reality that "falling in love," was probably not going to get crossed off the list. It was disappointing, but I had come to place of peace about it. I was not at peace with love, or my lack thereof, jeopardizing the possibility of my turning Project 29 to 30 into a book, however.

I don't know much about publishing, but I know enough to know that any book that makes it to a bookstore shelf has gone through numerous, and sometimes massive, edits; Hollis said that by the time it's all said and done, a final version of any novel is usually a 100 percent collaboration between the writer and the publisher. And as an author, I have every right to exercise creative liberties and stray away from the truth as it absolutely happened. I'm willing to do just that, but thinking that my story wouldn't be as interesting to other people or a publisher without a proper love story just bums me out.

And if it's true, then what does it mean for my life? Will all of my personal success and triumphs be considered less than if there isn't a man? Or romance?

I crave companionship and human touch and all of the things romantic love provides. And I've been fortunate to have experienced it with wonderful people who've been in my life for a time. I just haven't happened upon "the one." Not yet, anyway.

But make no mistake, my 29th year wasn't without love. There was lots of it. I know it sounds cheesy, but go ahead and cue the sappiness, because I'm serious. I fell in love with a lot this year: red nail polish and snow-skiing, my blog bff Olivia, Woot.com, Boston, New York, San Francisco. I fell in love with my friends, and my life. I fell in love with me. Crazy, unpredictable, high-maintenance, demanding me.

But while falling in love with myself makes for a great Whitney Houston song, that's not the kind of love other people want to read about. They want romance and a happy ending. I've had both this year, as well as a lot of other adventures, just not in the package I was expecting.

And to that I can only say, "Fine publisher. If you say I must fall in love by age 30 with a beautiful, bearded man who lives by the water and loves to travel and is smart and charming and perfect, then who am I to argue with that?"

I'll do whatever it takes to make my dream of being an author a reality, even if it means peppering the real version of my story with some saucier details. Thanks to Hollis and her class, I feel like I really have something on my hands. I'm a writer.

And Project 29 to 30 will be a book. Even if I have to publish it myself.

Day 280: Lot Food Denial > Ice, Ice, Baby

Day 280 was the last day of the Magical Mystery Tour.

The last day for me to achieve what I'd hoped to achieve during my four-day Phish run. My friend Liz, who had come to town for a show with her husband Nick, had proposed the idea via text message, "Why don't you make and sell lot food?"

What a damn fine idea, Liz.

"Lot food" simply refers to food (anything from burritos, quesadillas, hot dogs, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches) that hippies sell in the parking lot ahead of, and following, a Phish concert. Many people who sell lot food are "on tour," and the money they make is how they afford to move from one show to the next. The thought of eating concoctions made by strangers might weird people out, but I think "lot food" is one of the greatest elements of the Phish experience.

When Liz proposed the idea, I think she imagined me buying the ingredients and selling my own lot food. But I was not at all interested in doing that. I had been travelling for several days and didn't have the time to get it together. Plus, my plans were so up in the air at that point, I didn't even know if I'd have my own car, or who I'd be going to the concert with.

In my mind, I would simply introduce myself to someone already selling food in the lot and offer to help them. I'm extremely charming when I want to be, plus I'm a good cook. I would be a valuable asset to any lot food operation.

Or at least I thought so. As I was leaving the concert on Day 279, Emily and I went in search of someone I could assist. I didn't have to look very hard. Immediately I saw a guy standing behind a charcoal grill in the middle of the pathway. He was surrounded by hungry concert-goers and was telling them that what he was selling was, "Vegan sausage dogs." So Phish-friendly!

Immediately I noticed that this grill had clearly been fired up for a while. Some of the hot dogs were already cooked, meaning this guy must've left the concert long before it was over. He certainly didn't wander back to his car after the show like we had. This operation had long been underway.

I felt awkward approaching him, but I had to. I was running out of days, out of opportunities. But he was clearly in the zone, if there is such a thing as it pertains to selling lot food.

"Hey," I said, timidly, "Can I ask you something?"

He didn't look at me, but instead eyed the crowd for his next potential buyer.

"Yeah, but make it fast, I've got work to do," he snapped, using tongs to turn the vegan sausage dogs on the grill.

Emily and I looked at each other, surprised by his reaction. What happened to the fun-loving, laid-back, friendly hippies that used to sell food in lots? This guy was mean. For him, this was it, survival of the fittest. Like he was a challenger on an episode of the Apprentice.

In case anyone was concerned about the state of capitalism in America, there is no need to. It is alive and well in Phish lots.

There was a part of me that thought maybe this guy thought I was just being ridiculous, or mocking him, or that I might slow down his operation.

Regardless, he made it very clear that he wasn't interested in my help. Or in talking to me. Or in breathing the same air as me.

I walked away, in the direction of the Zingo driver, feeling defeated. Who knew finding a hippie that would let me make lot food with him would be such a challenge?

On my walk, I found another guy selling food. He seemed much more relaxed, and friendly; he happily gave me the information I was seeking.

Yes, this food (veggie burritos) was his livelihood. He'd been on tour all summer long.

Yes, he wakes up early to prepare the ingredients and leaves the concerts early to get his station set up and ready for business.

Yes, he'd let me come help him the next day. He even gave me his phone number.

So on Day 280, I called him, thinking that could be thing things I'd never done before. He didn't answer, sending Liz's idea up in flames. But not because I didn't try.

Have no fear, though, something I've never seen before happened before the day really even got started. Day 280's thing I've never done before was to see someone get iced.

The phrase, "getting iced," was, until late in the summer, foreign to me. But once I heard about it from FF, who heard about it from his summer interns, I couldn't stop hearing about it. On television, on Facebook, on the radio.

I overheard my drunk summer intern discussing it, and eventually Mountain Man revealed he had been icing his friends and had been getting iced all summer.


I was eternally grateful to everyone who shared what they knew about icing since I was so late to the game. But I couldn't help but think how sad it is to get older. I'm no longer doing the "cool things that kids are doing," I'm hearing about them months after the fact from all of the young, cool interns.

For the final Phish day, I met Paul and Bronson at Bronson's house so that we could catch a cab up to Alpharetta together. As we were trying to pack up all of our stuff, one of Bronson's sister's friends, who was staying behind, offered him her backpack cooler to take to the concert.

"There might be stuff in it," she said, "But you can just take it out and fill it with whatever."

Bronson unzipped the backpack cooler to reveal one lonely Smirnoff Ice.

The girl who had tricked him into finding it raised her arms in victory and started laughing. Once we all saw the Smirnoff and understood what had just happened, everyone erupted into laughter and applause. Bronson got down on one knee and chugged an entire bottle of Smirnoff Ice.

This is the game that is sweeping the nation. It's what all the cool kids are doing. Icing.

Confused? The rules (according to Wikipedia) to this most fabulous, completely juvenile, greatest marketing ploy for Smirnoff are simple:

One of the players "Ices" another by either presenting him with a Smirnoff Ice or hiding a Smirnoff Ice and having the other player find it. The other player can perform an "Ice Block" by grabbing a Smirnoff Ice within arms reach (e.g. on his person, on a table). Once he presents this "Ice Block" to the original player, the original player must drink both the Smirnoff Ice he presented in the first place and the "Ice Block". If an "Ice Block" is not performed, the player who was "Iced" must get on one knee and chug the entire bottle. However you can not "Ice Block" and "Ice Block". Refusal to do so results in excommunication, meaning that that player can no longer "Ice" anyone or get "Iced."


There is no exception to the rule. If you refuse to consume the ICE on the spot you are banned for life unless the territory allows you back in the game (usually a form of initiation will be involved).

Bronson took it like a man, and he drank that Smirnoff Ice like he'd been doing it his whole life. I both delighted in seeing this mysterious activity happen in my presence (maybe I'm not as old as I thought) and feared that now that Pandora's Box had been opened, I might be icing all summer.

Day 207: Picking Teams, Choosing Sides

Very fitting that I'm posting this blog on Father's Day and that my dad helped me edit it. Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Day 207 was Earth Day.

So naturally, a day full of things I've never done before, all dedicated to the preservation of our planet and its resources should've been in store.

Only it wasn't.

I was pleasantly surprised to discover, after running down a list of environmentally-friendly blog possibilities, that I was already a fairly green kind of gal. I recycle nearly everything, I use canvas grocery bags, and I shop and eat locally, frequently buying all of my groceries at my farmer's market.

I mean, at this point, I was still a vegetarian for Pete's sake!

Sure, there were things that I'd never done before, like riding public transportation or walking to work, but I didn't think of either of them until I was already sitting at my desk.

"Plant flowers," Melanie, one of my greenest friends suggested.

“Nah,” I told her, “I already did that on Day 173.”

There was some discussion about composting, but that also wasn't going to be possible from my desk. Plus I don't have a yard or a garden, so this one would be a huge, not to mention, pointless challenge for me.

I'm ashamed to tell you that by day's end, I ended up participating in an activity that had absolutely nothing to do with Earth Day. Something that felt dirty, and wrong. Bad for the planet and bad for humanity.

Day 207’s thing I’ve never done before was to watch the NFL Draft in primetime.

Really, I had never watched an NFL draft, period. I only mention that it was in primetime because people kept talking about that fact and apparently it was a big deal that it came on at night.

The draft, for those of you who don't know, is when NFL teams choose their players for the next year. It's the grown up version of picking teams on the playground, only with exorbitant amounts of money.

After weeks of speculation by sports journalists, various scouting camps, and what I would imagine to be a lot of conversations between team leaders and agents ala Jerry McGuire, the draft comes down to several nights where the NFL commissioner announces each team's pick to a crowd in the audience and at home.

Each team is given a certain amount of time to make their pick and in between announcements, cameras show nervous men, some of them in their homes surrounded by their family and friends, others inside the venue, dressed to the nines in flashy suits. Regardless of where they were, or how were they dressed, they all looked nervously excited, the same way I imagined they might've looked as children praying they're named would get called.

I certainly wasn't ever a first-round pick in elementary school playground drafts, but I'd always get picked eventually. Not for my athleticism, obviously, but because I always added an appropriate amount of comic relief to any team that I was a part of.

The NFL draft is the same. Not that they're choosing players based on their sense of humor, but there are a lot of factors taken into consideration when teams choose their new players. And they're different from what I thought. Players who excel in college don't always get chosen for the NFL, and if they do, they don't always play the position they played as college athletes. Contrary to popular belief, it's not always the best players that get chosen first, and it's not always players from the best college teams. Professional teams choose based on what positions they need filled to round out a successful roster. Many of the first guys to get drafted I hadn't ever even heard of.

Typically the team with the worst record gets to choose first, though I learned in the weeks leading up to the draft that deals can be cut with teams ahead of time to change their position. One team could, for instance, trade one of their current players to another team for a spot higher in the picking order.

Confused? Yeah, me too.

Considering no money ever changed hands, there were no agents brokering deals, or a fancy stage with spotlights, or time limits, or pinstriped suits, choosing teams on the playground is actually nothing like the NFL draft.

The NFL draft is the male version of a beauty pageant. An overproduced spectacle full of attractive, talented people saying asinine things, there are a lot of emotional parents, a lot of glitz, a lot of drama, not a lot of substance.

All the good going on in the world to save the planet that day couldn't offset this horrific display.

Every time the commissioner came to the microphone to announce another pick, I felt like we lost another innocent soul to the big bad world of professional sports.

I emailed Mountain Man, who knew I was watching the draft, "I feel like I'm watching the very moment that these guys go from being college athletes, to complete assholes."

He responded, "Yep. Rich assholes with social issues who have trouble operating in a rational society."

I know it's terribly unfair to assume that all of these men are destined to live the flashy, reckless lives that will put them in the headlines with the likes of Terrell Owens and Ben Roethlisberger, but I also think it's probably naive to assume that some of them weren't already of that mindset before the draft.

Still, watching this little spectacle did little to change my opinion that professional athletes are soulless people with inflated egos and inflated paychecks. It was a lot of, "I'm awesome! Look at me! I deserve this! I had it coming!"

Barf.

Mo, who I was also emailing as the draft was happening, assures me that his beloved Florida quarterback and Heisman trophy winner Tim Tebow won't ever become part of the professional athlete stereotype. I have to agree, based on the geek squad surrounding him at his house in Florida, if anyone has the potential to overcome what seems inevitable when young people come into a lot of money at once, it’s Tebow.

And I sincerely hope that he does.

I dropped my negative attitude several times during the broadcast to consider that maybe they're losing their innocence and the pure joy of playing for the love of the game, but it's pretty cool that we're watching the start of their adult lives. Their very large, very expensive lives. Good for them.

There were times when the players showed sincere gratitude for these huge blessings being bestowed upon them, and genuine excitement that their name was called at all. Perhaps there is potential for some of them to do really good things with their large lives. A Drew Brees amongst them, perhaps?

Maybe all of my frustration comes from a place of jealousy. I mean, when I accepted my first real job post-college, there weren't any spotlights or television crews. My family wasn't there to embrace me dramatically and tell me how proud they were of me. I think my Dad's exact words were, "Well it's about damn time."

If only all job interviews were like picking teams on the playground and we found out if we were hired based on which old guy handed you a shirt with their company's logo on it.

"Welcome to the real world of paying taxes and responsibility, Stephanie, here's a jersey to prove you've really made it!"

Day 202: Can Somebody Please Belay Me?

I was out celebrating my successful story time with my friend Philip when I randomly ran into my other friends Maribeth and Brandon in Little Five Points. They had been eating dinner nearby and said they were leaving the bar soon because they were getting up early to drive to Chattanooga, Tennessee.

"I want to go!," I said. "Can I come?"

They said, "Sure."

Philip was listening to the conversation. He furrowed his brow and gave me a look like, "Are you crazy?" Less because I was agreeing to rock climb, more so because who makes a decision to tag along on an out of state rock climb at 12:30am?

Answer: people drinking Stellas attempting to do 365 things they've never done before.

I ignored Philip, and told Maribeth that I was serious. I really wanted to go.

When I woke up at 7am on Saturday morning, however, I did not want to go. In fact, I laid in bed for 20 minutes and went back and forth, with myself, about whether or not I should just blow the whole thing off.

The internal dialogue went something like this:

"Get up, loser! When else are you going to have an opportunity to rock climb?"

"Ughhhhhh...sleeeeeeep...I have a headache. I need sleeeeeeeeep."

"Stephanie, you can sleep on the way to Tennessee. These are serious rock climbers who know what they are doing. Just get up!"

"This bed is sooooo comfortable. I want to sleeeeeeeeeeeeep."

I texted Maribeth, "I don't think I'm going to make it. You guys have fun!"

And then after beating myself up about being so lame, I forced myself to get up and texted her again, "Nevermind. I'm coming. Don't leave without me."

The ride to Tennessee was, for me, painful. Thankfully Brandon was in the driver's seat and Maribeth was riding shotgun, so I stretched out in the backseat and slept, waking only when we went to a gas station to pick up breakfast (McDonald's) and lunch (Subway). This was, as I mentioned on the start of vegetarian week, the first time I'd ever bought breakfast and lunch at the same time.

Pardon the pun, but buying two meals at the same time felt like rock bottom.

When we arrived at Sunset Rock on Lookout Mountain in Chattanooga, I was surprised that we go there by way of a very nice, seemingly exclusive neighborhood at the top of the mountain. The houses we were passing were gorgeous, and likely boasted some of the greatest views in the city. We met up with our friends Jeremy, Megan and Dustin, and parked our car in a gravel lot next to the nice houses.

The hike down the mountain to where we would climb reminded me a lot of hike I did with California Kevin and Mountain Man in Yosemite right down to me wearing my super radical, super outdoorsy Marmot fanny pack. Lots of greenery, lots of scenic views.

Only this time we had dogs. Now, I love dogs. I do not love them, however, when they are wandering close to the edge of cliffs. I was already worried that I would soon plummet to my death. Now I was worrying about the pooches doing the same.

We made it to the rock that we were going to climb and I was a bit confused because while I didn't expect to see thousands of bolts screwed into the rock for us to climb, I thought that I would at least see crevices in the rock for us to put our hands and feet while climbing.

There were but a few.

Jeremy and his friend Dustin stayed behind while we hiked to set up the ropes that we would be using to climb. Once they made it down to where we were, there was still some more setting up that needed to be done. I marveled at how much gear is needed to rock climb.

Maribeth, Brandon and I stayed out of their way, enjoying the mountain air.

At one point Maribeth stood up and started rooting through her bag, pulling out a harness and her own rock climbing shoes. Maribeth and I are pretty close. I know and/or participate in nearly all of the hobbies that she does, so to say I was surprised is an understatement.

"Since when are you a rock climber?," I said.

She laughed and kind of took a step back from her gear, almost in a, "What? This old stuff?" kind of way.

"Haven't you ever heard about my awful experience at Atlanta Rocks?" Atlanta Rocks is an indoor rock climbing gym.

"No," I said.

"Oh yeah," she went on, "I decided when I moved back from Jacksonville that I wanted to learn how to rock climb so I bought all of this equipment. And then I went to the gym and left in tears when I realized I didn't have anyone to belay me."

She burst out laughing remembering this experience, and therefore, so did I.

Her move back to Atlanta was tough enough; the thought of her standing at the base of the manufactured rock with all of her equipment in her hands with no one to help her was both sad and hilarious all at the same time. Extra sad that her plan, I presumed, was to go to Atlanta Rocks to possibly meet someone, a cute someone who would've been more than happy to belay her.

"Certainly," I insisted, "There were dudes there that could've helped you out."

"Nope," she said, still laughing. "Everyone there was with someone!"

Ouch. Add rock climbing to the long list of things singles can't do, I guess.

Dustin and Jeremy went first and made it look easy. They hit a handful of difficult climbs along the way, and I got to see how rock climbing is as much of a mental challenge as it is a physical one. Brandon, also a beginner, but fresh from a tour of duty in Afghanistan showed his strength as well. He may not have been as smooth, but he got to the top impressively.

I decided, after all of the boys took a turn, that I would go first for the girls. Not because I was so excited to take on the challenge, but because my nerves were getting the best of me, and I wanted to get it over with. No question, since I’m constantly trying new things, I’m nervous a lot. But at this point, I hadn't eaten meat in five days, I had jumped out of a plane just a week prior, and faced 20 kindergarteners the day before. This week was emotionally and physically exhausting.

Maribeth offered me her shoes. She wears a half-size smaller than me, but insisted I'd be able to wear them. I started putting them on and it felt like I was stuffing a 15 pound load into a 12 pound bag. They were entirely too small.

"They're supposed to be tight," Maribeth assured me.

Well, then, mission accomplished. They were definitely tight.

Now I am already self-conscious of my legs and of the fact that I have, thanks to my mother, cankles, the kind of leg where the calf more or less becomes the foot with little to no ankle definition whatsoever. My friend Amanda at work insists that I do not have cankles, and she has gone to great lengths to point out others who do have them so that we can compare mine to theirs.

Well, in Maribeth's rock climbing shoes, there was no question; even Amanda would have to agree. I had cankles. Serious ones.

The tightness of the shoes made any and all extra skin and fat on my feet squeeze out to my ankle. Thank God I was wearing long pants because it was embarrassing. And disgusting.

Plus, the shoes really hurt my feet and it was hard to get used to how tight they were.

I climbed up onto the first rock/platform where I would begin the climb. Megan assisted me in putting on my harness, which was quite similar to the harness that I wore skydiving the week before. As if my cankles weren’t unattractive enough, I now had more ropes squeezing the top part of thighs and stomach.

She asked her husband, Jeremy, if she could belay me.

Megan looked at me and said, "Is that okay with you?"

Belaying is crucial in rock climbing. The belayer is the person attached to the climber who stays standing and weights the climber, like an anchor. If the climber should fall, their attachment to a belayer would ensure they wouldn’t fall very far.

Obviously I didn't care who belayed me and most everyone except me (and Maribeth) seemed capable of doing so. I was concerned, however, about the difference in Megan's weight and mine. If I fell, there was a great chance that I would cause her to fly wildly in the air or tip over completely.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?," I asked.

She and Jeremy assured me it would be fine, and I believed them, so I went with it.

The nerves I was feeling here were similar to the nerves I felt when I went skiing with Elizabeth and company in Tahoe. The “I have no idea what I’m doing, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of all these people who do,” kind of nerves. That’s, I think, why skiing and rock climbing seemed much scarier to me than skydiving—all activities are scary, but adding the fear of being embarrassed on top of it makes some challenges extra terrifying.

After everything was clipped and secure, it was time to go for it.

“Stick your hand in Jeremy's chalk bag,” Megan said, seconds before I turned around to start the climb.

The phrase sounded dirty and I laughed out loud when she said it.

“Wow, Megan,” I joked, “Way to just offer me an opportunity to touch your husband's chalk bag. It's kinky. And I like it.”

The chalk was for my hands, to keep them from slipping. I happily did as I was told, knowing full well that I was going to need a lot more than the chalk in Jeremy's bag to make this experience successful. I wished Jeremy had an "athletic ability" bag or a "miracle" bag.

After I was appropriately chalked, I turned around and stared at the wall. There were no obvious grooves or shelves that I could see to put my feet or hands on. Just straight, smooth rock.

I heard Dustin ask Jeremy quietly, "Has she really never done this before?"

"No."

"Wow."

My feelings exactly, Dustin. Actually, my feelings were more of the four-letter variety, but "wow" was appropriate too.

I turned around and sort of whiningly said, "I mean, I don't even know where to start."

Immediately, everyone jumped in and started giving me suggestions on how to start, where to put my hands and feet.

Rock climbing requires you to rely so much on the people with you to guide you to places you can't see, places that can get you to the next level. I liked this. There was an instant feeling of community and camaraderie.

"Put your hand in that crack," someone shouted to me, “And pull yourself up.”

Again, with the dirty talk. Another reason to love rock climbing.

With their help, I was able to achieve far more climbing than I ever could've imagined, which really wasn't that much. The shoes, while squeezing my feet past the point of recognition, were extremely helpful in allowing me to literally climb up the flat rock. I don’t know how, but I’m sure it must’ve been the shoes that allowed me to pull that off. I didn’t make it very far, and grew frustrated several times when my friends were saying, “Just grab that,” or “Just a little bit farther.” There was nothing about rock climbing that was “just” anything. There were some great achievements on my brief time on the rock, but I soon reached a point and physically had no strength to pull and no mental capacity to figure out how to move on. I was tired and when I turned around to see everyone staring at me, I started to feel sick, so I asked to come down.

Repelling was my favorite part because you just let go of the rock, lean back and let the belayer ease you back down to the ground. Everyone was really supportive and said they were impressed by my performance, particularly because I hadn’t ever done it before. They also informed me, after I was safely on the ground, that this climb was not for beginners. Thanks for telling me now.

After my piss-poor performance, it was Megan's turn. I had asked earlier what kind of body type makes a good rock climber and everyone agreed that long limbs make the difficult reaches easier to accomplish. Megan proved that those without long limbs can still dominate, and her petite frame leapt to the top like a spider monkey. I was super impressed.

Maribeth’s was unable to overcome her experience at Atlanta Rocks, and made it to the same spot on the rock that I did. She seemed frustrated. I couldn't blame her.

I'd be frustrated too if I'd come out there with my own harness.

Day 171: Black Velvets

Day 171 was St. Patrick's Day (I know, admitting that gives me anxiety. I'm behind, but I'm trying.) and I came into work feeling like a million bucks, having slept a full 12 hours the night before. Thanks Ambien!

My alertness was in sharp contrast to others in my life who celebrated St. Patrick's Day on Tuesday.

The first was my mother, who during her Ambien-email tirade revealed to me that she had - in her words- "gotten a little silly," with her girlfriends drinking sour apple martinis at Bunco the night before. Interesting that she was so free with this information, I thought, because she is constantly telling me how much she hates it when I talk about drinking in the blog, which according to her, is a lot.

My drinking habits are no different from most people that I know, I've told her. The only difference is that I'm writing about it.

Still, at my mom's request, I'm marking this entry and everyone that follows with the the tag, "Drinks," so she (and you) can track all of the times I talk about drinking. Mom, consider this your warning, I'm about to talk about a new cocktail I tried on St. Patrick's Day.

Elizabeth was the second person who celebrated St. Patrick's Day a day early. I asked her how her day was going and she told me she wasn't feeling well.

"What's wrong," I said.

"Too many black velvets," she replied.

"Black velvets?" I asked.

A black velvet is a cocktail that she and Cynthia drank at their cooking club the night before. The drink is simple: Guinness and Champagne mixed together.

"Yikes," I said, "That sounds disgusting."

"Suprisingly, it's not," she told me "The bubbly really cuts the heaviness of the beer."

Who gives a shit, I thought? I drank a Guinness on Day 124 and the beer's heaviness is not worth mixing it with champagne to make a new drink that I can only imagine tastes completely dreadful. But still, I considered, if she has a headache, she may have enjoyed more than one. So maybe I should give them a try.

Day 171's thing I've never done before was to drink a black velvet.

Maribeth and I had already made plans to celebrate St. Patrick's Day at one of the best bars in the Atlanta area, the Brick Store Pub in Decatur. I am not Irish, though my hair and complexion would indicate otherwise. I get the crazy looking hair, without the free pass to drink like a moron. Still, I always like a reason to celebrate and go out during the week, so, "Erin Go Bragh! Let's drink black velvets!"

The Brick Store, like every bar everywhere, was packed on Wednesday night. Maribeth and I stood behind the people sitting at the bar and shouted over them to the bartenders. Which was tough because I wasn't completely confident about what I was ordering.

"Can I get a black velvet?" I asked, timidly. I hoped someone behind the bar would know.

The bartender, a short, leprachaun looking fellow kind of paced back and forth behind the bar like he knew what I was talking about, but not really.

He disappeared for a moment and then returned, stood in front of me and loudly spoke over the people sitting at the bar.

"See, I can't make that because I don't have cider on draught," he said.

I furrowed my brow, confused.

"Cider? Isn't a black velvet Guinness and champagne?"

Two older gentleman turned around and stared at me like I had horns and a tail.

"That sounds terrible," one of them said to me.

"I know! Doesn't it?" I said, thinking that our agreement over how disgusting this drink sounded would solidify our friendship.

It did not. The guy rolled his eyes at me shook his head, and turned back around in his chair, ignoring the back and forth between the bartender and me.

"Ok . . .hold on . . .," I stammered to the bartender.

I immediately text messaged Elizabeth, "Are you serious about the black velvets? I'm at this bar and just tried to order it and they don't know anything about it."

While waiting for her to text me back, I went to my Blackberry to consult the Internet. Certainly if this drink exists, Google will know. I'd been at the bar for a total of 15 minutes, and so far I'd ordered a fancy drink that no one has every heard about and now I'm texting and surfing the web on my phone. I wasn't exactly the "bar favorite" at that point, I don't think.

Sure enough, Google knew all about it. According to several web sites, a "Black Velvet" is a beer cocktail made from stout beer and sparkling wine or champagne.

By this time, Maribeth had ordered a beer and another bartender came out from behind the bar to hand deliver it to her. He looked at me, confused, assuming he forgot to also get my drink.

"Did you...?"

"No," I replied, "I had asked the guy about making a black velvet . . .and he said you didn't have any cider . . . but I didn't think the drink needed cider . . .do you know what that is?"

"A black velvet?" he said assuredly, "With Guinness . . .?"

"Yes!" I shouted, louder than I should have and before he could finish his thought. I don't know what I was more excited about: the fact that black velvets really do exist or that I was finally going to get a drink.

"Do you want sparkling wine or champagne?"

I gave him a look like "Does it look like I care? I didn't even believe that this drink existed five minutes ago. You can make it with whatever you want."

"Whatever you think is best."

Five minutes later, my now favorite bartender slid a champagne flute across the bar in my direction.

So if everyone in the bar didn't already hate me for ordering a drink that no one except for this one bartender had ever even heard of, now I'm drinking what looks like a Guinness out of a champagne flute at a place that usually serves up microbrews in pint glasses.

Pretentious, party of one.

I cautiously took a sip of the black velvet, still not believing that a concoction of these ingredients could ever taste good. But Elizabeth was right, black velvets are delicious. I can't tell you what it tastes like because it doesn't taste like anything I've ever tasted before. But I understand what she meant by the champagne or sparkling wine cutting the Guinness' heaviness. I can only really drink one Guinness, but I could drink black velvets all night.

The drink did attract a lot of attention, or maybe it was our charming personalities and insane good looks.

Nah, it was probably the drink.

Those that dared to ask about the black velvet were rewarded with a variety of answers. Sometimes I told them it was just Guinness, but that I like drinking out of a champagne flute so I carry one with me at all times.

Most of the time, Maribeth and I took turns telling people what it really was, which led to telling them about the blog.

One of the guys that we met was completely unimpressed with Project 29 to 30. Not only was he not impressed, he was angry that I would waste his time telling him about some of the less adventurous activities I'd done as a part of the project.

He seemed mildly intrigued by the the whirlwind vacation I took with Mountain Man, but overall, my attempt at doing things I've never done before really seemed to piss him off.

I kept trying to defend myself, tried to explain to him that I don't have the money or the time to travel the world and do adventurous things every single day. I'm simply attempting to do new things in the context of my regular life.

I later found out from someone who knew angry guy that he had recently married a girl from another country so that she could get her green card, so clearly his sense of adventure is much greater than mine.

Whereas wearing red nail polish or learning to play the banjo present two challenges for me, tricking the Federal Government is more his speed.

To each his own, I guess.

A few black velvets later and we called St. Patrick's Day an enormous success. New friends, we pimped the blog, and a new favorite cocktail that I will definitely be enjoying again.

Day 132: La Tavola Date Night

On Day 132, I had plans to go out on a first date with a guy I met at a friend's engagement party. I guess the entire evening with this new person was the thing I've never done before, but in the spirit of not making this a dating blog, I'm not going to delve into the details of him, or the date necessarily. I also am not in the business of making people a part of this blog without their permission, so like Mountain Man, I asked my friend Emily to name this new guy for me. Emily named this gentleman (and he was a gentleman), "Masters" because he golfs and he's from Augusta.

When it was settled that we would go out on Saturday, Masters politely asked for my help in choosing a place for us to go to dinner, which I appreciated and dreaded all at the same time. Nice that he wanted me to choose, but daunting because what if I chose a restaurant that he hated or was too expensive?

I'm not looking to drain anyone's bank account on a first date, but I've mistakenly led guys to believe that I'm super low maintenance and laid back, waiting too long before telling them that I really do like nice dinners at expensive restaurants.

Better, I figure, to reveal my true personality up front. Not all the crazy stuff, but at least the part that likes good Italian.

Plus, I thought, it's a date and I wanted it to feel that way, so I threw out three suggestions of nice and moderately priced restaurants and threw it back to him to choose where we went (tricky, huh?). Lucky for me and for the blog, Masters chose La Tavola, making dining there Day 132's thing I've never done before.

La Tavola is an Italian restaurant in the Virginia-Highlands neighborhood of Atlanta. The restaurant came highly recommended for good reason. The food and atmosphere are awesome, in an unpretentious but super classy way. The place is small and intimate, which I liked, but since there isn't much of a waiting area, and we didn't get seated right away, we had to do the awkward "not-sure-where-to stand" dance around each other and around the tables of other people.

That dance was a small price to pay for the evening, though, because once we we escorted to our table and had a place to sit down, the awkwardness subsided, the conversation flowed and our meal was fabulous. And that's all you get. I told you this isn't a dating blog.

Day 104: Driveway Sushi Beat Down

This blog is all about resisting the urge to sit at home or to do what I've always done. Sometimes these adventures are planned, and sometimes I just like to see where the day takes me and when someone offers me something to do, I do it.

Day 104 was not at all planned, but it turned out to be full of things I'd never done before.

Starting first at Andrew's house, where I escaped the awful winter weather. There was snow and ice all over the ground, so everyone was pretty much hiding out in the city. Snow in the south seems to lose its appeal after a couple of days in the south and by Saturday, I was over it. So I went to Andrew's with no real plan of doing anything.

I hadn't seen Andrew since the Blue Moon Widespread New Year's. But we hadn't really talked in months. We have the kind of friendship where we won't see each other in months, and then we spend one dinner catching up on three months of time. This was our catch up day, and all of a sudden day 104's thing I've never done before was drink wine in the middle of the afternoon and tell the story of Mountain Man, and the trip out west. Again.

Weird? Yes.

The fact that I took such a wild and crazy trip was interesting to him. The fact that I managed to take the trip and go this long without him even knowing about it was interesting to me, especially since he claimed to read my blog. Busted, Andrew.

We got about half-way through the story, when we realized we needed more wine (the story requires copious amounts of alcohol, I find). When we returned, I took a tumble on Andrew's driveway, learning the hard way that high heels and white snow are not a good combination.

Normally I would've jumped right up and tried to play it off like I didn't just face plant in the snow, but I couldn't. The fall was like a metaphor for the week I just had, and 2010 so far. I just sat there, feeling completely defeated by his snowy driveway, and by life, and laughed. Andrew did too. We laughed so hard we couldn't speak. I think I cried I was laughing so hard, which is on my list of top five favorite things to do.

At some point I got up, brushed the snow off my pants and managed to get back inside the house without killing myself so that I could continue Stephanie's Life Story Over the Last Three Months, Part II.

After the marathon storytelling, we decided that dinner was in order. So we went to eat sushi at a little place near Andrew's house. I managed to make it down the hill with no more spills, miraculously.

Andrew walked into first sushi restaurant we had planned on going to. I was following him. He took two steps into the place and turned immediately around with a weird expression on his face. He said, "Yeah, let's go somewhere else."

I laughed because I thought he was kidding.

But he wasn't and started walking quickly to his car. He explained that when he walked in he saw a girl he went out on a date with and didn't want to deal with seeing her again. I've seen this scenario in movies and on television, but I had never seen it happen in real life.

I tried to get him to tell me what really happened with the girl, but he refused, so I dropped it. Maybe he was embarrassed to be seen with me? Nah, that couldn't be it.

Regardless, we moved on to Taka sushi restaurant and I decided to purposely order octopus off the menu as the next thing I'd never done before.

Once again, another metaphor. This big, beautifully presented piece of fish that looks like it could be tasty, but turns out to be a whole lot of effort for not a lot of payoff. Octopus doesn't taste like anything but rubbery nothing. Not worth it. At all. If I'm going to have to chew on a piece of fish until my jaw hurts, I'd like to enjoy the taste of it. I wasn't completely grossed out, I just didn't understand the appeal.

After we ate sushi, I ignored my friend Maribeth's advice and watched the film, 500 Days of Summer. She said the film would depress me, but I thought it was great. I actually thought it was hopeful. "You Make My Dreams Come True" by Hall 'n Oates also happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time, too, so I especially loved the spontaneous dance scene in the park.

Day 104 was falling in the snow and eating octopus, seemingly unrelated events that all felt like metaphors for my life. 2010 was not off to a great start.

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 74: Strawberry Fields and Friends Forever

Thanks to the cold sake, the brown liquor mixed drinks and whatever else, Thursday started out a bit painful.

Nothing that the cold city air can't fix, though. And I was determined not to waste my time feeling sorry for myself. I was in New York! On vacation!

Like usual during all of these trips, Day 74 was a day full of things I'd never done before, include take a walk in Strawberry Fields, see the butterfly exhibit at the Natural History Museum and almost get stood up for dinner by someone I'd never met.

Strawberry Fields is a landscaped area of Central Park between 71st and 74th streets. It was named Strawberry Fields after late Beatle John Lennon, who was shot and killed in front of his apartment building at72nd and Central Park West. The area includes an Imagine mosaic and a Garden of Peace. I'm a Beatles fan, and a music fan in general, so I was glad I got to see this spot. It was lovely. And peaceful.

After grabbing some lunch at the Shake Shack, I walked to the Museum of Natural History and decided to go to the highly recommended Butterfly Conservatory. The exhibit is inside a greenhouse of sorts with more than 500 butterflies flying all around. Very cool. A butterfly landed on my hand while I was inside and stayed there for several minutes. I probably would've enjoyed it more if it wasn't so hot in there, but it was like stepping into the rainforest, and I was wearing a winter coat. Butterflies like things warm, I guess.

I walked by the famous Beacon Theatre, and decided that I must see the Allman Brothers there before I die. Maybe this year for the blog? Unfortunately the only acts that were playing there close to when I was visiting were Il Divo and the Jonas Brothers.

I milled around Columbus Avenue, grabbed a hot cider at the Magnolia Bakery (not the Magnolia Bakery, the second one), and walked up the Upper West side until it was time to meet a friend for dinner.

The friend was Gideon, and he and I met in 2008. We were employees of companies who worked closely together, so Gideon and I spoke daily about work. Just like any co-worker, we got to know each other on a personal level as well. I don't talk to some of my best friends everyday, but I spoke to Gideon at least once, often two or three times everyday for an entire year.

He knew about my family, my friends, when I was happy, when I was sad, and I knew about his. He became, over time, like my long-distance work husband. He talked me through breakups and when his mother died, I ached for him and his family as if I'd known her, and him, my whole life.

But I'd never even laid eyes on him. Not in person, anyway.

So of all the people that I wanted to see when I was in New York, Gideon was definitely one of the names at the top of the list. We exchanged emails ahead of my visit and we arranged to meet at a restaurant in Harlem near where he lived. I showed up there at 7:30pm, told the hostess I was meeting someone, possibly two people, took a seat, and waited.

At 7:45pm, he still hadn't showed up yet. I'm habitually late (not something I'm proud of), so I didn't think anything of it. I emailed a mutual friend of ours back in Atlanta.

"At what time," I wrote, "do I give up on Gideon and conclude that he's not coming."

"Gideon's a no show?" Devon responded. "That doesn't sound him."

I emailed Mountain Man, "I think Day 74's thing I've never done before might be 'get stood up.'"

The wait staff was starting to feel badly for me. They kept coming to my table and asking me if they could bring me anything. Finally I ordered a beer, still keeping the faith that he would arrive. I wondered if they thought I was on a first date or something. I guess I kind of was, only Gideon is engaged and getting married this summer. Plus our relationship was never like that. We were friends, like brother and sister.

8pm rolled around and I tracked down Gideon's number and left him a message. Then I texted him. I refused to believe that he wouldn't show up. It just wasn't like the Gideon that I knew. I've been wrong about people before, but this one had me stumped.

Finally, at 8:15pm, I started to get worried that maybe something happened to him. But I decided I had occupied this table long enough. I paid my check and left.

Walking back to the subway, I was really bummed. Aside from not wanting to get stood up, I really wanted to meet my friend Gideon. While I was waiting for the train, I checked my blackberry and to my surprise, he had emailed me.

"Did you stand me up?" was all it said.

I thought he was jacking with me.

"What?! I was just there? Are you there?"

He told me to come back, and I did. Turns out he had been sitting at the bar for 45 minutes on the first floor, while I was sitting at a table on the second floor. I'm not quite sure how the hostess didn't make that connection considering we both told her we were meeting another person, but at that point, it didn't really matter.

It was Gideon! In person! We had a really good time catching up and esentially picked up right where we left off the last time we talked. Gideon's a teacher now, getting married this summer, so a lot has changed since we met. But he's still the dear friend that I met on the phone two years ago. Still giving me advice, still making me laugh.

After Gideon and I separated, I picked up Elise at work and we headed to one of her favorite spots, 10 Degrees. 10 Degrees is a mellow little wine bar in the East Village. Elise, like Gideon, is a friend that I met at work. She and I actually started our careers in the same entry-level way and have supported each other through several moves in our company. Though I was sad when she left Atlanta for New York, the move has been great for her. She loves the city and is, no surprise, kicking ass at her job.

Another successful New York night down. I love this city!