Go West (Part IV): Pines and Peaks

“Traveling…forces you to trust strangers and to lose sight of all that familiar comfort of home and friends. You are constantly off balance. Nothing is yours except the essential things—air, sleep, dreams, the sea, the sky—all things tending toward the eternal, or what we imagine of it.” –Cesare Pavese

When I decided I would head to Flagstaff for the Run S.M.A.R.T. Project Retreat, I didn’t know anybody else who had committed to it—a departure for somebody who has spent a decade worth of summers on vacation with 20 best college friends, in a massive house, on a beach, with unlimited, familiar amounts of laughter and antics. Would I make friends? Will I die of an asthma attack (or sheer embarrassment) at 7,000 feet on some random trail in the woods? Will I be too slow? What if nobody wants to run with me?

For a split second, I had all the anxieties of my 8-year-old self going to my first sleep-away swim camp. I also remembered that even back then I always managed to find somebody to eat lunch with.

So I registered. It was early spring—my focus squarely on Boston, my fitness at its peak, my confidence soaring. The thought of spending a week in a place that seemed a little magical and mystical to me, exploring the trails where the fastest runners in the world train, and having the opportunity to share the experience with a group of new people sounded like a fine way to jolt me out of my routine.

It was pre-injury. Pre-Boston Marathon deferment. Pre-disappointment. Pre-aggravation with all-things running. The week before I headed west, my hamstring relapsed into a painful state and was trying desperately to drag my spirit down with it. Thankfully, my head is by far my strongest asset and my saving grace (except, of course, when it’s really not…). Besides, what’s a little leg pain when you’re preoccupied with gasping for limited amounts of oxygen anyway?

We walked into the Embassy Suites lobby and were warmly welcomed to Flagstaff by my coach, Mike, who has lived there for about three years. Any trepidation I was harboring by that point vanished—the mark of a great coach is often an infectious enthusiasm at just the right time, and I won the jackpot when I signed on with Mike more than a year ago. His love of Flagstaff, of running, of fun, and of people made it impossible to be anything but eager for what the week held. And the fact that e-mails, phone calls, and texts had been our sole sources of connection for so long made the time together there even more meaningful.


On our first early morning run in Buffalo Park, I got my chance to meet the peaks and the pines, looming in front of us as the group embarked on its first jaunt. Finally, I understood what all the Flagstaff fuss was about—I was completely distracted by the surroundings, the cool, fresh morning air, and the opportunity to run with others, after a year of training nearly 100 percent by myself.

It marked the beginning of a week’s worth of breathtaking morning runs that gave us just a small taste of the endless trails to explore. It was the kind of training that never required a watch to keep track of pace or mileage—the altitude giving permission to run easy, the beauty and the company giving reason to simply savor each moment. The early hours gave way to leisurely breakfasts, which eased into afternoon sessions with a few of the best and brightest in the sport, generously sharing their time and expertise in everything from nutrition and fueling to injury prevention, recovery, and the art and science behind fitness and performance. There was gait analysis and track drills, an afternoon dip in a cold Sedona creek, and a “recovery day” of hiking at the Grand Canyon.

It was part vacation, part running camp. There was a lot to learn, more to observe, plenty to absorb. Lessons learned? Yes, plenty. A few in unexpected places:

Lesson 1: Choose wisely. When you enter a university cafeteria for lunch, give yourself one extra minute to really think through your options. Be cautious. And never, ever consume a tuna fish sandwich.

Lesson 2: Live and learn. So, you opted for the tuna fish. Fine. Now you’ll be throwing it up (and much more) all night long. If the running and altitude haven’t already caused dehydration, your body is certainly thanking you now for pushing it right over the edge, and adding a gigantic calorie deficit and sleep deprivation to the mix. By 6 a.m., though, it’ll be time to put on a happy face and head to Sedona, where you’ll fake your way through a run, jump in a creek, and pose for a Runner’s World photo shoot, knowing full well that when that issue hits the newsstand in the spring, your only thought will be, “I’m never eating tuna again.”

Lesson 3: Be grateful. I was truly surrounded by some of the kindest people in the world that week, which I would’ve recognized under normal circumstances, however I obviously added an entirely new dimension to the experience. Does your coach bring you smoothies when you’re sick? Or take you to Starbucks as soon as you’re all better? Mine does. Do your friends stay in, eat ice cream (yep, finally had reason and opportunity to visit Dairy Queen), and watch bad reality television with you when you’re not feeling well? Mine do (thanks, KC!). I even dragged myself out of the Grand Canyon, fueled by nothing but a handful of dry Cheerios, an obscene amount of Gu2O, and the constant encouragement of two fantastic hiking buddies (thanks Sue and Everett!).


Lesson 4: Laugh it off. I mean, really, if you can get through a bout of food poisoning and still manage to have an absolutely amazing experience, you know it was worth the price of admission and much, much more. Run S.M.A.R.T. put together an extraordinary week, with just the right balance of work and play. And they were relentless in their effort of ensuring everybody was having fun. If I wasn’t laughing or smiling through most of it, I have to think it was my own fault (see Lesson 1).

Last, but certainly not least, Lesson 5: It should always be about more than running. My favorite part of this sport is the ways in which it enriches every other part of my life. Thus, the best parts of the week were when conversations turned from calorie counting, PRs, racing goals, and training gear, to something more substantial (like Death Cab for Cutie, for example ;)). With any luck at all, while running may have brought this and many other groups together, the reward is when we look around the dinner table each night and it doesn’t much matter who is gunning for Boston, or is a world champion duathlete, or an Olympic trials qualifier, or the “World’s Best Coach.” The joy isn’t in discovering who wants to break 3 hours in a marathon or has found the ultimate training shoe. It’s finding out that the woman at the end of the table is on her first vacation in 14 years, the guy sitting next to you was on life support five years ago, the man across the table once landed a plane in some random farmer’s field during a blizzard, and a few people who were once just acquaintances have evolved into cherished friends.


Clearly I learned a lot…about running, about myself, about making smart sandwich decisions, and about the people around me. What I didn’t know, however, was that I had one more discovery to make, on the most beautiful run yet.

(To be continued…)

Go West (Part IV): Pines and Peaks

Go West (Part III): I Don't Like Your Girlfriend

“Travel at its truest is thus an ironic experience, and the best travelers…seem to be those able to hold two or three inconsistent ideas in their minds at the same time, or able to regard themselves as at once serious persons and clowns.” –Paul Fussell

What would you do if you could instantly have an hour of your life handed back to you? Would you treat it as a do-over, or simply go about your existence as if you didn’t just get 60 minutes added to it?

It’s difficult to say if that hour is truly adding anything valuable when you’re spending it within the confines of Page, AZ, save more time with good friends. Scenic? Yes. Odd? Extraordinarily (though maybe not as eccentric as Kanab, UT). Cultural mecca? Really, no. Dairy Queen? Of course not.

By crossing that Utah border into Arizona, there is yet a whole new time zone at your disposal. In that spirit, we were sure to stop by the local Safeway to stock up on a few bottles of wine, to be ceremoniously consumed in our three-bedroom apartment-style accommodations at Debbie’s Hideaway, across the street from Bashful Bob’s motel.

Perhaps there were red flags that I chose to ignore, like the fake flowers planted outside our door or the distinct feeling that I’d landed at grandma’s house, where odd collections of trinkets like Monopoly pieces and dusty old books are displayed in glass china cabinets in the family room. I rattled around our fully stocked kitchen and discovered that if we wanted to make Thanksgiving dinner, we were set. If we wanted to uncork a bottle of wine? Not so much.


At that moment, while KC and Alissa had retreated to their bedrooms to get ready for dinner, there was a knock on our door. Rick, the not-so-proud manager of Debbie’s Hideaway, was there to collect a credit card.

“You don’t happen to have a wine opener anywhere, do you?” I asked.

“You know, that’s the second time this week somebody needed one and I don’t have one,” Rick said. “But I did come up with a solution. I’ll be right back.”

I knew he wasn’t lying, because I was still in full possession of my credit card.

Rick came back with an electric drill, a pair of pliers, and a screw. He was right. He had a solution. To this day I still regret that I didn’t capture it on camera, but it suffices to say that we had two open bottles of vino ready and waiting, and nobody got hurt in the process. I’m also strongly considering packing power tools the next time I go on vacation.

I followed Rick over to his “office” (complete with metal-frame futon couch) to pay for our stay. Along the way I took the opportunity to ask if the sushi restaurant in town was good. And by “good,” I meant, “safe.” Consuming sushi in the desert seemed dubious to me.

“It is really good. And I’m a sushi snob,” he said. “I moved here from L.A.”

“Ah, so you share my concerns—the three of us are (mostly) from New York,” I responded. “How did you end up in Page from Los Angeles, anyway?”

“Did you see the motel down the block? Bashful Bob’s?” Rick said. “Bob is my dad.”

“Is he bashful?” I asked, naturally.

“Actually not at all, but he’s in his eighties and he needs help, so I moved here 13 months ago,” he said.

“So that must be a big adjustment. How do you like it?”

Rick looked at me earnestly and replied, “It’s awful. I haven’t had a date in 13 months. And it’s not like I can go around sleeping with all the guests.”

“Clearly,” I thought.

I made as graceful an exit as I could muster while Rick extended an invitation for the three of us to join him on the patio after dinner, where, he said, he and his buddy would likely be having a few beers.

So when we returned from dinner—Mexican, because the sushi joint was closed for a private party!—we tried to get into our room from the opposite side of the building. In our deliriousness, we were actually attempting to break into the wrong room. Oops. We hastily b-lined to the other door adjacent to the patio, fairly certain we went unnoticed.

I poured the wine. Into three coffee mugs. Already aware that there was no corkscrew in the kitchen, I’m not sure what part of my logic assumed there would be stemware.

We toasted to our week that was—all that we had seen, done, talked about, laughed at, and experienced. And after one mug of wine, it was time to get the party started. And by “party,” I mean “dance party.”


There was vintage Madonna, among other 80s faves, but then out of nowhere, iTunes kicked out Avril Lavigne. Funny how we’re all responsible for our own playlists, yet nobody claims the random guilty pleasure until it is too late. Music libraries—and the shuffle—never lie. Avril was passionately declaring, “Hey, you, I don’t like your girlfriend!” and for some reason it struck a nerve (really, ladies, who hasn’t felt that way at one time or another?!).

“I think you need to new one!” we sang, very badly, and very loudly, while laughing hysterically.

And then, another knock on the door, which froze us in our haphazard footsteps. We stared at each other for about 10 seconds. Then instantaneously ran to the back of one of the bedrooms, reminiscent of getting busted at a high school party, though we stopped short of escaping through the window. After about a minute of giggling uncontrollably we realized how ridiculous it was that three adult women were scared of getting in trouble. So we sent KC out to be the grown up. Alissa and I continued to hover in the back corner of the bedroom.

Guess who? Yep. Rick. Who, after about 2.5 mugs of wine, was officially being referred to as The Ricker. As long as we were dancing to 80s music, we thought we’d also pay some homage to Silver Spoons. And as you might imagine, we were so NOT getting busted. He “heard” that we were still up, so he extended that patio invitation one more time.

We took him up on it, topping off our mugs and heading out to the picnic table to join The Ricker and his buddy (whose name escapes me). After trading tales of our travels and hearing a little bit more local lore—apparently Bob’s, umm, exploits make him the complete opposite of bashful—Rick disclosed that he was a struggling actor in L.A. Not a shock. His claim to fame? Besides some disturbing, inappropriate photos of some Hollywood party gone horribly wrong, his big break came as a character on the television series Bablyon 5. I didn’t know what it was either, but I gather from the trading cards that The Ricker shared, it entailed playing some weird science-fiction creature and a lot of makeup.

If the trading cards weren’t enough of a hint, the nearly four mugs of wine and the prospect of the week-long running retreat in Flagstaff beginning the next day, made me come to the conclusion that it was time to call it a night. The Ricker was sad to say goodbye, of course. He took my hand, refused to let it go, kissed it, and declared, “You are so cute.”

Alissa couldn’t contain her laughter long enough to get us behind our closed door, as I just rolled my eyes and lamented, once again, that I have the unwelcomed ability to seemingly only attract the oddest, most desperate of men. On the upside, at least this one came with his very own trading card.

So, now we can see what can happen when you have 60 minutes handed back to you in a day.

Morning seemed to come way too fast, as it usually does following a bizarre, wine-infused late night. With an aching head and parched throat, I threw my belongings into the car and waited for my partners-in-crime to return from Starbucks so we could make a quick escape out of dodge.


After greasy breakfast and a stop at Horseshoe Bend, we were heading south on Rt. 89 to the final destination of Flagstaff. The desert started to fade behind us and the lush mountains loomed in front of us, as the car thermometer dropped from 105 degrees to 69 degrees in a matter of 10 minutes. A brand-new week was ahead and I was beyond excited to see what it would bring.

As we pulled into the Embassy Suites parking lot, the three of us broke into laughter. What to our wandering eyes should appear, just across the street from our new home-away-from-home? Dairy Queen.

It was a sign.

(To be continued…)

Go West (Part III): I Don't Like Your Girlfriend

Go West (Part II): Mother Nature…and Dairy Queen

“Vagabonding is about gaining the courage to loosen your grip on the so-called certainties of this world. Vagabonding is about refusing to exile travel to some other, seemingly more appropriate time of your life. Vagabonding is about taking control of your circumstances instead of passively waiting for them to decide your fate.” –Rolf Potts

It’s highly possible that we didn’t qualify as bona-fide vagabonds, but it was about as close as we could get in five-day’s worth of a road trip through a fraction of the southwest, lugging our bags in and out of a different motel each night, spending our days exhaustively exploring the stunning surroundings on foot.

Everywhere we went, my eyes drank in natural beauty that my mind could never put to words. A simple walk to a nondescript Mexican restaurant outside of Hurricane, UT had me staring at a backdrop of deep red bluffs and a mountain range basically sitting at the intersection of the Mojave Desert and the Colorado Plateau. As the cars zipped by us on a road that drivers made clear was not often frequented by pedestrians, I wondered if all these people saw what I saw, or have they been here so long that they don’t even see it anymore? Or perhaps, for some, it’s all they’ve ever seen?

We had inadvertently chosen some of the hottest days of the year to spend entirely outside. Despite our best efforts, morning running followed by coffee, breakfast, packing lunch for the day’s hikes, and driving to the next destination usually resulted in beginning each trek at just about noon. Brilliant. By then, temperatures were usually reaching more than 100 degrees—I’m fairly certain that we left about 95 percent of ourselves in sweat on some of the most scenic trails in Utah. I was also convinced that my water bottle was going to have to be surgically removed from my right hand in order to pass through airport security on the way home.


At Zion, we took on a trail that led to Observation Point—a round trip of 8 miles, including a steep ascent of 2,000 feet to the top of Mount Baldy, where you could see most of the attractions of the canyon and beyond. At Bryce, we fashioned a 6-mile route out of the Navajo Loop and Peekaboo Trail, through Queens Garden and up to Sunset Point. At Lake Powell, we cooled off in the water at Lone Rock, after touring Antelope Canyon, on the Navajo Reservation in Page, and visiting Horseshoe Bend, where a short hike ends on a cliff nearly 1,000 feet above the emerald-green Colorado River, just where it makes an astounding turn around yet another enormous sandstone-rock formation.


What we saw was, of course, amazing. At some points I was convinced we landed on a different planet. The mysterious hoodoos jutting straight up in the air at Bryce, the creams and pinks and reds of the sandstone cliffs against the brilliant blue skies at Zion, and the smooth, spiraling rock in the narrow slot Antelope Canyon were all equally breathtaking in surprisingly unique ways. And when I stopped to remind myself that they are all natural formations, it made them all that much more awe-inspiring. Reading a brief bit of Navajo history later on, it said that entering a place like Antelope Canyon was akin to going into a cathedral, where Native Americans could “leave with an uplifted feeling of what Mother Nature has to offer, and to be in harmony with something greater than themselves.”

Yes, that about sums it up.


When all was said and done each night—when we were finally settled in for some hard-earned sleep—I couldn’t help but think that the parts of the journey that will forever stay with me will include everything I couldn’t capture with my camera: The talks the three of us had on every trail, from silly to serious, to thought-provoking, to laughter-inducing (“Would you rather have to marry [insert name of the most horrible ex-boyfriend on the planet here] and spend the rest of your life with him, or be forced to eat four circus peanuts every day until you die?”); the spontaneous Aretha Franklin sing-a-long in the car driving out of Bryce; the rare moments of quiet when each of us seemed deep in our own heads (or, um, tagging photos on Facebook...); the daily peanut butter-and-jelly lunch breaks on the trails; my solo early morning runs, when I discovered serene parts of the world I convinced myself that nobody else has ever seen; the sweet, sweet relief of sitting in that cold stream at Zion after the hottest, sweatiest hike ever; finally finding that perfectly tart lemonade I had been fantasizing about for days; parking lot yoga; and two words that the three of us will never be able to utter again without laughing: Dairy Queen (ever notice that the one time you’re actually craving it, you can’t find one to save your life, further proving the theory that we always want what we can’t have…?).


Before it was time to head to Flagstaff and bid farewell to Alissa, we had one last night to celebrate it all, in the metropolis of Page. What happens when you combine three exhausted women, iTunes, a couple of bottles of wine, and a motel called…ready?...Debbie’s Hideaway? Yeah. Stay tuned.

(To be continued…)

Go West (Part II): Mother Nature…and Dairy Queen

Go West (Part I): Three Girls, a Prius, and a Running Retreat

I was ready to lose myself. On the trails. In the mountains. Through the canyons. Running. Hiking. Walking. Swimming. Sitting. Giggling. Talking. Listening. Watching. Contemplating. Learning. Loving. I just wanted to lose myself. In all of it. In an adventure.

The plane touched down in 107-degree Las Vegas that Wednesday afternoon, and as I patiently waited for my bag to make its way back to me, the inevitable fogginess of airplane travel quickly lifted, replaced by giddy excitement for the 10 days ahead. I’d see things I never saw. I’d meet people I never knew. I’d think about things I never considered. I’d be challenged and humbled. I’d be amused and awed. I’d be tired and rejuvenated. I’d be completely grossed out by more than one hotel-room comforter.

I couldn’t wait.

Part One of this expedition was a journey across the Nevada border, into southern Utah to explore Zion, Bryce, and then northern Arizona’s Lake Powell, before two of us planted ourselves in Flagstaff for Part Two: a week-long running retreat. Alissa pulled up to the airport curb, KC and I loaded our bags into the back of the trusty Prius, and we took off down the Strip, toward the highway east. We were on our way, already engrossed in about 15 different conversations before we even hit the fountains in front of the Bellagio.

It didn’t take long until we lost track of time. Literally. Three cell phones, a watch, and the car clock couldn’t agree on a time zone. One was still on Eastern. Another on Pacific. And yet another declared Mountain. And if you’ve ever experienced a trek across the Nevada-Utah-Arizona region, you can commiserate. It took three women with a plethora of higher-education degrees among them, a Google search, and one comical call home to a confused brother back in New York to figure it out.

Not that it mattered. It seemed we really had nothing but time on our hands—the way vacation always feels in the beginning. It’s liberating, being off the clock and out of touch for a little while.


And there is something about heading west that instantly relaxes my mind and puts me at an ease I rarely achieve in my everyday eastern existence. Maybe it’s the mountains. My eyes can never get enough of them. I stare and admire and gawk and I never tire of their majesty. They make me feel so small, in every good way possible—in a way that the concrete and steel monstrosities of the city never could. I look at the peaks and want to run to the top of every one of them in search of whatever’s up there, and to look through clouds at the towns below, making up stories in my mind about what’s going on down there. Mountains give me fresh perspective and imagination and curiosity. I can’t get enough.

And so we began on our journey unaware of what it would become. What conversations would be had, what mysteries we'd solve, which sites would be seen, what characters we’d encounter, which stories we’d tell when it was all over, and which ones would remain our little secrets.

It was the perfect summer excursion: Three Girls, a Prius, and a Running Retreat. Enjoy the ride.

(To be continued...)

Go West (Part I): Three Girls, a Prius, and a Running Retreat

Forward Motion

Lots of writers find inspiration in personal tragedy, whether real or perceived. They are most introspective and creative when they’re in a dark place.

I’m not one of those writers. I don’t enjoy the dark. I’ll pick a sunrise over a sunset any day. When life feels wrong, I suddenly have absolutely nothing to say. Luckily for my livelihood (and, um, sanity), despite its share of challenges, life has almost always felt right, or at least how it is meant to be.

But all the thoughts and words I’ve wanted to pour out over the last few months have been locked inside my mind the way water gets stuck deep in your ear after a day of swimming. You feel it in there and it’s agitating. No matter which way you move or how hard you shake your head, it won’t come out. Every day, I sit down to write, settling myself to work in the very place that has triggered more imagination than I’ve ever known what to do with, and I’ve got nothing. It hasn’t simply been a case of writer’s block. It’s been a case of stagnation and self pity. And I’m done with it.

I started out a run yesterday on what I’ve dubbed my “comeback trail”—during the ongoing healing and rehab of my hamstring injury, it’s a place that ensures I stay on flat terrain and take it easy. And as I take my first few steps, content to keep jogging a dreadfully slow, but exceedingly safe pace, I start to finally feel a gush of emotions. And I take off at a speed that my horribly unfit body and my left leg have no business sustaining for the next 60 minutes.

The sensation of moving ahead as fast as possible feels glorious after months of feeling like I was all but standing still. I begin to realize that it has nothing to do with the act of running itself—it’s almost as if my body’s motion is on autopilot, forcefully showing my intellect that I have the ability to press forward, that nobody except me is holding me back. Rationally I know that what I am doing is wrong, that I could hurt myself all over again. But my heart pleads for a run that isn’t measured in minutes or miles. It wants one measured in faith and conviction and confidence and passion—all the parts of me that I had gradually lost along the way, so slowly that I didn’t even know they were gone.

I think about where I am and know that it’s not where I belong. I think about what’s keeping me here and come up with no answer. I think about the gifts that I’ve been given, and know with every ounce of my being that I’m not honoring them or using them for the greater good. I think about how beautiful my surroundings are and how I haven’t appreciated them in far too long. And the truth makes me angry, because that’s never been who I am. I don’t need an office or a boss or a dream job to make a difference. I don’t allow life to be dictated by fear. I don’t shy away from love or risk or adventure because I’m afraid of getting hurt.

It makes me run faster, that outrage. But with every gasp for air, I feel a stronger sense of the person I am more familiar with: she’s the one who can concoct a plan out of nothing and make a good idea work. She has purpose. She has direction and discipline and an appreciation for mischief. She loves to work hard when she believes in the work being done. Most importantly, she has a sense of humor and embraces fun. She laughs. All the time. She knows that the life she dreams of can be hers, if only she keeps moving forward.

I smile.

For the first time in a while, I know I’m running toward something, instead of away from everything. My face is caked in salt from sweat, instead of tears. I will feel a sleepiness at night that I have craved for months—the kind induced by physical exhaustion and a productive day, instead of the lethargy that is the result of ongoing procrastination and anxiety.

I relax my pace as the end of the trail nears, and my cadence slows to a walk. I turned back to look at my Comeback Trail and know that the pounding I just gave my legs may have been one big mistake. But I’ll own it and take responsibility for it.

It’s then that I realize that I don’t run because it’s a hobby. I don’t run because I’ll ever be the fastest. I don’t run to compete. I don’t run to bring home another cheap medal with a 2-cent ribbon strung through it. I don’t run for pride or ego or a certificate to hang on the refrigerator.

I run because it makes me who I am.

Forward Motion

When it Rains...Go Dancing

I used to be that girl who sat on the sidelines. At bars, weddings, parties, concerts—it didn’t matter—you were never going to catch me making a fool of myself dancing, no matter how many gin & tonics I had sipped.

Genetically speaking, there’s really no reason why I should feel comfortable cutting a rug. I don’t come from a long line of outrageously outgoing people. Nor can I find a whole lot of rhythm floating around the gene pool—musically gifted, yes, but there’s an important difference there. I enrolled in years of tap-dancing lessons as a small child. But even at age 6, the significance that I was the smallest girl in the class and I still ended up in the second row at recital time didn’t escape me. No matter, though. I loved the sound of my tiny little black shoes hitting the hard-wood floor, the pretty costumes, and the one night of the year we were allowed to wear makeup. The time we got to dance—and sing!—to Annie, dressed up as orphans on stage may have been the highlight of elementary school (I can see all women of my generation nodding their heads in unison and appreciation right now).

See, if I surrendered to DNA, I’d probably be clinically depressed and dead by age 40. And so, some time ago, I stopped paying attention to self-imposed inhibitions. Also, I seem to have acquired friends who simply don’t accept insecurity as a reason to say “no” to, um, anything. I learned the hard way that being dragged to the dance floor caused far more embarrassment than my lack of dancing skills ever could.

And thank god for that. Now, I dance. And I have long-since stopped caring what I look like when I do it. Lately, I’ve danced a lot. Because, as anybody east of the Mississippi can attest, it’s been raining for like two months. And I’ve officially been living in Saylorsburg, PA for a year now, which is approximately 365 days longer than I ever planned. And I still can’t run more than 20 minutes at a time. And I don’t know where I want to move or what to be when I grow up.

These are all valid reasons to board a flight to Vegas and meet 40 (yes, 4-0) friends for a completely ridiculous 48 hours of, well, ridiculousness. We all know the rule about Vegas, but I can divulge that for the first time in maybe forever, I left my running shoes at home. I, of course, packed my party clothes and dancing shoes. And they got quite a workout—still going strong even after being awake for more than 24 hours. It’s amazing what can happen to a gal fueled by a killer buffet. And, yes, a couple of gin & tonics, too.

A few days later, I went to Queens to celebrate Avi and Courtney’s newly minted marriage. Oh, yes, there was dancing there, too. And it was good.

Here’s the thing I’ve realized over the past couple of weeks: No matter what’s going on, it’s impossible to be mad, frustrated, or grumpy when you’ve gathered up a bunch of friends and are moving to the music, even if you have as few moves as I do. Dancing and smiling are inextricably linked. Try it without cracking a grin—I dare you. Music + movement =instant therapy…or at least temporary amnesia from whatever ails you. Also, have you ever seen what happens to a roomful of 30somethings when a DJ plays “Livin’ on a Prayer?” Mayhem.

So, at least until the sun finally shines again (literally…figuratively…), don’t be surprised if you see me cuing some music and flailing about my living room...or swaying while washing the dishes. I don’t need a trip to Vegas or a wedding anymore to get me going.

Gin & tonics, although always appreciated, are also not required.

When it Rains...Go Dancing

Happy Summer

Here we go again...the unofficial start of summer. In honor of the season upon us, I thought I'd share an adorable little video somebody sent my way. Who knows where all those miles in the next four months will lead you?!

Enjoy and let the fun begin!

Happy Summer