Because It's National Coffee Day

I’m here to set the record straight: I’m not addicted to coffee.

I’ll admit, I’m like the middle school girl who pines for the most recent teen heartthrob idol and adorns her binder (which is already emblazoned with his face and brand, thanks to Wal-Mart capitalism) with his name and hearts, and she won’t shut up about him - but when it comes down to it, she isn’t even dating Justin Bieber/Zac Efron/Brock from Pokemon.

So I talk about coffee all the time; it doesn’t mean we’re together.

You could call me the emotionally abusive/absent boyfriend. Ask me if I drink coffee, and I’ll say I only drink it twice a week – three times if I’m especially sleep deprived – which is true, but it implies a sort of objectivity and detachment from my mistress. Which is definitely not the case.

In fact, I have nicknamed my fondness “#bae.” And like a misogynistic boyfriend, I have preferences for my #bae: Iced and with soy. (Pause here: Misogyny actually isn’t a joke; I can rant about this at another time. Besides coffee, feminism is a passion of mine.)

My friend recently told me that she found a coffee shop on Yelp “that supposedly has the best iced coffee in Richmond. I knew you’d appreciate this. You’re my only friend who loves iced coffee and not just coffee. It is a separate creature, really.” No kidding; iced coffee is a unicorn compared to just to regular, blah, hot coffee.

I didn’t wait for my friend before I tried the coffee.

So based on this adoration, you must be wondering how am I not addicted? Well, like I said, I limit myself to #bae twice a week. So physically I’m not addicted. But emotionally, it’s a different story. I schedule things around the days I allow myself to overdose on Americano on the rocks (that’s what my friend told me the Europeans call iced coffee, and I like to be pretentious). Here where the problem lies: I want #bae every day.

Like, I wish you could bring iced coffee to cycling class instead of water.

I hail from a family of caffeine junkies. Heck, I hail from a nation full of them; we might have poured tea into the bay, but we run on Dunkin and, Gabriel knows, Starbucks is a millennial mecca. People don’t judge if you waken to the coffee pot and need the black stuff to get through listless afternoons. #bae whispers, “What would be so bad about addiction?”

I remember the first time I unlocked the omnipotence of coffee. Two years ago to this month – the third Wednesday of my senior year at college – I had slept ten hours the night before, but I felt as dead as a patient undergoing open heart surgery, and so being as cheap as a broker who banks in the Caribbean, I sought self-service Starbucks (it’s a college campus thing) where instead of paying full price, I filled a 32 oz. soda cup with straight iced coffee (double brewed if it’s Starbucks!), maybe three ice cubes, and a splash of soy milk. Then I went to work where I casually sipped my bae down in about fifteen minutes.

Your eyes probably just bulged. If they didn’t, they should have. I came that close to cardiac arrest that day.

BUT MY GOD, HOW GOOD IT FELT.

Some people get the spins when they’re drunk. I get the pulses when I’m (over)caffeinated. You are infinite. You can run for hours – physically and metaphorically. You are fearless.

The reason I am afraid of addiction is as messed up as that high I had on September 12, 2012: I don’t want a tolerance. I want to be able to get back to that high whenever I please. And if I’m caffeinated every day, eventually it will be an everyday thing, and it won’t be special.

Am I overthinking this? Obviously. But that’s my trademark.

So I sip my #bae and forget these qualms. And senses awaken. Energy proliferates. Social media abounds (because did you really order #Sbx if you didn’t insta it?). And what’s another coffee tomorrow, the next day, even later today? As long as I’m not addicted.

Tis the season: Sweater Weather

As the roommates and I went for a brisk walk last night, we took in what would be the final walk of the summer. And while typically I'd feel upset about the end of summer, this year, I can't but only be a little sad to see the summer sun set. Because autumn is officially here. A time for jeans, plaid (is plaid still a thing, I hope so because I love it), boots, sweaters, scarves and hats. Well, not so much hats because I'm not a hat person, but I like the idea of being able to wear a hat.

I have a special place in my heart for New England falls, but last year's Richmond fall was equally wonderful. And with the plethora of fall-themed activities I have in mind, this autumn will be sure to top it all. Pumpkin flavored everything, carving pumpkins, picking pumpkins, taking pictures next to pumpkins, and thinking about pumpkins only comes second to apple picking, cider drinking and perfect fall weather walks. And changing leaves. And falling leaves. And the scent of fall. There's really nothing better.

Plus, the perfect fall weather means that you don't have to worry about your toes looking good all the time, a headband is an easy way to make your hair look presentable, and if you gain a few extra pounds, who cares? No one is seeing you in a bathing suit anymore.

So if none of that made any sense, I get it. I'm so excited for fall that it's almost impossible to prioritize which reasons are most important.

I hope you all share in my enthusiasm, dive your feet into your boots and enjoy the perfect temperate weather.

A restless nights sleep

Sleep is a time for your body to relax and rejuvenate itself for the next day. It's graceful and peaceful and pictureesque. Except not for me.

Sleep is a time for me to be in about as much physical motion as I am awake. Let's just say I'm like a weird zombie when I sleep. It's probably one of my most embarrassing traits because I have no chance of controlling how weird it gets. At least when I'm awake and being a creep, I know it's happening and can mitigate it. So with a bit of shame, here's a list of things I've done in my sleep that are bizarre. And I'm sure it's not an exhaustive list because someone has to be awake to tell me it's happening for me to know it happened.

Let's start off mildly and work our way to the extremes. When I was younger, I used to share a room with my sister, so we can thank her for the observations she's collected over the years.

You sound like a beached whale.

Ahhhh, what a compliment. It takes me awhile every night to find a comfy way to lay, so as eloquently as my sister said it, I sound like a big dying fish out of water.

And if I couldn't find that comfy way to lay, I'd shake my legs because I'd be getting annoyed that I could not fall asleep. So let's call that my restless leg syndrome.

Then, I'd eventually fall asleep, wake up again, and convince myself that I had never slept at all. So then I'd go downstairs to tell my mom about it. Or better yet, I'd wake her up to tell her I wasn't asleep.

But what can be even worse than that? Oh, just me sleepwalking downstairs. Then I'd wake up mid-way through some mumbles to my mom and get terribly freaked out.

Or I'd wake up sitting in my closet.

Or in the middle of the floor.

Or sitting in between me and my sisters bed on the shag rug.

And then it'd be really dark, so I'd just lay back down and sleep on the floor until it was light enough to be able to see my bed again.

So THANK GOD I stopped sleepwalking in my later years, but I'm not totally out of the woods yet. I'm still a creepy sleeper from time to time.

I talk in my sleep pretty regularly, and then have to remember to warn people that it'll probably happen. I grind my teeth, and I'm somewhat convinced I snore a little when I sleep on my back.

And oh yeah, I dress and undress myself. For example, I like to sleep naked a lot. There's just nothing like the feeling of sheets all over you. Anyways, if I go to bed naked, there's a pretty good chance I'll wake up with a shirt that I had put on at some point in the night.

And vice versa. Sometimes I wake up and I just so happened to be missing my shirt. Awesome.

But potentially the creepiest thing I have started doing is looking at my phone. This really should be a sign of the times. I shit you not, I've read and answered texts before. Nothing major, and most of the time I just instinctively read it and roll over, but this one time I looked at my phone and realized I sent a text saying "just don't even worry about it," to a statement that really did not deserve anything remotely similar to that response.

I no longer sleep with my phone within reach, but I wouldn't put it past me that it can happen again.

So now that I've shared probably the trait that I have that freaks me out the most, who wants to have a sleepover?

Exercising my right to complain about exercise classes

By Cazey Williams Sara told me that people like lists, and I like complaining. In fact, to get my own tab on Tweets & Mascara, I told Sara, “I bet I can find something to complain about every week.”

I assume most people have attended some sort of exercise class in their life. So tonight I thought I’d list what spikes my blood pressure in group exercise classes other than actually working out. For example:

When class ends early. When I ate my third slice of pizza at lunch (or let’s be real, fourth, because is anyone taking that?), I am anticipating a full 60 minutes of sweat. So when the instructor has me out of the room ten minutes to the top of the hour, I haven’t reached my perceived quota of calories burned. What am I supposed to do? Hop on a treadmill for a 10-minute interval training program? Or better yet, order more pizza when I get home?

Similarly, when class begins late, this ticks me off. 1.) You’re cutting into my hour of calorie burning. And 2.) I’m here to exercise my body, not my social anxiety. Enough awkward time with my phone out of reach!

“You’re stronger than your mind.” This is how instructors begin a lot of classes. And you’re right; I am. Because I am here and did not skip. I resisted going early to happy hour / devouring dark chocolate blueberries that aren’t even actual blueberries (looking at you, Brookside Dark Chocolates) / working through life responsibilities that can’t be left behind at the office. But that does NOT mean I can physically push my legs faster or maintain this plank for a minute.

“You choose what to do.” The instructor says, “Take three minutes and do your favorite exercise, drill, stretch, etc.” I purposefully signed up for this class to surrender my autonomy. Don’t ask me what I want to do. All day I have decided what to wear, what to eat, how to sign emails (Thanks? Best? Sincerely?), etc. Now, YOU tell me how to work my triceps.

Partner drills. “Grab a partner.” Time out. I didn’t come here to speed date. I struggle to make eye contact with my own reflection in the mirror during a class, let alone asking the dripping stranger beside me whether we can press feet together (their soles are brown; mine aren’t much better) and do buddy boat pose.

Or worse, the instructor wants me to cheer on my partner. Back to me not making eye contact: I will not draw more attention to myself by telling my newfound acquaintance that they’re killing it or “Go, go, go!” How about no? Or I’ll kill you.

Lying about the time. I saved the best for last: The instructor says it’s a seven minute climb on the bike. Fourteen minutes later, we’re still climbing. Or they say, “Five,” pause for five seconds, “four,” pause for five seconds, “three,” pause, etc. There is no beating around this bush: I’ll burn it down right here. You’re a ****ing liar, I don’t trust you anymore, and I am neither climbing nor give a crap about you because you have backstabbed me in the heat of a workout, and now I hope your shower after this consists of the toxins leaking from my pores.

Leave your complaints about exercise classes in the comments!

Twenty-Something Perspective

A really popular topic for any millennial to cover in a blog is their definition of their twenties. Here's mine: Perspective.

That's what my twenties mean to me.

In high school, my mother (God bless her) would wake up every morning and make me breakfast to eat and a lunch to bring with me. And I would essentially hate her for it.

"Good morning Sara! I made you waffles today."

"Whhhhhhhy must you torment me with words so early in the morning." Then I'd probably shoot some lasers from my eyes at her in between rolling them.

Did I actually hate her? I hated mornings, she was around, so clearly it was her fault.

Ahhhh, but with a bit of perspective, we can clearly see that it was indeed not my mother's fault (or at least as far as I know, she wasn't the cruel, cruel person behind high school starting at 7am) but I took it out on her because she was around.

Sometimes taking a step back and realizing what is causing the grief - and putting things into correct perspective- can make everything a lot easier to handle.

Here's another more recent example. Sometimes work gives me anxiety. Some days, it's just really hard. And I wear my feelings on my sleeve, so everyone knows if I'm not feeling it on any given day. And this one day, a truly wonderful woman put it so easily into perspective, it's something I remind myself when I'm feeling stressed.

"You got a job straight out of college that uses your major at an international development organization. That's a big deal."

When you think of it like that, it's the perfect blend of an accomplishment, and an explanation of why it will be hard from time to time. Attempting to solve poverty is a really difficult goal. Every day isn't going to be perfect.

So while putting things into perspective isn't easy, nor will it always make you feel better, it helps to process the feelings you might be having at a deeper level than just the surface details.

Perspective. That's the biggest lesson the twenties have provided me, and a lesson that I will continue to learn more about, I'm sure.

Ignorance Spreads Illness

So typically I like to keep my work-blog life decidedly separate, but there's one topic that I find absolutely fascinating and want to talk about. It's scary. It's serious. And it's not talked about enough. It's Ebola. I am in no way an expert on Ebola, so there's my disclaimer, but I do know enough to write intelligently about it. And I brought a ton of linked sources into this post to back me up.

What I find most fascinating about Ebola is the ignorance that surrounds it. The ignorance causes it to spread, but it also hinders fundraising for it. By now you probably know that this is the worst Ebola outbreak ever, so what is making it so bad? See previous sentence for the answer (ignorance). And I'm not using the word lightly, and I'm not pointing fingers. It's a collective and problematic lack of effort, lack of awareness and lack of intelligence.

At the root of the problem is that the countries where Ebola is spreading, people believe it is caused by witchcraft, or that doctors are injecting people will Ebola. Try helping to stop the spread of a disease when people don't actually believe that the disease is actually a disease, or that going to the hospital will kill you. It makes treatment impossible. People are dying on the streets and not knowing why. Or blaming black magic.

Raising awareness is a key to stopping the spread of the disease. But so is treating the people that already have it. And protecting those that don't. Which leads to the problem that people stop the spread by blockading cities from each other. So then the blockade, which could potentially stop the spread of the disease, cuts off the entire economy of the segmented area. Which is deadly in the long run for the already fragile economies of these affected areas.

So there's the internal problems happening within the Ebola-affected countries. But there are bigger problems too. WHO admits we acted too slowly (because of budget cuts), which doesn't bode well for future similar outbreaks. We didn't take it seriously enough.

And the last bit of ignorance falls on the American perception of the disease. 40 percent of those polled say they believe we will have a major Ebola outbreak in the United States. Let's talk about this. We know it's a real disease. We have a solid health care system. We can easily contain it. Yet, when we think about ourselves and fear it here, that doesn't help those that are really affected by it.

And this last statement is purely what I think, so there won't be any links backing me up on this, but I believe we aren't talking about it enough. We're ignoring a pretty big deal. And that's a form of ignorance.

This land is my land

One thing I don't hide about myself is how much I love where I live, which is the beautiful River City of Richmond, Virginia. To pay homage to my new(ish) homeland, here are some of my favorite #RVA landscape pictures. All pictures are from my Instagram and shot using my trusty iPhone 5.