Life with My Intestines

Do you think I'll lose readers just by using the word 'intestines' in a blog title? Let's find out!

A few weeks ago I went in for a semi regular CT scan. Don't know what a CT scan is? Oh well, get excited! And join me on this journey. *Puts on cozy cardigan, hums 'Won't you be my neighbour?'*

1st step: You must fast four hours before you go in to the hospital. I chose an 8am appointment with the promise of coffee and croissants after. Even as an adult, bribery is a useful tool.

2nd step: De-robe. Luckily I have no shame and I take it as a challenge to flash as many people as possible while wiggling behind a curtain in a tiny, tiny cubicle they have designated as the changing room.

3rd step: Drink the juice.  Ahhhhhh berry barium! A delicious way to start your day! Looks a bit like watery milk...like even more watery than low-fat milk. And tastes of berry! Or if a small child vomited up berry flavoured milk and you decided you should waste-not, want-not and drink it because your hippiness has made you insane, that's what this tastes of. And someone put it in a cup. And maybe you drank it thinking it was just your regular 'ol milk. BUT IT'S NOT. I don't even like milk. Or berry flavoured drinks. I want the real berry not some weak ass imitation. But that is beside the point. Back to the berry flavoured vomit I needed to ingest. It's the perfect way to keep your svelte figure...because you fast before hand and then drink a liquid that makes the idea of vomiting seem like an enjoyable way to spend your day.

(And no coffee before hand either. Which is a CRUEL torture...you bastards.)

Thoughts that did occur to me while drinking da juice:
Oh look my gown has...flowers??...no wait...just weird patterns. What is this place? The hospital for poor people, can't even afford a decent gown? ....oh wait....I am poor. Thank you for taking care of me, kind sirs. Please, more gruel!

A thing that actually happened: My nurse laughed at me for yelling 'OW' when she stabbed me with the IV. She will not be invited to my birthday party.

Another thing that also happened: I huff mint while taking my barium solution. Because I am a goddamn pro. What? You didn't think to bring your own herbs to the hospital? Amateurs. (*Side note: mint, as well as many fine herbs, helps nausea. This barium solution on an empty stomach can make you feel like vomiting. BRING mint or ginger. Huff away. You're welcome.)

Side note: I never thought chugging beers or taking shots would come in handy as a viable life skill to have, but it really is when it comes to taking barium solution. Gotta chug a nasty drink in 15 minutes, so that you can take two more fifteen minutes apart. It's like slow-mo hazing. Then (step 4!) they give you a liquid in your IV that makes you feel like you're wetting yourself. That's right. It IS like a sophisticated hazing. What club do I get to join? The Pooper Scoopers? (That's funny to me for SO MANY reasons.)

5th Step: Taking pictures of your insides. I did not get to take a picture of them taking pictures of me. But I can tell you my radiologist was absolutely George Clooney. I mean, this is why you can't take pictures. But while I'm passing jokes back and forth with George, I get to lay on a table that takes me through a tunnel where a magical voice tells me when to take breaths. It's almost like yoga...expect for the part where you feel like you have to pee.

End note: You can always find time to Instagram your hospital visit. Or Snapchat (LindsayDinsyDay) it.

And here I am modeling the latest in hospital couture. The colorful pattern, while bright and distracting, still manages to convey to all admiring onlookers 'I am not wearing any underpants' #ootd #fashionblogger #gwhospital #crohnslyfe #ctscan #gangsta

Live, love, laugh,

Lindsay

P.S. Just wanted to end this post by saying that us fashion bloggers don't always show you what's real. Well. I'll give you a  little 'peek behind the curtain', so to speak.  The truth behind the above photo is that I actually was wearing underpants....but no bra. #realtalk #thisisme #therearenohashtagsinblogging #orspeaking #butwespeakthemanyways

Working From Home Means..

Things I have learned about working from home:

1. My housemates think that I don't own real clothes, just many, many types of pajamas.

2. If I am within 10-10,000 feet of the kitchen I will constantly be thinking about what I can eat next. So that is approximately always. The house isn't that big.

My housemate left me alone for an hour with her home baked cookies. Bad decision, Raven.  I get all kinds of crazy ideas when I'm on my own. DON'T LEAVE ME TO FEND FOR MYSELF.

3. After being in a room the size of a prison cell for two years in London, I frequently run up to my new room that is the size of TWO prison cells put together so I can admire, spin around, and clap my hands in delight like a deranged toddler. Also, somebody let me paint my room unsupervised....I made some art:

4. It is fairly impossible for me to do any work in the morning. But that can be a positive thing as I then turn around at lunch time and guilt myself into working out and doing loads of real work in the afternoon.

5. I am the nosy neighbour. I know which ones are at home during the day, which ones have children, and which house has the cute pit bull. I have popcorn at the ready for the moments when the neighbours want to argue with the DC tow truck drivers attempting to haul their vehicles away for over due parking tickets. I SEE IT ALL.

6. Making cushion forts is not that fun anymore since you have to clean it up yourself when you're done, because you are an adult now. And if you don't, everyone assumes you've been day drinking.

Sometimes I play around with my very first phone I had from when I was 15.  ... Yeah I may need to get out more.

7. I get sick and I do not live with my mother who would take care of me. Day drinking does occur as a form of self-medication. I present to you: Hot Toddy Deconstructed. Bourbon and hot tea will help just about any cold. No really. I read that somewhere.

There's a chance that I would act more like a normal human being if I held a regular 9-5 day job.

But let's not risk it, just in case.

xxLindsay

Looking Back....In Horror. (It Does Get Better, Kids)

Everyone knows that you need to look at where you've been in order to figure out where you're going.

...or something like that anyways. I don't know. I'm not google. I don't have all the answers.

Since coming back to America in March, I've been trying to figure out my place in this world. I'm in DC again, I have a job, a whole new set of skills thanks to my MA that involve a whole lot of interpretive dance and a fondness for group massage. The world is my oyster. So of course I'm mildly panicked and haven't left the house. 

My mom passed me some old school pictures a few weeks ago and I'm hoping by analysing the person in each one will help me to figure out where I'm going.

Let's see shall we?

It all started with sweet innocence. She's just an adorable little elf. This picture says 'I like to giggle and play. Everything is sunshine-y! Let's be friends!'

Then we move on to loveliness and 'such a good little girl'. Look, she even likes to pretend she's a sailor! She is trustworthy and will make an excellent girl scout. She clearly likes cookies cause she is all sugar.

Okay, okay, so there's a little bit more rebellion here. Making her own fashion choices on her own. Oh yes, she went for the perm. And the headband almost as big as her head. Okay, cool, still adorbs, and clearly heading in the nerd direction (did you catch that bling? Straight out of a kickass book called The Silver Slippers, part of the Charm Book series.) Clearly a nerd who is desperate to be a ballerina. Oh honey....things are not looking good for you....

Then things take a turn for the worse. Little Lindsay learned what happens to a small town girl when she tries to go against the crowd, do her own thang, be an independent woman who can cut her own fringe.

Lesson learned: don't ever cut your own fringe. The hair dresser who tries to fix it will teach you a lesson.

NEVER CUT YOUR OWN HAIR.

Mullets happen. They happen to teach you a lesson.

Look how fluffy it is. The lesson I learned that day is that a bad haircut will change you. 

IT. WILL. CHANGE. YOU. 

It somehow manages to defy gravity. It also makes me appear to be slightly psychotic. I should have gotten therapy for this. And this outfit clearly says I also wanted to be accepted as a poet with deep, deep thoughts. Thoughts that run as deep as the forest on my head. No, there is no business in the front, party in the back. I have feelings we need to discuss. And only a black turtleneck will convey that.

After that bad haircut I refused to cut my hair. I started to go far, far away from trying to be an independent woman and delved straight into 'No, no, no. I am a LITTLE PRINCESS. Not a 7 year old wanna-be trucker, no matter what my mullet suggests.' So my opposition to the haircut landed me straight into the Land of Wanna-Be Sister Wives. This photo looks like I've been groomed for the life of being a little lady that stays at home for her husband she shares with 9 other little ladies, and I get to make all my own clothing, lucky girl. 

DAMNIT WOMAN, is that a SCRUNCHIE?!

And now we move on to the period of my life where I am clearly making quieter statements with my look. This one whispers gently that I'm on the path to being a middle-management IT professional/serial killer. Also, maybe I like cats more than people. Also, cheese. I may talk to walls. Maybe cause that's where I hide the bodies.

Finally, the school pictures stop after this last one. This last one was just after my mom made me do my laundry for myself and I accidentally got bleach in with all my black goth clothes. So I know for a fact I'm only wearing white because I clearly need supervision at all times. And that choker says I'm a badass but also still can't let go of wanting to be a princess cause it's made of LACE. LIKE A GODDAMN LADY. Who listens to a whole lot of Korn, Disturbed, Cold and Fiona Apple. Because, clearly, those all go hand in hand. I HAVE SO MANY FEELINGS.

And here I am today. Repatriating back to America. (Well this was last year, so still in London with a few more months before the dreaded repatriating and still relatively happy/possibly drunk.) I managed to turn out okay so who knows what the future may hold?

Looks like this was taken in the British Library where I was researching my dissertation on women and nudity in comedy. Who wouldn't be happy with a topic like that?

If you have some awesome school pictures of your past self, please, do share. Let's all learn together.

NEVER CUT YOUR OWN HAIR.

xxLindsay

A London Thanksgiving: Damn Crazy Americans

I made a turkey. Then people ate it. We were all surprised that everyone lived to tell the tale.

Last week was one of my favourite holidays to spend in London. Thanksgiving. It'll be my second year spending it here and it brings me no greater joy than to celebrate this very American holiday with my UK friends.

Daytime adventures. First party helping with turkey prep for second party.

Last year was very reserved, respectful and lovely. (Raise your hand if this makes you giggle to think of me hosting something so civilised. Yeah...thanks Mom.) I had my closest London friends round my flat for a sit down meal and quiet reflection on what we were thankful about.

This year was a good reflection of how I live my life now: occasionally tipsy, chatty, a complete disregard for any kind of diet, hey there cute dudes--let me feed you, tomorrow will someone reassure me that I did not indeed embarrass myself like I feel like I did, and Cards Against Humanity is always appropriate no matter the political climate.

This year, my Thanksgiving day plans were created on a drunk night out with another American expat. I had to be told the next day what these plans were. I'm like, Obama girls classy. Ammiriiiiight? (BOOM American Cultural Reference FOR THE WIN.)

Obama classy.

Boy, are the best plans made over drinks or what?

Planning on having fun. Thanksgiving involves mucho wine. Also comfy socks. 

I did a two pronged Thanksgiving assault onto my UK brothers and sisters. What resulted in basically me having an all day party for me and two separate parties for my friends. For the day party I invited all my classmates, co-workers, and actor-y friends, then I had a separate evening meal with my  longtime friends I've known ten years...and had so many people that it was more of a buffet party that involved Cards Against Humanity, several toasts, a slightly drunken giving thanks circle, and a lot of conversations I vaguely remember. It's safe to say that I was a pretty decent host at the first party and a fairly shit one at the second one. 

But I was surrounded by friends that are comfortable with this. I am thankful for these people. Also, I wasn't the only American there to represent. My old DC flatmate was in town on business and helped me bring the American cheer to our UK brethren. Just showing everyone what they're missing by not having crossed the pond so many years ago. 'MERICA.

Forcing all the Europeans to watch Charlie Brown at party 1. You're gonna watch it AND YOU'RE GONNA LIKE IT...even though everyone always feels slightly depressed after a Charlie Brown viewing. And that right there is a goddamn TRADITION.

I will think fondly upon those hazy memories. And the leftovers are just giving me great new memories. Like how one shouldn't really keep leftovers as long as I have, but damnit, I'm a rebel. And I'm kind of poor. And I spent a shit ton on that turkey and by God, I WILL CONSUME ALL LEFTOVERS.

Expensive turkey getting stuffed. There's a dirty joke here somewhere. Give me some time....

Friends. They're not American. But I'm sure they want to be after all that superfunadventuretime.

Google hangout with my family. While hosting a party. Also a little drunk. In my defence, so was my family though. My friends awkwardly watched this display while quietly stuffing their face with American themed dishes: Green bean casserole and Ranch's veggie dip.  I'm like Martha Stewart for my UK friends. So put together. 

I think the rest of the pictures are only from my day party. I started with Bloody Mary's and worked my way to the wine and champagne. Me handling my very expensive fancy camera for the evening party would not have been a wise choice. I'll just have to use the rest of my day time photos for a post on creating your very own Expat Thanksgiving.

Keep it classy London,

Lindsay xx

Sexy, Sexy: After 30 Edition

Let me tell you, things are different this side of 30. I'm a more stately lady. Regal is a word that comes to mind. So does 'ethereal', 'elegant', 'mature', and, well....total and utter bullshit.

Yup. There is nothing too sexy about my comfy socks, hair in a bun (and inability to remember when I last washed it because it's been up like that so long), snacking on some espresso chocolates, and ignoring my budgeting because I'm too busy nerding out over....umm, ya know, nerdy things I'd rather not divulge at this time.

But alas, I needed to write a damn post cause I haven't in ages and I have found a list I wrote just after my 30th birthday this July. I would like to share it with you.

Please do remember....this is who it's coming from. ALWAYS TRUST THE MULLET:

Ahem, I present to you:

Sexy Things After 30

People that like my dog. Sexy.

Sexy things in general:
-Warm, clean, cozy socks
-A whiskey and a hot bath
-Human beings with good hygiene (what? you do remember how to shower and use deodorant? Stop it, you sexy, sexy person.)
-8 hours of sleep
-Bed by 10pm (so unbelievably sexy...and mythical. Does it happen? Ever? Not for me. Must....watch...another episode of Lost Girl...)
-Knowing the right length of time for a hug. Good length hugs aren't creepy, just comforting and I want more...from everyone.
-Buying me a drink (I am poor. This is just exciting in general and you will be one of my favourites when you buy me a drink. I get super shocked and overly excited. So my birthday was like giving a puppy a room full of tennis balls. WHAT? DRINKS FOR ME? REALLY? I'll have five of them please.)
-Knowing how to make a good cup of coffee. TALENT.
-Beer the colour of coffee. Always sexy to me.

Knowing that this beer is the best beer. SEXY. I love you Smog Rocket.

Breakfast and coffee immediately upon waking. Sexy.

In Men:
-Knowing good beer
-Offers a good foot rub, with wine and a salted caramel brownie (I mean...this is just a working theory. I assume this is very sexy, but it has yet to be offered.)
-Funny guys. But having a good sense of what's comedic works both ways. If you don't like my rude/awkward/weird/inappropriate sense of humour...well, that's just not sexy. If I can make you laugh---->definitely sexy.
-Dudes that read fiction. Just as a rule. I mean, non-fiction is cool. But I want you to understand my obsession with story telling and I just don't think non-fiction can fully encompass all the magnificent ways to tell a story.
-Dudes that do not balk at the word 'feminist'.
-Banter. Do you know what this is? Do not leave me hanging fella. I don't want to put in all the conversational foreplay.
-Guys that are not afraid to rock it at karaoke, but not too good, please. This isn't American Idol. This is cheap beer and songs from the 90s that nobody really remembers all the words to.
-Do you know all the words to California Love? If so, please disregard everything else. I'm sold.

Men who find my ridiculously pale legs sexy...you are DAMN FINE sir.  (Working theory.)

And bonus round, things I find sexy about a place:
-Free wifi, outlets, no credit card minimum, drip coffee, chocolate, bathrooms, lots of space to work (Timberyard, you sexy, SEXY beast. Stop looking at me like that. I am so turned on by you right now...in, like, a hipster kind of way. Post on that soon.)

Additional sexy...Man Crush Monday: Kris Holden Ried from Lost Girl. Ultimate sexy.

Yes. Yes I do have a screenshot of this picture on my phone. What of it?

And last, but more importantly...self confidence. In anyone, man or woman, is always a sexy, sexy thing.

I'm working on it.

xxLindsay

For the Love of Beer: Meantime Brewfest

The very first time I got drunk was my first time living away from home, freshmen year at uni. I went to a football players house with my future best friend, Jomi, and I ended up drinking a six pack of Natty Light (AKA 'Natural Light'). I got so sick later that I vomited all over my dorm room (CLASS, right there folks) and had quite the bonding experience with my floormates as they helped shower me off and wash my things. Honest to God, I went to the best University ever, ace people there. Then I did the incredibly awesome (AKA uncouth) thing wherein I called my mother while hungover and cried. Apparently...this is not what you do when completely drunk or hungover, when underage...or at any age, as my mother keeps telling me when I call her drunk or hungover even now. Whatever, Mom, I just want a little sympathy for my poor decisions!

For the following four years of uni, I could not force myself to drink beer. I hated it with a passion. My gag reflex started to flex it's muscle every time I got any whiff of beer.

But lo and behold, thank the Lord, that dark period has passed. Since I graduated I have discovered my love of beer and developed it into a true passion. It's even become quite the family bonding thing for my siblings and I. Almost every time we're all at home, we bound off to another local brewery in Rochester, NY and have an afternoon of tastings. 

My absolute favourite birthday of all time, even surpassing my 21st birthday, would have to be last summer when I turned 29. My little sister planned it all, with my only stipulation that I wanted to tour the local gin and brewery places around the finger lakes. We took a party bus around, my whole family and my best friends Danielle and Brandon, and had a blast tasting local gins and delicious brews.

Since being in London, I haven't gotten to get out there and try what local beers there are to offer here. Which has been quite a disappointment, honestly. The majority of my friends here are not beer drinkers. Even a lot of the guys prefer cider or wine and I often just stick to wine myself in the face of following the crowd when out at the pub.

Luckily, I have found a fellow beer drinker in my classmate, Tonje! Hallelujah! (Also, shout out to my American-DC expat friend, Molly, who also will grab a beer with me anytime.) Tonje and I recently checked out the Meantime Brewing Company Brewfest right over in local Greenwich. If you have a chance when you're in London, I would HIGHLY recommend coming and trying out their craft brews over at their Brewery. Beers from the UK, Europe and even America were on tap at the Brewfest. And a lot of which you can get around London pubs as well.

I think they'll be doing this again later this summer, and I will definitely be attending. We managed to get out to the Brewfest on the last day. A bit rainy, but a really good turnout. And just as a tip to my single lady friends, you should drink beer in London. Out of all the people that turned up for the Brewfest, 90% of them were men. We were quite outnumbered. There were many attractive guys, right alongside some very delicious brews. A lot of the European beers would even be palatable to even the most beer-adverse person. Quite on the fruity side. Some of Tonje's favourite beers tasted like sparkling fruit juice to me. I didn't even know you could do that with a beer. WHERE WAS THIS BEER IN COLLEGE??!

Free glass upon arrival. As well as 6 beer tasting tickets...though mine came with 7 accidentally. We were pretty pumped about that.

My favourite beer out of all of them was a beer from the UK. It's from Harviestoun Brewery, and it's called Ola Dubh "18". A Scottish beer that tastes of whiskey and is dark like coffee. I am such a big fan of the dark beers. The thicker and darker it is, the happier I am. Give me something I might mistake as espresso, please. Additionally, there was a few amazing coffee porters as well!

Another good one was from our very own Meantime Brewery, the London Porter. I will always look for this one whenever I'm at a London pub from now on. This, and the Chocolate Porter, are my go-to beers. And the Londoner Porter is a bit lighter, almost like a Guinness. So don't be frightened by this dark beer.

Inside of Greenwich's Meantime Brewery

You could use your beer tickets inside the Brewery, which made us pretty happy when the rain started to pick up.

  

The beers were all on tap outside the Meantime Brewery and there were tables for ping pong (my American brain immediately thought they could be used for beer pong instead, obvi).

All the guys working behind the bars were really great at answering any nerdy questions we had, and also gave great suggestions when I'd come up with the explicit demand, 'dark. Give me dark. Beer dark as my soul.' They did not think this was weird at all. Bless.

In our welcome gift bag we also got a really fantastic guide book on all the beers with little sections to take notes. For the next Brewfest, I'll get ultra nerdy and go for the whole weekend and try all of them. I have still kept this guide for future reference....also because I have a crap memory and have more than once just brought the guide with me to Greenwich Union Pub and just shoved it at the bartenders, pointed and grunted 'I want this one.' Class.

We were double fisting by the end. Thanks to that spare ticket I got in my bag. What a happy surprise.

I definitely plan on attending the next one. Hopefully all the ridiculously cute guys show up for the next ones as well. I mean....I'm going for the beer of course...but the cute guys totally help.

Before all this Brewfest delightfulness, I learned the most amazing, wonderful, joyful, loveliest thing about England. You can go to bars and get a beer, or two, to go! So I marched down to my local after my flatmate informed me, chuffed look on my face, and got some beer to have with dinner one night. I was so excited I took pictures of it. Look! Beer at home! Not bought at a supermarket! SO EXCITED. (And it was CHEAPER too!)

Seriously...it does not take much to make me happy.

xxLindsay

Why Breakfast Is The Best

Some people drink a little too much and reminisce on past romances....I drink a little too much and whip out the photos of past meals I've loved.

What? You're on Instagram I'm sure, who do you think they created that for? Food porn lovers.

Out of all the meals I cook that I'm most likely to photograph, breakfast is the top contender for most pictured.

My breakfast creations, sadly, are not pretty. Which is why I'll share a few of my favourites now, while the wine is flowing and I'm feeling reminiscent.

Most often they resemble something that your cat barfed up after a night out on the town.

And with that image in your head....

My breakfasts are my favourite thing to cook out of anything. My favourite meal to eat at restaurants is usually going to be breakfast. If a restaurant claims to be all-day breakfast, it's usually my favourite restaurant. And the most looked at, most drooled over recipes in my cookbooks is always breakfast.

I think I've trained myself to love breakfast the most because, as an adult, it's the one meal that is most often cooked just for me and not for anyone else in mind. Because of how my Crohn's operates, breakfast literally is the most important meal of the day. My body has had a nice 6-8 hours of fasting during the night, something my Crohn's loves (intestinal rest period), and a lot of times, the first meal of the day will help determine how well I operate or how low energy I'll be for the rest of my day. So my breakfasts usually revolve around high protein, low sugar, low carb for the most part, and always, always easily digested veggies.

GF bread (it just tastes good to me), smashed avocado with lemon and salt, and nitrate-free bacon. Just trying to keep it hipster-friendly, obvi.

Current fav: avocado, lemon, salt and 'pancaked' eggs...not scrambled, pancaked.

I'm one of the crazy people that will lose sleep if it means getting up early enough to cook myself a big breakfast. No porridge or cantaloupe and cottage cheese for this girl. Take your diets and get out of my kitchen cause that is not how I play. Sure, if I'm trying to lose weight I'll eat soup for lunch and salad for dinner, but damnit there is a good chance that I'll be having three eggs and/or bacon for breakfast.

Bacon. The lover that loves you back. It handles you well......heh, heh....get it? Love handles....


Nevermind...

GF toast, scrambled eggs with smoked salmon, spinach, lemon, salt.

As much as I love cheesy pick up lines, don't ever ask me 'how do you like your eggs cooked in the morning?' cause I would most likely go off on a crazy person rant about how I'd be the one cooking the eggs cause I'm particular and you don't get to voice an opinion on how you want them cooked cause I'm gonna go make some shit up in the kitchen when I'm cooking them and you're gonna like it. DON'T PRESSURE ME.

Future post: Why Am I Single?

I don't know why I'm single, LOOK AT THE GOOD THINGS I COOK.... For myself....cause if I tried to cook this for anyone else, I'd burn the house down and somehow undercook the eggs.

I've always felt the Brits have breakfast down pretty good...or elevenses. I could always go for a sausage roll and a cuppa. The best in Southeast London are either at Heap's Sausages or, as pictured below, Hand Made Food in Blackheath.

A meal I miss from America.

You'll need:

to hang out in your pjs early on a Saturday morning

watching Doctor Who

eating Organic Peanut Butter Bumpers with Almond milk and a side of milky tea. 

It's all in the details.

As much as I love tea, thanks for that addiction England, I will always be a coffee addict at heart. It's literally my family's business. So these are just pictures of love. Enjoy!

Notes Coffee, London

TAP Coffee, Wardour Street, London

 And the creme de la creme....Monmouth Coffee, brewing in my V60 at home.

xx Lindsay

On Topics of Exercise and Nudity

I've had some crappy nights of sleep recently, my friends. My MA is in full swing and if I thought the first term was tough, then I'd like to meet me then and just point and laugh. Stress has always been something I've courted in life and now it seems to be a full time resident. It has gotten to the point that when I reach a breaking point (not too often, but enough to take note) I tend to wander around my house crying and sniffling like a toddler who's lost their favourite doll, while I talk myself through my troubles. This sounds absolutely ridiculous and it is. Surprisingly effect way, though, to bring high levels of stress down quickly. When I get over-dramatic with my emotions, I tend to really throw myself into it and then have to take a moment to laugh at my ridiculousness when it comes to an end. That's the way I deal with things when they build up and get to be too much, like a pot of soup boiling over. However, my usual way of dealing with stress and keeping it away from this point has been exercise.

Oh, glorious, glorious exercise.

My fourteen year old self would die of shock to hear my say that out loud. I've always hated exercise until my lovely and amazing friend Caitlin got me into running. And then something clicked. I started to find the benefits. More so the mental benefits than the physical ones. In all honesty, there's more of shift in my life with how I deal with things, rather than a shift in belly fat.

But not something to focus on.

Running has been therapeutic and helped me get through a lot of rough moments last year. Training for the two half marathons I did was the best thing I could have gotten hooked on...and let's just ignore the fact that I have issues with plantar faciitis...stupid feet.

Lately I haven't been able to fit in daily exercise like I normally would like to do in times of high stress, but when I do....it is glorious. And the warm weather here in London is something to celebrate.

Depending on how I pose, my boobs disappear. Weeeeird.

 Sometimes you just gotta dance in excitement for a run (I can hear my fourteen year old self gagging at that sentiment. Go back to your goth lifestyle, your Wicca, and your secret love of Spice Girls, 14 yr old self. It will get better. Especially your taste in music...)

Don't you wish you could have these dance moves. KA-POW, goes the booty. We're blowing it up in here. (I don't know what that means, but it just felt right.)

 I've been hard core falling in love with Bikram yoga as well.

Say whaaaaat? Yes it's true. It's 100% the fault of my studio and their amazing instructors. If you have a bad studio and an instructor that's not going to give you corrections, you're screwed. Bikram, like crossfit or any other type of exercise really, needs to have an instructor that knows what they're doing and knows how to show you how not to hurt yourself.

Hot Bikram Yoga studio. If only I could see them on a daily basis.

 A really fun personal hurdle, that I didn't realize I had, I've overcome thanks to my Bikram studio and their open showers. I wasn't aware I still held onto a lot of my Catholic school girl tendencies when it came to how I felt about my naked body. In all honesty, I've done enough plays in my underwear, or undressing, that I felt I was totally in the exhibitionist arena.

Not at all the case. I balked at the open showers when I first saw them at the studio. I can't even remember ever being in a situation where I had to shower, naked, in front of strangers, with strangers, or not shower at all. All the gyms I've ever been a member of have had private ones and in all seriousness, one of my great talents in life is being able to change clothes in a locker room without showing any skin from my neck to my knees. TALENT, PEOPLE. I should put on a showcase of just that little dance. Sexy.

All my international friends laughed, with their European mentality, they took no issue with this open shower business. So I worked my way up to it. First couple of times was a dash in, dash out scenario, towel kept very close at hand, and choosing the shower in the corner. But damnit, I've done it and I'm proud. Strangers have seen my naked ass. SHOCK....AWE....You can all be impressed now. Where's my gold sticker?

I can't quite say I saunter in proudly, and nakedly, just yet....but someday. Also, sauntering is really, really hard after 90 minutes of Bikram.

xxLindsay