"Live Slow"

There's a distinct disposition in Phoenix come late April that feels a little bit like black Friday.  The weather is still gorgeous. The sun-filled days extend to nearly 14 hours. And everything is in bloom. Slowly, the panic seems to set in as we realize our days of this glory are numbered, and all at once -- the most important thing to do is enjoy as much of it as quickly as possible. As every ticking second passes, the summer could hit. Most of the city seems to operate in a near-panic, filling up hiking trails, outdoor patios, open-roofed stadiums... even sidewalks. 

Naturally, I've been playing my part as a crazed Phoenician, even putting in overtime on my front patio most nights. And it was in this very outdoor frenzy that I came across a rather offensive t-shirt slogan. There I was, minding my own business in a hike up the Squaw Peak trail, tuned into a witty podcast on Lady Pilots, and otherwise enjoying the lovely weather. My pace was slowed by a hiker refusing to let me by and I noticed the back of her t-shirt - "Live Slow." 

Beside the phrase being a disgraceful grammatical slur, I also found myself disagreeing with the intention of it quite a lot. "Live Slow." In my daily life, I mostly dislike slow anything: slow people, slow drivers, slow hikers (ahem – lady), slow talkers, slow check out workers, slow technology, slow songs, slow-to-dry finger nail polish... the list could go on and on and on. What bothered me too though, was that it seemed what she was really trying to get across was actually to enjoy life, but if you really “live slow,” by the time you get to wherever it is you’re going, aren't you actually going to have less time to enjoy whatever it is you're doing? Come on.

Or maybe, her slogan was a play off of Lance Armstrong's Live Strong. That’s even more annoying.  

I was finally able to make my way around this lunatic, but not her irritating message. I started wondering about the types of individuals who wear t-shirts for the sole purpose of a personal manifesto. And when they do – is that message intended as a reminder for themselves, or as a pontification for an innocent passerby? 

In any case, she deserves a big F minus. #FAIL #GoBackToEnglishClass 

First Class, First Served

It's not every day you fly first class across the country. In my case, in fact, it's actually no days -- this was the first time in my life. I arrived several hours early to La Guardia airport after a curious weekend in New York. And in my possession, I carried a long awaited object of desire: a Southern, one-of-a-kind, psychological warfare earned vintage briefcase. To say I was feeling untouchable would be a gross understatement.

As the gate agent made the announcement that boarding had begun and welcomed only first class passengers, I strutted toward the roped off area. Breezing past the throngs of ordinary travelers I often reside in, and unnecessarily flaunting my cherished carry on, I felt myself standing a little taller. I couldn't help but wonder what the onlooking coach class passengers were thinking of me. Naturally, their attention was not on that last bite of airport fast food, or even on their wandering child making his way distantly into the potential gaze of a traveling kidnapper - it was on me. Who exactly is that girl? What does she do in which she's able - at this ripe young age - to fly first class, and with a bag like that no less? How can we be just like that woman?


I took my place in 3F and whilst relishing in a long, pretentious stretch, decided to take a gander around at the select group that made up my fellow first-classers. Quite the classy looking lot. I settled into my leather cushioned seat, which was ever so spacious, and was greeted by my flight attendant.

"Good Afternoon. Might I interest you in coffee, tea, water or juice?"

"Water, would be lovely," I replied. When did the champagne come into play? Let's get this party started.

An amount of time that seemed like only moments, and we were in the air. The same stewardess swished by and draped a black linen over my tray table, coming back within seconds to top it off with the first course - salad and shrimp. And this wasn't just any salad. Fresh tomatoes, kalamata olives, cucumber, artichoke hearts and feta cheese. Crispy lettuce and light balsamic dressing completed the masterpiece. To complement the shrimp - fresh lemon. Even the slicing of the fruit seemed like perfection. Don't mind if I do. I drizzled the lemon juice over my untarnished shrimp.

The dinnerware was actually glass, and the napkins - cloth. Accompanied with my first course, was a nice red wine, which I made certain to sip delicately with my pinky raised, peering out the window as the sun set 30,000 feet below. Now this... this is the life, people. I've been missing out in a big, big way. 


The second course arrived in a flash. Lasagna with warm bread. And this wasn't just any pasta; the cheese was perfectly melted, the bread doughy. Take note of the doily in the top right, as well. When is the last time I even saw a doily?  Is this even for real? My wine was topped off momentarily, and I reclined my elegant airline seat in satisfaction.

  












Dessert was served - some sort of a heath ice cream dish built upon a hot caramel base. For those that know my epicurean tendencies, dessert isn't typically my field of play, but hey - I was living in the moment of posh first class. I savored every bite of the stuff.

Three glasses of red wine and a smug renewed sense of worth later, we touched down in Dallas. As we taxied in, I reflected whimsically on my three-hour journey and decided it was everything I'd ever hoped for.

But all too often, just when you're comfortable, overly confident and content with the situation, the universe throws you a curve ball. My 9:00pm flight to Phoenix was delayed - very delayed - and they anticipated us departing at... wait for it... midnight. Wait, wait, wait a minute here. Didn't they know I was first class? Didn't they know the type of baggage I touted? Did they understand... I'd be losing my pretentious buzz? They didn't.

Tired, completely dejected and annoyed, I boarded with my not so elite, priority group at midnight. I was slouching. I didn't care what onlookers thought of me as I dragged by, and frankly - neither did they. First class or the back seat by the bathroom, we were all getting back to Arizona around 2am, and there was nothing we could do about it.

The airplane wheels crashed down onto the desert floor that was Arizona, and it became clear my fantasy was beyond over. I was just another tired soul counting the fleeting minutes that represented my sleep for the night until I had to wake up at 6am and trudge into the office for yet another 60 hour week. Back to reality, RB.

As I think back, the first leg of my west-bound journey is still every bit as elegant, decadent and pompous. First class really was, and certainly is, a luxury that should be indulged in by every eager traveler at some point. It's very likely I won't fly the likes of first class for quite some time, so until then, I'll treasure the memory. At least the memory I'll hold onto for the small amount of time my brain will allow.

Oh! And not to mention - I will treasure something that will not soon be forgotten - the world's best briefcase. #WIN

Another Half Marathon Bites the Dust

This past Sunday was long awaited, and one literally long sweat over too. It's been more than three months since I've arranged my life around a schedule which accommodates half marathon training - squeezing in 10 mile runs on Christmas Day, and hitting the unfamiliar streets of San Francisco for an eight miler over a weekend visit. A personality like mine doesn't take well to missing days of predetermined training, or doing things not according to schedule. But even so, I found when the PF Chang's Rock N Roll Arizona Half Marathon arrived on my doorstep this past weekend, it was a mix of shock and bewilderment - a "how is it here already?" - and also, great excitement met with intense pressure.

On race morning, all of these emotions seemed to have settled into my stomach as I waited behind 10 racers for the porta potty, and simultaneously, as I heard the gun sound, releasing the first racer corral. I was in Corral Six, but of course, wasn't in place since I was waiting for the slowest bathroom occupants known to mankind to do their business. What is taking these ass holes so long in there? I actually scanned the area for any Plan B possibilities - anything larger than me should suffice. But no, there were people everywhere. I'd never make it out unscathed. Several agonizing minutes later and facilities serviced, I was a panicked, frantic woman joining my corral seconds before they released us into the half marathon abyss. I snapped a quick overhead shot, and as the crowds thinned, eased into a jog.

Not the best way to start a race.

I had convinced myself the cold was my biggest hurdle for this race, and yet no more than one mile in, I was flinging my gloves off in the general direction of the homeless spectators. Another half mile, and a less than elegant attempt to unwind myself from my scarf resulted in my headphones being ripped from my ears. Again, I launched the scarf into the sea of anxious homeless recipients' hands, stuffed the earbuds back into my ears, reacquainted myself with my brilliantly selected start song - Eminem, Lose Yourself - and at last, put my race face on. (For those of you that know me, and have seen me run - this is a real face.) How had I become so convinced that I'd freeze? It's Phoenix, RB.

The majority of the next two hours were a blur. I remember course-side bands, high school cheerleaders building pom pom tunnels, hills, flourescent tutus and otherwise inappropriate race attire, beaming spectators with glittery signs and the glory of the first sight of the finish line.

While this might have been my second half marathon, it was the first undertaking I embarked upon alone. An overly social creature I indeed am, this was quite the achievement. The goal time was 2:00.00, and I couldn't have hit it closer - finish time of 1:59:24.

More pictures to ensue. It's quite safe to say my running days are just getting started.