Act your age, not your shoe size.

I am 26 years old.  This means that, legally speaking, I've been an adult for the past 8 years.  Occasionally, I'll be driving to work munching on my Cocoa Puffs from a ziploc bag (what?) and this fact dawns on me, out of the blue.  See, sometimes it's a little weird to think that I'm rapidly flying through adulthood while in many ways I feel like a 9 year old who happens to spend a lot of time in a cubicle, with limited recess breaks. 

As I sat at my desk today, chomping on some Bubble Tape and enjoying an introspective/slacker moment, I realized that there are many facets of my life that are decidedly un-adult-like.  I thought I'd see how many of you blog readers sometimes feel like you act your shoe size instead of your age.  So, grab yourself a Fruit Roll-Up and get commenting. 

1.) Domestic adventures:

(Attention: Martha Stewart, Mom and/or you sassy British ladies from "Clean House": Several topics on this list may be too much for you to handle.  Please just skip ahead to the section on Greek yogurt). 

(a) Vacuuming:
Sometimes I don't feel like dragging the vacuum up the stairs. By this, I mean that I NEVER feel like doing that. Most times, I reason that you can't really see the particles on my floor because I have dark carpet in my room. Or, I just take my glasses off and everything looks pretty fantastic. If we're really being honest, I will admit that (in one rare case) I did spruce up a small patch of carpet with a lint roller. I shouldn't have been proud of this.  But I was.

(b) Dishes:
You may think it's really badass to pretend you're Wolverine while you're pulling clean plates out of the dishwasher, placing them between your fingers and busting out a few ninja moves in your kitchen. This is a bad idea; I really can't stress that enough.

(c) Laundry:
Much to my mother's horror, I do not separate my laundry with regard to color, temperature, or fabric type. I have a sophisticated system termed the "sniff test" which allows me to discriminate between dirty and clean laundry, then proceed to wash those articles that do not pass said sniff test.  Plus, I've seen enough "Friends" reruns to know that you can't mix a red shirt with all your white underwear and wash in hot water (unless you want all of your whites to look like they were dipped in Pepto Bismol, and/or you want Ross Gellar to kiss you in a laundromat). Other than the sniff test and the Rachel Green rule, there's really not much more to doing laundry.  Don't let those fools at Tide tell you any differently. 

2.) Personal finances

(Suze Orman, avert thine eyes, girlfriend). 

Most (fine, all) of financial jargon goes completely over my head.  I blame a lot of the confusion on the constant use of complicated acronyms.  ARM, FDIC, IRA, WTF.  And, because it's frustrating for me to feel constantly out of the loop, I just make up my own translations.  Why should APR stand for "Annual Percentage Rate" when "Awkward Portuguese Relatives" is so much funnier? 

3.) Greek yogurt

Every morning I start my day with a protein-packed Chobani sprinkled with organic wheat germ. No, I don't. But every couple of months, I find myself in the dairy section of Stop & Shop, having an intense inner conflict over which Limited Edition Edy's ice cream to buy (I mean, seriously - I don't want to have regrets in my life). And I think to myself, "Lauren - it's time to (wo)man up and get serious about your protein intake." I pick up a half dozen Chobani yogurts, and even let out an "Opa!" to celebrate my healthy choices. 

The next day, I'm at my desk at work and reality hits. This is not yogurt. It does not taste like yogurt. It tastes like your Aunt Doris' sour cream chip dip mixed with brownish strawberries. And let me tell you something else: it doesn't matter what you mix into this shit (Cinnamon Toast Crunch, sugar packets, Hershey's syrup). It won't taste like yogurt or any type of delicious breakfast treat. The remaining 5 cups of Greek dip will remain in your refrigerator for the next 12 to 14 weeks, until it expires or you find an alternative use for it (ie: facial moisturizer, denture adhesive, spackle). 

4.) Doing my taxes

Seriously, TurboTax - stop likening your software to a GPS unit. It's NOT that easy, because I've tried 5 times to do my taxes on my own and every time it goes something like this:

Step 1: In which state do you work?
Me: "Oh, awesome - this is easy! Massachusetts!"

Step 2: Great. In which state do you live?
Me: "Damn, I am a tax-filing goddess. Rhode Island!"

Step 3: Ok. If your state of employment and state of residence both have an odd number of letters, please refer to section US-01-86410 for information on how to obtain state and federal regulatory exemptions for each of your dependents, provided they live in your household a minimum of 10 months of the year. 

Me: "Do I count the space between Rhode and Island as a character?  Is my dog a dependant?  Can someone get me a bottle of tequila?" 

You see, dear readers and fellow children-at-heart, perhaps the best solution is to embrace our inner kiddo and accept the sobering fact that (at least some of us) will never fully "grow up".  We will never buy a $900 Dyson vacuum cleaner.  We will never know for sure that our taxes will not result in a soul-crushing audit by the IRS.  We will never start the day by casually munching our Greek yogurt, while reading the WSJ and trading tips about how to wash spaghetti sauce out of an off-white blouse.  Suddenly, we realize that maybe Woody Harrelson was right when he said "A grown up is just a child with layers on." 

Team Santos: We want to pump YOU up!

From kindergarten to the last day of high school, if you asked which class was my least favorite, I always had the same answer: gym.  I would have voluntarily taken a dose of obscure Russian literature in the 2nd grade, rather than suffer through 45 minutes of Red Rover with my classmates. 


Why?  It wasn't that I was a lazy kid, or even that I didn't like to be active.  My sister and I spent all of our childhood summers riding our bikes, running around the neighborhood (fine, we were chasing the ice cream truck), and choreographing some pretty sassy routines on our roller skates to several Mariah Carey hits.  But taking physical education was not about staying active.  Gym class meant throwing on a pair of city-issued mesh shorts and running around with your peers, all while trying to pretend you weren't profusely sweating in front of that cute boy from English class.  Gym class meant learning the rules to needlessly complicated team sports  (Ultimate Frisbee?  This game was created by Satan).  And, while I attempted to use several hundred excuses to get myself out of gym class ("I sprained my finger overusing my graphing calculator"; "My poor circulation makes my legs look purple in these gym shorts"; "I'm allergic to spherical objects"), I still showed up for every class.  Because my parents had this thing about me graduating high school. 

So, I even surprised myself when I decided to join a gym last year as an adult.  I mean, this was voluntary and (what's worse) I was now forking over money to have the privilege of going back to gym class.  My search for the "right" gym included several key requirements: it had to be cheap; it couldn't be in Cranston (for fear of constant interaction with former high school classmates) and it had to include a free t-shirt upon registration.  My search led me to a Planet Fitness in Warwick, where I am now a (surprisingly) active member. 

My gym experience last year was marked by several highlights:
1.) I bent down to scratch my ankle while using an elliptical machine and hit myself in the face with the moving handle. 
2.) I found the fishbowl full of Tootsie Rolls on the registration desk.  I re-fuel every ten minutes or so, to avoid low blood sugar. 
3.) I winked at the handsome personal trainer.  This man now assumes I have a facial twitch. 

Just when I started wondering how I could possibly spice up my workout routine in 2011, I was joined by my first workout buddy: my Dad.  For those readers who have not met Pops Santos, let me paint a brief picture.  My Dad is a Portuguese version of Jack Byrne (Robert DeNiro's character on "Meet the Parents").  Though he's got a heart of gold and is an awfully likable guy, he's got a very firm "don't f*%@ with me" outer shell that constantly catches new boyfriends and telemarketers by surprise.  In his 20's, Dad used to move pianos for work.  Now, despite the fact that he's over 50 and has had both of his knees replaced, he could still pick up a refrigerator and toss it (with relative accuracy).  He casually throws this fact into conversation when meeting any potential boyfriends. 

Naturally, I was thrilled to have a new gym pal for 2011.  In fact, I may have gone a little overboard (how atypical for me).  I had "Team Santos" jerseys made.  I figured we should look sharp in case Nike is looking for a couple of intergenerational spokespeople, now that Tiger has blown his chances at the "family friendly" angle.  I kept envisioning our first Nike commercial:

There are folks working out, as normal.  You can hear the occasional clang of a dumbbell, some shuffling on a treadmill.  Then, out of nowhere, "Eye of the Tiger" starts to jam over the speakers and (BOOM!) the doors open with a bang.  Fog and neon lights fill the room.  In slow motion, "Team Santos" walks into the door in perfect step: a hauntingly beautiful 20-something girl with perfectly non-frizzy curls blowing in the wind, joined by her tough-as-nails Pops with silver (don't call it grey) hair.  They high five without looking at each other and flash their badges to the front desk.  Then, they each go run a 4 minute mile and bench press 600 lb. 

Just do it.  

While I was jogging and rehearsing this scene in my mind, Dad was getting his bearings and learning the ropes in his new gym.  Wanting to keep my gym pal motivated, I provided lots of verbal encouragement ("NO PAIN, NO GAIN, Pops!") and inspirational gestures (I attempted to do the wave by myself while running - not a good idea).  I guess he couldn't hear me because most of my motivational comments went unacknowledged, despite several dirty looks by the folks on the stationary bikes. 

Although Nike has not yet drawn up our official contracts, I am happy to report that we have been getting to the gym several times per week since the beginning of the year.  I can now run a 42 minute mile and my nose has healed quite well after the elliptical machine incident.  Dad is doing great as well: he is biking several miles each workout and lifting weights.  I figure that, by the time the personal trainer realizes my winking is not a spasm and winks back, Pops Santos should be strong enough to throw a treadmill at him, using only his pinky. 

2011: Year of the Chiacchierone

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe once said, “What is not started today is never finished tomorrow.”

With the arrival of a new decade, this wise German playwright's words remind us that it's important to have solid, achievable goals - and to get started on them right away. Then again, I also read (by this I mean, I "read") Faust in college and recall thinking, "Wow, Goethe is on some serious crack."

Aside from this profound literary analysis, his quote makes me think a lot about my own personal goals (ex: stop wearing those sweatpants with the obvious holes...in public...weekly). So, without further ado, I present my faithful blog followers (Hi, Mom) with my list of 2011 resolutions:

1.) Write more:
Just as I'm sure "all" of you enjoy reading my blog o' nonsense (Ma, you still there?) I really love to write. Whether it's a blog post, a love letter to my boyfriend Fabio (yes, the Italian supermodel with the Christy Brinkley hair), or the first page of the next great American novel (sorry, Steinbeck) - writing is my favorite way to go on a mental vacation from my real life. For this year, I'd like to keep the writing going - and to make Goethe happy, I'll make it concrete: I will blog once a week*.

*Restrictions apply: This goal is likely too lofty. See, right now, it's cold out and there's nothing better to do - there's no Monday Night Football anymore, Netflix hasn't sent anything worth watching, and I'm too comfy under three blankets to get up and go to the gym. Also, I'm all swept up in this early January season of self-improvement which may pass by January 10. The blog posts may return to a sporadic sprinkling by Valentines' Day. Or Martin Luther King Jr Day.

2.) Floss. Well, keep flossing:
This is more of a continuation of a current good habit that has become routine. I'm not trying to ride the moral high horse here. I floss daily (sometimes twice daily) because my fillings from the past three years have provided my dentist with a couple of Mercedes, diamond cufflinks, a twelve-bedroom vacation villa in southern Spain and an upgraded, better looking trophy wife. And, if I don't continue to neurotically floss, I will literally run out of teeth to develop cavities. Plus, I know that smug bastard is thinking he can buy his own private island if I get 5 more cavities, and I won't give him the satisfaction.

3.) Cut the road rage:
Sure, it depends who you ask. But I can say with reasonable confidence that if you ask around, most people would say I'm a nice girl. I have a strict WWFHD policy (What would Florence Henderson do?). This typically steers me toward buying polyester pantsuits and baking cookies. But, although I never intend for it to happen, my work commute brings me from WWFHD to WWF in about 2.5 seconds. There's just something about a 93 year old lady in the passing lane, doing 47 mph, during rush hour, with her left blinker on that completely sends me into a road rage spiral. To make matters worse, I am a genetic perfect storm when it comes to road rage - I've got an Irish temper and a not-so-shy Portuguese mouth. Before I know it, I've amassed enough money in my imaginary swear jar to buy Boardwalk and Park Place (with hotels) and I've pulled a muscle in my middle finger. But this year, I vow that Florence will win. I will toss homemade cookies out of the windows of my Focus at those who cut me off (to later drive 10 under the speed limit). I will blow kisses and wave like the Queen at those that don't use their blinkers or mirrors. All while rocking a Carol Brady lady-mullet.

4.) Get better at dating.
I suck at dating. You might think you understand what I'm saying, or even think you can sympathize with me. But you can't, unless you are my fictional counterpart, Liz Lemon. For those who do not watch 30 Rock, shame on you. Many times, when I'm watching the show, I get a creepy feeling that Tina Fey is following me around, watching me embarrass my way through adulthood and then writing it into the show. An example:

Liz Lemon and her friend Jenna are out at a bar.
Dude: "Excuse me, is this seat taken?"
Liz: "Really, dude? There are like, 4 other seats down there - can't you be cool?"
Jenna: "Liz, that guy wanted to buy you a drink."
Liz: "Really? I already have a drink. You think he'll buy me mozzarella sticks?"

Oh, Liz - how could you have known that this was a pick up line? I too am continually thrown by the often-confusing musings of dudes and my constant need for a snack. But not this year. This year I plan to miraculously transform my accident-prone awkwardness into super smooth sex appeal that will have all the eligible bachelors in the 401 weak at the knees. That's right - look out, Rhody. Cause I'm coming - and I'm wearing a Florence Henderson pantsuit that's snug in all the right places.