I don’t need a man just pockets

As promised, I’m lightening up the subject matter this week!

Today’s beverage: coffeeeeee

Update: no beverage. Sorry folks, I started this over a week ago, but so much has happened that this here little post got set on the back burner.

Things have been cray cray to say the least

Tough Mudder…check

Housing offer accepted…check

GOT FRIGGIN ENGAGED!!…check

But I promised you all a post about pockets, and that’s what you’re gonna get.

So, back to the task at hand…

Alright ladies, say it with me… “It haaaasssss pockets!”

We’ve all said it, followed by immediately placing hands in said pockets and twirling. Do men do this? No, men are just like oh hey… pants.

Don’t even get me started on the absolute heartbreak that is fake pockets. And before you ask, no I don’t mean the pockets in fancy clothes where you need a seam ripper to open them. I’m talking 100% fake, aesthetic pockets. All the exterior stitch work with none of the interior practicality. Beauty truly is only skin deep y’all.

Now before I dive in here, I am aware that no one is making me buy the clothes I buy. No one is forcing me to wear make-up and attempt to do things with my hair. But here we are.

Side note, I recently learned how to do French braid pigtails and I am flying high right now.

Now, I like to consider myself independent, but in a highly inconsistent and unpredictable way. So I guess actually I’m just stubborn. It’s real cute. Ask anyone. And I try to live by the rule my dad implemented when we were wee children: you stay home until you can carry your own snacks. If I’m going to make the effort to leave the house and venture out into the world, I’m going to be responsible for my own shit. Everything I need for the venture will be carried on my person. I do not enjoy asking people to carry my things for me. They’re mine.

This would be so much easier if any of my clothes served any sort of functional purpose whatsoever! Women’s clothing is a scam, it’s a racket I tell ya. Unless all I have is an old-timey pocket watch, I’m not going to carry all my belongings in my jeans. And the number of times I’ve been bamboozled by a fake jacket pocket has given me severe trust issues. WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO DO WITH MY HANDS?!

This brings me to my next point. To those of you at home saying to yourself, “why do women carry so much in their purses,” well first of all it’s none of your damn business . But if we are pretending that your opinion on my personal belongings matters, here’s the scoop. If I have to carry a whole ass bag with me, I might as well fill it!

Ever seen the episode of How I Met Your Mother where Marshall and his coworker show up to their first day of work with briefcases full of candy bars? Hi, I’m Brigid. Present and accounted for!

Besides, have you ever seen a guy in cargo pants? I mean do you neeeeed to carry that Swiss Army knife with you or your all-purpose tool? No probably not. Most of us rarely find ourselves in unexpected MacGuyver situations, but since you have 1,009 pockets, why not? Actually, while you’re at it, carry some tampons in there and help a girl out.

Next up let’s have a chat about running shorts. My fiancé (WHAT WHAT) goes for the occasional jaunt around the neighborhood, and his running shorts have pockets that could for sure fit a phone. My shorts on the other hand could for sure fit a quarter, which is useful if I also have a time machine to take me back to the early 2000s so I could find a pay phone. It’s ironic because everyone says that women should be carrying mace and weapons so we don’t get murdered, but we have to buy more accessories to accommodate them. Honestly, if we just make everywhere a safe space, that would be ideal, but I listen to a lot of true crime podcasts, so we know that’s not the case. Also, I don’t run with mace or pepper spray or whatever the legal version of it is because I would likely just spray myself in the face, doing the criminal’s job for them.

Basically this whole post is a pointless rant about form over function. Pointless, because I will not be changing really any of my buying habits. But sometimes it feels nice to just yell for a few minutes. If you’ve ever used the HBO app on a PlayStation, you may understand what I’m saying. You can yell at the app all you want when it inevitable crashes, but there’s still a lot of episodes of the Wire left, and I’ll be damned if I’m not going to see where McNulty’s questionable parenting tactics take him.

In conclusion, stayed tuned for next weekend’s newest installment of Brigid’s Stream of Consciousness.

Instead of my usual closing statement, I’ll leave you with this…

HAPPY PRIDE Y’ALL

🏳️‍🌈🏳️‍⚧️

Ok Boomer, you win this time

Today’s beverage: coffee on an airplane

Leavinggggggg on an airplane, don’t know when I’ll be back again.

Just kidding, I have a return ticket for Sunday.

I hate flying, so I figured maybe I’ll write to pass the time and see what I come up with. Ladies and gentlemen, buckle those seatbelts, secure those tray tables, and hold on to your butts. We are headed to North Carolina for a girls’ weekend!!!

This is actually my first of three trips to North Carolina scheduled for this summer. If you know me (hi mom) you know that I have a brother in North Carolina, so you’d think this would be a great schedule to see my biggest brother, right? Nah. He is literally not in the state of NC for any of this trips!

Of course this would happen, because one of my friends on the trip has been saying for about 6 years that I made him up because she’s never met him. So I’m sure she’s “shocked” that he’s conveniently out of town this weekend. But he’s real, I swear! He’s just way too smart and successful and in demand at his job.

But anywayyysss, I’m sure you noticed that none of that has anything to do with the title of this entry.

Another thing that has nothing to do with the title? I have press on nails currently, and typing is so. fucking. hard. Like this is going to take me forever. But as I said, irrelevant.

No, this post is going to be about realizing that living like you’re in your early twenties would kill you now. I remember being in college and my dad told me that in his thirties he had a dream that he missed all of his finals and woke up in a panic. He said it was a real nightmare. And I just sat there like ok boomer, I have night terrors but go off.

But then it happened. I had the dream. The first one was a few years ago. I got lost on campus and missed my finals. Another time I realized halfway through the semester that I skipped two whole courses. Last night it was that I never handed anything in and flunked out.

And folks, the boomer was right! It’s awful!!! Sometimes I wake up from these dreams and almost need to go track down my diplomas to remind myself I finished all the things. I give so much respek to adult learners. I would not be able to hack it.

And it’s here that I ask myself, when did I get so old? There were definitely signs along the way. I had a MySpace. I have a Facebook. I have no fucking clue how to TikTok. I did not own a crop top or high waisted jeans in college. That last one is a real bummer because it sure would have been nice to discover that trend when I still had a six-pack. I was sub-tweeted when I didn’t even have a Twitter since I didn’t have a smart phone. Here’s looking at you, girl who wanted to fight me because I politely asked for my jacket back after you stole it.

It wasn’t until I was confronted with the idea of having to go back to school because my dreams told me that I never finished that I looked into the mirror and said, “I’m too old for this shit.”

I could not do college again. Or at the very least, I couldn’t do college how I did it the first time. I remember one Sunday, after beach party, rolling into the locker room for the long run. I was 5 minutes late, I was not coming from my own home, which it’s not what you think (not that it matters if I was coming from a night of getting railed), but I used to sleep at one of the other track houses all the time. Anyway, I roll in with nothing but a granola bar and probably beer in my stomach, and nothing but a bikini and a sweatshirt on my body. And then I ran 16 miles and went to brunch. Now I can’t have a beer within 72 hours of a long run, or I’m pretty sure I’d die.

Even beyond the party aspect of college, which I know was pretty minimal compared to the average college experience since I was an athlete, I don’t think I could handle it in general. I mean, all nighters to write a paper? My bedtime is firmly set at 10pm. I’d fail everything. And to think I didn’t discover coffee until grad school! My college roommate gifted me with a pretty solid caffeine habit.

I feel like in general I’m just not suited for college life anymore. I was much more resilient back then. The world and life hadn’t quite knocked me down yet. I lived in a “garden apartment,” which we all know is just a nice way to say I lived in a basement, and we had ants. Because it was a basement. One day in class I pull out my laptop, and I’m typing away, when all of the sudden, ANTS START CRAWLING OUT FROM THE KEYBOARD! At the time I just put the laptop in my backpack before we had a locusts descending on Egypt situation. If that happened now I’d need to set up an emergency appointment with my therapist, and I’d have to set the thing on fire.

Speaking of things that would cause absolute trauma now, I once blew the circuit in our apartment. The breaker was in the landlord’s basement, which shared a door with our apartment (proof we lived in a basement). As a result, the door to the basement is supposed to be unlocked, at least on their side, at all times. Our side was a different story. While our landlord was very nice, my roommate and I had some feelings about the guy living with her, who we didn’t discover until years later was her nephew. So the door stayed locked.

Why were we not on Team Random Man? Let me paint you a word picture. Don’t worry, it all circles back around to my original point. Bear with me.

It’s not rare for college athletic teams to have items that are passed down from class to class. For us, it was a mannequin leg. All the seniors would sign it when they graduated and it would go to a younger house. My junior year it found its home in my apartment. After Christmas break I respond to a knock on the door from the landlord’s mystery boy. When I open the door, he’s standing there with a mannequin leg. Questions pop into mind. Where did you get that? Why do you have it? How did you know we had one? WHY DA FUCK WERE YOU IN OUR APARTMENT?

So now that you have that background, let’s go back to the power outage. I unlock the door from our side to the basement, but it won’t open. We are supposed to have access, so I’m sitting there like, imma get this door open. After pushing with all the might in my little runner body, it opens. So you may be asking, was it locked by accident? Nope. ‘‘Twas not. It was blocked shut….BY A PILE OF MANNEQUIN PARTS.

Now as an adult, this would be the point where I pack my shit and move home for the rest of my life. But because college students have zero living standards, I just flipped the breaker and went about my day.

Thirty year old me and twenty year old me have very different guidelines for fuckupedness. That’s a word; don’t worry about it.

Update: adding an airport beer to the works

Back to business.

The moral of the story here is that I never thought something so innocent as dreaming about missing a college class would cause me such distress, especially compared to the fact that I routinely wake up convinced that someone is standing over my face, but here we are. The boomer was right. You win this time. Also, I know my dad reads this, so don’t worry dad I love you! Except for the first day of your retirement when you were on the roof at 7am doing construction work. It may have been 11 years ago but I remember being so rudely awakened by someone who was supposed to be RELAXING!

What these dreams taught me is that despite the fact that I hate that my joints are crackly and my resilience in the face of nonsense scenarios has gone down the toilet, I’m not sure I’d trade it for going back to college. Because I’m tired. And I know, almost-30 is not old. I’m still a spring chicken. I’m in my prime (To my boyfriend, you can still put a ring on it any day now). It’s just a slower prime than it once was.

And since all this reminiscing is bringing me back to my college days, I want to leave you on a fun story. It’s my cousin’s favorite, and it really is a classic example of college kids being hella dumb.

To set the scene: winter after Christmas break my senior year. It’s cold. It’s the middle of the night.

All of the sudden, the carbon monoxide detector goes off. It does its job and wakes up me and my roommate. Now at this point we had already had a gas leak just a few months prior, so this should have been especially concerning.

So I crawl out of bed and check the detector, and as you likely know, there’s usually a guide on the back with different beep patterns and corresponding instructions. This particular pattern said “move to fresh air.” Ok, that’s easy. So I take the detector, PUT IT OUTSIDE, and go back to bed.

Fortunately, I realized that this didn’t seem right. In reality, it was fortunate that it ended up just being a malfunction, but we didn’t know this at that point. So I call the fire department, not 9-1-1, because it’s still not occurring to us that this is a real problem. I went to college in a rural area. We got the fire department’s voicemail! This led to a very casual 9-1-1 call, which led to a somewhat less casual argument with the operator as to whether or not we could just stand near a window as opposed to going outside because “we feel fine, and it’s cold!”

Ladies and gentlemen, I currently possess a masters degree.

So until next time… I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

A forgone conclusion

Today’s beverage: Mich Ultra Spicy Pineapple Seltzer….on the porch!!!! Every drink tastes better on a porch. It’s science. I checked.

I was a running stroller baby. Then I was a “bike ride while my dad runs” child, followed by a “run with my dad” preteen, culminating in a “run while my parents ride their bikes” adult.

It’s the ciiiiiiircle of liiiiiiife!

So yeah, me being a runner was a forgone conclusion, etched in stone since the time of the dinosaurs. In fact, when I’m tired, I even run like a T-rex. It’s a family trait. So I’m a runner. But that’s not to say I didn’t fight it along the way a little bit. In my mind, I was going to be a soccer player, the next Mia Hamm if you will. To be clear, I was the only one who felt that that that was a logical goal. I chose to overlook the fact that my most valuable skills as a soccer player were really just byproducts of me being a runner. Other people, smarter people, saw these things. It’s why every coach made me play midfield. It’s also why a player on another team once slapped me in the face because she got so frustrated that I kept beating her to the ball, thus effectively removing her from the game. There was not a single person in attendance, myself included, who did not know she was a better player than me. But somebody was just faster. *hair flip*

This brings us to high school and adding some running to my summer training to get ready for my first year of JV soccer. Every day my dad would take me on an out-and-back 3 mile run. Except it was more of a out-cry-back 3 mile run. God bless that man.

I quickly learned in that 9th grade soccer season that some of my teammates, and their parents, were not my biggest fans. I wasn’t a bad player, but in a perfect world, I sure as shit should not have been a starter. But your girl’s got wheels! In their minds, my playing time was a threat to their college scholarships. Want to hear a secret? YOUR ENTIRE HIGH SCHOOL TEAM IS NOT GOING TO A DI SCHOOL FOR FREE. And if I’m your barrier to that, you have far bigger problems. Calm down.

Fast forward to the first week of varsity indoor track, and I was sold on cross country. I LOVED my teammates. I still do! I’m in one of their weddings next year!

Added perk: my parents were thrilled. My parents are runner parents, and they like to hang with runner parents. I know this because my dad tells me…all. the. time.

I had done track and field during middle school (to stay in shape for soccer, obvs), and while I was successful, I struggled with living in my older brother’s shadow. I love my brother (now…back then? Meh.) but when you’re trying to prove yourself on your own merits, it hurts to have a coach not bother to learn your name. I was my brother’s sister, and that remained my title for two years. I thought I escaped this in high school when I established myself as my own person, until a coach from an opposing team asked my dad why he would travel to watch me race when my brother was the better athlete. I mean, he wasn’t wrong; my brother ran DI in college whereas I found my happy place in DIII, but like, what the actual fuck.

I won’t bore you with the details of 8 years of racing for my high school and college teams, but I will bore you with some things I learned along the way. Lucky you!!

I love the people that running has brought into my life. I have “friends from college” that graduated before I even knew my alma mater existed, and this is because of the support system our team has created throughout the years.

There’s a bond that forms between runners, between competitors. Watching someone hit a PR or break a record, even if they aren’t on your team, is a winning experience for everyone. Crossing the finish line and knowing that the person right in front or behind you has also completely emptied the tank builds an unspoken level of respect. Comparing blisters, lost toe nails, and sharing ice baths, and exchanging war stories of the first time you had to take a shit in the woods are also crucial bonding experiences.

But there’s also a negative side. Years of being told that you don’t “have a runner’s body” takes its toll. I have more of a soccer player body…I guess that happens when you play the sport for 14 YEARS! I lived in an environment where light means fast, where average is overweight. Teammates and I have discussed many times over the years that our standards for someone being “too thin” are unhealthy and wrong.

When you run competitively, your results are constantly under a microscope. Either you’re the fastest or you’re not. And when you don’t bring in the result that’s expected of you, you are picked apart…sometimes by coaches, sometimes by teammates, sometimes by family, but mostly by yourself. You have to be ready to get comfortable in your own head when you become a runner.

Having a good coach is key.

I loved my college coach. I thrived under his instruction. He’s certainly led to some interesting anecdotes throughout the years, and we definitely did not always see eye to eye, but all in all, he was an excellent coach on and off the course.

This was slightly different than high school.

Staggering your runs so that the slowest people start first and the fastest people start last is not the best way to foster confidence, especially when the fastest are expected to overtake the slowest every single day. Sending an athlete on a five mile run the day after experience heat stroke was also less than ideal, but I guess I’m still here.

I had a boyfriend after college who coached. I asked him to train me for a marathon, and he agreed but he also told me within 30 seconds that my weight would be open to his criticism. Sadly, I wasn’t even really concerned. Now when I need coaching, I turn to my brother. We have similar running styles, and he can’t weigh me from several states away….not that he’d want to, because he’s a normal human being.

Obviously, there are some questionable coaching techniques in any sport. For example, I’m pretty sure that there are other ways to develop my core and reduce fear of the ball than having a teammate stand at my head and repeatedly chuck a soccer ball at my stomach. I’d also say having dance studio attached to a bar was iffy, but it was Irish dance, so actually I think that checks out.

Moving on.

Running, both in school and after, has taken me to a lot of places. I’ve raced in Boston, Disney World, through Churchill Downs, along coast of Maine, and even the exotic destinations of Iowa, Wisconsin, and Indiana. DIII just LOVES the Midwest.

I love running. I love the stress relief, I love the ability to test my body’s limits, I even love the fun tan lines! Even when there’s no race on the horizon (heyyyy, COVID) I still find joy in the miles. Here’s the deal though. You do something long enough, you’re going to run in to some bad experiences.

I was 16 when I got my first catcall that creeped me out. I was between games for a soccer tournament and went for an 8 mile run (key indicator that soccer was not my sport) and I was running in a sports bra since it was a billion degrees out. Some weird adult man whistled at me and said something gross about my body. I remember getting home and relaying the experience to my mom and being confused what he was commenting on. I mean I was less than 100 pounds, and my boobs hadn’t grown in yet! My mom would likely still argue that I’m a card carrying member of the itty bitty titty committee, but that’s irrelevant.

Over the years I’ve been followed (by cars, other runners, and a group of youths on skateboards). I had a lovely gentlemen pretend to jerk off at me. My favorite is when it’s raining and cars drive through puddles to splash you on purpose. Have you ever had a tween on a razor scooter spit on you? I have! And who doesn’t love to be chased by loose dogs?? Better yet, who doesn’t love getting bit by a dog and having the owner not believe you. Sorry I didn’t remove my pants to show you the bite mark on my thigh, but leash your dog, ya Karen.

Last year I scrapped one of my favorite running routes because a loose dog came out at me, and I crossed the street to attempt to get away. The dog ran in front of a car, AND WAS NOT HIT, because I knew the driver saw the dog and what I was trying to do. But the owner came after me, telling me to go jump off a bridge and die and that he was going to kill me because I almost hurt his dog.

Fortunately for me, the good continues to outweigh the bad.

I love that I can shoot a mean snot rocket (in the winter it’s more of a blood rocket). I love that there’s not a port-a-potty in this land that can scare me. At the same time, I love that runners take no shame in waiting in line to pee in the woods when the potties are full. We are a fit, but gross people. We’re good at testing the limits of how far one can go without a shower. You ever see a runner finish run with only one sock? You can bet money that they had a poopmergency somewhere along the way, but they still had a few miles left.

This took a fun turn for you all, didn’t it??

Don’t worry because here’s your reprieve.

To toot my own horn, something I’m trying to do more often, I’m no slouch when it comes to running. I have a marathon PR of 3:09, and I’ve won my fair share of races. But it’s a hobby, not a profession. I’m what you might call, “middle of the road.” That being said, a couple hundred bucks every now and again is a pretty sweet deal.

But I turned my running into money in other ways too. I was able to work in running stores for several years. The best part here is I got a paycheck and free gear! SCORE! This was clutch, because like most graduate students, I was poor AF.

And this lesson is what connects this topic to the theme of my blog…

*drumroll please*

Ladies and gentlemen, ya girl got her first paid writing gig!!!!! That’s right people, I’m breaking in to the game. WeeViews is an online running community that posts reviews of gear, races, and other things running. You can find my first post on WeeViews.com in the Rundown, listing tips and tricks for gearing up without going broke. Give them a follow, write some reviews, check it out!!

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle (or a steeple) for another beer.

LET THE GAME$ BEGIN

Today’s-ish beverage: Michelob Ultra Infusions: lime & prickly pear cactus

I have to say, the seltzers are way better, but the calories are still low, and I have a beach vacay coming up in May.

Either way, that’s what I was drinking when I started this post 2 days ago. Now I’m actually just drinking iced coffee, because my body runs almost exclusively on caffeine. I’m not even sure what being properly hydrated feels like. I’d probably get fewer headaches, but I just like to think of those as one of life’s little quirks.

Well folks, I did it. I arm wrestled a bear.

No. I submitted my first pitches for freelance writing gigs. My hat is in the ring. I have entered the gauntlet. I put some skin in the game. I have tapped out on that analogy.

I did arm wrestle my friend last night though. She destroyed me. She’s not a bear, but she does cross fit, and she’s very strong. There’s a reason I’m the only one on our Tough Mudder team that can’t cross the Funky Monkey. These guns are for display purposes only.

*kisses each “bicep”*

Shout out to Overall Obstacles. Returning to a Tough Mudder near you (if you live outside of Boston) June 2021

I also officially received my first, and likely not last, rejection. I’m not sure why I’m telling you this part. I could lie and say I was wildly successful right out of the gate, and you should all bow down to my excellence. Kiss the ring!

But as the kids say these days, honesty is the best policy. And don’t part your hair on the side. And don’t wear skinny jeans.

Jokes on you Gen-Z, I usually just wear sweatpants. And I look terrible with a center part so I guess I wasn’t destined to fit in with the youths. That’s fine. I just want to do jigsaw puzzles and paint by number on my phone all day anyway.

Back to writing pitches.

It honestly wasn’t as scary as I anticipated. I’m not sure why I procrastinated so long. Oh wait, yes I do, it’s just part of my charming nature aka my anxiety disorder. It’s cuter if you call it charm. Kind of like saying a house is charming when what you really mean is it’s smaller than your car and hasn’t been updated since it was cool to put carpet in the bathroom.

Maybe it’s because I’m used to professional rejection. Sometimes it feels like it doesn’t make a difference whether I send my resume to the employer or just use it to line Elephant’s litter box.

Side note: I have done that many times. It’s called being economical and eco-friendly.

Saving trees one failure at a time.

I once went through a series of job interviews where the interviewer informed me that I was almost the top choice, but there was just one person with better qualifications.

Always the bridesmaid, never employed I guess.

*hair flip*

I’m sorry, but what makes you think I’m going to feel better if I know that I barely missed out? Just tell me no and move on.

One of the best parts of pitching for these freelance gigs is that I don’t have to do the usual job interviews.

I hate job interviews. I’m sure that’s how most people feel, unless you’re some sort of masochist. To each their own! Whatever floats your giant, Instagramable unicorn raft.

Ohhh to reminisce on my old job searches…

There was the time I interviewed for an internship and the interviewer asked me what I weighed. And then, they had the balls to tell me that I’m not that small, compared to a figure skater. I mean ok, oddly specific and inappropriate, but you do you, boo boo.

There was the interview I did with a minor concussion because I fell on ice the night before. That was fun. I also couldn’t turn my head at all.

There was this interview:

“How comfortable are you with informatics?”

Me: “I don’t know what that is.”

“….Ma’am this internship is called ‘informatics in public health.’”

That ones on me, but in my defense I had found an internship already and had one foot out the door.

By the way, public health informatics is the process of using data systems and technology to shape public health practice. See? I would have been fine.

And then there are those interviews where you know the interviewer very well and you have to ask and answer questions like you’ve never seen them before in your life. As someone who spends most of their waking hours being nervous and awkward, this is a friggin nightmare!

In summary, the idea of sending someone a writing sample and they just tell me yes or no is pretty relaxing.

I just need some people to say yes. I need the money! I have mouths to feed! Specifically, Elephant. If you’ve ever been bit by a rabbit, you can understand why I focus all of my efforts and resources on not pissing her off. The trick is to drop the treats from about waist level so she can’t rip them out of your hands.

In hindsight, maybe BrigidandaBeverage, while an excellent name for this whimsical blog, was not the most professional name to use for my writing portfolio, but I already bought the domain so I sure as shit am going to use it. Plus, I knew a guy who got a job as a ski instructor despite never having skied before, so I feel like anything is possible!

I also like to tell myself that putting both sides of my writing styles on display shows that I’m a real Jack of all trades…Jill of all trades? I don’t know how that expression works.

I was reading a book the other day (it was a trashy book, but it’s funny, and I can do what I want) and the author wrote “Jilled off” as opposed to “jacked off” and I have to say, it gave me the heebie jeebies.

So anyways, keep your fingers crossed that someone thinks I’m a worthwhile hire.

Ok, I need to wrap this up; I have a Lunchable to eat. Because I’m an adult, and again, I can do what I want.

So until next time…I guess I need a closing catchphrase, but that’s a hurdle for another beer.

You’d think by now I’d have that little phrase memorized, but nope, it’s copy/paste until the day I die.

Bye friends!