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Sex and the Zerbert Test

posted 19th January 2012    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Love/Relationships, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure

My friend Rebecca* and I decided that we’re going to implement a new test to determine whether we should be dating someone. The name of the test is still in the works, but that doesn’t matter. The point is that we think it’s going to be really useful.

It’s a simple test, really. All you have to do is give someone a zerbert (or raspberry – you know, where you put your mouth against their arm or belly and blow, and it makes a funny sound) and see how they react. Because let’s be honest: if someone can’t handle a zerbert, they’re not cut out for a long-term relationship, at least not one with Rebecca or me.

I haven’t decided at what point I will perform the test, though I suppose I’ll know when the situation arises. It doesn’t seem like first date material; however, I can’t remember the last time I had a typical first date, so maybe it could be. I could ask the basic questions – job (He should have one, and possibly like it.), last book he read (It needs to be something more recent than The Very Hungry Caterpillar, unless he spends a lot of time around two-year-olds.), favorite place he’s traveled (If he doesn’t travel, he gets the boot.), how often he calls his mom (Three times a day is not an acceptable answer.) – and follow them up with a zerbert.

…okay, maybe I should come up with an alternate plan.

I think the most practical application for me will be in bed. Now, naturally, I don’t want to have sex with someone before performing the zerbert test. If they can’t handle a zerbert, why would I want to go all the way with them? I’m thinking that perhaps the first time we find ourselves moving in that direction, I’ll lift up my date’s shirt and attack his belly. If he laughs, we can get it on. If he stares at me like I have three heads, I’ll have to hightail it out of that situation. Because if he thinks that’s weird, he probably won’t be able to cope with my penchant for having Spice Girls dance parties while I cook.

You see what I mean? It’s the perfect test.

This whole conversation started because over the course of my travels, I slept with someone new. Now, I tend to keep this sort of thing to myself – or at least a limited group of close friends, because let’s be honest, we all love talking about sex. I wanted to talk about this hookup in particular because, over the course of analyzing every detail, I realized something: I hadn’t enjoyed myself in bed that much since…2005? 2006?

Over years of worrying whether I look good enough naked, or being pushed away by my ex, or hooking up with inappropriate men, I forgot how much fun sex could be. I forgot what it was like to spend the day in bed wrapped up in each other. I forgot the electricity that can happen when a guy runs his fingers up my arms with fingertips barely grazing my skin. I forgot how good it can feel to get into a tickle war and shriek and laugh. I forgot that we can be silly in bed and that it doesn’t have to be so serious.

I think this guy would have passed the zerbert test.

Now, I do see one flaw with this new plan: someone could pass and still not be a good long-term partner for me. I’ll still have to ask those first (and second and third) date questions, think about whether he’d be a good father to our potential future children, know that he doesn’t hate my tattoos, and so on.

Chemistry and silliness – and the ability to appreciate the unexpected – are good steps in the right direction, though.

*Name has been changed!

[photo credit: me!]

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I Am Strong, Capable, and Beautiful

posted 15th January 2012    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Life Lesson, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure, What I've Learned

There are a few things that I wish I’d known before I started traveling. The first, of course, is about the disconnect that I wrote about recently; apparently, that’s not an uncommon phenomenon. The second is that I wish someone had told me that I was going to put on weight.

Six months ago, I was probably in the best shape of my life. I was doing yoga regularly, drinking plenty of water and rarely consuming alcohol, and eating foods in response to my body’s needs (plenty of fruits and vegetables, protein as I craved it, no dairy or gluten). I’d finally dropped weight that hadn’t wanted to go, and I felt good in my own skin for the first time in years.

Once I got on the road, though, it was hard to maintain this routine. I haven’t been able to find (m)any yoga classes that I like as much as the ones at my old studio in New York, and it’s been hard to practice at home since I’ve been sharing a room. Though I’ve done my best to eat reasonably healthy food, I also tend to stick with the diets in the places I’m staying – and especially at the farms, that’s meant a lot of bread. (And when it’s not at the farms, it’s meant a lot of meat, especially in Central Europe. My love for that region knows no bounds, but cucumber and tomato – out of season, no less – do not a salad make.) I often haven’t been drinking enough water; I don’t relish using the bathrooms on overnight trains, for one.

The point of all of this is that when I recently saw myself in a full-length mirror for the first time in a few months, it was HARD. It’s tough to write that, because I feel absurd for even thinking it. The fact of the matter is, though, that I have a challenging time seeing myself as attractive.

I’m able to look at things rationally and see that my body is strong and capable. I can do yoga. I ran a 5K in June without training for it, and I was really happy with my time. I walk all over the damn place, including to the top of clock towers and such – even though I’m afraid of heights. I’m learning to play lacrosse because I might be competing in a tournament in Budapest – just because I can. I don’t think I’ve ever been able to look at myself and say that I’m beautiful, though, and putting back on weight that I lost a year ago doesn’t help.

In yoga, we talk about saṃskāras, or mental and emotions patterns. I like to picture them as the squiggly ridges on my brain, each groove representing a thought pattern that I developed over time. This one about beauty is very much present and accounted for, though I have no idea where it began. All I know is that it’s been reinforced over years of ex-boyfriends pointing out “flaws” in my body, of seemingly not being noticed by the men I find attractive, of constantly telling myself over and over that I’m not pretty enough.

It’s an awful way to exist.

I realized something important as I looked into the full-length mirror a few weeks ago. As I saw myself standing there, extra pounds and all, I finally understood the yogic practice of ahimsa. It’s often translated as non-violence, and it’s the reason why many yogis don’t eat meat. I’ve also heard it translated as compassion, though, and that day, something clicked. I’d always thought about compassion being directed externally – be kind to others, etc. – and then it hit me: practicing compassion needs to be internal, too. It seems like a simple thing, and yet, it’s really not, at least for me. How can I be a compassionate person when every day, I tell myself that I’m unattractive or not enough? How is it okay to look at my body and think horrible thoughts about my appearance?

So, here it goes: I am strong, capable, and beautiful.

Writing that feels difficult and vulnerable. It’s hard to read, and even tougher to believe. But you know what? I can’t keep telling myself awful things and expecting others to see me differently, though. Changing this thought pattern needs to start with me, right now.

How can you treat yourself with greater compassion?

[photo credit: me!]

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I Left My Heart in Prague

posted 11th December 2011    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure

Nine years ago, I stepped off a train in Prague and proceeded to get scammed by a taxi driver. He charged me over three times what I should have paid – and I knew it – but there was nothing I could do at the time. I was a 21-year-old girl who didn’t speak a word of Czech, and I was trying to bargain with burly men who knew that. The alternative, though, was attempting to maneuver my large, unwieldy suitcase on an unfamiliar tram system, though, and that didn’t feel like much of an option.

I was already regretting my decision to spend four months living in this city. When I chose to go there, I didn’t really know anything about the city or the country. I only knew that it was in Eastern Europe, close to my family’s homeland of Poland. (And when I arrived, I found out that it was actually in Central Europe, so I hadn’t really known anything.) Colleagues from my internship who had been to Prague told me that it was incredibly beautiful, and that I would love my time there.

I arrived in Central Europe two weeks after devastating floods. I flew into Berlin with my ex-boyfriend, who was studying there for the semester, and then I took the train to Prague. After hours of riding in silence, the man sitting next to me told me that we were nearly there. I looked out the window and I wanted to cry. It was ugly. All I saw were tall, concrete apartment buildings – panelaks, built when the former Czechoslovakia was under Soviet rule – and I couldn’t believe it. Where was the beautiful architecture? Where were the charming cobblestone streets? What the fuck had I gotten myself into?

I don’t remember the drive through the city to my dormitory, which was up on top of the hill past the castle. Later, I would notice all of the incredible details on the buildings, the orange tile rooftops, the stunning towers and churches, and the cobblestone streets – things that would become fixtures of my daily commute to my university. Later, I would see all of the damage caused by the floods: the crumbled walls of buildings near the Vltava River, the piles of garbage by metro stations, the closed streets and trams running irregular routes. That afternoon, though, I didn’t process any of that. I arrived at Kolej Komenského, my home for the next four months, and wondered what I was going to do.

That night, I met all of my fellow students as we went to dinner a few blocks away at a Czech pub. I ate smažený sýr (fried cheese) and palačinky (Czech pancakes, which are like crepes) while having introductory conversations with the people I’d grow to know well over the next four months. When things started winding down, I left the restaurant with my roommate and two of our classmates. We walked to the top of the hill – a route we would grow to know well over the coming months – and when we got to the top, something caught our attention.

There was chanting. After a minute, we realized that it was coming from the monastery. It was entrancing. We walked around the building, trying to see where it was coming from, but we couldn’t see anyone inside. While we stood there, listening, I turned around and looked down the hill.

Prague was the most beautiful place I’d ever seen.

As I gazed over the glowing city – especially the domes and spires of churches lit up at night – I was certain that by the end of the semester, I’d take that view for granted. I figured that once things became routine, the city wouldn’t feel so incredible anymore. That never happened. Prague’s beauty and magic stayed with me that semester, and my creativity soared during that time. Something about being there feels electric to me, inspiring and powerful. If you can fall in love with a city, I did so with Prague that night near the monastery.

* * * * * * * * * *

Three weeks ago, I stepped off a plane at Ruzyně airport in Prague, and I bought a transit pass. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and hopped on a bus to the metro. I listened to the announcements in Czech, catching a few words and phrases that I remembered. When I exited the metro, I easily navigated familiar streets and headed to a favorite cafe to meet some friends.

This was my fourth visit back, and it still – always – feels like home. Each time I’ve visited, I’ve returned with my roommate from that semester abroad, and we have a list of old favorites that we try to be sure to see. This time, we spent a day walking through Petřín Park, a place where I spent many hours wandering, reading, and writing nine years ago. As we exited the park near the top of the hill, we passed that same monastery that gave us pause our first night there. Dusk was settling over the city, and looking out over the church tops and orange tile roofs, I fell in love all over again. As my friends and I walked down the hill toward the restaurant where I spent my first night in Prague nine years ago, I knew that the magic of the city will stay with me.

Though this last visit was entirely too brief, I’m not worried; I know that I’ll keep going back. We may have started off on the wrong foot, but Prague and I, we’re connected.

Have you ever fallen in love with a city, or visited a place that took your breath away?

[photo credit: me!]

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Adventures in Iceland, or How Living My Values Led to Magic

posted 6th November 2011    Written by: Kat    CATEGORY: All Posts, Kat, Life Lesson, Season 5, Travel, Travel/Adventure, What I've Learned

Over the course of my life, I’ve made some pretty poor choices about friends. At a very young age, I had a friend stab me in the back of the head with a pencil. (Okay, that was an accident that happened while she was hugging me to thank me for the pencil, but still. It should have been a sign. Years later, she ended a coffee date early to go do her ironing.) In high school, two separate groups of friends stopped speaking to me for no apparent reason. (Fortunately, only one of those groups decided to compose mean songs and poems about me.) In college, one of the first close friends that I made decided that we got too close too soon, and then I never heard from her again. (It was probably all for the best, as she lived in one of the dorms all the way on the other side of campus. Still, it was strange. I mean, don’t all early college friendships begin with fast bonding over something random?) These days, it usually works that a close friend starts dating someone, and then suddenly, I’m no longer needed as the partner-in-crime/adventure buddy/confidante. (Admittedly, I’m pretty sure I’ve done that to people, too – and yet, it still stings when it happens.)

Now, I’ll be the first to tell you that the friends I’ve got are the most amazing people in my life. They’ve stuck with me through: cross-country and cross-city moves; poor dating/relationship choices; job transitions; joining and subsequently retiring from roller derby; starting a business (and then determining that it wasn’t the right time); and obviously, my current travel adventure. My friends have had many a long discussion with me about all of those decisions, and I’m a lucky lady in that regard. And of course, there have been all of the fun times, too!

I always expect that those two scenarios will balance out over time, and yet, in the end, it’s often easier to get stuck in the mode of remembering the bad things that have happened. Enter: trust issues. The type where I feel like if I obsess about one more decision out loud to my friends, they’re going to tell me to get over it and stop being so self-absorbed. The sort that lead to difficulties opening up to people. The kind that make it hard to ask for help, even from those who know me best.

My time in Iceland challenged all of that.

I expected to be spending my two weeks there alone, save for a few interactions with my CouchSurfing host and the farmers. I figured I would learn about sheep and producing jam for sale, struggle with Icelandic words, and spend my evenings reading and knitting. I suspected I would excitedly await my time in England, when I’d finally get to be with friends who were fluent in English and wanted to hang out with me.

Things didn’t exactly work out that way.

When I arrived at the farm, there were already two other volunteers there. This turned out to be a very good thing, as I soon discovered that the farmer was a teacher and thus not home all day. I wouldn’t have known where to find anything or what to do if not for them – and I also wouldn’t have learned as quickly how little work there was to do. And I most definitely wouldn’t have decided to hitchhike to another farm further east that needed extra hands harvesting before the first snow.

Before this year, I probably would have stuck it out on the farm alone, even though my compatriots were leaving for likely greener pastures. I would have assumed that hitchhiking wouldn’t be safe enough to try, and that I might get stuck in the middle of nowhere – or worse. (Americans don’t really hitchhike much, at least not in my experience.) If I decided that the farm really would be too sad and lonely, I would have paid for an earlier flight to England and high-tailed it out of Iceland to a safe space with people who know me well.

I chose to try something different.

In one of my first posts, I talked about realigning my life to reflect my values, and one of those is trust. After spending two days hitchhiking about halfway around Iceland, I think I can safely say that I’m learning to live that one. For two days, I traveled with two people I’d met less than a week earlier, trusting that they wouldn’t abandon me somewhere along the way. I relied on the kindness of strangers driving past, who were giving us rides in exchange for nothing other than conversation with an American, a Belgian, and a German (and sometimes cookies, which I’d baked without a recipe before leaving the first farm – and I must say, they were a big hit). I needed to trust that our lifts would be safe drivers on winding Icelandic roads; it’s a small enough country that I didn’t need to worry that they knew where we were going. I hoped that once we got to the junction nearest the farm, that the directions we’d received from the farmer would be clear enough that we’d easily find it as we walked at dusk with all of our bags.

Two days, 600 kilometers, six lifts (including a member of an Icelandic punk band and a former Icelandic Olympian), two dozen cookies, an unexpected stay in a village called Kirkjubæjarklaustur (seen in the above photo), three kilometers walking from the main road to the farm, and countless hours waiting by the side of the road and at petrol stations, we made it. And I’d do it again in a heartbeat.

I haven’t even touched on the people that I met on the other farm or my two CouchSurfing hosts, both of whom turned out to be really rad. I haven’t talked about the connection I formed with the two other volunteers with whom I was traveling, the silly inside jokes we developed, and the ease of our time together. I haven’t shared any of the farming experiences I had and what I learned about herding sheep and harvesting turnips. All of those things were a bit part of my two weeks in Iceland, too.

What I’ll remember the most, though, is how letting other people in and trusting strangers can lead to adventure and magic, and that I’m ready to do that a little bit more than I was before.

[photo credit:  me!]

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Facing My Fears: Toes Dangling Off The Edge

posted 19th September 2011    Written by: Hannah    CATEGORY: All Posts, Hannah, Quarterlife Crisis, Season 5

Last month my friend and I cashed in a Groupon for a trapeze class at the School of Acrobatics and New Circus Arts (SANCA).  A step towards Eleanor Roosevelt’s  “Do one thing every day that scares you” philosophy, I suppose.  I’m not really afraid of heights…okay, maybe a little, but nothing debilitating or anything.  But let me tell you, this scared the crap out of me.  It was MUCH more terrifying than I expected.

We started with “ground training” which lasted all of 5 minutes, were put in harnesses, and sent straight up the ladder.  This ladder felt like it was one little wiggle away from laying itself right down flat on the ground, and taking my 5’10” body up it gave it more than just a little wiggle.  I was positive it was going to come crashing down and me with it.  (For the record and SANCA’s credibility, it was well stabilized and definitely wouldn’t have fallen.)

Once I got to the top there was my spotter.  She’s the one who hooks you into your ropes, tells you to hang your toes over the edge of a very high platform, helps you catch the bar and tells you “Ready, hup!” (Hup = do something absolutely terrifying like leap off a giant tower).  It’s scary enough by itself, but my spotter could not have been more than 5 feet tall and 100 pounds soaking wet.

She grabbed the back of my harness (about the equivalent of grabbing onto the back of your pants), pulled the bar up to me and told me to lean forward and hold onto it with one hand.  You really don’t expect it, but those bars are HEAVY!  They pull you forward.  She holds you back.  No offense to this chick at all, but I did NOT trust her to keep me from landing face first in the net (“At least there’s a net. At least there’s a net.  At least there’s a net.”) My heart was pounding in my ears.  I could barely hear anything.  My hands were shaking and clammy.  I seriously doubted that my grasp on this bar was actually going to hold especially if I had my entire body weight tugging on it.  Letting go with my other hand to get a good grip on that bar was one of the scariest things I can remember doing.  “Ready? Hup!” (“Holycrapholycrapholycrap!”) And then, I was FLYING (through the air with the greatest of ease…Or something like that.) And let me tell you…What a feeling.

So here’s the big question: If I can let go with both hands, trust a total stranger, and leap off a 23 foot platform, why can’t I trust myself?

I know I have the knowledge, drive, ability, and passion to make a creative business for myself.  Even better, I’m well on the way to doing so…so what’s holding me back?  Why am I right on the edge of something awesome and holding back? Why am I still working 30 hours a week as a nanny and attempting to run my business in my “spare” time?  “Paralyzing fear,” I think would be the right phrase. Fear of making the jump, maybe. How can I move through the sheer terror that would be quitting my job (i.e. reliable income) and come out the other side in one piece?  I’m lucky to have an amazingly supportive husband, family, and group of friends who encourage me in every step I take towards the life I want to be living.  So what’s the hang up?  What am I waiting for?  What exactly is it that I’m afraid of?  Besides falling face first in the net (“At least there’s a net.”).

With the trapeze it’s all about timing.  You have to make your big moves in just the right part of the swing or your trick won’t work, but at some point, toes dangling off the edge…

…you just have to leap.  And fly.

[photo credit: my friend Leigh]

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