Confessions Of A Splenda Stealer

Hi. I’m not quite sure how these things go, but I’ll give this a try based on what knowledge I’ve gleaned from watching something-anonymous meetings on television.

Hello. My name is Emily, and I am a bad blogger.

There. I’ve said it. They say the first step to moving on is acceptance. Check. I’m not quite sure of the other steps, but all I know is that I’m throwing my hat back into the ring, grabbing the bull by the horns, tossing out any euphemism for staring over, and returning to my blog.

If you are reading this, I’m sorry I’ve kept you waiting. But, as you are about to read, a few things have been going on in the past few months that have been the cause of a lot of celebration.

I GOT A NEW JOB.

Bye-bye journalism, hello advertising. Ladies and gentleman, I’ve entered a new career, and a new industry to boot. I’ve never been so excited for a challenge, and so tired by the end of the workweek that weekends have new meaning to me. I also now understand how my fellow copywriter friend told me that sometimes she doesn’t have time to pee. Sometimes, you just don’t.

I’M NO LONGER A HOBOKENITE.

Yes, the rumors are true. After almost four years, I have fled the Mile-Square town for a new adventure–QUEENS. More specifically, Astoria. That’s crossing two rivers. Two rivers, about five times during moving day, in a U Haul cargo van. My family is amazing to have helped me for the gazillionth time moving since freshman year in college. True rock stars.

SPEAKING OF ROCK STARS, I NOW LIVE WITH A BOY (WHO’S IN A BAND AND OWNS A LOT OF GUITARS)

Maria, my former roommate, now just a good friend who lives in Manhattan, asked me the other day if CP drinks beer for breakfast and if he farts a lot. All I can say is, I’ve never felt so happy to be in one place. And…I’ll keep you posted.

Stay tuned…more updates to come…including: sneak peak of the new place…

So, as you may have noticed, I’ve been updating this little blog. Thanks to my snazzy new computer (I got a MacBook Pro!!) I can once again be productive. I don’t know what it means to relax and do nothing.

Anyway…as I’ve said, I’ve been working on updates, including the header image, and the background, and also, I’ve been organizing my posts into categories.

So tedious that it almost killed me (I’m notorious for collecting up to 500 or more inbox messages before purging), I’m almost done. But, when I went to check what exactly was in my “frugal fitness” category, two posts that I expected to be in there were not! (Plus a Pop Tart recipe post that I did not expect to find in there.)

The following is a post that should be in this category. This column was originally printed in August ’09.

Still Working It Out

You must forgive me for what I am about to quote, but as a single, 25 year-old, independent female, it would be a bold-faced lie to say that I never reference Sex and the City.

In one particular episode, as Carrie Bradshaw is whining about being lonely, (I still love you Carrie) she says that in New York, as a woman, you can have a great job, a great apartment and a great man, but never all at the same time. Apparently, it’s always two out of three, and even if the two you’ve got are top-notch, the missing third will still make you want to hyperventilate in a Duane Reade bag.

Though she has a valid point, having just celebrated my second year as a Hoboken resident, I would have to disagree. In this day in age, at least in the 07030 zip code, there is a very much a fourth:  the gym in which you work out.

After having been jilted by the now defunct Empire Fitness on 6th St. and Washington a year ago after they closed abruptly, allegedly for some shady business with the IRS, I was soured on gym practices. Left without a house of exercise, in the winter and spring of 2009, I did some “sole” searching in jogs and walks around town, a few downloadable yoga classes off websites and iTunes, and routine plays of my Jackie Warner (of Bravo TV’s “Work Out” reality show fame) sculpting DVD.

It wasn’t until my friend Rachael and I were discussing where the summer went and she said, “Jeez, between work, travel, and getting into spin [class], I feel like the weeks have just sped by,” that I suddenly felt the need to come clean with a fact that I am really quite an anomaly in Hoboken, because I do not have a gym membership card on my keyring.

It’s really no wonder why I feel the pressure—we are a town obsessed with fitness. No matter what time of the day, you will see a Hobokenite in cross-trainers and exercise gear. Get off the PATH after 5 PM, and there’s a steady stream to the NYSC downtown. Want to find a yoga studio? Just hop on the trail of the dozens of yogis running around town with their mats strapped to their back. Between my roommates who go to Sky Club and Club H, there are a million “free passes” on our fridge, taunting me to try classes like Zumba and RPM.

Carrie Bradshaw had an easy out. She said shopping was her cardio (and you are really going to have to forgive me for being able to quote that.) As for me, only time will tell if I can continue with my quest for fitness outside the box, or if I will succumb to peer pressure. But, the way I see it, as long as I can find ways to stress about my job, apartment, or love life, I won’t have to stress about the way I workout, and I can once again be a happy-go-lucky resident of Hoboken.

Given the holiday spirit in the air, I wrote this column with the idea of the film, Planes, Trains, and Automobiles in my head.

Little did I know that my reminiscing about a long night home was to become a reality last night, when a two hour bus ride from Allentown, PA to NYC turned into a three and a half ride. I love you too, Lincoln Tunnel. The kicker was when the bus drove through Hoboken to get to the Lincoln Tunnel. Unfortunately, there was no tape to press or button to push to let me off—only my boyfriend’s hand to squeeze. Luckily, his fingers are still intact.

But, all in all, it was just a small price to pay for a lovely festive Christmas weekend, split between NJ and PA.

As the novelist Thomas Wolfe put it, you can’t go home again.

While this phrase has been used to refer to the idea that when feeling lost, we seek to reach for our pasts that are never quite within our grasp, for this column’s sake, I’m going to speak about this nugget of wisdom on a literal level.

Sometimes, when it’s late at night, and you need to cross over a certain Hudson River to get home to Hoboken, it feels like you just can’t quite seem to get there. Continue reading →