I ran the first mile in sub-8 minutes, which for my goal pace was undoubtedly ill-advised, but was also just too exhilarating to avoid. My 5K split was right around 27 minutes, which is a full 2 minutes and 29 seconds faster than the 5K I ran two weeks’ prior (Race for the Cure). Then came The Incline That Tried To Eat Me, and my pace slowed more than I wanted it to. I watched a woman being proposed to at the top, which was unexpected and amusing (Is it strange the first thing I thought was, “But wait, you’re ruining her overall race time right now”?), and then merrily crested into a steady half-mile of thrilling downhill. I made the mistake of kicking a good half-mile too early (Word to the wise: Know your course, and your mile-marker placements), but still finished right around 60 minutes.

Cayly is fast (see also: badass), and as such, was waiting for me at the finish line. Her arms were open and her smile was wide and I ran straight to her, and before I had time to say a word we were wrapped in a sweaty bear-hug, rocking back and forth and I was laughing even as I was crying, and she wouldn’t stop telling me how I looked amazing, how well I did, how proud of me she was. For the briefest of moments everything around me seemed to fall away and left standing in its place was this vivid, stunning, painfully euphoric reality that was once (as my dear friend Sizz so aptly put it) just a fuzzy dream, blurry and seemingly impossible, and now so doable as to be almost laughable. And I did laugh, a lot, and cried more, too, and then I just sat cozily with the day and reveled in the bridge I just crossed, in the truth that my body can always do more, can always be better, will–if I help it, teach it, and then just let it–triumphantly carry me through any endeavor.

I reveled in the quiet truth that, from the inside out, I’m a runner. A runner who can’t wait to push her legs farther, to make them climb higher, to send them happily careening along steeper downhills.

I suppose that quiet truth settling comfortably on my shoulders like a warm blanket shouldn’t have felt as surprising as it did Sunday. I was born into a family of runners, my dad and his five sisters all at one time avid and competitive distance-lovers (this is my aunt Nancy on 1981′s Bloomsday shirt). My sister rocked cross-country in high school, and then a half-marathon, and then a full. Watching her finish 26.2 miles here in Portland remains one of the most inspiring things I’ve ever seen.

Running’s in my blood, I suppose you could say, but to me it feels like a gift. One I never really knew I possessed, never really owned until yesterday, having spent the entirety of my running career up until this past year a sprinter, dashing from place to place with a lightning-is-best mentality, ever skeptical of my ability to enjoy miles stacked upon miles like beautiful pain pancakes.

Sunday I ran 6.2 miles hard, and admittedly probably not even as hard as I could have (I’m consistently finding I always have more to give even when I think I’m done), but I pushed, and never once–not even when I was convinced the incline in between miles three and four was actually an infinite loop, and as such, I was going to be relegated to running uphill for all eternity–did I want to quit. Never once did I even stop smiling, which I’m fairly certain perplexed a fair bit of people, because seriously, who is this crazy girl who seems happy about this NEVER-ENDING HILL, even as it’s clearly putting her in her place and ruining her three and four-mile pace?

Such a gift. One for which I am exceedingly thankful. One I intend to enjoy for as long as I’m able.

Which is why November 5th I’m going to run 13.1 miles, and for the very first time there isn’t a doubt in my mind I’m going to finish. There also isn’t a doubt in my mind about the sweaty bear-hug that’ll be waiting for me at the end of those wooded miles, and I can’t tell you how much knowing Cayly will have triumphantly run each mile I have, how that bear-hug after close to but hopefully still less than two hours of running will spur me forward, ever forward, even when my legs might have all but declared mutiny.

For the first time in my life I’m not weary of consecutive miles looming on the horizon; I’m eagerly anticipating them. Because these miles, they feel like freedom, feel like peace, feel like coming home.

Milestone, The First: A 5k without thinking. I just ran it. After weeks and weeks of no running. I just started running and didn’t stop until I hit 3.1, which turned into 3.5, and my legs felt amazing, and my chest didn’t feel like it was burning itself in effigy and all of that was quite unexpected, a bigger-than-baby step for this always-only-a-sprinter, and then I turned around and did it all again the next day.

Milestone, The Second: A 13-mile hike. A Saturday morning hike was my idea, but I didn’t anticipate a thirteen-miler straight out the gate. I’ve long loved hiking, have spent countless summers exploring various destinations only reachable by foot, but it’s admittedly been awhile since my weekends were consistently characterized by endless green, my feet tackling delightfully muddy trails, my eyes taking perpetual snapshots of waterfalls. I grew up playing in the woods, traipsing trails new and old from as early as I can remember, trying to get lost for hours at a time in the dense woods surrounding Priest Lake and never quite succeeding. My dad had done too good a job teaching me how to navigate the trees. I always seemed to know where I was even when I was sure I didn’t.

Among a list of eight hikes suggested by Cayly, Eagle Creek was sitting there, batting its alluring mileage at me, wooing me with promises of challenging terrain, multiple scenic pay-offs, pools I could swim. I couldn’t remember what a thirteen-mile hike looked like, but I stopped being able to sit still when I realized that was what I wanted: I wanted to tackle the longest hike on the list, and her favorite. The one requiring a 4:00am wake-up.

I nearly bounded out of bed at 4am, so excited was I to see this trail, so eagerly anticipating perpetually sweating and laughing with Cayly as we climbed and climbed and climbed. I knew before stepping foot on the trailhead I would love this hike as much as she did. Knew following a gorgeous creek for half a day was going to be a perfect way to start a Saturday. Knew I would be taking countless pictures even while realizing none of them would be able to capture the deafening beauty of standing next to a roaring waterfall while it pours itself over a 130-foot wall of rock. I knew all of that.

What surprised me was never once did I want to stop. Never once did my body feel like it couldn’t handle the mileage. If anything, my legs were telling me they wanted to go farther, wanted to keep pushing, wanted to create a new trail from the end of the old one. The waterfall-littered hike itself was breathtaking, and Cayly and I didn’t see another soul for the first two hours, unless you count the doe and her two fawns who bounded in front of us along the trail, and who we met on our way back, standing mere feet away from us this time.

It was (and no doubt will continue to be) one of my favorite days of this entire year.

Milestone, The Third: Running without music. This happened accidentally this past weekend as I visited Tryon Creek for the first time (after yet another stellar recommendation from Cayly), and again found myself instantly captivated by the sheer beauty of the place, the unexpected quietness of the space. We already have Washington Park, Forest Park, countless coastal spots just a short distance away, and then there’s Tryon: A veritable bonanza of green resting comfortably in the middle of our otherwise bustling city. It’s almost unfair how beautiful Portland is.

It was pouring when I parked at the nature center, just as it’d been pouring most of the night and all morning, and as these trails were new to me, and because I was so smitten with the sound of the rain hitting the canopy overhead, I decided I wasn’t going to start with headphones in my ears. A mile in and I had already forgotten they existed, and there I was, thoughtlessly and merrily running the way so many do, the way my sister always has, listening to nothing but the woods telling me stories amidst my own breathing and the rhythmic turnover of my feet on the forest floor.

There’s something about rainy woods that will always be so comforting to me, as if the raindrops themselves are keeping me company, spurring me forward with their steady rhythmic drip drip dripping, my pace quick quick quickening as the trail bends and I stretch my legs as long as I can, eagerly anticipating what I can’t yet see as much as I what I still can: Lush green tumbling in, surrounding me on all sides, ferns reaching out to brush my legs with their waterlogged tendrils, branches falling over themselves to touch my head, my shoulders, narrowly missing my face as I dodge in and around and through them.

I ran four miles of rolling trails with a giddy grin on my face and by the end of it my legs were tired and all of me was soaking wet, and that giddy grin? Well it really hasn’t left my face.

(For the visual learners (myself included; holler), I’ve created a Flickr set to house all of my woods-traipsing photos, doing business as Hike The Planet! More coming soon and very soon.)

I want overflowing summer, refreshing water, to dive deeper and deeper into nouns not me. I want pine trees, fir trees, big bright green leaves covering us with a canopy of neon possibility and late afternoon cool. I want more ferns, never enough ferns. I want to be able to articulate how much the forest reminds me of you, and will always, while simultaneously reminding me of nothing but peace, stunning design, a promise of a time when I’m not back-diving, not looking to find you coming around some bend in a long-forgotten trail, looking for me all these years, greeting me with a hug that would last a lifetime.

I want to be able to access my darkness, to float alongside the loss I was given–to write in and around and underneath and through it–and not live there.

I want to live near the ocean, on a lake, in a tree house with a mossy staircase.

I want activity, my body always reminding me how much harder I can push it, how much more it can take, promising me steadfast feet, strong limbs, graceful poise on the muddiest roads. I want sheer exertion, my arms and legs pumping pumping, pushing myself up the tallest hill I’ve ever run, again and again and one more time, just to see if I can do it without losing my grin. I want to keep falling deeper in love with the feeling of my feet flying faster, pulsing and praising their God-given ability to traipse over wild and unruly rock, singing hymns to poetry in motion, to devotedly circling a soft track hardened with determination, with fierce competition, with memories of baton passes and 300-meter leads and the dumbest bet I ever took. I want to jump into a pool ten months after the last time I swam (last August, next to my parent’s pontoon boat for hours while they cruised Deer Lake lazily, my mom feeding me carrots and pretzels over the side of the bow) and do a flawless freestyle kick-turn, the way I did Friday without even thinking about it, blushing and diving underwater again after surfacing to unexpected, roaring applause. I want to swim for months without stopping. “My little fish” my mom will always call me, and I’ll always smile before diving in again, deeper this time.

I want music. New music, old music, live music, improvised music, melancholy music, music that side-steps me back to hours of your face close to mine, to one perfect night in a periwinkle dress I borrowed from one of my best friends, to two years of walking away from you. Music that giggles me back to ’90′s movies with ’90′s soundtracks and now-vintage dreams. I want to dance. I want to dance by myself and I want to dance with you, both of us laughing hysterically at how neither of us knows what we’re doing, but it doesn’t matter because I can play the tambourine and you can play something equally silly, maybe the kazoo, and we’ll both lose ourselves in drum beats and sax solos and make myriad references to dabbling in Jazz flute while everything else fades to back-up singers.

I want adventure, barefoot banter, aimlessly purposed wandering, lake discovering, trail blazing with Chacos and sheer optimism, laughing as I walk through another spider web because I excel at always finding them first. I want bluntness and camaraderie, unexpected hours of non-stop conversation peppered with sore calves and sweaty foreheads and copious amounts of jokes and stopping to look each other in the face when conversations get a little treacherous because what we’re saying is hard to say but we’re saying it anyway, for no reason and every reason, because we’re happy and comfortable and quite surprisingly so, but happy and comfortable nonetheless. I want to be touched gently, and spoken to sweetly, and made to laugh raucously until my spleen hurts. I want to be urged on ruthlessly, to never leave your side even when I’m hundreds of miles away. I want my own space. A lot of space. To run and roam and grow independent of you and everything I thought I once knew.

I want to take blurry self-portraits in sunglasses with a pro-hipster premise and send them to people I care about so they can laugh, yes always, but mostly so they can see how happy this girl is. How happy she will always be. Flying solo or equally matched I want you to know she’ll soar, higher than she’s ever climbed on her own before, no more stopping on any dimes, incapable of losing her forward momentum this time. This girl, this Kerri Anne who was once so lost and is now so found, about to be run underground by a freight train of joyful premise, propositioning purpose, unplanned terrain beckoning, guaranteeing her a life-changing reckoning, and she: running out of her woods to meet it.

I want all of this, and more. I want hope I’ve never smelled before.

Some of this I surely already have, already own, already heartily condone and carry with me, a fleece blanket of green sentiment, sediments stitched together from collected ferns and words I might have whispered, once, if you were listening closely.

The rest of it? Careening, screaming, rocket ship beaming toward me. Or maybe lapping sleepily in a sparkling stream, avoiding the meaning, floating soundlessly on a billowy breeze. Some of it surely lost in translation, waiting patiently for further concentration. But on its way, regardless.

Happy! Monday, friends.

(Oh, and I’m “kerri_anne” on Instagram if we’re not already photo buddies there.)

Ian recently made one of the best homemade videos I’ve ever seen (below), and I’m not just saying that because I’m wholly biased about their family being one of the coolest on the planet. I’m saying it because Ian is an artistic ninja.

The best part? You can totally hire him to hit your life in the face with his insanely creative nunchucks.

Snow, A Tale of a Toddler. from theBolyards on Vimeo

I woke up with excuses running rampant in my head, unchecked and unfiltered. I almost used one of them. It was valid enough. I did have work enough to keep me at the office until well past 6pm.

I checked my email while I struggled to join the day, wiping cobwebs from dreams that already felt years away from my eyes, yawning and barely registering that amidst the usual amount of newsletters and spam I had an email waiting in my inbox from Rhi. She was telling me she had packed her bag at 6am for The Bar Method class we had registered for together, slated to rock our bodies from 6:30-7:30pm that night. The email wasn’t filled with motivational speeches. No “We can do this!” And yet her telling me she was up and awake and packing her bag was more inspiring than any motivational speech. No “We can do this!” because we are doing it. It was the perfect dose of accountability, and despite my best efforts to keep myself focused and positive about what was to be my first ever group fitness class, I needed it.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I checked the website compulsively for days. It was adamant about me not forgetting my socks. I had back-up socks in case I somehow managed to forget to wear socks. Not likely, being that the air outside had been Feels Like Antarctica degrees for days. I made sure my yoga pants fell below my knees, as per instructed, and debated far too long about whether or not I should wear a tank top or a t-shirt. The website said I could wear either. The website also said Drew Barrymore and Olivia Wilde love this workout, that they use it to get fit and stay toned, and I read weight loss success stories and memorized class schedules and realized I had no idea at all what to expect. Would I enjoy it? Would I feel as awkward in a studio lined with mirrors as I always have at every gym I’ve ever joined, even when I was thin? Would it be worth it even if I did? I told myself socks and showing up were the most important parts, and I had one and was about to do the other. I was more nervous to sweat in a studio for an hour than I was to run a 5k with zero training last March. On some level I knew I was being ridiculous, but I also knew I probably wasn’t going to stop being ridiculous until I got there and saw for myself The Bar Method isn’t a cardio zombie* out to eat me.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

I left work with plenty of time to be early because as newbies we were supposed to be early, and because weather reports were calling for snow and while I didn’t believe it for a second, the mere mention of frozen precipitation can send Portland commuters into a communal panic, which can (somehow magically; it’s really quite impressive) make a ten minute trip more like forty-five. I realized I was Way Too Early and so sat in my car listening to mellow music that makes me want to dance and tried hard to remember this was not a big deal. Just a group class. My first group fitness class. Plenty of people do this every week. Every day, even. There are much bigger happenings to ponder and fear. And so I thought of everything else but what was going to happen in that class, because I really had no idea, and anyway, it didn’t really matter. I was either going to do it or I wasn’t, and it wouldn’t make a bit of difference to anyone else in or outside of that class.

The two women working the front desk were as bright as the lights making the studio a welcoming beacon amidst freezing rain pelting the sidewalks and shoulder-tops of passersby. They were friendly and excited and made me feel instantly welcome. A questionnaire and a tour of one of the nicest workout facilities I’ve ever seen and there was nothing left to do but wait a few more minutes until our class officially started. Somewhere in between walking into the building and putting my personal items in a white wood locker I realized my nerves had left, replaced with only anticipation, and an anxiousness to get this proverbial party started.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The room was full of women and I was happy I knew one. Happy Rhi was sitting next to me as we stretched and chatted and pretended to be ready for whatever was coming. The workout was nothing like I could have imagined. It was better, and before I knew it an hour passed and I realized how elated I felt. We were sitting there with our legs crossed, having just finished a healthy dose of post-routine stretching and our (impressively kind, encouraging, ridiculously buff) instructor was telling us to breathe deeply and feel proud of everything we just accomplished and I almost started crying. Because I was there. I had done it. Attended and survived, and actually enjoyed, my first ever group fitness class.

There were moments I didn’t know how my legs were going to keep holding my weight. Times when I had no idea how my abs weren’t bursting into flames, they were burning so intensely. Times when I almost started laughing because Go Go Gadget Flexibility, I verily need some. But the sense of accomplishment I walked out of that studio with tonight trumped any fear, any expense, any excuse I had tried to make. I had done it, and there were no impossible moves. Nothing I couldn’t do. Nothing I didn’t want to do. There were certainly things I am very much looking forward to doing better, moves and stretches I want to practice, and will, later this week, and next week, and the week after that.

Until tonight I never thought about a fitness instructor being very much like a coach, and how much I’ve missed that invested third party in my workout routine. I’m beginning to remember how hard I can push myself when there are sets of eyes on me, when everyone around me is working hard to train the same muscles I am. I grew up playing basketball and running track which meant there were always teammates to keep me accountable, to encourage and motivate me. That’s what group fitness classes are all about in a lot of ways. They’re a motley crew of determination available to perpetually hold you accountable, to encourage and motivate you without saying a word. They’re there. You’re there. You’re in it together even as you all struggle and breathe and sweat individually.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Every time I make the decision to be somewhere I might not typically be, doing something I might not typically do, something deep inside me stirs awake as if after a long hibernation and I realize: This is exactly where I’m supposed to be; this is exactly what I’m supposed to be doing. Taking care of myself and this one body I have for this one life on this earth takes priority over most everything else. It certainly takes priority over any excuses I might try to make about not doing what I need to do to get back to the shape my body wants to be in. My body has proven, keeps proving, it’s ready to meet me halfway. It will respond if I push it. It will keep going even when I have no idea how it does. It wants to be healthy and strong again. And you know what? So do I.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

*Although how much fun does Zombie Cardio sound? I don’t know what it would look like beyond dancing to “Thriller,” but if someone invents it, I’m there with fake blood on.

If you’re a James Franco fan? You have to see this movie.

If for some reason (perhaps having to do with Spiderman) you’re lukewarm about James Franco, I would bet good money* this movie will change your mind.

If you’re scared you might not have a strong enough stomach to watch this movie, I would highly encourage you to go anyway.

Jen and I were both nervous about how we would react to seeing some of the more harrowing scenes, and somewhat surprisingly (though I’m not sure why) I realized pretty quickly that years of watching shows like ER and House and Grey’s Anatomy, on top of years of watching vampire and zombie-related movies, have made me pretty OK with blood. (There might have even been a point when I chuckled to myself, imaging Edward Cullen showing up and being all, “Oh hey. I was just hanging out, and I smelled some blood, and oh, let me help you move this boulder.” I’m sure that was Boyle’s alternate ending.)

There also wasn’t a single scene that (to me) felt gratuitously gory. I don’t dig gore for the sake of gore. This wasn’t anything like that, and I honestly didn’t feel like I had to close my eyes or look away once.

Trust me; if you can watch Twilight, you can watch this movie. And I promise you won’t be sorry you did.

The end of the trailer claims “There is no force on earth more powerful than the will to live.”

There are also few things more inspiring.

—————————

*Monopoly money. You’ve got to know when to hold ‘em.

• Friends who call me for no reason, or for very specific reasons, and who ask me every question, or no questions, while I ramble and spill my words clumsily and excitedly all over them.
• Butterflies in places where I didn’t realize I could feel them again.
• Emotional transparency.
• Accountability.
• Redeeming love.
• Grace. The amazing kind.
• Sisterhood.
• Greek festivals with tasty gyros.
• Impromptu mid-week dinners with dear friends who make me laugh, and make me feel like family.
• Nine out of ten consecutive days running in the woods, where I feel free to sprint and jog and sweat and stumble, and cry and laugh as my body remembers where it’s going and where it’s been.
• Hot apple cider.
• Crisp fall days that mean I get to wear scarves and hoodies and maybe even socks.
• New Chucks.
• Mustaches, both real and imagined.
• Meatloaf. (The musician, not the 1950′s dinner staple.)
• Walking toward difficult conversations intentionally.
• A job filled with people who believe in the work we’re doing daily, and who believe in me.
• Kind words spoken honestly and thoughtfully.
• Mid-day walks with coworkers who inspire me and make me laugh.
• Evening walks with a best friend who lives eight blocks away from me, and loves me even when I’m ridiculous.
• Bright October sunshine.
• New Twitter. You guys, I just can’t hate it. I cannot. I think it’s rad, and super functional, and I could just kiss it.
• Time to write, to read, to daydream.
• Texts about sailing, about support, about random hip hop lyrics.
• Possibility. Hope. A promise of something amazing on the horizon.
• Upcoming quality time with friends both old and new. (To clarify, Torrie and I have been Twitter buds forever, but I have yet to see her lovely face in person. EXCITED.)

—————–

What about you? What are you thankful for today, this week, always?

—————

This post inspired by a dear friend of mine for whom I am quite thankful.

Oh, the stories I have to tell you! Stories involving shave ice and obnoxious sand, Jurassic Park and Captain Aloha, one apparently docile and yet still frightening shark, and an angsty Portuguese Man-of-War. All this and more can be yours for the low price of coming soon and very soon!

Until I catch my breath (and stop moping about not being underwater at this very moment), I’m leaving you with the first set of some of my favorite pictures from the trip.

———–

The first shot I took with a camera not also doing business as my phone. North of Kihei.

Our beach-going get-up. I love how this picture makes it look like we are 80. 80-year-olds who like to snorkel!

At the Garden of Eden on the road to Hana. This was called a Lipstick Flower.

My favorite spot at the Garden of Eden on the road to Hana.

We were mistaken for locals all of zero times. Pacific Northwest skin, ahoy!

Me, making the dreaded Duck Face. I couldn't help it; my new ($2.99!) hat required it.

My favorite beach of the trip. Ulua Beach in South Maui.

I swear I didn't do ANYTHING to this picture. I actually gasped when I first saw it. The side lighting is courtesy of an awesome outdoor roller-rink in a local park in Kihei. This was the sunset on our first night, a few minutes before a crazy bug tried to eat my heel. True story.

———–

*HOT as in “Oh hi, it’s eighty-five degrees at 7:45am; LET’S GO SWIMMING!” Not that Maui can’t be sexy hot, too (as I’m sure all of the honeymooning couples quickly realized), but I was happy to keep everything rated PG on this trip. Except for the one night Terrell and I went to an awesomely bad karaoke bar and listened to a guy sing a very non-PG Adam Sandler song.

**Post title from two of the worst consecutive lines from a movie, ever. I’m looking at you, Letters to Juliet. And yes, I was using my headphones, but only for the last twenty minutes, and only because I was stuck on a plane with this ridiculous movie unfolding before me and I could not sleep and I CANNOT HELP MY CINEMATIC CURIOSITY. ]]> http://kerrianne.org/2010/09/can-you-move-only-my-lips/feed/ 31 http://kerrianne.org/2010/08/where-am-i-going-where-have-i-been/ http://kerrianne.org/2010/08/where-am-i-going-where-have-i-been/#comments Fri, 27 Aug 2010 22:07:31 +0000 Kerri Anne http://kerrianne.org/?p=6429 This week I have been:

Writing, editing, and organizing grant proposals, and preparing gargantuan-sized grant budgets feverishly, to meet deadlines both old and new.

Snuggling with my pug and enjoying any downtime I have been able to muster.

Writing! I’m so excited about three different stories I have in the works, and thanks to a recent prompt by Danny, I’ve been sitting down daily to translate my excitement into actual words on a page. (Not unlike snakes on a plane. Only better. And with less Samuel L. Jackson.)

Ruminating on some writing feedback I received from a poetry competition (Spoiler alert: I didn’t win), and from friends regarding the first chapter of one of the three aforementioned stories.

Sucking at email. I’m sorry! I promise next week will be better. (I think!)

Editing photos from last weekend’s sisterly homecoming in Spokane. These are a few of my favorites:

Cleaning my apartment to an anal-retentive degree in preparation for Kristin! staying with me this weekend.

Absolutely riveted by the first installment of The Hunger Games. After a gentle prompt from Kali (It went something like, “Have you read these?”), I skipped over to Powell’s and bought the first book, not thinking I was going to be into the story, having read the back cover before and convinced myself I wasn’t interested. By page five Collins had completely hooked me, and I gave the Jiffy Lube attendant the stink eye when he interrupted my reading to ask me to pay him for my oil change. (And yes, I verily realize I’m late to the proverbial party, being that the first book was originally published in 2008, but I like to pretend I fall in love with series when they are basically over so I don’t have to wait years/months/days in between installments. See also: Patience is for suckers!)

Using the note I found on my car after leaving an apologetic note for the person I parked way-too-close-to (There is construction in our parking garage! It is a nightmare!) earlier this week as a bookmark.

Not getting much sleep.

This weekend I am going to:

Have way too much fun with Kristin.

Eat at Andina for the first time.

Introduce Kristin to Hans, and watch hilarity ensue.

No doubt cry as I watch Rhi walk down the aisle toward Bill, and then back again holding his hand, happily married.

Dance my face (or maybe just my feet) off with Kali, and Amanda, and Kristin, and a slew of other people who are in town to watch Rhi and Bill begin their happily ever after.

Take Way Too Many pictures, especially more ridiculous hand-held group shots.

——————-

What are YOU going to do this weekend?

(Whatever it is, I hope you enjoy it.)

*Title is a literary hat tip to Joyce Carol Oates’ Where Are You Going, Where Have You Been?