Not Without My Leggings

As happens when one is pregnant, I’m predominantly wearing leggings. (Not as pants, mind you. I’d never let Blair Waldorf down.) My professional skirts have stopped fitting (sob), and pants are just uncomfortable. So, leggings and dresses every day.

My co-worker (who works at a different library branch) thinks elastic waists are an abomination to fashion. So when I emailed him to let him know of my current situation, he sent me back the following:

I really hope that’s a line from your tween pregnancy YA novel. Suffering complications during her pregnancy, twelve year old Donna McPregers is cryogenically frozen until medical technology is capable of bringing her baby to term, she awakens in a dystopian future in which elastic is a precious commodity and her leggings put her in the crosshairs of New America’s sexy teen overlord who simply must have her pants. AND HER BABY.

Lauren Gibaldi writes: Not Without My Leggings.

Clearly me forcing him to read YA novels has worked.

Song Memories

I love when older songs come on the radio and transport me to another time in my life. When I was younger, different. I love how it’s always a surprise – though you can bet on a current hit being played 7,000 times an hour, you can never guess which song from a different year will break through, making the day of radio-lovers everywhere. (That is, unless the song is horrid.)

The other day, “Kryptonite” by 3 Doors Down came on. It’s not a great song. It’s not a song I still play  on my iPod (actually, there weren’t iPods when that song was released), and it’s not a song I’m like “YES IT’S ON!” when it is, in fact, on. But it came on. And I was 17 again.

Three of my friends and I were going to see 3 Doors Down live at Hard Rock Cafe, here in Orlando. We were excited. Three of us were a band at the time, too, an all-girl band that had two (yes, two) whole gigs. We were not good.

We decided to do something crazy before the event, so we bought Manic Panic hair dye and and put red streaks in our hair. My hair was so dark you could barely tell, but still. I felt cool. I felt punk rock.

Before the show, we went back to our school because we were all called back for a play our drama department was putting on. (The drama department we, incidentally, ran, as we were all officers. I was president. See how punk rock I was?) We acted out a few scenes, each for different characters. The newbies were there, and I felt so amazingly awesome. Because here I was, coming in with the other old-timers, with this amazing kind-of dyed hair. And all these newbies were trying to be us, and it felt weird and neat all in one. So we did our auditions, each for different roles, and left with an excited cheer for the show.

Truth is, I don’t remember the show much. But what I do remember is feeling there, in the middle of the show, with my friends. With my hair. With this feeling that anything was possible. We were going to be famous musicians, actors. We were going to run the world.

I don’t talk to the girls all the time anymore, though we’re all still connected. Only one of us got the role in the show, and she, incidentally, is the only one still acting. The rest of us went on to become PR specialists and BBC journalists and, for me, librarian writers.

So when the song came on, I didn’t think of the gig. But I thought of the excitement we all shared, the power and freedom and friendship. The moment when we thought we were so cool we could accomplish anything.

And I smiled.

Tights and Fishnets

“We’re lost, aren’t we?” I asked, staring out the window, watching the rain drip down.

“No…not yet,” Mike said, staring ahead at the dim, red light.

“It’s been 30 minutes. Can we please pull over and ask for directions?” The show ended an hour ago, but we were still driving around aimlessly because, like most men, Mike didn’t ask for directions.

“Fine, fine. There’s a gas station at the next light.”

The gas station seemed to be the only thing awake at that time of night. When we pulled up to the front door, Mike put a hand on his handle, but paused. As I readied myself to mock his inability to ask for assistance, he asked, “Hey, Lau, can you go inside and ask? I would, but I’m still wearing my tights.”

I sometimes forget how weird it was, being in a circus. When a guy talks about the horrors of wearing tights on a daily basis, I agree and add to the conversation. Not once is it thought to be out of the ordinary, a far thought for many. Whenever I mention that I was an aerialist, I get this perplexed look of disbelief. Discuss how you were Mama Rose in a production of Gypsy, you get applause; mention hanging upside down by your ankles, you get questions. It’s all part of the lifestyle, I suppose.

I didn’t mean to go to college and do it, it wasn’t my original plan, but the red, white and yellow tent called for me. It was something different, something that would bring about adventure, excitement and stories. But mostly, it might bring me friends and really, as a freshman in college I needed friends.

Reminiscent of an early Ringling Brothers set up, our tent had three rings, and two outer nets. Sawdust that would litter my socks and, later, apartment crunched under our feet. The apparatuses, the trapezes and bars, became part of us if we were good, or enemies if we were bad, leaving bruises and bloody cuts as souvenirs. To me, they were a bit of both.

The wounds were telling. It was unusual to leave practice completely unharmed. Bruises in the shape of hand prints would adorn my arms and thighs. I’d get questioning looks from my classmates and teachers, wondering what boyfriend could do such a thing. But I didn’t mind the bruises, because each one meant that I didn’t fall that time, that I didn’t really hurt myself.

Outsiders or alumni who knew the circus could tell which act a person did by their wounds. Raw skin on your upper arms? Swinging Trapeze due to one trick called crucifix when you jumped off and caught the bar by your arms. Deep cuts on your ankles? Mexican Cloud Swing from the trick leap, where you’d jump off the apparatus, only catching by your ankles. My ankle wounds were so deep they didn’t heal for a year afterwards.

We came to class straight from practice, bandaged up and sweaty, and yet some people still didn’t know there was a circus. They probably thought we had one strange workout routine.

It’s harder now out of college, in a normal working environment, to mention my past. Saying, “yeah, when I was in the circus…” isn’t as typical as saying, “yeah, when I was an actress…” It just doesn’t have the same ring. And yet, I still say it and I still love collecting the reactions. Storing them away in my mind, ready to pull up when I need a laugh. I love telling stories from those days. They were my glory days and although they were odd, they were still mine. So I keep going, avoiding the looks and questioning glances, and talk about that time I was on ESPN spinning by my neck. Because it’s my story to tell.

We kept in touch, most of us, even after it was all over. We reminisce and compare show memories like war tales, whoever had the deepest cut won. We all won, each one of us. Although Mike doesn’t wear tights anymore, he still has that.

A few Christmases ago, he and I were at Kohls picking up a neclace for my mom. As we walked pass the clothing section, I noticed a rack of tights and fishnet stockings hanging up.

“I’m so glad I don’t have to wear those anymore,” I mumbled, remembering the grated feeling my legs would take on after a day of wearing them for performances.

A woman nearby looked at me and then the stockings. And then me again, and then back to the fishnets. I suppose she thought the worst of me, because why else would a female in her mid-twenties wear fishnets? Rather than saying anything, I just shrugged, shaking my head. It was Christmas, she needed and awkward, albeit weird, moment to remember the season by. We all need stories to tell and I didn’t want to take this one away from her.

Bridal Shower

My bridal shower was the other weekend. It’s crazy that it’s already passed. I’ve always found showers to be a bit – well – cheesy, but let me say, mine was far from it. In fact, mine was amazing. My friends went above and beyond. I’m constantly amazed by how talented they are, and here’s proof.

I had absolutely nothing to do with the shower – I was just told to show up. My maid of honor, Megan, organized the entire thing with my mom and the other bridesmaids. The party was – to my delight – book themed. The invitations were library cards. To my surprise, Megan then had everyone get me a book, and tuck the invite into a little library card holder. How cute?

She also handmade the veil I’m wearing, but we’ll get to that later. The shower was at the community room of the apartment complex my dad works at. Check out how beautiful the rooms were:

Those paper chains had writing on them, so they looked like book pages. (Apparently it was stationary – the girls did not actually rip apart a book, they were pleased to tell me.)

My friend Karina HAND-MADE this amazing fondant cake. It not only looked brilliant, it tasted wonderful as well.

The Great Gatsby is my favorite book, thus the second book. Also, the reason behind Megan’s computer background, which was attached to a TV. We played the trivia game, and instead of reading how Samir’s answers to questions, she video taped him.

Yes, that’s Samir and I photoshopped into the cover of The Great Gatsby. It’s also one of our engagement photos. As mentioned earlier, Megan made me a little vintage style veil to wear – also in theme of the shower.

I can’t wait to wear it again for the bachelorette party! As for the food, it was delicious! My mom got subs and chicken from Publix, while the girls all brought homemade sides. Megan also made me pie pops (because I prefer pie to cake), which we’re having at the wedding. They were so good!

My mom, who works for a chocolatier, made chocolate books and dinosaurs.

We played a few games, but mostly hung out. What I liked most was watching everyone get along, even those who’ve never met before. It’s amazing seeing that happen – seeing all of my different lives come together. There were my high school drama friends sitting with my college circus friends. My roommates with my cousins. People keep asking Samir and I what we’re most excited about, in regards to the wedding. Aside from actually being married, we’re mostly excited about seeing everyone together. That’s what means the most to us.

Me and my amazing, wonderful, lovely bridesmaids who put the whole thing on.

All of the photos were taken by my amazing friend and bridesmaid, Colure. She did our engagement photos, too!

Morning Breeze

It’s hard not to be surrounded my memories on days like these. When a light breeze tickles my arm as I leave the apartment, and the morning feels crisp, as if freshly opened and not left over from the day before. There’s no need for a jacket yet, but sweat marks don’t freckle my clothes either, from the normal mountain of humidity that plagues our state.

Every time a morning is like this, I think back to Callaway, despite the fact that I lived there six years ago. I think back to scratchy cloud blue polo shirts and khakis down to my knees. I think about waking up early so I didn’t miss one thing in our house that held 24 college students (even though I missed so much every night after my eyes closed). And I think of billowy green trees on the way to work, hiding what the day would entail.

I lived in Georgia for two summers, working as a camp counselor at Callaway Gardens. The second summer was more comfortable, more memorable, but I always reflect on the first initially. It held so much more.

I went in right after my sophomore year of college, scared and shy and clinging on to my two friends in the house. I knew everyone else by name and face, but held them on a pedestal usually reserved for celebrities. They were my peers, but so much more. They were the flying trapeze artists, the master riggers so comfortable in their skins that they could do and say what they wanted – even to our coach. They made jokes, decisions; I made my bed and hoped someone would stop by to say hi.

I was asked to go to Callaway while helping take down the circus tent. Fingers callused from holding a rope all day, and clothes a new color from what they once were, I shrieked with joy upon hearing I was accepted. I had been in the circus then for two years; I was far from one of the notable performers. I felt with this, I’d become one of the select few who were popular.

I roomed with a girl who quickly took me under her wing and opened my world up to old-timers and hair straighteners. I’d hang out with the others through her, rarely offering my perspective, but comfortable with the fact that I was included. I didn’t learn to have a voice yet, an opinion. I just wanted them to like me.

That’s not to say my friends weren’t enough – they were, and after a while, they became more than friends. Lifelines. Assistants in helping me realize who I was. I had John with me, and Abel, two friends from the dorm. Hunter, who I had Italian class with, and Lindsay, who I met while loading the truck to go to Georgia. As if it were meant to be, Lindsay and I fell into that comfortable friendship formed when two people don’t know many others in a full house. We were best friends from day one.

As the days went on, I opened up to them, and we formed a group, a clique even, and slowly added others. Mike, with his fast car and loud music; Jeff with his wacky antics. I learned their idiosyncrasies – they knew mine. I started speaking, really speaking. When forced to live together, it comes almost natural.

We drove to work together, the Georgia air just right as it flowed through the car. It was different from the breeze I was accustomed to, and it brought with it hope. I picked out CDs to play; I fought for the front seat.

Just like growing, there’s no exact moment I can point to when I learned to let go; when I learned I didn’t have to fear my own voice. I said I didn’t like a movie everyone else did; I slept an extra few minutes in the morning. I realized that no matter what I did, these new friends didn’t care. They were still there, despite my misgivings and mistakes. But more so, I realized the others, who I held with such high regard, were just like me, embarrassing moments and all. The pedestal vanished, we stood on solid ground.

When I got back to Tallahassee after the summer was over, I instantly called Lindsay, asking what we were doing that night. Within the hour, Mike came over and Hunter soon followed. We walked on campus together, hiding a summer no one else could relate to. So much happened, and so much changed. I was part of something, and when I went to the circus lot, I didn’t feel alone or shy; I was part of a giant web connecting us all, keeping us all together. I felt right and whole; the person I was covering up all those years.

So whenever the weather is just right, I remember that summer. I feel myself speeding through the woods in Mike’s car, wind whipping at my face as he takes each corner a bit too close. Red foxes running, yet stopping to admire when they’re behind the safety of a tree. And looking behind me to see my friends, singing along to a song we know all too well. The faces of the campers fade over time, and I’m sure soon I won’t remember the shortcuts through the grounds. It’ll become hazy, a memory from long ago that doesn’t want to say goodbye. Because no matter what, I know every time the weather is just right, I’ll think back to that time. And know it as the summer I became me.