Personality Types

People get famous in so many ways. I don't know who Myers or Briggs are, but I can tell you that I'm an ENTJ. Extrovert, iNtuitive, Thinker, Judger - important to my identity and understanding of Self.

Our team at work undertook a full personality analysis in April as a team-building exercise to know how each of us work. Surprisingly enough, it taught all staff that I. Need. Communication. 

We all want something that tells us more about why we do what we do and what we can expect in our interactions with other humans. People are messed up, so if we can fabricate something to help us better understand the world, human nature requires us to categorize and understand it.

I've categorized myself by a couple of systems, but there's no reason not to make millions on the process to help others better understand their own quirks. I think we have a great opportunity on our hands to take the simplest aspects of human nature and help our fellow Americans know themselves better, deeper, to the core of their selves.

Hear me out on this one.

When you walk into a public restroom, I assume you feel a draw towards a certain inclination to a geographic segment of a line of stalls. A few things will throw you off (I'll let your imagination take off here, though I hope none of you are eating), but that generally you are undeterred. Something deep in your subconscious pushes you, nay draws you to a certain half-open door, a selection that I can't help but think tells us something about you.

First stall in the room? Middle stall in a section? Handicap stall? They all tell us something about you. Yes, YOU. You are a person and you have a meaning and purpose and underneath all that meaning and purpose, I can dissect your psyche with which throne you choose. 

Stay tuned, you just might hear my name on the Today Show...

Years, Lovers, and Glasses of Wine

These are things that should never be counted.

I heard this recently, at the most opportune time in my life. After surviving seven weddings in 2015 and my something-after-25th birthday, I feel qualified to say that at this age the challenges are proving to be far from what I expected of my 20s.

I woke up one training day in May with a strong and serious pain in my right hip. I've since ran a marathon through it, and tried to continue to run, finding excruciating tightness throughout the summer and into the fall, 5 months later.

I had my receding gums grafted in August.

I again found myself with the common tinea versicolor skin fungus from heat/humidity/sweating across my chest, just ahead of a strapless bridesmaid obligation. Common, but this has been an adult problem for me.

I also recently found myself deciding a haircut plan based purely on the notion that "my hair is still young" and "soon I will have dry, nasty, old lady hair" - so I kept it long while I could.

I assumed that I was being carded every time I was at a bar/store because I lived in Utah, which is true and based on the liquor laws of this lovely state. But then I left the state. Many times. To Michigan, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Maine, and Vermont. And I wasn't always carded.

My little sister just turned 24. I thought I was 22?? But she's younger than I am...? Still working out the plausibility of this one.

And this was the year I had three weddings and a bachelorette party in the month of August. I remember the years when August was only dedicated to my birth, and as a Leo that's fairly important.

I went to seven weddings this summer. In 2015 that's a sure sign of being in your "late-twenties" (which I am still calling my "mid-twenties" - at least until I am 29-and-a-half)

I have a year-round job and it's not teaching English in a foreign country... I even have health insurance that I pay for myself.

Half of my life ago I realized that boys were a thing, and I was a late bloomer.

The tragedy of realizing the next benefits of age come with retirement are setting in slowly, 6 years after the last age landmark.

The other two pieces of this great life motto I'm not going to speak to, though not for lack of content. By that I mean I have two words: Open Bar.

One final anecdote, hopefully to whet your long-overdue appetite for my mediocre writing: I woke up from wedding #5, on my best friend's bed, realizing I had managed to go to sleep without taking care of any pieces of my nighttime routine, purely throwing on a flannel top as sleepwear, and with a house full of other wedding guests. The brother of the bride saying, "you know what, guys? If any of us ever get married, my only recommendation is NO OPEN BAR".

I'll second that. While I'm not counting any of the numbers above, I am not sure I want to count past seven. Seven weddings in three countries and five states. Some bottles of wine, but also other varieties, too. But I'm not counting, just drinking a lot of water now.

Yeah, I Have a Problem

Once I admit it will you all leave me alone and just start dealing with your own condiment situations?

I know... I've been disgusted by the way some people eat before. Well, not really, but only because I am the strangest eater any of you have ever met.

An athlete recently, following a week in a shared condo, told a coworker that "Kelsey eats weird stuff" and I don't disagree! I'll be the first to admit that when your cooking plan centers around opening the fridge and taking out whatever you see to be put into a dish, you're generally not going to eat what most "normal" people eat.

But I do have a problem that goes beyond just normal strange eating (oxymoron, sure!)...

I have a mustard problem.

It used to be pretty basic. I like mustard on the things humans eat mustard on. Hot dogs, hamburgers, pretzels. 

Then I started using it as my only French fry dressing.

Then I started putting it into all cooked meals.

Then it all broke loose the first time I tried it on a salad instead of dressing.

And now my teams think I'm crazy. 

My coworker who is moving in this week told a group of friends at a birthday party recently "I can't tell if I like Kelsey or love her. I'd love her if she didn't have a dog or put mustard on EVERYTHING."

True, I do that.

Friends give me artsy little jars of dijon for Christmas gifts. Others gag at the thought of mustard on carrots.

But what are foods if they're not a condiment vehicle? And what would the condiment world be without mustard as the rock, nay the glue, that holds it all together?

Last weekend, the first day of 10 on the road for weddings in the Midwest, I was helping a friend finish some sweet potato fries. I loaded a fry up with some classic yellow mustard and BOOM: mustard all over my shirt AND my lap. Mustard and I may currently be on rocky ground, but I am on my way to a wedding BBQ ready to get back into the saddle, a week later and just three days from access to laundry again.

Bring it.

What Do I Really Do?

I've been catching up with old friends lately, all thanks to this epic Wedding Season I find myself a part of, and so many of them ask me what it is that I've been up to in this last whirlwind of a year. 

Sidenote: usually they first ask if I've married a Mormon or mention the many photos I've used as a facade to the true craziness of my life; there's nothing like a tranquil lake picture to throw the public off the scent of my true life, i.e. herding cats for a living.

Yes, I've traveled a fair amount and met some pretty incredible athletes and the support that surrounds them. I consider myself fortunate to be counted among that support network, even if there are days where I just feel my talents are being used to get anyone to give me an answer about anything. I've prided myself on communication before and where I am now I am THE communicator. 

I've also had opportunities to pick up new skills. In Mammoth in May, I was granted the great opportunity of being THE Airbag Master. No small feat, I was trained in the process as part of a general Airbag Team, promised that I along with at least two other coaches would have the great honor of keeping the bags at the bottom of the halfpipe full of air for the 5 hours training sessions each day. This means keeping velcro secured around the fans and using bamboo poles to push the sides up, ensuring air can enter the bag, but not too much air. That can be dangerous, too. 

After the first day it really meant just being yelled to from the top of the 'pipe, running circles around the two bags, and ultimately realizing I was the only person managing the proper and safe fill-age of the vinyl beasts. 

Beasts, I tell you. 

I woke up the third day with shoulder pain I haven't had since college swimming.

I realized by day four that my black jacket was the worst option for a dirt-covered behemoth of air. My light green pants were better-described as "grey" and my glove liners, hand washed daily, were crusty with the salt of the halfpipe.

It's no wonder that coaches avoid that duty, but lucky for them I don't know any better than to run laps around the airbags in ski boots, tying velcro tighter, opening air vents, closing air vents, holding bamboo sticks high over my head, and wondering why in the world I am the only person managing two bags, 8 vents, 8 fans, 8 corners, and the safety of some 35 athletes. 

Sucks to be awesome, I guess.

Classy San Pellegrino Fiasco

I have done us all a disservice by making this seem like a story in which my class and grace collide. In reality there was only a collision of grace with mediocrity as the San Pellegrinos I refer to were $0.60 bottles I found in the clearance hallway at the back of the store. Bottles I dug out of heaping shopping carts, out from under nearly expired Metamucil and off-brand taco seasoning. 

That doesn't mean I didn't painstakingly ring them up in the self check-out, making sure the attendant price corrected on the bottles that didn't ring in correctly. I even ran into one of our athletes at the checkout and we watched as another teammate ignored us waving and left with his sole purchase: toilet paper.

So when I stepped out the front doors of the best - and busiest - supermarket in town with one of those mini, double-decker carts and hit the curb flying high, it now comes as no surprise to me that I completely ate shit. Pardon my French, but I even flew over the handlebars of the little guy. Two bottles of San Pellegrino water met their demise and my other strange purchases (everyone knows I eat weird) rolled down the sidewalk. Everyone passing started crawling around on the ground, where I struggled to stand up without introducing my palms and knees to shards of green glass.

Luckily, though, the market employee told me I should go back in and replace them, because why not add even more insult to injury by allowing me to go dig through a clearance bin of water again while my hands bleed. 

Don't get me wrong: I definitely did go get two new bottles, but I also removed a shard of green glass on the drive home as I nibbled on the chocolate covered almonds I nabbed in the trays under the bulk section.

Class and grace right here.

Wedding Season's Here (and It's 10 Years Long)

I was 23 years old, the same age my parents were married. I was single, ready to mingle, and not even remotely considering settling for one human being to spend the rest of my life with. And I had one friend get married that year. Alright, I'll allow it.

The summer I was 24 I had three, but it almost didn't count because two of the celebrations were for teammates 2-3 years older than I. The other was for a close childhood friend who had been dating the guy for nine years. So it practically wasn't real; it was merely a fairy tale we all were fortunate enough to witness. They even just had a baby, and I don't mind, because they're perfect. He built her a house, for goodness' sake!

That three-wedding load wasn't even so bad and more like a warm-up because my 25th summer I had no weddings and took my waitress cash directly to the Argentine black money market for nine weeks of South American adventures. Thank goodness no one loved each other that year, I really benefited.

Now, though, I think those other events were merely a warm up for Full-On wedding season, or Wedding Season 2.0 or something. This ten-year event I feel deep in the throes of. Wedding Season is officially here.

The mid-to-late-twenties promise to be heavy in the marriage load, so much so that I almost wish I had a boyfriend in every state just so I could stop serving the role of "Token Single Friend" that everyone tries to set up with a cousin. It was fun for the first few, but my early twenties were also an era of self-discovery and adventure. Now my dreams lie in reading home decor books and painting my fingernails in the evening, only once I've carefully planned my food for the next day and already blended my breakfast smoothie.

This summer is about to hit me in the face: I return from work travel to the last remaining snowflakes of Oregon and am thrust violently and (hopefully) open-bar-ily into six weddings. The schedule is relentless, but almost tempts me with relaxation and rest:

July 18 straight to July 25.
Two weeks off.
August 8
A week for oral surgery err I mean a week "off" for soft foods (I plan microbrews and fro-yo).
August 22.
August 29.
September 5.

Yes, 6 weddings. My only office decorations anymore are little off-beige, pastel cardstock with the names of some pretty wonderful couples. Makes my picture of my dog that much more needed in my desk space. 

As a single female, six is way too many weddings, considering I can't blame a single one on friends of a significant other. 

So we've started a weekly event to start preparing ourselves for what proves to be a multi-year "Wedding Season": Wedding Wednesday. Matrimony Monday just seemed a little too aggressive coming off a lazy summer weekend, so we've stuck with Hump Day. Yesterday we put our rings on our left ring finger. Next week I'm thinking I might wear a garter under my gym shorts to work out. The next week I may simplify and just throw on some white. I can't be caught unprepared for this. I just might catch a bouquet this year... And marry rich to allow the tradition to hold truth. 

I've already purchased one dress, the $147.00 bridesmaid dress I've been promised is "classic" and "can be worn again!". Little do most brides realize in their delirium, David's Bridal does and always will look just like a bridesmaid dress.

Doesn't mean I won't be wearing it the next weekend to the wedding in Italy! They have no idea!

So let this be my official well-wishes to all of you finding yourselves wondering how you'll balance multiple weddings, who to spend what on, who to fly to, and who in the world is going to have an open bar. And please, ladies, unless you're really accomplished, don't even worry about wearing heels. Weddings were made for dancing. And cake. And neither of those can be accomplished as well in heels, as great as they may make your calves look.

Mormon Mommy Marathon

There's something to be said for the jeers of my peers (call me Dr. Seuss) as they joked that only white females run marathons. I obviously retorted that that just wasn't true - sinewy cross-country boys (who are a category all their own in society) and Kenyans do, too! Errr... OK fine, it's generally an upper-middle class female fad outside of those populations. 

Utah really takes that stereotype to the next level - imagine hearing a gun go off, slowly picking up pace and right around when you find your comfortable zone it begins: the Mormon Mommy banter.

Running behind a herd of women with thigh gaps is one thing, I just use that to my advantage to tell myself that I have more fuel stores for a race of this length. 

The next level was running next to two ladies that can't be older than 30 as they talked about their MANY children and then about how long they've been married. Twelve years... TWELVE?! You look my age! 12 years ago I was in high school, trying to prove to my friends that wet hair was cool and that swimming sweatshirts were really "in"!

The final straw was the conversation that I swear went on for five miles about the great party they had in which the highlight was the mango salsa... I mean, I love mango salsa, but I think the best mango salsa usually accompanies several other treats that just weren't mentioned.

So, around the Half mark, I started to lose it. My 7th grade track pants were so wet they were dragging behind me. I had heard there would be gels to eat at miles 4, 8, 12, 16, 20, and 24 and while I had seen them and failed to keep ahold of them in my icy fingers at mile 4, I was now 8 miles beyond that and starting to head for bonking. By the time the gels reappeared at 17 I was hangry. I popped into a port-a-potty to be out of the rain, downed a Clif Shot gel, and reemerged a new woman. The pacer for a 3:35 race had passed me during my break and I figured that was out of the question anyway for the next eight miles, so I just plugged on.

And I ran.

And ran.

And ran down the canyon. 

And it rained.

And poured.

And at mile 20 I realized I still felt strong. My inner mantra of "comfortable not complacent" resonated and I had stopped worrying about how wet I was. At mile 21 I started to smell bacon and yelled at the spectators with their tent of breakfast meats "It's not fair that you get to eat bacon and I don't!" to which they responded that I could have some! It was for me! But I was moving too fast.

So fast that I almost didn't see the friends that had come to watch me!

And I kept running. And building my speed. And feeling awesome. Taking everything a mile at a time, I realized I'd caught back up to the 3:35 pacer, then was stuck in his herd, then blew by them on a corner.

It was my race and at this point I knew I was ahead of the Boston qualifying standard. So I kept pushing it, scoffing at the volunteers giving dry towels at mile 25 and just trying not to fall back to the pacer again. As I came to the finish I saw two friends who had come to cheer and I realized I was qualifying for the Boston race... and while I like to think it was just rain streaming down my face, I think I cried a little bit.

Then I froze to death in the soaked state I had put myself into over the last three hours and 33 minutes, my friends taking turns to hold me and keep me and my blue lips from going hypothermic. 

And after an afternoon of pizza and grocery shopping on endorphins, those 23 hours awake took control, and I found myself on bar stool dozing as friends danced around me. I fell asleep with the glory that is knowing that your patellas are part of you, though clinging precariously, and that they do in fact have nerve endings.