So you may have noticed that I have been a little MIA recently. I apologize. I have been traveling basically non-stop since January—mostly for work, a little for fun –so I have not had the time for my usual adventures.

I’ve been beating myself up about this every week that I don’t post. But instead of feeling guilty about it again this week, I figures I should just come out and tell you why I have been absent and show you what I have been up to…even if it’s not exactly what I usually post about. So here it is…my last three months in pictures.

I hope you enjoy!

After a year of determination, hard work and a little benign stalking of some military officials, I finally was able to visit the Marine Mammal Unit of the United States Navy. This was work-related, not blog-related, but still a dream come true.

I spend some time in Denver, where I got up close to some fighter jets. If you ever get the same opportunity, one piece of advice: take the ear protection, whatever they offer you!

I managed so squeeze in some skiing  on a separate trip to Colorado, this one for fun.

I managed to escape most of the brutal winter that hit the northeast, but was able to enjoy some of the beauty that the snow brought with it.

Acorn Street, Beacon Hill

In the middle of all this traveling, in addition to giving myself a concussion, I also gave myself a black eye. Yes, I am a total mess.

You should see the other guy!

I went to Puerto Rico for a photo shoot, and learned about a great organization, Save a Gato that strives to fix and adopt the stray cats of San Juan. There are a lot of them.

I also visited Las Vegas for the first time. Again, I went for work, so my time was not my own, but it was still quite an experience. As I ran down the strip at 6:30 a.m. (and sprinted up escalators, a higher tech interpretation of bleacher sprints I hated from college squash) and past people with beers still in their hands, I had the realization that they probably thought I was as crazy as I was thinking they were. While I may have been underwhelmed by Sin City, I did think the Bellagio fountain was worth the wait…and boy did I wait.

Best of all, on many of these trips I had the very talented photographer Jeff Allen as a travel buddy. I have featured Jeff on this blog in the past (here and here) so you may know his face and his work. If this post is your first introduction to Jeff, you should know two things: he is extremely talented, and he will climb just about anything to get “the” shot.

And now I’m back in Boston, settling back into my routine, enjoying the slightly warmer weather, sunrise runs, and hopefully getting back to my adventures soon.  Thanks for your patience!

The judges have spoken. Last week I wrote not about my latest adventure, but about me…getting older. I’ve written personal posts a few times over the past two years, and they’re always a challenge for me. Despite being a blogger, I’m a pretty private person; I don’t like talking about myself, and I don’t like writing about myself. But sometimes I’m going through something, or I have an epiphany, or just feel I’ve got something to say.

So I say it. And you love it.

When this happens, you all demonstrate—through page views and comments—that these are your favorite posts. I have known this for a while; the data backs it up. But I fought the idea of writing more about myself more often because it terrifies me. While I know some people start blogs to talk about themselves, want an outlet to vent, or to show off pictures of their outfits each day (I’m not judging, I swear), that’s not me and that’s not why I do this. I started this blog because I missed writing. I missed interviewing interesting people and learning new things. And most of all, I wanted to challenge myself.

I have never backed away from a challenge when it comes to this blog…except for this one. But after the emails, texts, comments and encouragement from you last week it dawned on me that I may be hiding behind my outlandish adventures as a way of keeping you all at arms’ length. You know a lot about what I do from week to week, but maybe not about how I feel. And maybe, just maybe, you are interested in learning a little more about me. Imagine that.

So as I embark on the third year of The Great Wide Open, I will let you in.

Don’t worry; I’m not going all self-involved on you. I’m still going to try new things and try to make you laugh, but I’m also going to feature more of the adventure that is the everyday life of this 30-something single gal, navigating life, work, writing and dating (there, I said it, it’s too late to take it back now)…who happens to also learn to break dance on the weekends (that’s a not-so-subtle plug for next week’s post, so be ready to get down).

Again, I want to stress that I’m not going to talk about me all the time—that would bore both you and me. I’m going to give you more of what you have grown to expect from me, but also more of what I know you want from me…and I’ll continue to do my best to entertain you in the process.

Let this new adventure begin.

This week I celebrated my birthday. Well, actually I’ve been celebrating my birthday since last Friday, but the actual day was Tuesday. I like to spread my birthday celebration out so that I’m too busy having fun, and don’t stop to ponder getting one year older. Don’t get me wrong, I love my birthday, I mean I really love my birthday. My family takes birthdays very seriously, or at least they take my birthday very seriously. This may be a result of my behavior on my birthday: I cry. I cry every year. And I’m not talking about shedding one or two sentimental tears. No, January 21^st reduced me to a blubbering, weeping, basket case.

My mother says I have been this way from the beginning. Literally. But I was finally able to articulate the tremendous emotions I was feeling on my sixth birthday. She recalls (I swear I’m not making this up) that per usual, I was crying (probably right after she and my dad had gifted me whatever I had wanted, maybe a Cabbage Patch Kid) and when she asked what was wrong, I responded, “I’m not ready to be six. I was just getting comfortable with five.” Seriously, I said that. She should have taken me to a shrink that instant.

It’s been the same sad story every year since. My family and friends know that tears are inevitable, so they go to great lengths to make me happy on my birthday. And I always have an amazing time…and then I cry. It’s really rather ridiculous. Birthdays signify both the biggest change (one year—number-wise—older), and the smallest change (you feel the same way on Tuesday morning as you did Monday night) at the very same time.

This week I marked a milestone that sounds old to me, and the weeks leading up to it, I felt uneasy and a little blue. I certainly don’t feel old. And despite what others may think, I don’t (usually) feel that just because I’m a single, 30-something, that I’m somehow behind, or missing out (although I have my moments). I love my life! Is it what I thought it would be like as a teenager (read about that here)? No. But it’s this interesting, diverse, exciting life that I’ve created for myself. My mother often cites my Joie de vivre. I’m on this kooky journey and I can honestly say I have no idea where I will end up, but I know I will laugh and learn a lot along the way.

I was coy about my age when my mostly younger co-workers took me out Friday night (I was told I looked great for 30. I just smiled). I enjoyed the Patriots game, if not the outcome, on Sunday with some of my best friends. I unwrapped an amazing birthday gift from my parents on Monday and enjoyed a girl’s dinner out on Tuesday.

And then a funny thing happened, or didn’t happen, when I got home. With snow falling over Boston, my feet up on the aforementioned birthday gift, and a glass of Veuve in my hand, I went through all the lovely birthday texts, emails and messages I had received (thank goodness for Facebook)…and I didn’t cry…for the first time in 35 years. I didn’t feel sad, or behind, or old. Instead, I felt lucky for all that I have, and excited about all that is right around the corner for me.

A perfect way to end my birthday…not crying

I really feel more like myself in my 30’s. Oprah would say that I am becoming my “authentic self.” I’m more accepting of limitations, not afraid to show off my strengths, and overall, more comfortable in my skin. And it seems I’m more comfortable with my birthday as well. That’s what we call progress.

As the clock ticks down the waning hours of new year’s eves, we can’t help but reflect on the year that is about to be put to bed. A few days ago a friend asked me what my favorite adventure of the year was, and I had to think hard about it. Then I got nostalgic. It’s hard to choose just one; I have to assume it’s similar to choosing your favorite child.

2013 was a really busy year here at The Great Wide Open. And while I had a few lows, it was a year filled with highs…and high notes. Here is a rundown of my favorite adventures of the past year:

You all got the play-by-play of my stressful move (which maybe I was being a little dramatic about) and the real-life adventure of living alone for the first time. While I may have seemed like a crazy person last spring, the experience taught me a lot about my strengths, my limitations and how amazing my friends are. Who needs movers when you have BFFs with SUVs? The experience also made me very comfortable asking for help (which I used to be very bad about) from friends, family and “strangers on the internet,” as my father pointed out.

Empty Apartment

Home

I embraced my long-dormant outdoorsy side by learning to rock climb in the White Mountains of New Hampshire with the fine folks at Northeast Mountaineering. What was so interesting about this was the fact that after trying so many things and being bad, I mean really bad, at many of them I assumed that I would fail at scaling a rock fifty feet in the air. But you know what? I was really good at it. Being lowered back down was another matter altogether, but we’ll focus on the positive!

Still smiling

I got to meet and eat Chinese take-out with the amazing jewelry designer Kenneth Jay Lane in his Manhattan studio. This was one of those moments when I literally had to pinch myself it was so surreal. I was sitting across the table from a person I admire a great deal, interviewing him and chatting about his old pal Jackie Kennedy. Who am I, and how did I get here?  When I started this blog I never imagined that an opportunity like this would be available to me. It truly was a dream come true.

Look at that smile, obviously I could not contain my excitement

From dreams to nightmares…Probably my most terrifying adventure of the year demonstrated how comfortable I have become with mass-scale public humiliation. I sang a duet, in public…in front of an audience years after being told that I was a bad singer. While I may not have sounded all that great, I did face a long-held fear and felt so much support during the rehearsal process, at the performance and afterwards in the comment section of this blog that it really did feel like a triumph and not a total humiliation (but judge for yourself below).

Yes, 2013 was a great year for me and this blog. Over the past two years I have slowly let go of my Type A ways, and have become well acquainted with that feeling we all get deep in the pit of our stomachs when we’re about to try something totally out of our comfort zones. I didn’t realize how much my fear of failure had been holding me back until I changed my reaction to that feeling. Instead of leaning back or walking away, I now jump in, head first, secure in the feeling that I may just surprise myself. And if I don’t, and I fail, big deal…at least I gave it a try. While I started this blog to try to find my next passion in life, it seems that maybe my passion is trying new things, unafraid of the outcome…and writing of course.

I have lots planned for the coming year and a lot not planned. Some of it I will make up as I go along, and how great is that? I will be trying tons of new things and experience. I have no idea where this whole adventure will take me, and that’s ok. It’s actually better than ok…it’s pretty exciting.

In addition to my blog life being filled with adventures, my normal life seems to include a fare number of adventures (of varying degrees) these days as well. I’ve been in my new apartment for three months now, and most of the time I think I’ve adjusted well to living alone. But in the past few weeks, my limits (emotional and physical) have been tested.

In the past when I’ve run into a household problem, there has always been someone to tackle the issue with me, and in many cases for me. Whether it is yelling for my Dad, peering into a broken oven with a roommate next to me, or calling a boyfriend when I can’t find a fuse box, I always felt as if I had back-up. In the past few weeks I have felt painfully alone.

Let me set the stage: summer takes a while to arrive in New England. Memorial Day weekend for example, was windy, rainy and 45 degrees. So when a surprise—or at least it was a surprise to me—heat wave hit a week ago, I was ill prepared. I was that girl who went out looking to buy an air conditioner when it was already 95 degrees. After an introductory lesson on British Thermal Units (am I the only person who had no idea what a BTU was?) from dear old Dad and searching the aisles of half a dozen stores, I finally found an AC in the ‘burbs. I lugged it home, up my three flights of stairs and ripped it out of the box, desperate for instant relief.

It was at that moment that I realized while I had watched as an AC was put in, I had never actually done it myself. Yes, I’m thirty-something and never installed an air conditioner. I was overheated and exhausted from climbing the stairs and as I tried to balance the unit on the windowsill, I admit it, I started to cry…and I stripped off my clothes. I’m sure it was a pitiful sight, a hot, sweaty, half naked girl crying with an air condition precariously balanced on her knee, which was propped up on a window sill. In that moment I felt completely hopeless, and slightly embarrassed that I could not help myself.

I slept in my living room that night—overhead fan cranking, patio door open—next to the AC that I was not able to get in the window.

The following weekend, after the heat had subsided, I was to have patio furniture delivered, which I didn’t realize would come in approximately a bazillion pieces. It took over my entire apartment (true, this may say a great deal about the compact nature of my apartment, in addition to the copious number of pieces) and I was instantly overwhelmed. It literally could have taken me days to make sense of all of it.

I was serious, a bazillion pieces

As I looked at the pieces of metal and cushions that littered my floor, I had an epiphany: In every other aspect of my life–including work, and this blog—when I’m in need of help, I seek out an expert. Why should these household tasks be any different? If my Ikea hack experience taught me one thing it’s that time is money. I may not be resourceful with a hammer and nails, but I am resourceful enough to know whom to call to get these things done. Hadn’t I preached that sometimes you just need a handyman…or at the very least a handy man?

After a quick walk to Charles Street Supply, my local hardware store, I had booked their resident handyman to come over and install the air conditioner, and I created a taskrabbit account and posted a request for someone to “help me” put together my patio furniture for $50.

For those of you who are not familiar, Taskrabbit.com allows you to post tasks you need done, and members of the community—who have gone through background checks and interviews, so you can feel confident that an ax murderer won’t arrive on your doorstep—can claim and do them. My taskrabbit, Marc arrived Sunday afternoon and we quickly got to work, interrupted several times by my Dad who called to make sure this “stranger I found on the internet” had not chopped me up into little pieces.

Marc getting down to business

And while Marc did do most of the work, I did keep him company, play DJ, hand him pieces, and arrange the cushions when he finished. A real team effort if you ask me! That hysterical, nearly naked girl from the weekend before had been replaced with a calm, even jovial, partner in furniture assembly.

Marc testing out his handywork

Living alone is teaching me a lot about myself, most importantly that it’s ok, even essential at times, to ask (or pay) for help. Feeling helpless, or hopeless, is never good. But being able to find solutions to these problems—and those of greater consequence as well—is an important step in the right direction…in this adventure called life.

Who says I’m not resourceful?