I’m back.

That’s all…no drama, nothing big, nothing exemplary. Just, back.

And it’s crazy how much you miss your own bed until you return to it.

Despite stiff competition (though stiff is a misnomer; the main competition is anything but, what with its 10+” pillow top and insanely comfortable mattress), I still think my bed wins. Jaded? Perhaps. But after five days away, sharing one room and one small bathroom, (and with all due respect to Westin), I pose that the only real heavenly bed…

…is my own.

It’s a gray, somewhat rainy day in a city far from home that makes me feel a little lost, a little sad, a little wondering what I should do.

My friends have given me advice – they look out for me, you know. They all have opinions on what makes the most sense, what will help me in the long run, but when it comes down to it, the decision is mine. And it’s not an easy one to make.

I feel alone.

It’s funny how easily we can get used to something, get used to a person or a place or a situation, and while you can remember how it was before, you can’t will yourself back into that place, regardless how you try. Things have changed, you have changed, and now you’re faced with the here and now instead of the month, two months, six months ago that you want to go back to. Because when it comes down to it, you can’t make yourself feel one way or another, no matter how much you want to.

And I want to.

That’s the problem with life – the experiences start to invade you, pluck at you like a guitar, little by little until you again become numb and realize that without your knowledge, things have happened. You have changed. What once was right, now is wrong. What once made you happy, now makes you sad. You have been affected, and this here and now really IS your reality, your life to deal with.

I want my old life back.

It’s not all bad; mind you, the things that got you from there to here could have been good. Could have been great, in fact. You could have spent most of that time happy, and laughing, and lighter than you’ve been in a while, but – in a twist of fate that somehow seems both cruel and unfair – the sum of all the good can still equal the bad, can still leave you where you are, today, trying to figure out what to do and trying to figure out what makes the most sense.

And sense! Who can make sense of it all? Your friends can offer you suggestions, but they don’t live it. They don’t see what you do, don’t have to deal with the aftermath of the decisions, they’re removed. They love you, they care, but they’re not going to be the one picking you up afterwards. You have to do that for yourself.

So really, after it all, after everything of the contrary and the pondering and the questioning yourself and others and God and life itself, you feel alone.

You are alone.

I am alone.

I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s nothing major, nothing really pressing, and yet everything seems a little off. It’s as if my life is rotated like 10 degrees to the West, with everything being almost, but not quite. Weird, actually.

There’s nothing really wrong, but not everything seems right. My work is, well, work; my love life is, well, what it is, and besides the daily workouts at Bikini Boot Camp, I’m just bumbling along like I always do (with MUCH tighter calves and great delts, I must add!) but things seem different.

While nowhere near full-fledged Dysthymia, I’d go so far to say that I’m a bit irritable, a bit melancholy, a bit blah. Perhaps it’s just post-birthday syndrome, but I’m not sure. It’s the Summer of my Discontent.

And I don’t like it one bit.

Summer should be a happy time! Full of ice cream (can’t eat it on my ‘regimen’), picnics (I WILL be at Screen on the Green this Thursday, come hell or high water!), days lounging at the pool (haven’t done this yet) and fruity summer drinks (ok, have done that one…). I look to summer as the idyllic time to relax, to get myself back in check, to let my hair down a bit and to just be – for lack of a better or less cheezy word – happy-go-lucky. Instead, I feel a weight on my mind and my heart, a pressure there that’s causing me to wonder when I’m going to come up for air. I feel too often caught in the very strings that seem to dictate my life, wanting to rebel against the figurative puppet master that seems to control if and when I do something, the very strings that get in the way of what I really want to do, what I really want to say.

Because what I really want to say, is that it’s not fair.

I like to think that I’m a bad ass. A hard ass, if you will. But really, I’m not. I’m not even a moderately soft ass…I’m basically a wuss. And it’s got to stop.

I’m sure this revelation might surprise you all, but – sadly – it’s true. You see, I talk a great game. Piss me off, and I’ll get mad. Not at you, however, more behind your back. I’ve figured out that I really hate confrontation, so while I’d like to tell you where to shove it or where to go, I’ll likely give a bit of dissention, but appease you. Then, shut my door, and my poor officemate has to hear me bitch about what a such-and-such you were being when you asked me to do this-or-that. I. HATE. THIS. I HATE being wishy-washy, for feeling like I’m being walked all over, even when I’m not. I know, I know – pick your battles, but too often I feel like I’m letting things slide, letting things remain unsaid.

There’s a song by Cyndi Thomson called “What I Really Meant To Say” about a girl lamenting holding back her true feelings when running into an ex. Instead of telling him that she’s still in love, that she’s never gotten over him, she tells him that she’s fine. Then, like I find myself doing more and more these days, she finds herself berating herself for what she really wanted to say. What she held back. And though I think I say pretty much what I mean when it comes to cute boys that are ridiculously thoughtful for my birthday, I find myself biting my tongue at work and letting things slide.

There’s a fine line between being assertive and being a bitch, especially as a woman. I’ll admit, our office has some very strong personalities, so learning how to work together with everyone took some time. It’s because of this, I think, why I often opt to withhold pushing back as much as I’d like, why I avoid doing things that could incite possible confrontation. In the meantime, though, I see myself turning into a ‘pleaser’, a pushover. Which is something I loathe in others.

So I’m working on it. I’m trying to be more assertive, more direct, and tackle things head-on instead of letting them fester. I mean, I do this in relationships, why can’t I do it at work?

And yet this one line in the song keeps running through my head over and over again…

“What I really meant to say,

Is I’m really not that strong.”

I had such high hopes.

Preemptively, I figured I would TiVo it. Not just the first one, mind you, that I would be missing due to Bikini Boot Torture, but the WHOLE * ENTIRE * SEASON. This Ohio-bred gal is an optimist, you see.

Fox has surprised me, lately, with its shows. After getting hooked on “24” in the second season, and still with fond memories of series gone to the great big television in the sky like “90210” (RIP, Brandon, Brenda, Dylan & the crew), I figured this new summer series would offer me just what I wanted – a nice distraction from my sore muscles. Instead, it’s bikini-clad girl after bikini-clad girl who haven’t yet gotten the post-college pooch that is too-often referred to as FUPA. Even the buff, brawny hunkerifics gallivanting next to the aforementioned skinny bitches can’t make up for what basically is a pathetic knock-off of the semi-pathetic “Las Vegas.” You know it’s a sad day when Fox knocks off a cheezeball moderately-received series. It’s even on the same night.

You’ve got the working class hotel manager (playing the same role as the ever-delicious Josh Duchemel does on LV) whose best friend growing up just happens to be the same gorgeous co-worker that is conveniently still in love with him, and has been for years. Add the daughter of a hotel mogul to complete this little love triangle, the scenes with the the typical “difficult guests”, and they might as well just have called it “North Shore: What You Shouldn’t Be Watching in the Off Chance that you’re Missing Las Vegas this Summer.”

I mean really – better time would be spent checking out my Birthday photos.

Bear with me, I’m partially delirious.

You see, this week has been the hardest week – physically, at least – of my life. I’ve done more push-ups, sit-ups, crunches, jumping jacks, punches, jogs, sprints, kicks and basically any other form of torture, ahem, I mean, fitness training, than I have ever before in my life. I’m four days into my Bikini Boot Camp, and damn, it’s HARD.

It’s also rewarding.

Despite my slow gait, my tendency to fall off of any shoes that aren’t flip-flops, my stomach soreness that makes it hurt even to laugh, my omnipresent punch-drunk demeanor (not to mention my messed-up manicure!), I know I’m doing a good thing. 6am workouts? Yeah, they suck. 150 push ups? Kick-boxing a bag for 40 minutes straight? Not exactly what I’d call fun. And to top it off – “indulging” in one piece of birthday cake and one glass of red wine cost me 50 additional squats and 20 additional pushups. Good thing they didn’t catch the martini in my food log.

My friends think I’m losing my mind; my coworker says that she could yell at me to get my ass in gear and run up the stairs for a lot less than I’m paying these people to whip my patootie in shape, and though likely true, it wouldn’t be the same. There’s a sense of accomplishment that comes at 6:45 am when you’ve finished your workout for the day, and though I’m tempted to crawl back into my bed and sleep the day away, I know better. I know that this week – though horrifically hard and both mentally and physically draining – isn’t going to be the worst, and that hell, I’ve survived so far. And above all, I know that I can do anything for 30 days, sprints, pushups, soreness and all. I may even do it again next month!

Still, I really, really, really would like another piece of birthday cake, but don’t think my arms are prepared for the push-up punishment.

There should be some rule against inclement weather on your birthday. Now, I know the impossibility of this request, since if everyone had a sunny, beautiful, San Diego-esque day on the anniversary of their birth, there would be 365 days of fabulous weather in every city in the world. (Now, that doesn’t sound that bad, does it?) But still – I want the Cinderella “window thrown open, birds chirping, song in the air” kind of day when I have to usher in the big 2-7. What do I get? Gray. Rainy. Humid. Ick.

Oh well, even though the birds aren’t chirping against my idyllic window, I’ve got the proverbial song in my heart, as cheezy as that may be. My birthday is my favorite day of the year; and yes, I’m fully aware that this stems from my only child-dom. It’s a sharing, “All About ME” thing, and though I’m loathe to admit that in some ways I fall into the quintessential only child whose stigma I’ve come to despise, in this case, it’s spot on. Even Christmas can’t compare to June 8th – after all, even though I didn’t have to share my presents and surprises with siblings, I DID have to share the delight with friends, family, and neighbors. Instead of “All About ME”, it’s more like “sorta kinda a bit about me and all of the other children of the world.” Which is fine and dandy and special and magical, mind you, and I can’t wait to share this experience with my own kids one day, but in the meantime, the birthday takes the (pun intended) cake.

Thus far, it’s been a fabulous day. I’ve gotten flowers from my darling Mom, a little trinket from the cats (courtesy of aforementioned darling Mom), a gift package of glorious wonderfulness from My Darling Roommate, a cute-as-pie bag from the superb Brandy, a book and naughty lip gloss from the ever-generous Kelly, and even an iPod mini from my Dad. In Pink, to boot! I’ve had twenty+ emails from people near & far that were so sweet that I’ll even forgive one of them for thinking I was 29. (The audacity…) I’ve got a lunch of decadence (within reason – after all, I’m in the midst of Bikini Boot Camp, a 30-day training program providing sore muscles and extreme exhaustion, not to mention a healthy eating plan, to ensure a bikini-ready body by July – argh), a dinner this evening with my nearest and dearest (minus one, who has a certain pool tournament to play in), fun times on Thursday to celebrate my friend’s birthday, Friday night birthday dinner with aforementioned pool-playing cute boy, and Saturday tops off the first week in the Month of Aubrey with my chi-chi Diane von Furstenburg cocktail soiree full of flowing drinks and fantastic times. I’m a happy, lucky, somewhat-giddy birthday girl.

Which is how all birthdays, only-child or otherwise, should be.

5 – 4 – 3 – 2 – 1…the Countdown has begun. Yes, this is the last week of my 26th year, which I’m honestly shocked by. It feels like just yesterday when I graced Turner Field and the Atlanta Braves with my coconut bra & grass skirted presence, and now? It’s time to do it all over again.

At dinner last night, I said I was going to usher in the big 2-7 with an air of grace and decorum, which, besides proving to you that I was indulging in too much wine, should show you that really, I’m growing up. Instead of the all-out raging kegger packed with wall-to-wall people (only a slight exaggeration, if you can believe it) that I’ve had in the past, I’m having a smallish, somewhat sophisticated cocktail party, complete with a bartender (if I can find one for cheap, and by cheap I mean nearly free) and froo-froo beverages that just scream classiness. I’ll be sashaying with my nearest and dearest in a little Diane von Furstenburg number, mingling and delicately sipping my wine. No partial nudity planned whatsoever (well, at least not in public…hee.) See? I’m growing up.

As such, I’ve decided NOT to do my usual birthday wish list as in years past. That’s so childish to ask for jewelry or baubles that would just strike my fancy; no need to drop hints about the things I’d love to arrive on my doorstep (or work-step, as the big day falls on a Tuesday, you know) or give suggestions to any and all who may be in a quandary over how to treat me this year. Nope, much too mature and refined for that. Half of the fun of a birthday, after all, are the surprises! (And a card…I really, really want a card.)

Ok, so maybe just a FEW hints wouldn’t hurt…

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It was the smell that hit me first, the unmistakable scent of evening air infused with jasmine and something I can’t quite put my finger on. It both shocked and soothed me – this air that I got so used to during four years in college, this air that I hadn’t until now realized was quintessential North Carolina. Standing still outside the grocery store, I noticed the way a humid evening causes a sunset to be breathtaking, and even as I heard the parking lot lights crackle to indicate that evening was upon us, I sighed. This place, this land, these smells, they yield such power that can even make a grocery store parking lot seem magical.

How I’ve missed you, North Carolina.

I consider it home nearly as much as I do Ohio. Granted, you can take the girl out of Ohio but not the other way around (or so they say), and while I’m a devoted Browns & Indians fan and I know the secrets of Panini’s and their delicious sandwiches, it’s North Carolina where I consider myself growing up. No, not the “Ghost in the Graveyard”, first-kisses sort of growing; that’s your youth, your childhood. Those are the years that prepare you for the other type of growing up, the type that scares you to your very core when you realize that you no longer have a safety net, that you can make these decisions for yourself, that you’ve changed in a way that you never would have imagined. It was here, in this state where I both lost and found myself, and it didn’t hit me until tonight how much I missed it.

Standing outside Harris Teeter, wearing pj pants and a carolina blue t-shirt, I stepped back from myself and looked at where I’m at. Looked at where I’ve been and where I want to go. And as I inhaled the night air, there was not a doubt in my mind that this state, with its native beauty and intoxicating summer air, is where I will choose to spend many of my days and years to come. In the meantime, however, while I still have a house and a life and a job to attend to in Atlanta, it’s the scent that I will remember, the smells of the evening air that will keep me alive with hope that one day soon, I’ll return here, to my second home, to North Carolina.