The girl running through the airport

I have been on two flights per week for the last eight weeks straight.

Every single one of them, yes all 14, has either been on time or landed early.

This is obviously an anomaly, and I’m a firm believer that if too many good things are happening to you in sequence- it means that the universe is getting ready to screw with you.

And I was right.

(For anyone disagreeing with my theory, I never promised to be an optimist so zip it.)

My connecting flight to Atlanta was delayed and set to land at 7:30; my flight to Rio boarded from the international terminal at 7:05.

Now, I’m no mathematician, but let me tell you- that math doesn’t add up.

Here’s something you should know about me: I do not condone running in public places unless you are being chased, or doing cardio. Both equally unpleasant things that I do not wish upon anyone.

I do not chase things.

If you want to get all deep on me- sure, fine, whatever- I chase dreams and aspirations, money and highs. (And fine maybe the occasional boy, but only the really terrible ones after one too many tequila sodas.)

However, I don’t run to catch the elevator, or the train, or the light at a cross walk. There will always be another one. (This applies to boys too.)

But the thing about my flight to Rio is that the next one wasn’t leaving until the next day…

So you bet your ass I laced up my new Allbirds (they’re very comfy and super cute, thanks!) and picked up my suitcase (there is NO time to roll that shit even though AWAY cases roll smooth like butter on a warm bun) and I SPRINTED through Hartsfield International.

And not even the cute “oh I’m going on a light jog in this unsustainably bouncy ponytail and matching two piece athleisure set,” but the ugly and breathless “get out of my way, I will bulldoze your ankles with my suitcase” run.

It was certainly worth it as I made it on my flight with five minutes to spare, and treated myself to a window seat in Comfort Plus (sans neighbor) for my troubles.

And by treated myself I mean I sat down, sprawled across the row and never got kicked out. (Pro tip, no one will ever actually check your boarding zone, or your seat number on a half full flight.)

Anyways, thanks for reading a post that could easily be summarized to “this one time Pauline ran for three minutes.” You all are too kind.

I’ll be spending the next ten days dancing the Samba through Rio de Janeiro and tangoing my way through Buenos Aires so I promise I have some good stories and fabulous outfits coming your way.

(I’ll be in Uruguay and Paraguay too, but I have no idea what they dance there so I had to cut it out of the above sentence for literary purposes, obviously).

Besos!

The Classic Ski Weekend

There are a couple of trips you absolutely need to take in your twenties.

The college euro trip.

The Southeast Asia backpacking trip.

The solo trip to some zen place to find yourself.

The wild Vegas trip with your girlfriends.

And the one that had somehow eluded me all these years:

The classic large group ski trip.

A group of nine of us headed to Breckenridge, Colorado for a long weekend and it was everything my ski trip dreams were made of.

We rented out the most gorgeous secluded cabin in Blue River, with floor to ceiling views of snow covered pines.

We hit the slopes at Keystone and Breckenridge during the day, and drank cheap beers in the hot tub to ease the sore at night.

We cruised through the mountains taking in the views and enjoying the Rocky Mountain high. The John Denver song, of course.

We wore cozy furs and Nordic sweaters, wandered the cute ski town streets, and indulged in buttery crepes and midday wine flights.

Okay, so objectively, I just listed a bunch of clichés and at least three of you are rolling your eyes (even though you know my ski sweater was really freakin cute.)

Yeah, we did all of the things that you should do on a ski trip, but without a key ingredient, I’ve just written out a glorified generic itinerary.

And that key ingredient is actually pretty simple.

Good friends, good fun.

There is no rush quite like speeding down your last ski run of the day, in the dark, surrounded by your best friends whopping and hollering the whole way down.

That’s magic.

Ugly gut laughing as one of your sweetest friends reads off the most dark and twisted responses to Cards Against Humanity?

That’s magic.

Gathering around a big breakfast spread with the gang, grateful to be there with friends that have known you either all your life or at least through the last few years…

Magic!

While I’m certainly glad to no longer be wearing ski boots, which are actually athletic torture contraptions, I’m looking forward to a new tradition with my friends:

The classic ski trip.