One to Nothin'

Merry Christmas & A Happy New Year!

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Merry Christmas, friends! I spent the holiday with my family in Florida. I didn’t take many photos, or dress up in pretty clothes (narwhal onesies, however..), or even stay for very long. I just loved on my family and friends, got silly, ate lots and lots of food, and headed back west. I have an extensive list of goals, to-dos, improvements and ideas I hope to get through in 2017, but I know this blog won’t be a priority. Sure, I’ll update when I feel compelled, but I decided that I won’t let its neglect cause me any distress in the new year. That’s not to say I won’t be writing though. Quite the opposite, in fact. A large amount of my creative energy will be spent on my new website, and while its focus is on lactose-free living, I think you know me well enough to know I can’t even write a recipe without letting some goofy ass personal anecdotes creep their way in. So I hope you’ll follow along on this journey (I’m always on Instagram) and help make this year far better than the last. See ya in 2017!

What I Wore

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Top: Tilly’s / Shades: Ray-Ban / Shorts: Billabong / Choker: UO / Sandals: Seychelles
It’s hard to believe there was a time when I consistently posted five times a week. What did I even talk about? It’s funny how quickly we lose momentum when it comes to creative endeavors. I’m definitely not just talking about blogging.
I’m talking fancy carbs, novels started a year and a month ago and not touched since, websites that are stupid frustrating to set up, publications that disappear overnight (and never pay you for your work) and the ever fleeting motivation that comes at the least convenient, most impossible time to act on it.


Excuses, of course. Some bloggers wake up at 4am to work out, spend all day doctoring children or something equally difficult and draining, then shoot, write and edit beautiful content while taking care of a family and still have time and money to travel the world. Those people are not me, unfortunately.

I get overwhelmed by three dishes in the sink. I fail to do laundry for three weeks at a time. I don’t buy a new bag of dog food until the last one is completely empty. I’m still in shock from the election (and cry when I go on Facebook). I Googled “Is it bad to take old lady vitamins?” last night after realizing I bought Centrum Silver. I don’t exactly have my shit together, but hey! Sometimes I find pretty walls to take photos in front of. And sometimes I find crop tops I don’t hate that are on mega sale. Sometimes I run marathons and other times I watch all of the new Gilmore Girls episodes in one day, hungover on the couch. But I pretty much always find a way to have fun, and one day I’m confident that I’ll miss the days when it was pretty okay to not have my shit together. 

26.2 – My First Marathon

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I DID IT! I ran 26.2 miles. The distance I’ve thought about, dreamt of, dreaded and thought maaaaybe I’ll get around to it some day; I friggin did it. I can finally check “run a marathon” off my bucket list. In the past four months I ran for hours and hours, grimaced over my rough AF feet, listened to around eight audiobooks, jammed to 457 billion songs, ate SO many carbs, run over the Golden Gate Bridge, moved sloth-like up hills, had off days, felt on top of the world and wondered if I’d ever be ready to run 26.2 all at once. My BFF and fitness partner-in-crime, Eva, and I drove down to LA last Thursday night after coordinating outfits (side note: @runningonboba). We nommed on candy the whole way there and in between singing Taking Back Sunday at the top of our lungs, we obsessed over who will be there, how fast, how hot, why did the time change already and omg-I-can’t-believe-we’re-actually-doing-this.

Our race was in Ventura, The Surfer’s Point Marathon, even though we were staying in Venice Beach leading up to the race. We’d never been to Ventura and were realizing in the weeks prior to the race how small of an event it was actually going to be. We were also realizing that, although we didn’t exactly train in cool weather, we were about to run in real-life southern California heat just one week after the time change, meaning we’d be finishing the race right around the hottest hour of the day. Cue the panic. The night before we stocked up on Gatorade, Gu, coconut water, sunscreen and, of course, doughnuts and went to sleep at 9pm. All night I dreamt about getting to the starting line late and missing the race/melting to death in the heat, but we woke up with plenty of time to eat almond butter toast and bananas, braid our hair and snap a few photos at the start. From there we started our pre-formulated playlists (here’s mine) and began the longest run of my life.

It was 80+ degrees the whole time as we ran along the coast at Surfer’s Point — a 13.1 mile “loop” twice — so we had gorgeous views of the beach, the mountains and all the other runners finishing their 5ks, 10ks and half marathons as we soldiered on. I walked through all but one water station, eventually taking two cups at a time, one to dump on my head and the other to drink. I was completely soaked by the time I finished, but despite the heat and the zero-turnout cheering section (I did get a few yells as I crossed the finish line, but no one else even knew there was a race going on), my mind stayed positive throughout. After I hit mile 18 (the farthest I’d gone in training), I vacillated between being high on how far I’d already gone, and being terrified that I was going to hit an impenetrable wall. Every time I started to reel at the though of eight more miles (I literally said out loud, “Just eight more miles. YOU can run eight miles.”), six more miles (a whole hour??), three more freakin’ miles?!, I’d say, “Don’t you dare get overwhelmed now.”

If you’ve read this blog for a long time (and I mean looong time), you probably know I’m not always the kindest to myself on runs. I used to be straight up RUDE. I called myself names. I told myself I was weak. I threatened myself when I felt like giving up. I didn’t want to do that this time around. Throughout training I didn’t worry if I needed to walk. I listened to books instead of songs that would keep my pace up. I ended runs (and sometimes stopped in the middle of them) with boba tea or fried chicken or whatever my body started craving as I willed it to keep moving for hours on end. Sometimes I skipped runs because spending time with friends felt more important. I had fun.

I’ve loved running for a long time, but it hasn’t always been the same kind of love. I think there’s a reason I racked up six half marathons before finding the strength to sign up for a full, and I think I needed to go easy on myself. I trained hard, I got stronger and I finished the way I wanted to, but I was kind. I didn’t force myself to do more than I was ready for. I didn’t (usually) berate myself for missing a run. I didn’t say it on here, but my goals for this race were to finish under five hours and to feel strong doing it. My official time was 4:28 and even though my hips are still pretty unhappy four days later, I do feel strong. I’m so incredibly grateful for my body that allows me to run, for Eva who pushed me, inspired me and agreed to run it with me, for all of my incredible friends who texted me, called me, asked me how it went, congratulated me on finishing and didn’t unfollow me when all I did was blast social media with marathon updates. Every time I got a message from you guys it made me that much more determined. Knowing that my friends and family believed in me made me believe it, too.

I love you all so much, and I’m freakin’ stoked call myself a marathoner.

Which one should I do next? 😉

Here are some other posts I’ve written on the subject of running:

Green

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Shirt: Target / Jeans: Zara / Booties: Target / Ring c/o Labradorite Magic

As a child I found it oddly necessary to have a favorite in every category.

Favorite song? “Two Out of Three Ain’t Bad” by Meatloaf. Favorite movie? Grease 2. Favorite food? Wiener schnitzel. Favorite hobby? Roller blading (in the garage while singing Allure at the top of my lungs).

It felt important to be able to rattle off these answers with immediacy and certainty. You know, just in case I was ever in a life threatening situation that required a zero-hesitation-tolerated answer to “WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE TV SHOW, 10-YEAR-OLD MACKENSIE?”

I can proudly say none of the aforementioned faves still apply, but color? That category has remained. Green was, is and probably always will be my favorite of the colors.

I was fascinated by other people’s number ones as well. I could name every person in my family’s preferred color, even when they were waffling between two. I’d pick out their colors on my stuffed animals and imagine how that color must make them feel. I couldn’t imagine pink, yellow or red giving someone else the thrill I got from green, but I tried. When all the other markers were streaking or coming out in meek, textured smears, the green one was always lush and full of juice, filling the page effortlessly with its vitality.

Growing up in one of the greenest places in America probably helped. Everything is green in Florida. It means it’s alive, lush, healthy. The rain never stays away for long, and plants have no reason to wither away or emulate the golden hue of California’s hills. It’s bright and playful, fresh and versatile. It can be water or plants, juice or mold, health or sickness, eggs or ham.

Just like I needed answers to anything the words “what’s your favorite..” could end with, I often pondered the color of my irises. My eyes contain several colors and often change depending on my clothes, mood or scenery, but if for nothing but my driver’s license, I needed to pin it down. I always felt like “hazel” was a cop out, but grey-blue-orange-green is never a box to check off.

The colors change, but I like them best when they’re my favorite color. And sometimes all it takes is a little shirt, ring and post-rain landscape coordination to make it happen.

Oh, and that ring? It’s a Labradorite gem, a magical stone said to have released the Northern Lights into the night sky after being crushed by an all-powerful being. It’s a “fire stone” that locals believed contained igniting powers to rid stress and increase energy. Things have been a little tense over here, so I definitely appreciate the extra stress release, energy boost and reminder of magic. Thanks so much for introducing your beautiful jewels to me, Labradorite Magic.

PS: Upon listening to some of 10-year-old MacKensie’s favorite songs, I noticed conflicting and strangely relevant lyrics. Meatloaf says, “but you’ve been cold to me so long, I’m cryin’ icicles instead of tears,” and Allure says, “my tears will burn the pillow,” and “my tears will cause an inferno.” Coincidence? Or does this dramatic little Leo love the juxtaposition of hot and cold and songs that make her cry?

Scenes from Austin

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Austin is my kind of town, y’all. Tacos for every meal, friendly people, space to breathe, cliffs to jump off into crystal clear water in the middle of town and MUSIC EVERYWHERE. I explored the city from Wednesday to Saturday and spent all of Sunday heart-eyed at Austin City Limits where I saw my never-before-seen artists: Wild Belle, Local Natives, HAIM, Margo Price and Willie Nelson. I reunited with old friends, made rad new ones, drank Mexican martinis on rooftops, jumped into freezing water at Barton Springs and took photos with as many famous murals as I could find. One restaurant I went to even had vegan QUESO, you guys. Like, what? I’m moving. It’s been real, California, but I think we both know it’s time for me to move on. Who’s coming with me?/Anyone already there wanna hook me up with a job? Eh? Ehhhh? Anyway. Here’s some music.

My First Tattoo

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It started almost four years ago. My sister Britni always toyed with the idea of getting inked, but I was never down. I couldn’t decide on something so permanent — commitment has never really been my thing. Tattoos were an abstract idea; those things that looked cool on other people but I’d never be able to pull off. When she mentioned all four our siblings getting matching tattoos before I moved west, however, the decision was made for me. It was never a question of whether or not I’d do it. If they were in, I was in. I even made the appointment all those years ago. The thought was to pay tribute to our mother, a beekeeper and the common thread between all of us kids (two of them have a different dad). We would all get honey bees tattooed on various parts of our bodies and have a beautiful reminder of the bond we shared.

I was still scared though. I thought I’d get a life-size honey bee, simple and tiny, at my bra line so no one would ever see it if I didn’t want them to. It was safe, wimpy and safe, but it was only way I could ensure I wouldn’t try to rub it off every time it got caught in my peripheral vision. My brother couldn’t get off work on that fateful day and as soon as we walked into the tattoo parlor, everything seemed off. I didn’t know how it all worked, but I showed the stocky, bearded man a photo of the bee I liked and his response was, “This is a wasp.” I’m not an entomologist by any means, but I know a damn bee when I see one and I was thrown by his snarky response and shitty attitude. “No, it’s definitely a bee.. And I want it to be as small as possible, please,” I said trying to keep my composure. After similarly off-putting conversations with my two sisters, he disappeared in the back to draw my “wasp” and came back with what looked, in my mind, like a bee drawing the size of my head. I asked if it could be smaller, he brusquely said no and we all walked out knowing that if we were going get drawn on in permanent ink, it wasn’t going to be by this asshole.

I moved across the country without my bee. Britni and I continued to talk about our theoretical bee tattoos throughout the following years, dedicating Pinterest boards to them and texting each other every bee design we ever came across. Fast-forward to about four weeks ago when I decided enough was enough. “Let’s get our bees when I’m in town after the wedding!” I exclaimed manically over the phone. I figured we could make a night of it and hopefully our two other siblings (who I knew wouldn’t be able to make it that late on a school night) would follow suit. She was down, and after a raving recommendation for artist Katie Ryan in Gainesville (my college town), I made an appointment.

When the day finally came, the car hummed with our energy as the radio crackled through the 30-mile drive. Brit said she was going first and I agreed, knowing I’d have plenty of time to freak out. This go ’round I wasn’t as timid nor was I afraid to go bigger than I originally wanted. I’d scrolled through Katie’s Instagram feed dozens of times, I loved her style and I realized I was taking screen shots of every tat that featured geometric shapes. I wanted whatever it was to be high quality without the chance of bleeding into a buzzing blur, and I wanted honeycomb in the background. She showed us her original drawing of a rad bee with its wings outspread, and I timidly showed her the bee’s profile and comb I liked. She was open, flexible, friendly. She loved the idea and was perfectly happy to take the time to put us at ease and, once realizing the design was far more complicated than she’d originally thought, let us know it would be a long night. She was still down if we were. Yes.

We decided on slightly different designs/placement and I could barely sit still as my stomach cramped while my sister remained calm under the buzzing needle for the next two hours. I inhaled takeout sushi from a nearby spot we frequented in college and prayed to the gods that I wouldn’t pass out when it was my turn. Finally it was my go. After three tries we got the placement of the stencil right, and she started doing her thang. Britni kept me calm by telling stories and taking photos (especially as I winced through the, ahem, more sensitive areas) while I stared into the many tattoo drawings on the wall and tried to stay as still as I could while still breathing. Eventually all of the blood drained out of my left arm draped over my head and my legs, thick with lactic acid from a 16-mile training run earlier, felt like they might fall off. But finally, it was done. Still a little lightheaded, we bandaged our new ink up and drove home exhausted, cathartic and nervous as hell to tell our dad.

He took it surprisingly well, and I freakin love it, you guys. I’m so grateful that I walked out of that first tattoo parlor filled with negative energy and let the idea marinate, evolve and become a bigger, sweeter, more intricate version of itself. The bold and abstract geometric comb contrasting a fuzzy yet fierce and realistic honey bee is exactly the kind of balance I strive for, and of course I’ll think of my incredible mother every time I see it.

“She reminded me that the world was really one bee yard, and the same rules work fine in both places. Don’t be afraid, as no life-loving bee wants to sting you. Still, don’t be an idiot; wear long sleeves and pants. Don’t swat. Don’t even think about swatting. If you feel angry, whistle. Anger agitates while whistling melts a bee’s temper. Act like you know what you’re doing, even if you don’t. Above all, send the bees love. Every little thing wants to be loved.” 
― Sue Monk Kidd, The Secret Life of Bees

Better Together

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One of my best friends married another one of my favorite people in Boca Raton, FL over labor day weekend, and it was just as beautiful and elegant as I knew it would be. I spent three days primping, pampering, crying tears of joy, loving on and bonding with all my gorgeous college friends. Five years after graduation and several years since I’d seen many of the guests and it felt like I flew right back in time to 2011. I love love, especially when I watched it blossom from the very beginning. I saw this couple fall in love, from butterflies to silly fights to vowing to love each other for the rest of their lives. I played board games with them in an empty apartment. I cuddled with them on the tiny couch. They tolerated my new puppy destroying our carpet and pooping in her room. I got hammered and wore costumes and went to strip clubs and skinny dipped and ate so very much pizza with them in the early morning hours. I watched him go out of his way every single day to make her feel special and to make her friends his own. I watched her come to the realization that he really was The One and I squealed when I saw the photo of him down on one knee. I celebrated her last few months of being a single woman and smiled ear to ear as they danced their first dance to Jack Johnson’s “Better Together.” I hugged her for the millionth time in the past few months and bawled. I hope to someday have a love like Liz and Jared’s. And if my wedding is even half as fun or beautiful as theirs, I can die happy.
Thanks for letting me be a part of your incredible day, guys. I love you both so much.

Yosemite + Thoughts On Growing Up

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Do you realize how much you can change in a few years? I talk about my cross-country move on here all the damn time; I know it’s redundant, but it’s INSANE. My entire perspective, attitude and sense of possibility has shifted and expanded in just three years.
Three impossible, lightning fast years.

It’s liberating, exciting and effing awesome because there’s no way I could’ve realized my Chumbawamba-level resilience and full-on lust for traveling, being outdoors and meeting new people (something that used to bring me more anxiety than happiness).

The thought of being rejected, going on an interview, hanging out with people I’d never met before, getting on a plane or even using public transportation by myself used to freak me out. No joke. I had no idea what I was capable of and now, knowing these little things used to be scary, I realize other things that seem big, intimidating and impossible will just become things as soon as I do them.

In other ways it’s frustrating. I used to have an idea of how I thought my adult life would go. It was simple, lateral, gratifying and lovely. I know I talk shit about Florida, but I had a great time there. Had I been granted the life I once thought I wanted, I’d probably be perfectly content (perhaps more boring) but perfectly happy. Because I moved, because I challenged (and frightened) myself, I now know I’ll never get back to that blissfully unaware kind of happy.

I’m grateful though. Like when I’m driving five hours back from Yosemite after a weekend of camping, taking in the incredible shades of brown, green, grey and blue, trying to catch my breath at 10,000 feet and tingling from the inside out knowing I didn’t settle down, go back, procreate or say no way back when. I would have missed all of this.

I used to think driving five hours in itself was an impossible feat. What could I possibly do to distract myself for all that time? What if I wreck? What if I get too tired or blow a tire? Now I just go. I’ll figure it out. It will be okay. 

I know that now.

I still have plenty of life stuff to figure out and maybe someday I’ll be on a semi-traditional path, but 99% of me will always be grateful I spent my 20s (and probably a good portion of my 30s too, let’s be real) challenging myself in strange, wonderful ways.

But then again, there’s always that 1% that says, “get married, have babies and get over yourself.” 

Top six photos caught on film by @Kyle_Jern, see more of his work here.

Marathoning

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Today marks week six of marathon training. Even though I’ve been constantly sore and nervy about each run that’s longer than its predecessors, this training cycle is flying by. It feels like I just looked at the program dreading an 8-mile run, yet here I am basking in the lactic acidic glory of a 14-miler Sunday Funday. Yesterday’s was the farthest training run I’ve ever completed. I have six medals signifying completion of 13.1, but never before had I gone that extra 0.9, and it felt damn good, you guys. I couldn’t believe it. Normally after a half marathon I’m covered in blisters and lying in the grass wishing I didn’t have to make the short walk to my car – granted once I was home, I parked my ass on the couch and watched “You’re the Worst” for the rest of the night, but still. I’m sore today, but not out of commission and that feels like progress. I recently switched from Nike+ to Strava, which encourages you to post photos for each activity completed, so above you see some of the rad routes and cute furry animals I’ve run into so far. Feel free to add me there if you use it too because I’ve been missing all my Nike+ amigos. I think you can just type in “MacKensie Gibson” to find me.

Are you training for anything? Any of your marathoners have advice for surviving the next 10 weeks?

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