Fall weekends in Winston mean one thing: TAILGATES!
Tailgating combines many of my favorite things: good friends, heaps of delicious food and beverages and being outside in the sunshine (at least through most of October!) I love my alma mater, and I am so happy that Matt and I live in our “college town.” I am proud to be a Demon Deacon!
Now actually watching those sporting events…well… On one hand, I did sit through a massive downpour last game to watch us have our 11th straight victory over Duke. But, I also wasn’t disappointed yesterday when my friend Anne texted me after the first quarter to ask if I wanted to meet back at the car (yay for re-entry this year!) and we ended up staying out the rest of the whole game chatting. Besides, it’s a rebuilding year this year… I can miss a few games, right?
We had a great turn out for tailgating yesterday… one of those rare weekends when most of the guys didn’t have to work! Those are few and far between, so we try to take advantage of them when they happen!
2% of 500 is 10… 2% of 510 is 10.20… 2% of 520.20 is…
Sometimes when I run, I compound interest. Or I plan meals I’m going to cook for the week. Or I imagine myself being interviewed on Oprah (most importantly, what outfit I will wear). I do anything I can to keep my brain from doing this:
My hip hurts. I’m bored. This hill sucks. Why am I doing this? My toes feel squished. My hip hurts. I feel a little nauseous. Am I getting nauseous? It’s so hot out. When can I stop? How long have I been going?
To me, the hardest part about doing long runs is not the actual running. Somewhere after 40 or 50 minutes, the pain/discomfort levels out. The hardest part is keeping my mind off running. For short runs, I can achieve a little running zen… feeling happy and content with just feeling myself run, feeling healthy and strong, listening to my breathing match my footsteps. On short runs, I can problem solve. For years, three mile runs have been my therapy, my brainstorming sessions, my best-idea-generators. Long runs, runs where I’m out there silently pounding the pavement, are a whole different beast.
I completed my third half-marathon on Sunday. The night before I didn’t feel particularly nervous this time – I knew we’d trained really well, including a super hilly 13 miles the weekend before. I knew it would be hard – physically uncomfortable – and that we’d be out there for a really, really long time.
What I wasn’t anticipating though was the difference that a really small race makes, mentally. My past two experiences have been huge races – the Virginia Beach Rock ‘n’ Roll Half and the Baltimore Under Armor Half. Both had well over 10,000 people, spectators throughout the race, and courses that wound through interesting scenery and cities.
But OUR race had the Lowe’s Motor Speedway! We were going to run on the Speedway!
Turns out after about 1 minute on the speedway, the “coooooool, I’m on the Speedway!” factors wears off. Then it’s just another 17 minutes (I’m slow) of running a big, long, gerbil track. And the Z-Max Dragway? Running down an airport runway. To add insult to injury, there were only about 150 other runners and no one on the course except a volunteer every half mile or so to point the way.
“What’s 2% of 100? And 2% of 102?”
I was digging deep to keep my mind busy. Lauren and I paced together for the first 9 miles, and we tried hard to steer the conversation away from the crappy course. After nearly 8 months of training runs together, we’ve covered pretty much every topic of conversation but we were both struggling to keep each other going on this one. Around 9, Lauren started inching ahead and I waved her on. 9 was a uphill bridge back to the speedway, and then running through the back of the stands (where concessions are) to the entrance. I sucked on a Gu, chanted “I feel good” to the sound of my feet (which was a far cry from the truth) and willed myself to get to the speedway. 10 was the entrance to the speedway, and after the initial “cool!” factor, I was over it. Halfway around the track, at 11, I started channeling my dad. When I ran Baltimore, my Dad was waiting at 11 and jumped in with me. I heard his voice in my head again telling me it was just a few more miles, flat from here on out, I wasn’t going to stop now, keep going. 11.5 was the exit of the speedway, and a little old man sat at the corner pointing me to 12.
I always think when I get to 12, I’ll feel this burst of energy and just let it all out for the last mile. This was not what happened. I was literally chanting to myself “do not stop” “do not stop” over and over again to the sound of my feet. I knew Lauren and Jamie were already finished, and would be waiting for me. I started systemically picturing what I would do when I finished: drink a Gatorade. Get in my car. Go back to my sister’s apartment and take a shower with her really expensive, yummy smelling shampoo shampoo. (Thanks, Katie.) Eat a giant burger from Big Daddy’s. Go home and nap. I kept replaying what was to come in the next 10 minutes over and over again in my head.
And suddenly I was rounding the corner. Seeing my friends. Lauren and Jamie, and Lauren’s mom, sister and husband, and Crystal and Akanksha. Crystal was snapping my picture and Jamie was jumping up and down and shouting.
I started to speed up… just in time to hear Jamie say “you have to go around the corner to finish!!! Don’t stop!!!”
WHAT THE FURLOCK.
The finish line was around the corner from where we had started, and probably just another 100 yards but it felt like another mile as I rounded the corner. I saw the timer ticking up another minute and I gave it every thing I had.
And then, just like that: it’s over. I had a Gatorade. Hugged my friends. Drove back to my sister’s apartment and took a shower with her really expensive, yummy smelling shampoo. (Thanks, Katie.) Went to Big Daddy’s with Jamie, Crystal and Akanksha and ate a pimiento cheese burger and homemade chips and a cookies and cream milkshake.
And now, 24 hours later, it’s over. I can’t really remember the pain. I can’t really remember how frustrated and tired and mentally challenged I was. I had to pick out shoes carefully this morning to avoid blister pain and my calves protested the walk up to my third floor office, but other than that… I can’t really remember it.
What I can remember is seeing my friends faces as I rounded the corner. Hugging Lauren – who after 8 months of training had just completed her first half. Jumping in the car with Jamie and expressing our relief that it was all over. Feeling blessed that 2 of my friends made the 40 mile drive down from Winston just to stand at the finish line and shout for us. Realizing that a year ago this time, I dropped out of training for a half because of my colitis – and that I was healthy and strong enough to complete it this year.
The finish line had felt miles away, and just like that it was all over. And so instead of deleting the email I just got from Lauren about a half-marathon in February (in Disney…with LOTS of people….and LOTS of spectators…) I’m wondering if I could do it all over again….
It’s a scene out of a college brochure: 20 of us sitting underneath a large oak tree on a beautiful green campus, with brick buildings covered in ivy as a backdrop. We’re discussing Siddhartha, or at least 19 of us are.
I am desperately willing myself not to start crying.
I’m so homesick that thoughts of my house, my bed, my dog, my mom and dad, my boyfriend, even my clothes-stealing-sister wash over me in waves. I will myself to choke back the lump in my throat, and to nod attentively when it seemed appropriate.
I was 17 years old, and it was my 2nd day out of a 3 week stay at a camp in Boston and I was miserably homesick.
The feeling passed, of course, and the experience went on to be one of the highlights of my teenage years. It did everything that a life-changing cliché experience is supposed to do: pushed me past my comfort zone. Stretched my confidence. Made new friends. Appreciated the life I had. Learned to embrace change.
Ok, scratch that last one. There are some people who run downhill open-armed at change and embrace it with the ferocity of seeing an old friend. Then there are people like me, who threw a fit at 8 years old about going to Hawaii…. because it meant not going to the same condo in Myrtle Beach we had gone to for the 7 prior years of my life.
I like routines. I like going to bed at the same time, waking up at the same time. Running on the same days. Seeing the same people. Buying the same groceries. I thrive in patterns, in predictability and consistency.
Change, of course, is constant and good for you and something I’ve forced myself to get used to because you have to. Like eating broccoli and cleaning the pink mold out of toilet, you just accept that it’s something you better do.
My experience at nerd camp armed me so when the same tidal waves of homesickness hit me my first week of college, I steeled myself with the knowledge they would past. When I moved to Durham for an internship by myself. To Spain. To Baltimore, for grad school. Every big change in my life has been marked by the same pattern: excitement as the event approaches, dread the moment I arrive, doubt as I sink into it, fear that I’ve made a mistake and I’ll never be happy again, and patience to know that feeling will pass.
It always passes, and the new experience is everything that new experiences are meant to be. Even Hawaii was not as bad as I thought it was going to be.
It’s been almost two weeks of working my new job, and while I’m past the first-day-jitters, I’m still sort of bobbing along somewhere in between doubt and patience. With each experience and with maturity has come the recognition that, by virtue of being in charge of my thoughts, I’m also in charge of how quickly I move through each stage of the change. It’s hard to leave comfort, predictability and routine behind – even when it really wasn’t working for you anymore.
Fortunately, I now know that my days under the oak tree fighting off my longing for what’s familiar will be numbered, and in a matter of days, weeks or maybe even months, I’ll be settled in and wondering what all that fuss was about anyways.
Football season has kicked off, which means … tailgates! We had our first tailgate for Wake Forest’s season opener last night and I had been really craving chicken wings… so I decided to venture into making them myself. Now chicken wings certainly don’t make anyone’s list of healthiest foods, but I figured if I could find a recipe with a great sauce and bake them, caramelizing the sauce would give it a little bit of a crispy outside without having to deep-fry them.
I don’t know what I was more excited about: Wake Forest’s 53-13 opening day win or discovering that chicken wings can indeed be very tasty without being deep-fried. Score!
(Ok, that’s the last of my sports jokes. They’ll only get me so far.)
Try these wings the next time you’ve got a tailgate or potluck to go, and no one will know that you’ve saved them from deep-fried madness.
Preheat oven to 400 degrees.
You’ll want to prepare the sauce first. In a large saucepan (not turned on yet), add together:
1 cup low sodium soy sauce
1 cup pineapple juice
1/4 cup ketchup
1/4 cup hoisin sauce
3 T rice wine vinegar
1/4 cup brown sugar
1 red hot chile pepper, halved (remove seeds if you want it to be as hot)
2″ piece of ginger root, peeled and cut in half (it will be a large chunk)
5 garlic cloves, cut in half
Turn up to a boil, then switch to simmer. *Keep your eye on this. If it bubbles over, you have one sticky stove. Not that I know from experience or anything…*
Sauce Fixins'
Making the Sauce
While it’s simmering….
Cover your cookie sheet with tinfoil. This sauce makes a sticky mess, and it’s a whole lot easier to clean up this way. Then take about 2 dozen chicken wings, rinsed and patted dry, and lay them out on your cookie sheet. Spray with cooking spray or drizzle a little bit of olive oil, and then season with a little bit of salt and pepper. Bake for 15 minutes, flip and bake for another 15. (Total cook time: 30 minutes.)
Ready for the oven!
The sauce may take 30 minutes to really thicken, and it may even take a litte bit longer. Remember, the thicker it is, the easier it will be to have it coat the wings.
Once you feel like the sauce is thick enough, put the wings in a mixing bowl and pour the sauce over. Toss to coat. I used tongs to do this.
Saucing the wings
(I also used the tongs to pluck out the ginger root, chile pepper and garlic clove. Didn’t want someone to bite into one of those!)
Put the wings back on the cookie sheet, and bake for another 10-12 minutes to caramelize the sauce. Reserve any extra sauce. If you can, serve when hot. I actually did make these the night before, and the day of the tailgate I just stuck them in the oven for about 5 minutes before we left to warm them up. Extra sauce can then be poured over them.
Teriyaki Wings!
Sit back and watch the crowd cheer!
(Oops. That one snuck in there.)
Pro tip: Bring napkins, or even better, Wet Wipes with you. Sticky fingers will abound.
Stats: I wouldn’t claim these as healthy per se, but they certainly are a healthier version than the original. The sauce is fairly high in sodium, which is tempered by using the low sodium soy sauce but the ketchup and hoisin sauce still contribute to the sodium count. 75 calories per wing, 3.7 g fat, 426 mg sodium. (Teriyaki wing from BBW: 100 cals per wing, 7g fat, 550 mg of sodium.)
Update: Thanks for your interest…giveaway has closed!
Go ahead, make me jealous. Go on and go to this conference and hear some of the most fabulous women in business today. Network with other incredible women. Get inspired to make your business pop this year. Learn, grow, connect, and come home bursting at the seams with inspiration.
Just don’t tell me anything about it because I’ll be too insanely jealous that you’re there.
No wait, tell me everything.
Ok, so here’s the deal. I registered for this conference a few months ago that I was psyched out of my mind to attend. And then…. I got this other couldn’t-turn-down opportunity… and now I can’t go.
SO! Here’s hoping one of you out there will go and enjoy every bit of the conference in my place.
Leave a comment if you’d like to go including information on how I can get in touch with you. If there’s more than one of you interested, I’ll do a random number generator to choose. I’ll close the comments on Friday September 10th.
I don’t know who made up these rules: “No pain, no gain.” “IF you didn’t’ come to win, you shouldn’t have come at all.” Listen, giving 150% is awesome. It really is. But if the expectation is that you HAVE to give 150% to play at all, then you might be missing out on the game.
Most of us have many things we’d like to start doing or do more of. Exercise. Cooking. Writing. Meditating. Blogging. (Ahem, self). Putting the new website out there. Starting a business. Networking. Updating the resume. Spending more time with the kids. Eating healthy. The list of self-improvement can be long and daunting. But often there exists the expectation that unless we can’t do something all out, we shouldn’t bother doing it all. Or, that we should wait until it’s the right time. Newsflash: it’s never the right time. Perfectionism breeds procrastination.
When is “good enough” good enough?
Let me give you an example from one of my coaching clients (given with her permission, of course.) My client and I were talking about exercise, and why she wasn’t feeling excited about exercising right now. We were going through different scenarios when she mentioned “You know, I don’t mind working out. I like being at the gym. It’s just how I feel afterwards – like I need a 2 hour nap – that makes me want to avoid going.”
Well, that shed some light on the subject! I know I would avoid going too if a 1 hour gym session led to a 2 hour nap… who has time to do that? All kudos to Jillian Michael – you all know I adore her – but if you feel like you need to work out like you’ve got Jillian screaming at you every time, you just might find your motivation to keep going would wane too.
This persistent idea that “if you’re not going to give it your all, then don’t give it at all” can sometimes do more harm than good. I fully recognize the value of pushing yourself past the limits you’ve set for yourself – but we can only push past those limits if we show up consistently enough to test them!
My client mentioned that there was a park about a mile away from her house, and she really liked jogging to it. However, she always felt like that wasn’t enough, so she hadn’t really considered that an option. Sure, giving 150% is awesome. But doesn’t 50% still beat 0%? With this new mindset in place to try out, she could feel her resistance to exercise start to diminish.
You’re always capable of doing more than you realize… but you’ll never get a chance to find out if you don’t create a situation that encourages you to just do in the first place. Turns out that “good enough” is a perfectly “good enough” place to start.
I made a big decision this week. The kind of decision where right/wrong aren’t crystal clear, and right before you fall asleep at night you think you know what you’re going to do and then you wake up the next morning and the temporary respite of resolution has disappeared again.
I was offered a job on Tuesday. I began my job search two months ago, after receiving confirmation at my annual review that, despite the fact that everyone was really happy with me, the funding for my grant-based job was ending in June and there was nothing in the pipeline that matched my skill set: weight loss expert without an RD, health interventionist not interested in teaching exercise. I had created a niche for myself in my current position that although I seem to be fairly good at, doesn’t really exist in other grants. Small problem.
So I started tentatively looking. My expectation was that finding a job could be a half-year project, or more. I applied to anything that seemed remotely appropriate, hoping that interviews would at least be good practice. I heard nothing. Not even rejections.
In early August, I found a job that I loved the sound of and applied, expecting the usual – nothing. Two days later I got a phone call. A week later, an interview. Another week later, an offer.
It all happened so quickly, I barely had time to process it. All throughout my job search, I thought of course, of course, if I find another job, I’ll leave. I mean, HELLO, I don’t have a job in 8 months. (Although I did lobby hard to try and convince Matt that Buddy could really benefit from me becoming his Stay at Home Mommy. I’ll just pretend he was so enthralled with his PTI episode that he didn’t hear me ask. All thirty times.)
All through the offer process, I thought I would accept.
And then, an agreement was made and it was time to decide. I started freaking out.
“Can I really leave my participants?” “Shouldn’t I finish out the study?” “I really like my co-workers, and I have loads of vacation days saved up, and I can do my job with my eyes closed… what if I hate my new coworkers? and I can’t go on vacation? And learning a new job is HARD?” My stomach churned while I tried to decide what to do. I was sitting in my car outside my office, and I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed that God would tell me what the right answer was.
::::crickets:::
So I called Matt, my Mom, my Dad, Jamie, Heather. Anyone who would listen to me sort of the reasons to stay or go.
I realized that most of my reasons for saying no were lodged in fear: fear that my current employers would think poorly of me for leaving, fear that I wouldn’t like or be as successful at the new job, or like my coworkers, or that I wouldn’t be able to find anything good on XM radio for the extra 10 minutes in the car both ways.
Fear, as it turns out, is a pretty crappy excuse to avoid doing things. So, I decided to go for it. I punched the return call button on my phone, and said yes. I hung up, and called back Matt, my Mom, my Dad, Jamie and Heather. (Thanks yall.)
I didn’t really feel the excitement of my decision until after I had gotten through the hard task of telling my 3 bosses and my 4 co-workers. Their reactions were mixed, but those who were most impacted by my decision to leave were supportive, which confirmed my decision.
By Friday, it was official. Everyone at work knew, and preparations were underway for my departure. It hit me as I was erasing my name for the September schedule that this was real: I was leaving. I was leaving the study that I had created out of my clueless, naive, hoping for the best little head and heart 4 years ago. Panic and guilt started to set in. Did I make the right decision? Too late now, I told myself. Move forward.
That night, we all gathered at Zac and Jamie’s to celebrate two birthdays and, as Jamie’s email lovingly put it, “my awesomeness.” Happy hour turned into five hours as a group of amazing people sat around a patio table taking slices of Burke St Pizza and pouring glasses of Cook’s champagne, laughter and conversation accentuated by the flickering lights of candles in tin lanterns.
I was leaning back in my chair looking around at this group with absolute contentment when I heard with absolute clarity the answer to my prayer that I had spoken 3 days prior.
“It doesn’t matter.”
When truth hits you, you know it. I knew it then: there had been no right or wrong choice to be made. Where you spend 40 (plus) hours a week is important, and being happy there is a big slice of life. But it’s just that: a slice of life. Making a living is simply so much more than just where the paycheck comes from.
All day long as I went through my Sunday routine – picking up the house, folding laundry, planning next week’s meals – I kept holding the “carrot” of how delightful going to be early would be in my state of total exhaustion. (Oh, you didn’t know you were reading the lamest blog on the block? Welcome. I like sewing, having long conversations with my dog and going to bed early.) We had SUCH a fun weekend… and of course, are now paying for it now with the kind of tired that makes Monday require a venti.
Matt even had to get up and go to work this morning, poor soul. When he called on his way home, I lectured him "don’t you fall asleep on the couch after work or you won’t be able to get to bed at a regular time tonight!"
Fast forward to 6 pm. Me, face down on the bed, out. Oops.
Matt woke me up at 8:30, and now here it is 10 and I am WEEEE! Wide awake. At least I can catch up on our weekend without having to attempt to recall the events two weeks later.
Friday night we hosted Matt’s sister and her boyfriend, who drove up from Huntersville to stay with us. It was our first time meeting the boyfriend, and I don’t think we scared him off. I started preparing for dinner around 3pm, and right before our guest showed up, I stopped to assess the damage: I’m pretty certain I dirtied each and every dish in my kitchen. Amazingly enough, I had just enough time to wash up the dishes, wash up myself and pour a glass of wine before the doorbell rang!
My menu: artichoke dip for an appetizer. Asparagus with proscuitto, panzanella, green salad with roasted almonds and homemade balsamic dressing and slow-cooked ribs. Dessert was lemon tarts. Those are pretty much all my go-to recipes… so no one can ever come to my house to eat more than once.
Oh look… food pictures instead of people. Per usual.
Found these lights at Target and am in l-u-v. Hubby strung them up around our patio umbrella.
After dinner, we got into some games – first Wits and Wagers, then Catchphrase, then Guitar Hero. Around the time when exhaustion and the wine were forcing me to shut one eye to better see the notes on Guitar Hero, we called it quits.
Saturday morning, Matt whipped up breakfast – his specialty in the kitchen. Sausage, biscuits and dirty eggs. That man can make a mean brunch.
No sooner had Micah and Derek gotten on the road, did we start getting ready for weekend event #2. I went for a quick run to try and wake up for the next round of fun, and Matt took a quick nap. Then we loaded up a cooler and headed over to our friend’s Kate and Charlie (the newlyweds, two post back!) who we were joining for the Zac Brown Band concert in Charlotte.
Kate + I @ Zac Brown Band
We got down a few hours early for tailgating. The smell of hot dogs and the sight of people playing cornhole and the joy of waiting in line at the porta-johns make fall and regular tailgating feel like it’s right around the corner! The lawn was PACKED! The band played a number of their new songs first (from an album that isn’t out) which made a few people kind of twitchy (me) but finally they got into all their jams and it was like a big lawn party of dancing happy beach-loving people.
They ended on a mash-up of Free and Into the Mystic, which I adored. Free is my favorite song by them, and Into the Mystic has always been a song I loved. (Little known fact: it is one of the most common songs chosen by doctors to operate to. You’re welcome for enlightening you with that piece of knowledge.)
(Go ahead, take a listen. It’s lovely.)
It was late when we got back – although I’m not sure how late because I fell asleep in the car. Sorry, Matt! We both crashed hard, and it was not a happy moment when Matt’s alarm clock went off at 6 am on Sunday! (I will admit it was 2 hours later that I finally graced the world with my presence.)
We in this household are firm believers in the “work hard, play hard” mantra. We especially like the latter part. As I write this (at 10 pm on a Sunday night), I can hear my hubby on the phone with his best friend from college planning a visit for a weekend in the fall. As I try to figure out which weekend he’s talking about, I realize with a start that we’ve either planned or talked about something for just about every weekend he’s not working between now and…. December. These are really our “carrots”- the reward of time spent with good friends, making memories, laughing hard, eating good – that gets you through the “have to do’s” of life. Even if it makes procuring a large Diet Coke and taking a mid-day nap on Sunday become a “have to do”… it’s worth it.
Doesn’t everyone have this story? The story about the one that got away? The one that you’ll always wonder whatif… ? The person who, if you had ended up with, your life would be a totally different story from what it is now. The game changer.
2001
When I was 20, I met a guy and we started dating. Two months after we had begun our relationship, I can remember sitting on my front porch, talking on the phone with my mom and telling her that I had met the guy I thought I could marry. I asked her if that was crazy – I was only 20, after all. My mom, who had met my dad when she was 20 and married him a few years later, assured me that it was not at all crazy and I should expect an engagement ring in a few months.
Okay, she didn’t exactly say that last part… but I may have extrapolated it from the conversation.
I fell hard for this guy. We were a good match on so many levels, and I was certain that we would be together for a long time. One warm April day, 8 months after we had started dating, he broke up with me. I was heartbroken. I hadn’t seen it coming, and in fact, I think I even tried to talk him out of it.
I spent the summer in Durham, working at internship and channeling my sadness and heartbreak and anger at him into the training I was doing for a triathlon. At the time, I was furious that he ended it so definitively (no "on a break" here). But later, after the sadness subsided, I was thankful for how clean our break-up was and the lack of any bitterness or head games that I would see be the calling card of many of my friends’ long-suffering break-ups.
Life went on. I went to Spain. He immersed himself in preparing for post-graduate work. We both moved on, fell in love with other people, had life experiences that shaped and molded us into new people.
2004
One night in the middle of Spring semester, I walked in the door from a fun night with girlfriends out at our usual location, Burke St. We spilled back into our apartment, giggling and rehashing the night. I walked into my room, and out of habit, checked my away messages.
“ANNA! Anna! Anna, get in here!” I screamed to my roommate.
She came rushing in, looking slightly panicked.
“Guess who just IMed me?” I pointed excitedly to the screen.
She looked closely. “No way. When was the last time you talked to him?”
I shrugged my shoulders. Since my return from abroad, we had only run into each once on our tiny campus and it had been pleasant but uneventful. A chance encounter of two acquaintances. Other than that, we hadn’t talked into two years.
I read the IM again. “I saw you at the bar tonight. You looked cute. Thought you should know!” The message ended with the big dorky AOL smiley face. I went to sleep with that ear-to-ear grin on my face. It had been a hard year, and the surprise IM was a bright spot in a stressful spring semester.
Fortunately, the story doesn’t end there. The message left to more conversations over instant messenger, tenuous and guarded at first, then quickly progressing to the rapport we had struck up so easily years before. The semester ended, graduation day came and went, and I was in U-haul van headed for NY. Our IM conversations turned to hour long phone calls which, over the course of the next year, led to visits which led to “will you be my girlfriend?” which led to moving to NC which led, finally, gratefully, and wonderfully to “Will you be my wife?”
And suddenly, the one that got away was the one who found me again after all these years. The one that changed it all? The one I would have always wondered how it would have turned out?
Was the one I ended up after all. Lucky me.
Lucky us.
Happy Three Years, Husband. I adore you. Here’s to changing the game.
I adore this couple and I couldn’t be more honored to have been there on the day when they start their journey together as husband and wife. They have such a cute “how we met” story, too. Charlie is the best friend of Kate’s brother-in-law, Locke. So Kate and Charlie met at Anne and Locke’s wedding and have been dating ever since. We became friends with Anne and Locke when they returned here for residency (they were both Wake undergrads, and Anne was a sorority sister… so now they are back on home turf in Winston-Salem) and met K+C through them. Their wedding was held in Charlottesville, which happens to be my 2nd favorite city in the South. (After Winston, of course.) It was beautiful, fun and joyous – exactly as the start to a happy life together should be. Congratulations, ya’ll!
Me + My Better Half
Girlfriends Jamie and Anne (sister of the bride, too)
