Ang In A Box

A service light started flashing in my car a few days ago. My blood pressure immediately rose as I anticipated taking time out of my day to get the problem fixed. I pulled out my manual to see what this annoying, exclamation point symbol meant; turns out it was my flat tire warning. I got out to see if I could pinpoint which tire it was. All tires seemed fine so I got back in and carried on. I still haven’t checked the air in the tires. And the light’s still blinking. I’m mechanically challenged. 

I drive a Mini Cooper S and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Me and Mini have been through a lot together; Mini represents my freedom. It was the first large purchase I ever made on my own when daddy cut me off.   

We’ve made hundreds of trips along I-5 together, mostly when I was serving as Miss Clark County last year. It was often a struggle to fit a weekends’ worth of pageant wardrobe in Mini’s trunk, but I looked past its small storage capacity and loved it for who it was, because it is so damn cute. 

Mini always pulls through for me. When I was moving into my very first apartment, I transported my entire life in Mini. I made trip after trip after trip (the move was only a mile, or so), by myself, because I hate, absolutely hate, asking people for favors (like helping me move). I don’t like being a burden, not one bit. This was an empowering moment in my life; I was ending things with Apollo and moving out. I didn’t need his big muscles or his big truck, me and Mini had this in the bag, even if it took us two trips to move my shoe collection alone. Take that, bitch. 

Really, the only thing Mini is not good for is an off-road make-out sesh. I don’t recommend it for high schoolers. 

Mini is fast and flashy, but it can easily hide. It’s sporty, but it’s chic. It’s sexy, but it has a cute factor. It’s trendy, but it’s classic. It’s souped up, but it’s dinged up. It’s Seattle, but it’s European. It costs a pretty penny to maintain, but it gets excellent gas mileage. Me and Mini have a lot in common. 

I was the the popular girl, but I was not the mean girl. I’m a soldier, but I’m a princess. I’m blond, but I’m brunette. I’m Britney, but I’m Alicia. I’m a bodybuilder, but I’m a yogini. I hate school, but I have a higher education. I’m a big city girl, but I have small town roots. I’m a vixen, but I’m a serial monogamist. I’m demanding, but I never nag. I love pumping iron, but I always look glamorous in sparkly jewelry and hot-ass spandex while I’m doing it. I’m liberal with my actions and words, but I’m a Capitalist. I raised thousands of dollars for the promotion of abstinence at my middle school, but then I lost my virginity a year later. I’m Samantha Jones, but I’m Carrie Bradshaw. Ok, I’m way more Samantha, but I do like to write. I fight for what I believe in, but I avoid confrontation at all costs. I was the captain of the soccer team, but I was the drum major of the marching band. I have an alarming collection of athletic shoes, but my French lingerie collection can compete. I’m self-sufficient, but I’m a laughable damsel in distress when it comes to fixing or building things. Ew, tools. The only tool I have mastered is Mr. Blueberry. I could have been an awesome stripper, but I could have been an awesome Miss America. I’m the life of the party, but I have no problem spending Saturday nights alone. I don’t believe in soul mates, but I believe in the sanctity of marriage to one person for life. I drink egg whites straight, but I can drink vodka like it’s water. I love spoiling and pampering myself, but I’ve contributed much of my time and resources to charities and organizations dear to my heart. I’m Under Armour, but I’m Lululemon. I have a distinct laugh that fills the room, but I often stay quiet and smile with my eyes. I love being around people, but I hate having roommates. I’m a she-wolf, but I need a man who takes charge. Put me in my place, dammit. I’m a tease, but I’m a pleaser. “Buttons” is on my most frequented playlist, but so is “Absolution Japan”. I’m rebellious, but I respect boundaries. I’m savvy, but I’m naive. I’m a terrible driver, but I’m an excellent parallel parker. Could be the car. I like watching True Blood, but I like watching golf. I can’t seem to give up two hours of my time every week to go to church, but I’ve never once doubted or forgotten that Jesus gave His life for me. I’m fergalicious, but I’m bootylicious. That doesn’t make any sense. Anyways, you get the idea. 

My extremes can be confusing, I know. I was confused for a very long time. Which Angie was I? Was I the introverted, highly motivated, do-gooder Christian girl? Or was I the outgoing, promiscuous, buttons-pushing seductress? I figured myself out when I moved to Italy. 

Studying in Milan gave me a blank easel to start creating on. There were hundreds of students on this exchange program from around the world- all new faces; there were no expectations for me to act a certain way. The only stereotype that could be made is that I was an accomplished student, as was everyone, because we were attending the highest ranked business school in Europe. 

It was instantly made aware to me that I was far more focused than any other student on this trip. Focused on enriching my mind and body with new experiences, opposed to partying the four months away. 

I bought a bike immediately upon arrival so that I wouldn’t have to wait on a tram or metro system to get me around AND I could burn extra calories. Again, always trying to manage my time. And again, always wearing spandex around town. It’s even more absurd to do so in Milan, one of the most fashionable cities in the world. But I really didn’t give a shit. 

I then joined a pricey gym and called it home. All the trainers there were men; men that eyeballed me but were never bold enough to chat. Or they didn’t speak English. Actually, there was one. Rinaldo. He asked me out but I stayed true to Apollo. I wouldn’t go there. He was yummy, too. C’est la vie. 

I wanted to use this time to learn even more about training; I knew it would be the last time in my life I could focus on just myself and school, without a job thrown in the mix. Nonetheless, I did inquire about being a trainer at the gym. Turns out, speaking fluent Italian was a requirement. 

When most students were getting home from clubbing, I was getting up for my morning workout before class. When most students went away on the weekends, I was following my daily routine and immersing myself in the Milano culture. The culture of shopping, that is. When most students were experiencing men and women of different countries, I was experiencing webcam sessions with Apollo via Skype. Yes, Skype served its purpose in my life. My poor roommate. She was the quietest, most modest little thing from Harvard. I must’ve scarred her for life. It was good for her, though. Hopefully I brought out a little she-wolf in her. Rawr. 

I found my way into a clique of friends and agreed to going out every so often. And when I planned for it, I went out hard. I mean- dancing on tables, wearing the flashiest thing I could get my hands on, and drinking men under the table- hard. 

My most memorable experience was when we travelled together to Paris. It started off with a good laugh, as the attendant of the airline screamed at me in front of the entire line because the bag I was checking was ridiculously heavy. How was I supposed to know you shouldn’t pack apples? I was just trying to be prepared so I wouldn’t get hungry and reach for a croissant. 

The trip got even more exciting when we visited the Moulin Rouge. Sexy stores galore. My friends got a kick out of the gleam in my eyes. 

It’s hard to sum up the experience, but what I want to illustrate is that I became comfortable not putting myself in a box. I didn’t need to be one way or another, I could just be. As long as it never hurt anybody. 

Most people don’t worry about understanding me and accept that I am not easily definable; they leave the judgement for God and love me for who I am. I surround myself with these people. There have been some, however, that are intimidated by my extremes and judge me without knowing the whole story. There are a few in particular who I will always thank and remember, as their malicious delight in trying to take me down only resulted in the motivation for me to push harder towards my dreams. 

I was the only person in the weight room last night. Granted, it was 6pm, 90 degrees out, and one of the last saturdays of summer. I enjoy the energy of a bustling weight room, but I also enjoy when I can prance around freely and do my circuit routines like a madwoman. And do body rolls between sets with nobody raising their eyebrows. 

So, I was all alone, rocking out to Jay Z, and in walked Apollo. We both have memberships at this big gym, even though I own a gym and he works out of a studio. We are total gym junkies. Pretty much the only thing we ever had in common. 

I knew instantly that either a) something was wrong, or b) he was feeling insecure about the size of his biceps/abs/calves and wanted to get a pump before going out. I know him too well- he never hits the gym on Saturday evenings.  

We chatted as usual, as we are on good terms (it was very easy to be a friend to him again when I realized he wasn’t my husband), and then I began to pick up that something was severely bothering him. I didn’t pry, but I let him know that he could talk to me about it if he needed. It was never my job to be there for him, but I always have. It’s the trainer in me; the trainer that wants to help solve problems and help people realize their potential to feel confident and complete. 

When we finished our workouts, I asked him if he wanted to grab some clean food with me. He complied and we made our way to Counter Burger. Yes, you can eat clean at a burger joint. I ordered chicken breast on a bed of lettuce with an ice water. Done. 

He opened up about what was bothering him, but not in much detail. I really didn’t need details, as I could see how torn his heart was in his eyes. We finished our meals and said our goodbyes. 

I headed to Fred Meyer for some late-night shopping. I popped my headphones in (I listen to music while I shop because it makes for a much more enjoyable experience), and put on the new One Republic song, “Secrets”. It was the the only song I listened to as I strolled around throwing everything from turkey breast to makeup remover in my cart. Something about that song...puts a smile in my eyes but a sadness in my heart all at the same time. That’s a well-written song right thurr. I still felt burdened from whatever was troubling Apollo. My life is filled with so much happiness and positive things, but I was solemn for him. I can’t help it. 

I had no choice but to veer to the left of the Fremont bridge on my way home. John Lennon said it best when he compared songwriting to being possessed: I had a demon to get out of me. 

I detoured to Full Circle, where I keep my electric piano, and started pouring myself into a new melody. I completed the chorus and it took care of the demon for the time-being. 

I didn’t set my alarm clock, but I woke up at the crack of dawn this morning. The sun was streaming in, and the peaceful pavement outside was calling my name. I felt like I was the only person awake in the whole city; I had the streets to myself to carve my running feet in. I listened to “Secrets” on repeat. Totally crushing on that song. 

I refueled with some egg whites upon my return, and then headed to the top of Queen Anne for some yoga lovin’. Ginger, the instructor, seemed to bring out every single square inch of tension in my body. It’s like she knew exactly what would kick my ass and improve my game. She also made a joke when we were doing a shoulder opener about the strap being a long sexy ponytail. I lost my game face and busted out my loud laugh. I dig her. She’s the type of person who doesn’t allow people to put her in a box. 

After yoga I got my monthly mani/pedi before returning home for my daily naked nap. Now, here I am, typing away in the conference room of my apartment building where the ac is a-flowin’, avoiding my food prep for the week, because it’s just too damn hot to cook. 

I’m meeting a new man tonight. I’ve been too busy to make my Match profile, so I’m glad there is some sort of progression with men in my life. I’m particularly stoked because I finally have a reason to don a flirty summer dress instead of spandex. 

He told me to meet him at a park; he’d be the guy on a magic carpet. Not sure what that means, but maybe a ride is in store.  

Ciao for now!