Did I say "Year of Adventure?!"

Surprise! I managed to write a startling 2 entries in nearly a year. Consistency has never been my strong suit.

Well, the 'year of adventure' has turned into much more.

In February of 2012, Andrew received a job offer with the 9th Circuit Court in Anchorage. He begins his new job clerking for Judge Morgan Christen on September 4th. It's a year commitment, which means I'm in Alaska much longer than planned.

I began my "real life" here by working for the Anchorage Daily News as an Account Executive, starting in November of 2011. It was a wonderfully unique experience that led me to a number of very talented people. Working in advertising sales was an entirely new experience, but I was able to connect with the community in a way few other jobs could provide. I learned my way around Anchorage very quickly.

Working at ADN also allowed me to realize that all jobs are stressful, regardless of location. I suddenly had very tangible metrics to assess my performance: sales goals, monetary incentives, public sales figures, and more. Failure WAS an option, a public option. And thus, I realized that perhaps the most stressful part of working is my approach to work.

So fearful of failure, I am often consumed by work. It's especially poignant while working in sales. Sales performance is my life's most tangible barometer. It is easy to devote all my time and energy into work because if I fail at work, it will be very obvious. If I get a C- in my personal life, it's likely no one will notice. I'm a great actress; I've been faking personal success since I was a kid.

Most people's fear of failure is unfounded or related to low self-esteem. I blame mine on a history of numerous failures. It's not because I'm incapable, it's because I've allowed myself to fall short. I take responsibility for that.

However as a child, it was very apparent that failing at my job was not okay. My parents never got fired. They both rose from the bottom of large companies and became the rare corporate success stories. To add insult to injury, my sister always did well in school. She is a highly compliant first child. I was not.

And why? I have always led a very hedonistic lifestyle. Unlike some, I very rarely do things I don't want to do. No one ever convinced me it was important enough, and thus I didn't find the traditional markers of success gratifying.

Enter my 20's and suddenly success, both academic and professional, have been as addictive as drugs (though not nearly as fun). I moved to Alaska thinking New York was a success-obsessed city and I realized it was actually me; I care too much about success. I've gotten worse as I've aged, abandoning the person who used to rebell against expectations. I am terrified of being flawed. I think that if I appear perfect, I am impermeable to the inevitable scrutiny and criticism of others.

I now work for Groupon, heading their sales in Alaska. It's a company I really love. I'll avoid speaking about work for obvious reasons, but work is certainly a major part of my life. If only I could find a way to have a life and do well at my job... that combination always seems far too ambitious.

Here's to a year of greater balance and a greater life. And to being kind to myself, honoring my well-being as a person.

xo amanda

A "moderate hike" in Alaska is NOT a moderate hike

When I suggested a hike as our Saturday activity, I had no idea of the trap I'd walked into.

"Sure," said Andrew casually over a plate of chicken fried steak at Jackie's Place. "We can hike Flat Top, but there may be snow at the very top."

In anticipation of the variable conditions, we stopped at REI to buy hiking boots. In usual form, I prevaricated for 20 minutes between "day hikers" and more sturdy boots. The sturdy ones would take awhile to break in, but they felt more reassuring. The day hikers were a better deal. The sturdy ones looked nicer.

"We aren't exactly climbing Mt. McKinley," Andrew urged impatiently in favor of the cheap ones (he - of course - had found his boots in 5 minutes).

I submitted, made my purchase, and one pair of modest hiking boots later, we arrived at the base of Flat Top Mountain, located in the mountainous Chugach State Park, slightly east of Anchorage.

"Is it that one," I asked, struggling with the zipper on my windbreaker and motioning to a semi-flat mountain in the near distance?

"No, it's that one," Andrew scoffed, pointing to a snow covered, cloud obscured, enormous mountain. I sensed his thinly veiled glee in light of my pathetic guess.

"Oh," I quipped, feigning confidence. No big deal. Really.

I'm embarrassed to admit that I knew I was in trouble after 3 minutes of hiking. Maybe 4 minutes. You know that gentle glide upwards at the beginning of a hike? It was no where to be found. There was a vertical trail, beginning with stairs, that sprung up like a middle finger from the Chugach parking lot.

To make matters worse, I quickly realized that my boyfriend was a mountain goat. A very self-satisfied mountain goat.

It reminded me of hiking with my parents as a young child: I would race up the mountain proclaiming the ease of this minor feat regardless of my internal anguish, all the while they huffed painfully 15 yards behind me. Only this time, Andrew was the asshole and I was my parents.

"Is there an altitude change," I sputtered?

"Nope," Andrew smiled.

I could feel the breakfast omelette looming in my chest.

To my relief, park services had graciously erected wooden stairs in the steepest portion of the trail, about a mile and a half up. I was about to make mention of their glory, at least in my prayers if not aloud, when Andrew laughed:

"God. I can't believe they put in STAIRS here. It's so annoying! Is it even necessary?"

I indicated my disagreement with hysterical coughing. In the course of our hike, my once dwindling runny nose had evolved to class 5 influenza. I blew my nose into my glove in disgust.

At first, the once-helpful wooden stairs were barely coated in a lick of ice. It may have been the perfect storm for an inaugural broken bone, but I didn't fear for my life. Now half way up, glancing behind my shoulder, I suddenly felt the weight of Flat Top. We were seriously high up, almost 3,000 feet in the air, the snow was accumulating and I was one clumsy footfall away from disaster.

"Do they close this trail in the winter," I gasped?

"Nope." Andrew's tone had turned supportive, in light of my genuine fear. Nevertheless, I could barely hear him, 20 yards in front of me.

Upon reaching the second saddle, my mouth dropped. We were literally in the clouds. It was freezing and all icy glaze had turned to powder. Our "trail" was now reduced to a series of deep footprints in the snow. I could tell by Andrew's body language that the "moderate hike" was still on course.

I enviously glanced over at a few people idling on logs at the summit. What WERE they doing? Oh... great.

"Andrew, those people are putting ice-pick-thingys on their hiking boots," I whined nervously!

"It's unnecessary," he mumbled under his breath, trying not to offend the well-equipt mountaineers.
This too reminded me of a former experience in my life:

My sister Alia and I were visiting our cousins on Guernsey Island, in the British Channel Islands, when they had convinced us to go swimming in the Celtic Sea. Worried that it would be freezing, my sister and I questioned whether our skimpy French bikinis would be adequate.

"Oh no," our cousins assured us. "Everyone goes swimming in just their swimsuits!"

However upon arriving at the beach, we were indeed the only two in swimsuits. Instead, everyone stared at us drop-jawed, as they donned full-body wetsuits and face masks.

"Are you SURE we don't need those ice pick things," I begged Andrew? "I see people with poles!"

He assured me that our new hiking boots would suffice.

Needless to say, 40 treacherous minutes later while surrounded by heavy snow and patches of slippery, worn ice, I was unconvinced. And finally, almost 20 vertical yards from Flat Top, I relented. I let the mountain win. I was just too scared, the snow was too thick.

Andrew finished the hike without me. While he was glad to have completed it, he comforted me by saying that I "had made the right decision." In accordance, multiple hikers warned us in passing that the top was dangerous.

On the course of our descent, we ran into a woman I had observed at the second saddle applying cramp-ons and holding ski poles.

"How is it up there," she asked breathlessly?

"A little hairy at the top," Andrew replied. "More difficult to get down than up."

She looked back at him with surprise.

"You made it ALL the way? In just hiking boots?!"

"Not me," I admitted. "I almost got there, but couldn't go any further. It wasn't worth the potential injury. I just moved here from Manhattan..." I smiled sheepishly.

"Hey," she responded earnestly, "it's just as hard to get near the top and realize you need to stop. Maybe harder than getting to the top because pride is very powerful. So in my mind, you made it to the top."

She smiled back at me, red curly hair flying in her face and creeping out of her snow hat.

Her response made me warm. Alaskans may be a little crazy calling a vertical death climb a "moderate hike," but they are good people. I would have never gotten parental encouragement from a stranger in New York.

And so, in summary, I am very happy to be here.

Especially HERE - uninjured, on the couch, at my computer, in a well-heated home :)

Saying Goodbye to the Big Apple

Approximately 19 months ago, I moved to New York City.

It wasn't a big move geographically. The 4 hour pilgrimage from DC included one Chihuahua and an underestimated 20-something boxes, but no furniture. Now, as I scan my crowded apartment preparing to pack up and move away, I realize I remedied that furniture problem- perhaps too well.

Indeed, this week I have begun packing to leave my beautiful Chelsea studio. With its modern appliances, feminine charm, and NFL Sunday Ticket, my little home will be sorely missed. It wasn't a huge apartment, it didn't have the world's best view, but it was my spot in this gigantic city and I was grateful for it.

When I first arrived in New York, I bought everything as unique and fabulous as I could find for the apartment. Having lived with my boyfriend, Andrew, for the past 4 years, I relished the opportunity to do whatever I wanted with this space. There would be dolls, zebra carpeting, stuffed animals, a mirrored dinner table, a hot pink and blue chair, and absolutely no closet space for anything other than clothes. Above my bed would hang a modern art print in brilliant hues of a lady - a fashion model - looking as stunningly vulnerable as I felt inside. And just beyond my lavish jewelry display, I would showcase a spectacular pop-art rendition of Stella, my Chihuahua, gazing into the great beyond.

Yes - this was my girly palace. And in many ways, New York was my feminine Eden. I could wear what I wanted, be what I wanted, and do what I wanted. Which, when I arrived, was work in Fashion.

Ahhh.... working in fashion. Few other professions help an insecure girl feel more like she's made it. I would go to parties and overhear the finance studs, dripping in their suits at midnight, laughing about how every man in Finance seems to date a girl in Fashion. HOW 'in Fashion!'

But to my chagrin, I found out rather quickly that working in fashion retail was utterly unsatisfying. It would take at least 8 mind-meltingly boring years before I could get to a position of influence in my company. Most of all, I didn't care about the products. I began embracing my Berkeley, California roots and wondering what the hell fashion did for the planet. If I wasn't making art, or clothing those in need of clothes, what WAS I doing? Helping an enormous corporation get richer by exploiting man's need for novelty?

Eeesh. It was a trying time... Tedious work and dreams colliding with reality.

All along, through the trials of New York, I missed someone terribly.

Some of my best days in the past 19 months were spent with Andrew, in Alaska, and I began to realize that every reason we moved apart was no longer legitimate: my job was no longer my "dream job," and my life in New York was not nearly as glamorous or clamorous as I had imagined.

I realized that I didn't need to live in the greatest city with the most stuff a person could possibly hope to do. Because what is the point if the one person you want to share it with is living almost 4,000 miles away?

So I bit the bullet. Andrew signed on to another year of his clerkship in Alaska (which was extended due to his stellar performance) and I agreed to move there. To Alaska. Anchorage, specifically.

In a matter of days, on September 24th, my apartment will be completely packed and vacated. It's hard to believe this will occur since I am currently staring at a heartily crowded living space, but like it or not, the movers have been scheduled. And thus, in the next few days, I will be packing. And procrastinating. And packing some more.

Some may think it's unfortunate to leave Manhattan after such a short tenure, but I do not. I have made some fabulous friendships that will hopefully endure beyond this city and I am emphatically ready to be an Alaskan resident. Most of all, I am ready to reunite with Andrew in the Big Wide Open.

I invite you to join me on this year of adventure.