The Weeks Without - Part 1: Bread

Lately I've been thinking about what it would be like to not have the things that make life so comfortable. Not just because I don't have a steady job, but maybe that's part of it, this funemployment has certainly given me more time to read up on world news and get a new perspective. But it's not just that. Here we are at Labor Day, the end of Summer is imminent, hanging over us like the wintery clouds that are currently suspended outside my window.

Seasons are changing but I am staying the same. And you know how much I hate that. There's nothing that gets to me more than realizing I've dropped into a routine; waking, living and sleeping again the same way, every day. Effectively going through the motions, allowing time to whip past me without even reaching for it.

While it's true that time flies when you're having fun, it's also true that we become numb to the passing of time when we are fully embedded in our day-to-day.

On Labor Day, the day that we celebrate the fact that the CLU (Central Labor Union) of NY didn't want to continue punching in and out without thought, I'd like to shake things up. Instead of turning my gaze outward and lamenting the political choices of foreign leaders, or the destructive nature of nature, or how nice it would be to lay on a beach somewhere instead of mowing my lawn, I'm going to spend 5 weeks truly thinking about what I, personally, am doing. Not on a grand scale, not, "Where do you see yourself in five years?" more like, "Where do you see yourself in three minutes."

Hopefully, in this process, I will cut out some of the excesses in my daily life and get closer to my real self, without the buffer I create with food, chemicals and objects.

Each week for the next four weeks, I will remove something or change something that has become ingrained in my existence. Essentially exploding the small parts of my life from the inside.

• Week 1: I will consume no bread
  
• Week 2: I will buy nothing
• Week 3: I will drink nothing but water
• Week 4: I will not throw anything away

So here goes week 1.

What will happen if I don't eat bread for seven days? Will I transcend this world and become something greater than myself? Will I just get snappy and irritable? Perhaps I'll waste away to nothing, or become strong like the spinach-pushing Popeye. Will I get an anchor tattoo?

Let's find out!

As of 9pm on Sunday, 9/5/2010, here are my measurements (weight will be added as soon as I'm near a scale):

• neck: 12"
• bicep: 11"
• bust: 36"
• waist: 30"
• hips: 37"
• thigh: 22"
• calf: 15"

No. Bread.

This is no small feat, I eat some form of bread or starchy goodness at every meal. Crackers, pita, pizza, tortillas, bread sticks and OMG CHIPS!!!! These things go with Selina like Selina goes with running. This weeks' "without" landed on my consciousness and started lightly tapping on my brain when I was sitting at the 2-7 on the South Hill stuffing my face with garlic bread and raviolli. I ate four slices of bread, then I reached over and snatched a pita bread triangle from Greg's plate. Prior to the arrival of the entree, I had even considered ordering an appetizer: french bread topped with garlic and gorgonzola cheese(!!!). As I munched on this carbohydrate-sugar-fest, I glanced around the table and noticed that there was nothing green. In fact, everything I had eaten for the entire day had been white or slightly beige.

I hate beige.

What I hate even more than beige is that although I consider myself a healthy person, I had managed to entirely dodge nutrients for a day without a second thought. How many other times have I done this? There's really no way to say. At this point I could just shrug my shoulders and say, "Whatev," but that's not me.

Bread, I quit you!

go go gadget shoe

There is a tiny mastermind holding me hostage. He doesn't have a gun or any sort of weapon. He hasn't made explicit threats or demands, but still, he has a hold on me. Oh yes, he has the power.

He's got a friend who looks similar but is a bit larger; clearly the muscle. One has my hands and the other has my right foot. They work together, they seem to communicate without speaking at all, and they say things about me.

I worry about the things they say.

You'd think I'd be able to overpower them since they're so small and everything...


Yep, that's a Nike Running Monitor with my ipod Nano. Two small items that plug into the ipod and attach to a shoe.

Like the Eagles singing Hotel California, I have become a prisoner of my own device.

For those who are unfamiliar with the Nike Running Monitor and its App for Facebook, the function is simple: tiny devices keep track of your runs, then proclaim your awesomeness to the internet, which prompts distant friends and relatives to praise you.

Thanks guys!

I got the tiny chip for my shoe and the widget that plugs into the ipod earlier this year. Erin had one, and that's just not fair. My brain said, "OMFG, that's so cool!" and I ran right out and threw all my dollars at a Best Buy employee to get my own.

Each time I run I happily click though the options -->New Workout -->Basic -->Playlist -->Go!

Clicky Clicky Clicky GO!

Very satisfying.

I trot along clutching my ipod (wrapped safely in its neoprene Bat Suit should I accidentally throw it or sweat on it). I obsessively shift it from one hand to the other, using each pass as an opportunity to look down at the tiny orange screen and verify that it still knows I'm running.

I'm such a badass. I smile and nod to myself, maybe I laugh a little, people at the gym think the quiet girl has finally lost it.

Then, one day, disaster.

My running monitor wouldn't load. There would be no way to record my time, distance and calories burned on my ipod Nano. No way.

OMG! What happens now?! My head was spinning, my thoughts rapid and jumbled...I can't...I can't...what?...where is?...hello?...NO...hello?...I can't...I can't run!

Yeah, that's right, I can't run. There's no way. It's silly to even think that I could. There would be nowhere to put my hands. No record of what I've done. I'd probably have to watch Judge Judy or Fox News on the gym televisions instead of thinking about what I'm doing. Yeah. That would suck. Better just go home.

Seriously? ... I can't run? I can't swing my arms and lift my feet unless the ipod is registering my steps? Hold on...doesn't this treadmill have a screen that tells me how far and fast I'm going?

Moron.

How in the world did I take running, the most natural human action next to smiling, and turn it into something that requires an equipment arsenal?

In fact, I can run without the bells and whistles. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I've done it before. I run the same way I always do: with my back straight and my arms comically low, for an obscenely long time, grinning like an idiot. A parody of a perpetual motion running robot.

I'll still use the running monitor after I fix it because I enjoy its features. But from now on, I'll take extra care not to get so caught up in it that I forget why I run in the first place. Fitness, a sense of accomplishment, and the pure joy of moving through the world by my own power.

Now I'm left to wonder what else I've added 10 extra steps to. And what I can do to simplify. There must be at least a few other things that I've forgotten how to do the real way.

A couple weeks ago, we were sitting outside after the sun had gone down and Greg told me it was 93 degrees. It had been a hot day but had cooled considerably. The air felt like it was about 75, with a light breeze.

"I don't think it's 93, Hon. I think it might have been earlier, but not anymore," I said.

"Oh, no," he replied earnestly, "it's definitely 93. It says so right here." He turned the screen of his HTC Hero phone toward me and pointed at the temperature icon.

I waved my hand around in the air, testing the temperature, unable to understand how it could still be 93 degrees. Greg made a face and looked at the screen himself, mumbling something about it not feeling that hot, but it had to be right.

Then...aha! He pushed "refresh" and the temperature gauge updated: 78 degrees.


Now if you'll excuse me, I need to find my boots. My Mac says it's raining.

Goodbye July

Five years ago I went camping with my boyfriend Greg. We headed up to Mount Spokane on a scorching day in early July with little more than a tent, a cooler full of drinks, and our three dogs. We had a great day running through the woods, getting lost, climbing on the empty ski lifts, playing catch, and lying on a picnic table under a billion stars that are normally blocked out by city lights.

Late that night, the temperature dropped to below freezing on the mountain, and as we huddled together, shivering with our dogs under the single blanket we'd brought, I thought about how ill prepared we were to be away from the comforts we knew at home.

The next day, I began my career as a Graphic Designer with Rings & Things Wholesale. July 7th, 2005, 21-years-old.

Five years later I went camping again. The first serious camping trip I've taken since that weekend on Mount Spokane. This time I brought a stove, a lantern, extra blankets, jugs of drinking water, a tarp, an axe, fire starters, and countless other things. Despite an epic thunderstorm and downpour, this trip was much smoother than the time before.

This time, I return from camping to tackle a new career, in business for myself. I'll be mostly contracting with Community-Minded Enterprises, doing non-profit work; and also taking on more freelance projects. I'll be my own boss.

A lot has changed in five years.

I'm now more likely to be found outdoors than in. More likely to be leading a group than following placidly behind. More likely to speak my mind and to know what will happen when I do.

I've always been a compulsive list-maker, but now I can tell the difference between wants and necessities. As in: I 'want' to bring my giant inflatable alligator to the lake, I 'need' to bring water. Fortunately, I am a big-girl-pants-wearing adult and I can decide to bring both.

There is a list. There is a plan. There is balance.

I tell it like it is, but not with the intent to hurt others. I get far more sun than a pale person should, but I'm always vigilant about applying and reapplying the SPF 50. I do what makes me happy but also what makes others happy, because we're only truly happy when we're happy together.

Here's what's been making me happy recently:

Bomber Betties
The women's longboarding club is taking off in a big way. When I started this group, I had small hopes of helping a few friends learn a new sport and maybe teaching a few others about something I love. Fast forward three months and here is an enthusiastic group of women who are learning new skills, bringing others, and getting seriously involved in the longboarding community. We have our very own group t-shirts (designed by Erin Buehler) and we've been written about in The Inlander.

Here's our t-shirt designed by Erin:
Click here to read the Inlander article by Blair Tellers


New Bike!
When I bought my road bike in the Spring, I teetered around in the parking lot behind Spoke n' Sport and nearly crashed into a wall yelling, "I'm a skateboarder, dammit!"

My previous two-wheeled ride was a small mountain bike that I bought at Wal-Mart 10 years ago for $60. It was the first purchase I made with my paycheck from JcPenney, one step up from my turquoise and orange Malibu Cruiser with the purple streamers.

Now I have a road bike, and the biking chutzpah to do an 8 mile ride, then devour three entire pizzas at The Flying Goat.

Serious, delicious chutzpah.



Swimming in Lakes
I've always been afraid of deep, open water. This is not a serious problem for my day-to-day life.

No one ever says, "Hey Selina, can you take this folder over to Loss Prevention? They are at the bottom of the shark tank."

However, it became a problem when I decided to take up a triathlon as my next big challenge. Believe it or not, they require a bit of swimming before the bike and run, it's not a choose-your-own-adventure-style thing.

So it was that I left the safety of the Oz Fitness pool and inhaled billions of lake dwelling microorganisms, using them to wash down the panic that rose in my throat each time a strand of kelp wound it's slimy hands of death around my ankles.

Then I ate an apple. And decided it wasn't so bad.




Triathlon Training
At this point the Wunder Woman Triathlon in Medical Lake is less than two weeks away and I feel completely safe throwing out reckless comments like: "I won't die during that," and "It's possible that I won't throw up at the finish line."

I attribute my hubris to my personal trainer, Darrin. I signed up to work with him at Oz fitness in May, and he helped me find the weak points in my exercise program. In the process, I whittled down to a highly efficient, 10% body fat and finally got my 5K time into a range that brings more than age-group medals.

For the first time ever, I brought home a first place finisher medal. Not first place in my age-group, but first place for women overall.





Camping
On the way to the Colville National Forest, we ended up overshooting the turn and driving all the way up to Kettle Falls. We were lost, but I didn't feel apprehensive. I don't worry any more because I know I can handle it. I know that there are worse things than adding 30 minutes to your driving time, it's not worth fretting about.

Whenever I am driving lost, I think of the time my family went up to Mount St. Helens and our truck died on the way back. We coasted in neutral all the way down the mountain to a repair shop in town, praying that no one would slow down in front of us to make a turn and cause the truck to lose momentum. We jokingly blamed the breakdown on the bad-luck pumice stones that we'd collected at the park; the ranger had warned everyone that they were cursed. We laughed at the time, but we threw out those stones the second we hit town.

From there, my mind drifts to the time my alternator went out on I-90 and I was able to glide off the freeway in a rest area parking lot where I spent the day with friendly Mormon missionaries selling snacks.

Sure it was frustrating to break down, but no one got hurt, people helped us, and we got back on the road eventually.

The most important lesson is that it was beyond our control. Bad-luck pumice stones aside, both cars got regular checkups and were reasonably well taken care of.

Most of the things that go wrong in life are the things you would have never thought to worry about in the first place, so there's no sense wasting space in your head trying to imagine the worst.

This is what I've really learned in five years:

• Stop worrying.
• Take a risk.
• Say what you mean.
• Follow Your Bliss.

40* on the 4th...*or just 38

It's only been five miles and I'm already panting and exhausted, throwing my pushing foot forward and slamming it down to the ground, launching hard off the ground with each rotation.

I'm passing the dam but it's been in my sight for so long that I don't really feel like I've gone anywhere. Good thing it's pretty or I'd be sick of it by now.


There is a runner up ahead who I can't seem to catch. She has long, dark hair and an impressive, steady stride. I'm pretty sure I've seen her running around town before. One of those people I wish I could be more like. She's clipping along at a 6.5 minute mile pace, not even sweating or breathing hard.

There she goes

I vaguely wonder if I could run 40 miles, but then have a vision of my sun-bleached bones being picked over by marmots.

"That's stupid," Barbie scoffs, "marmots are vegetarians."

Okay then, maybe it would be giant flesh eating ants. Flesh eating ants or caribou. Wait...those are vegetarians too. They wouldn't hurt their own kind...would they? Does Coeur d' Alene have caribou? Are they extinct? Why can't I catch that girl?

Suddenly I realize that I've been approaching this journey from the wrong angle. I've been ignoring the action, retreating into my head.

I begin to steady my flailing limbs, slow my breathing; start thinking about what I'm doing instead of where I'm going. Expanding my awareness of my immediate surroundings. Feeling the muscles in my legs working, and setting a reasonable pace.

Now I'm using what I've learned from years of running. Now I'm passing the dark-haired girl. Gliding by in a whir of urethane.


Today is the 4th of July and I'm having my very first long distance longboarding adventure. My route will take me from downtown Spokane to Coeur d' Alene along the Centennial Trail. A distance of approximately 38 miles.

Once I tried and failed to ride my bike to Idaho. But that was before I could run more than a mile without throwing up. Now I'm good to go for at least 13.1 miles on foot, maybe more.

It's hard to explain why I thought that running more than 10 miles made me qualified to skate almost 40. I guess the important thing is that I believe it does.

Provisions for the trip. Water bottle, camera, sweatshirt, backpack full of trail mix, Barbie.

Mile 15

I'm having trouble thinking because Taio Cruz is singing loudly over a thumping baseline.

"Shhhhhhhh," I hiss. There's no one around. I'm not wearing headphones.

Barbie hates this song.

"I'm only gonna break break your, break break your heart," Taio croons.

God damn it. Of all the songs I know; all the underground indie rock, all the punk, all the classics, all the sonatas and concertos...this is the song that my brain chooses to motivate me with for the next four hours.

"I'm only gonna break break your, break break your heart," he repeats, more insistent this time.

I give a little sigh, "I always knew you would."

The Spokane River


Eastern Washington is secretly a model train set. I'm reluctant to leave the trail because I know that as I walk from the path, the buildings and the trees will become smaller and smaller until my shoes threaten to crush them. Then I'll see the astroturf and the tiny plastic tree bases topped with dyed spanish moss, carefully dabbed with a slightly darker green paint for realism.

Maybe I'm delirious. Time to stop for water.


Arbor Crest Winery is atop this hill. You can squish it with your fingers.


Mirabeau Park

This was the starting point for the Windermere 1/2 marathon. Passing it means that I've now skated farther than I can run.

Mile 20

From here it's hard to argue that this side of the state isn't pretty. Western Washington gets a lot of credit for its rain forests and mossy, cushy, green grass.

The landscape under the Big Sky is rougher. It's windswept and sharp, these plants don't look soft, they look sturdy. They hold up to the unforgiving sunlight of the high desert torching them for 12 hours a day, then they reach up their spiny little branch hands to catch the snow that will cover them completely from December to March.

It's a different kind of beauty.



Things start to get a little choppy near the border. State Line is known for strip clubs, I guess their patrons don't often hop on the bike and peddle over for some entertainment. This part of the trail seems like an afterthought, a last minute idea that was abandoned the second someone said, "Hey guys, there are boobies over here!"

Distracted workers don't do the job right.


State Line
Barbie poses with the State Line sign.


Idaho

A big blue chihuahua is always a good sign.


Corbin's Ditch area
Not at all ditch-like. There is an awesome waterfall just upriver from here.

Mile 30

A trail marker

This section of the trail is ending and I don't know where to go. I catch up to a biking couple at the traffic light and ask for directions. They point out the next trail head as they shift impatiently, dancing from toe to toe as though they'll explode from the waiting.

'Bicyclists are high strung,' I decide, 'like skiers.'

The man's eyes are wild, he looks consumed with joy and adrenaline. "Sometimes we cross against the light," he shouts apologetically.

I'm not sure if he's shouting to be heard over traffic or because he's so excited, but I like that he thinks I have some kind of bicycle law authority. "There are no laws in Idaho," I reply.

He laughs and zips away. Against the red light, just like he'd said.


The bicyclists I encountered early in the morning were the smiley, friendly kind. Afternoon bicyclists are still friendly, but they've got a certain, "Don't mess with me while I've got my spandex on," air to them.

There are no other skaters on the trail but there ought to be. The North Idaho section of the Centennial Trail is awesome. It's smooth and clear of debris. The path rolls through the trees alternating between straight 8% grades and nearly flat meanderings though the woods. Each hill has a nice uphill run out. The trail would be wide enough to accommodate traffic in both directions if there was any.

If I'd had an elasticity to spare in my legs, I would have pushed back a ways and gone again.

Coeur d' Alene is ahead!

Those little illustrated squares mean there's lots to do here if you have the energy left to do it.


Victory! Spokane to Coeur d' Alene in a little over 4 hours.
My arms still function, my legs do not.

Luckily this giant spider will carry me the rest of the way.

No, just kidding. The giant spider had other plans. Luckily I have awesome friends who were willing to drive to another state to pick me up. Thanks guys!

Red Hot American Summer

90 degrees and 100% humidity. The crowd on the platform shifts and shuffles feet in the half-dark. Faces turn upward expecting fresh air, but get only the thick stagnation of an underground tunnel.

The man on my right keeps jabbing my thigh with his briefcase. I am hot. Tired. Dirty. Soaked with sweat. The ground beneath my aching feet begins to tremble and shake. A subway train comes roaring out from the blackness like an ancient monster, washing the crowd with a hot wind gust that almost hurts as it hits the skin.

We jostle and shove in the most orderly fashion. Filing onto the train while lightly bouncing off each other. No one says, "excuse me" or "sorry."

Air conditioning. My skin goes clammy and cold. Instantly, I miss the heat.

The train barrels down a track strewn with water bottles, dropped children's text books and trash bags filled with God only knows. All around me are four-mile-an-hour people hurtling along at 50 while the cars above inch along at half-speed.

I emerge across town, an entirely new place than I was mere moments before. A sneeze tickles my nose in the glaring sunlight and the sound of a thousand foreign voices mixed with taxi traffic assaults my ears.

The heat, the noise, the smells, the masses of people. The incredible vibrancy of a living, breathing city.

This is good.

New York City in the Summer is everything I could have hoped. We land in suffocatingly humid Newark, NJ on Father's Day. After a celebratory fist-pumping, we hop a train to NYC and haul our luggage up the steps of Penn Station with the 500,000 others who pass through it each day.

Our hotel, the NYMA, is located in K-town, New York's Korean business district. It's all I can do to get out of there each day without stopping for kimchi.

K-Town

Kimchi in NYC = Awesome ... Kimchi anywhere, all the time = Also Awesome

Hotel NYMA

It's spacious, but kinda messy. Oh wait...I guess I did that.

It's now 8:30 pm. Infamous time-wasters that we are, Mom and I drop our baggage at the hotel and run over to the Empire State Building to watch the sunset. Afterward, we wander Times Square and explore our new home for the week.

Sunset from the Empire State Building

Times Square

That was Sunday, here's a little bit of Monday

Battery Park

It's got a splash pad for the kids and a hustling acrobatic troop that collects money in big black pillowcases. Family friendly.

The Statue of Liberty

Just a quick boat ride from Battery Park, and a chance to catch up on the latest gossip in the 4th grade. Did you know that Shania only likes Ms. Brown's Social Studies class because Ms. Brown is pregnant and is never there? I know it.

Ellis Island

This is how all of Ellis Island looked before it was turned into a National Park and fixed up. The island was actually up for sale to anyone with the funds. As many as 100 million Americans are descended from someone who passed through the doors of this building. It didn't occur to anyone that it might be something worth saving. I'm glad they didn't knock it down and build a luxury hotel.

An arching wall monument on the city-side of the island lists the names of those who were recorded passing though.

Shehans with two E's. Just not the same.


South Seaport
It was closing up shop by the time we got there, but we did get a chance to see human foosball. No photos, sadly.

Monday night we meet up with Matt at Stanton Social for dinner and drinks. The highlight of the meal is most definitely the red velvet twinkie. I love it so much I have zero reaction when Matt points out Joseph Gorden-Levitt from 3rd Rock from the Sun sitting next to us.

Whatever, junior high school crush, stay the hell away from my dessert.

Does this look like a dude who would steal your twinkie? I'd rather not take the chance.

The ride back to the hotel is my first time in a cab, I prefer public transit or my own two feet. I guess I'm just traditional that way.


Some Tuesday for ya:

The Metropolitan Museum

I've been to Vegas so many times that I've almost become immune to awesomeness. I'm like, "Yeah, whatever, a giant concrete replica of the sphinx, I'm sure that took tons of rebar..."

But here's the thing: All this stuff is real. That's real armor, worn by real knights, a real long time ago. The pyramid at the MET is an honest-to-god, real pyramid. Deconstructed in Egypt and carefully reconstructed in NYC. That's real awesomeness.

Central Park

Those children are not mine.

Holy crap-in-a-hat it's the Shake Shack!!!!

Eat here.

Wednesday is free day at the zoo. It's also free day at the Botanical Gardens, but we give up hope upon discovering that the train doesn't go there. Take a bus?! That's for losers.

The Bronx Zoo

Them are lions

Wednesday night was made for adventure. I venture to Brooklyn.

A pilfered coaster from the Chip Shop

The Chip Shop would have never been graced with my presence had it not been for Kelly from Brooklyn, who works at city hall and just might be the nicest lady in New York. She walked me six blocks, in the opposite direction I was headed, to deliver me safely to beer and the best fried mac and cheese I have ever had.

2am treats me well

Thursday is Broadway and a glittering waterfall in the settling darkness. We catch Promises Promises, featuring Kristen Chenoweth and Sean Hayes. On the way to the theater we come across a courtyard with gorgeous trees and bistro tables against the backdrop of a cascading wall of water.

The next courtyard is even better; it has this:

This is how I prepare for world domination.


Promises, Promises (you all know what I mean)


I didn't buy you anything, but I got a great photo


The Rose Center


The Natural History Museum Thanks to Devon for pointing out the old dude doing the robot.

Friday brings us to Coney Island. The Atlantic Ocean is flowing between my toes once again. It's slipping sands pulling away with each outward wave, sucking out from under my arches, leaving my feet balanced on tiny stilts of sediment that hold for mere seconds, then lightly collapse back down into familiar earth.

Rockin' it in my fierce neon bikini and bitch googles.

Although I haven't been on a roller coaster in years, I opted to ride the Cyclone at Coney Island. It fits in with my, "If not now, then when?" approach to life lately. And you know what? It was rad.



After Coney Island we return to Manhattan to seek out dinner. Mom is hot and tired and cranky. Everything is, "Horrible! Crapy! A waste!" Finally, we come across a Turkish man with a guarantee: "You like it or it's free."

"Even her?" I ask, pointing to my stubborn and impossible to please older-self.

"Of course!" He snorts.

And he's right. For possibly the first time on any vacation EVER, my mother is not complaining. She has been tamed by kebabs.

Happy Mom.

That night I take the train to 2 Ave, a route that's become familiar. My sexy shoes are packed in my purse, waiting for the switch from serious to frivolous. While I lean against the outer wall of Katz's Deli trading walking shoes for something less practical (three-inch stiletto heels in bright, aquatic teal, that tie behind the ankle. Not just impractical, but loud about it too), two female tourists pass and give me a fascinated once-over. "I could never live here," says one to the other, "I'm not trendy enough."

Pianos in the East Village

Sad Red

Standing on a corner at 2 am waiting to cross the street. I am on fire. This is what I've been waiting to feel. Here I am, 26, in the best shape of my life, pretty as I'll ever be, and feeling invincible.

They always say that teenagers feel "10-feet-tall and bulletproof." Never in my life have I felt that way, until this moment.

I gaze at the flashing 'don't walk' sign and turn just in time to receive a high five from a stranger. "Very nice," he says, fading into the crowd behind me and slipping away forever.

-------------------------------------------

MetroCard!!!!! Don't leave home without it.

A light fixture at the NY Public Library.


My hottie-hot $10 shoes from H&M

The Naked Cowgirl in Times Square


The Museum of Sex
Ladies who were lusted for in the early 1900's


Freebie from the grand opening of a Forever 21


A good reason to come back


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