crush.problem.goal.

i have a crush. it should be noted that this is my very first crush since moving to los angeles and, in just one short week since its conception, i have managed to perform the whole “i’ve tried on everything in my closet and have nothing to wear” bid. along with that—like clockwork--my imagination ran. it ran so fucking fast that we were already a couple driving to napa valley vineyards to meet up with my sister and her boyfriend for wine tasting. and, as per usual, none of my fantasies came true…all i have to show for this past weekend is security footage of me eating awful pancakes at denny’s at 3 a.m.

i have a problem. you know the movie liar liar? well, i am jim carrey in that bathroom scene where he literally beats the shit out of himself. he figures that faking assault is the only way he can get out of returning to that courtroom and possibly losing his case. that’s me on the volleyball court—or in my bed thinking about getting on that volleyball court. though i’m not slamming my face beneath a toilet seat, i am verbally beating myself up whether it’s preceeding, during, or following a workout. this self-degrading behavior has been going on for a couple of months believe it or not, shredding my self-esteem and causing me to seriously question if beach volleyball is still my number one passion.

i have a goal. i can literally tell you how many people i have told my goal to: eight (nine if you want to count that stranger at the bar the other week). that’s because it's a lofty goal and as a result i struggle to allow the words to leave my lips. a BHAG, if you will. a whaaa? a BHAG: big hairy audacious goal. i actually came across this term while interviewing for a job at lululemon back in june. i was very pleased and intrigued to discover that goal setting played such a big part of the company’s culture. after pondering what i wanted to accomplish one, five, even ten years down the road, i had abandoned goal setting until my drive was re-ignited at the beginning of this month. now i have a slab of brown wrapping paper stuck to my closet door that reads: write and publish a book. and now i feel naked.