Turn and Face the Strange, Ch Ch Changes

The aspect of change is the scariest thing in the world. Actually, running out of toilet paper is -- but change is a close second. 

Most people prefer to experience minimal change in life. We become so comfortable and accustomed to our daily routines that anything different will freak the shit out of us. I will confess: I really hate change. It makes me anxious, overwhelmed and sweaty. For instance: I've had the same exact hair style since I was 9 years old. To this day, before every hair cut, I've tried to convince myself to do something new -- cut it short, change the color, get cornrows. But, I never go through with it. I'm too afraid to just temporarily change my appearance. I mean, what if my face looks fat or my cat doesn't recognize me anymore? It's so much easier to go with what you're used to because you already know the outcome. 

Today, I was offered a job at an amazing advertising agency. It's an opportunity that I couldn't pass up because I know it's ultimately the best decision for me and my (potentially) budding career. I have been at my current company since I graduated from college, so the amount of change I'm about to experience is terrifyingly frightening, yet also extremely thrilling. My mind is consumed by worry -- how will I adjust? Who will I eat lunch with? Should I openly admit my love for karaoke? 

With that said, I am happy/anxious/overwhelmed/tired/scared/excited/hungry. I am ready to begin this next chapter of my life and take on new challenges. I'm eager to learn and overcome new obstacles and be able to call my parents and be like, "hey guys, look what I did at work. Aren't I just great?! Aren't you so glad you created me?" 

What I'm trying to say is: change is a bitch, but it's essential if you want to evolve and become the best version of yourself. I'm sorry if that sounded completely lame but it's the truth and you know it. 

Lastly, I want to dedicate this post to two women who have impacted my life beyond words. Ty and Raina, you are way more than just co-workers to me. Over the past three years, we have formed a connection that exceeds many work friendships. You guys have played the roles of mother, sister, friend and therapist through out each and every day and I am so grateful to have had that support from you. Thank you for always listening to my stories, laughing at my jokes and most importantly -- not judging me. You guys make leaving really difficult but I will always cherish the amazing memories we've created over the years. I love you both from the bottom of my heart and I am so thankful to have such strong, beautiful women in my life. 

Throw Back Thursday -- Sleep Away Camp

When I was in third grade, my parents sent me to join my brother at sleep away camp in upstate New York. Geographically, I was only three hours from home -- but in my mind, I felt like I was in a different country. Before I dive into this story, let me paint you a little picture of what Ariel Klein at 8 years old looked like:

I was the trifecta of awkward. I was the only kid my age to have braces and headgear (I was an orthodontist's dream), I had the most heinous bangs across my forehead and, worst of all, I was so chubby. I mean, my legs looked identical to little Italian sausages. Also, at the time my mom worked at the GAP. This meant my entire wardrobe consisted solely of overalls, which was really just the icing on my painfully unattractive cake.

My parents dropped my brother and me off at the camp buses, which were located in the Bloomingdale's parking lot (could sleep away camp be anymore Jewish?). My dad packed me a cream soda and an Italian hero from my favorite deli because he knew eating calmed my nerves (still does). Finally, it was time to say goodbye to the parents. My brother, Jesse, gave them a quick hug and kiss and eagerly hopped onto the bus to sit with his friend Jake. I had more of a dramatic farewell as if I was leaving to serve our country for a year. There were tears. A lot of tears. I was the only kid crying and the last camper to board the bus. I sat in the very front row with the counselor -- which was such a rookie move. Everyone else was sitting with the friends they had made in previous summers. My only friend was my sandwich. Which, I began eating at 10am. Word to the wise: DO NOT eat an abundance of Italian meats and mozzarella before noon unless you want to sweat profusely and endure extreme nausea on a three hour bus ride with total strangers. 

Sleep away camp signifies fun summer activities, lifelong friendships and memories that will last a lifetime. At least that's what it meant for everyone else. I was not athletic and was extremely antisocial, which resulted in me having one friend. Her name was Emily and she brought her violin to camp -- need I say more? 

To say that I hated sleep away camp would be the biggest understatement of the century. I remember on the first night, I found my brother and told him I was going home. I had been there for almost six whole hours and I just knew sleep away camp wasn't for me. Jesse brought me over to the camp director, George, and he told me that if I was still not having fun after two weeks, I could go home. TWO WEEKS?! Hell to the no. I was sure after I spoke to my parents, they would hear my misery through the phone and come to my rescue. FAIL. They told me to give it a fair chance and to be open minded. Eff that! 

I had to devise a master plan. Something clever and flawless that would free me from this camp prison. AH HA! I had the perfect idea! Or at least it seemed genius to my 8-year-old self. I wrote a letter to my parents' best friends and told them I broke both of my arms and needed them to come pick me up. I mentioned that my mom and dad were on vacation, otherwise they would come get me themselves. Needless to say, this plan failed miserably the moment they received the letter and called my parents. 

So, I spent the remainder of my summer hanging out with Emily and tagging along with my brother when I could. As the last few days of camp were coming to an end, my brother was called into George's office, which usually meant you were in trouble. Little did I know, one of Jesse's bunk mates, Sam, had been incessantly making fun of me for being a chunky, overall-wearing, brace-face loser (he wasn't half wrong). To get revenge, Jesse stole Sam's stationary and wrote a letter to his parents pretending to be him. The letter was along the lines of:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I fucking hate you. I'm never coming home. 

You're the worst parents in the world. 

Fuck you. 

-Sam

It was a beautifully premeditated vengeance, but unfortunately Jesse's counselor witnessed the entire thing and reported the crime to George. Jesse spent his last day picking up trash and was asked not to come back to camp the next summer. When we returned home, we were both terrified of what our parents would do. But, to much surprise, our parents were really touched that Jesse took initiative and stood up for me -- even if his method was borderline psychotic. 

The following summer, Jesse went on a teen tour and traveled around the west coast with some friends from school. I spent my summer at a religious day camp as a "counselor in training" and my overalls were a huge hit. 

Everything will be O.K.

My overalls are most likely under the sweatshirt

The #1 Fan of Sports Fans

I believe every man has one true love in his life. Like any relationship, it involves a great deal of compromise, trust and devotion. It's a bond that embraces love and the ability to give and take. It's an emotional connection that, at times, will make you sweat, scream and cry all at once. The love affair I'm referring to is between men and sports. 

Being born and raised in New York, you learn from a very young age the importance of being a loyal sports fan. Often times, new parents will decorate their baby's nursery with their favorite teams and dress them in tiny jerseys and hats. Some crazy parents will go to the extent of naming their kid after their favorite player. 

Growing up, my dad would take me to a ton of games in hopes of me developing a love for sports. I remember as a little girl, we arrived at the Garden on the earlier side so I could see the Knicks as they were warming up. I thought it was pretty cool how tall they were, but that's as far as my fascination went. We then made our way to the seats and my dad bought me enough processed food to give me instant type 2 diabetes (he's a cool dad). After I was finished inhaling a hot dog, cotton candy, ice cream and Cracker Jacks, I tugged on my dad's arm and told him I was tired and wanted to go home. It was only 3 minutes into the first quarter. So, I sat there patiently with the worst stomach churns and observed everything but the actual game. I watched the fans, the snack vendors and the Knicks City Dancers (the only time I even looked at the court). I truly admire my dad's effort, but even at that young age, I knew I would always appreciate Haagen Daaz ice cream more than basketball. 

My next sport outing was to a Rangers game when I was 7. My dad figured since I loved Rugrats On Ice, maybe I would enjoy giant men on ice chasing after a piece of rubber. He took the same approach as the last by feeding my face (which is still the only way you can bribe me to go somewhere I don't want to). There was something about the hockey game that I was beginning to enjoy. Maybe it was the spirit of the fans or the coolness of the ice. I definitely preferred the red, white and blue color scheme over the blue and orange jerseys. I was actually really excited to watch the game with my dad. As we stood for the National Anthem, I felt a small nudge on my right arm. I disregarded it and continued eating my popcorn. Then, within a matter of seconds a drunken middle aged man came toppling down from behind me. My dad's first instinct was to grab the back of his shirt to prevent him from falling on his face, but it was too late; it all happened so fast. The dude did a somersault into the bleacher next to me and split his lip wide open. It looked like a scene from the "Texas Chainsaw Massacre" -- there was blood, so much blood. I.WAS.TRAUMATIZED. I haven't been to a hockey game since and I still have a fear of bleachers. 

Although these were my weird and uncommon experiences at sporting events, I have a fascination with professional sports and their accompanying communities of fans. Men (and certain women) from all walks of life have this mutual love for a game. It's a fun little world comprised of athletes, stats and regulations that will excite you whether you're 12 or 42.

My boyfriend, Craig, is a walking encyclopedia of all things sports. You could ask him about any player on any team and he could tell you where they played in college, their shoe size and their mother's maiden name. I've witnessed Craig at his saddest and happiest and both instances were in regards to his sports teams. I know his lifelong dream is for me to wake up one day and know how football works, but I just believe that a touchdown should only be 1 point. I mean, who decided to make it 7 points? And it's not even really 7, it's really 6 points and then you get a chance for a bonus point. It's very confusing and gives me a headache when I think about it too much. I'm sorry, Craig -- we'll try again next season. 

The thing I love most about sports is the interactions between fans. For instance: Craig was wearing a Rangers jersey yesterday as we walked through a street fair. Countless men shouted "LET'S GO RANGERS" AND "GO BLUE SHIRTS" as he walked by. He received infinite high-fives, fist pounds and one guy even chest bumped him. That behavior would NEVER happen between women. If I see a girl with a cute top on, sure, I may ask her where she bought it -- but I would never be like "hey girl, sweet romper! Let's hug!" or "holy shit, we're wearing the same essie nail polish, gimme a high-five!" 

While I may not be the best sports fan or even know the rules of most athletic events, I find the bond between sports fans and their teams a really beautiful thing. It's a love that originates from the time you're a little kid and lasts until you're too old to read the scoreboard. It's a cult of supporters who display an insane amount of faith and loyalty no matter what happens during the season. If I had a dollar for every time Craig has yelled, "GOTTA SUPPORT YOUR TEAM," I would have a lot of dollars. So, even though I can't contribute to a conversation about whether Lebron or MJ is the best NBA player of all time, I can consider myself a fan: I'm the #1 fan of sports fans. 

I took this photo at 10am yesterday

The game didn't start til 7:30pm

Because nothing screams festival of lights like lighting the menorah in your Eli jersey

Brian's dad raised him as a Packers fan. 

He is also a big fan of cheese, so I guess it makes sense

This is what my future child will look like