I am not a football expert. I can’t tell the difference between holding, roughing the passer and just, ya know, playing the game properly. I don’t know what a play-action pass is. And I certainly don’t know what being in the nickel means—and when I hear commentators say that, I just want to gather all the nickels in my cupholder and get something off the dollar menu. So take this whole damn rant with a hellaciously large grain of salt.

What’s inspired me to attempt at writing a post about football? It’s what inspires me to write most things: feelings. Lots and lots of feelings.

Let’s back it up for the non-football fans and non-DC residents who aren’t bombarded with Redskins-related news. Sunday night, the Redskins lost in the very first round of the playoffs against the Seattle Seahawks 24-14. But the loss is not what I am upset about. The Redskins had a great season. They won 9 straight games and even won their division! Not too shabby for a team that stinkity stank like month-old milk last year. 

I’m not angry at the Redskins. I’m not angry they lost. I’m angry at the always-angry-looking-himself Mike Shanahan.

Why am I angry with Mike Shanahan? Because Mike Shanahan decided to play the Redskins superstar quarterback Robert Griffin III despite him being visibly injured. RG3 had a strong first quarter—making passes, scoring touchdowns, even running—er, hobbling—for a few extra yards here and there. But by the end of the first half, he was looking BEAT. UP. Hobbled. Broken. Basically immobile.

Starting RG3 was a given. He’s the leader and star that reinvigorated a city. He is more than a quarterback in DC—he is a symbol—he’s the Katniss; the Neo. But Mike Shanahan continued to play RG3, despite a perfectly healthy, perfectly competent Kirk Cousins. Side note: If I’m Cousins, how pissed am I!? Really? A crippled, barely mobile RG3 is better than me at my best? Ouch.

So RG3 stayed in the game, and in the fourth quarter, he OBVI-DUH reinjured his bad knee. He was in so much agony, he couldn’t even get up to recover the fumble he accidentally caused. He just lay on the field. “Oh shit,” every single person in the DC Metro Area said at the same time.

At last night’s press conference, Shanahan told reporters that he’d asked RG3 if he felt ok to play. To which I have to scream, OF COURSE HE TOLD YOU HE WAS OK TO PLAY. RG3 is a fierce competitor with a Nike endorsement deal and a Greek god-like athlete with the hubris to match. Your job as a coach is to see the big picture. To do what is the best for your players, as well as your team, and that is not placating people. If you asked your sick 3-year-old kid if he felt well enough to have ice cream for dinner, he’d say yes. But it’s YOUR call whether that’s a good decision or not. It’s tough to make tough decisions, which I know this was. But seriously. This is your job.

This story is sparking a ton of debate between sports fans—do you play an injured superstar who tells you he not only can play, he wants to play; or do you shelter him? This is not an unfamiliar criticism and not an unfamiliar situation, spanning all sorts of sports. Personally, I think playing RG3 beyond the first half was a grossly irresponsible decision—hence the impetus for this rant. But you know what they say about hindsight. 

Of course, Shanahan didn’t know that RG3 would get re-injured. He didn’t have some coaching crystal ball (although I’m sure those would go for a pretty penny on EBay). How could anyone know what will or won’t happen? That’s the fun of sports. But that being said, RG3 looked weak. He looked crippled. He looked vulnerable. And letting him fend for himself amongst 300+ pound dudes recklessly hurling their bodies at him just seemed like an unnecessary risk for a win that may or may not have even happened.

So now, DC waits with baited breath over RG3’s future. And it’s not looking good for the next 14-18 months. Something to think about during the off-season, huh Mike…

My dear, dear friend Ashley told me one time about this odd tradition they had at her summer camp, and for some reason it’s always stuck with me.

Her bunk had a hot pink, glittery, ridiculous cape, and it was called: The Good Attitude Cape. If you were feeling salty or sad or bitter or sassy, you were forced to wear this silly, hot pink, loud cape around the cabin. The thought behind it was that you can’t possibly be in a bad mood when you’re wearing something so ridiculous and goofy. How could you take yourself seriously enough to be sad?

I really think I need a good attitude cape.

So today I am wearing my invisible good attitude cape. I’ve decided that today and this weekend are going to be awesome. I’m sick of feeling funky and stressed out; it’s been a rough few months and I am just plain sick of it. Well, not today! Today I am going to be happy because:

• I’m wearing a new fall sweater and it has ELBOW patches on it. So, yeah. It’s hard to feel cranky when you look like a grandpa.

• I’m listening to the new Mumford & Sons album and also plan on listening to a very special Fall Playlist that Molly made for me!

• The weather is insanely gorgeous. It’s fall at its best. And how can you be in a funk when the sun is out and the trees are colorful and it feels all festive and fall?

• My parents are in town visiting which means lots of hugs and happiness! It also means shopping, trips to the scrapbook store, wine and dinners!

• We’re booking a winter trip to Seattle (to visit Brad’s sister and her family) and then to Hawaii! I could not possibly be more excited :) This is the perfect sort of trip that will make this Minnesota winter bearable.

• Today’s Friday, so let’s ALL have a great weekend and a great attitude! Cool?

It’s been 113 days since our wedding day; a day of joy, celebration, love and gratitude as well as stress, anxiety and fear. Well, this past weekend I was granted something I’d been craving ever since we got engaged: perspective.

***

Saturday night, Brad and I attended the wedding of two new-ish friends we’ve made here in Minneapolis. It was one of the most beautiful weddings I’ve ever had the honor of witnessing. It was raw. Real. Brimming with emotion. She wore orchids in her hair and he wore a smile like a crescent moon. A single Spanish guitar escorted her down the aisle as readers spoke passages from the Velveteen Rabbit. White paper lanterns swung in the wind above their heads as the trees rustled, saying “Amen” after each chilling statement in the ceremony.

They wrote their own vows, which read like joyful, love letters filled with promises and inside jokes. There was not a dry eye in the audience. You could have been the damn caterer and felt the raw, real love that these two people share; their romance, the stuff that the careers of Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman are based off of.

It was one of the most genuine, authentic, epically moving weddings I’ve ever seen.

***

An epiphany came the morning after the wedding. Brad had stirred early, eager for football, haunted by a mild hangover (a souvenir from the wedding). I lay in bed thinking about the previous evening; and I started wishing this wedding had been before ours. How it was the perfect antidote to all the drama and fear that swirled inside my stomach before our pressure-cooker of a day. How if we had spent a weekend at this wedding, and seen all the love and affection and authenticity that went into it; how I might have had a bit more perspective. How I would have been less obsessive over my hair. My weight. My earrings. My everything.

I managed to get so swept up in the details. In the escort cards, decorations, playlists—treating the wedding as one big branding assignment. What can I say? I loved it and despised it all at once. 

This other wedding was so simple. By simple I don’t mean cheap or unplanned. Not at all! But it wasn’t some over-the-top affair with perfectly matching fonts, logos, color palettes…even the bridesmaid dresses were different colors. Heck one of the bridesmaids was a man! It was not about things being perfect. It was about things being real. Which would have been invaluable for Bride Elyse to have witnessed. To have seen first-hand, that when the emotion is real and the love is real and the support is real…that no one needs cotton candy or flash mobs or anything over-the-top. Those things are just toppings. Hype. Fluff. The authentic joy shared by two families coming together to celebrate love; that is what the best weddings are made of.

***

I came downstairs that morning to see Brad on the couch; already researching his fantasy football strategy for the day. I sat next to him and shared this new thought.

“I couldn’t help thinking how valuable it would have been to me to have gone to that wedding before ours. I think it would have really given me some much-needed perspective.” I said.

“That’s funny you said that, because I had the exact same thought this morning.”

And just like that, EVERYTHING was put into perspective in one of the most refreshing and unexpected ways.

Change is hard. 

It’s awkward. Clunky. Uncomfortable. Even if it’s the good kind of change! There are always growing pains.

This week, my name officially changed. The name I was born with and the one my parents custom-picked just for little old me, is no more. I am no longer Elyse Gibson. I am now Elyse Ash.

And it’s weird.

I mean, it’s happy. I CHOSE it, ya know? At least these days women get a choice. We get to decide which sounds better. Which we like better. What we want to do. We don’t just become the property of some guy we didn’t even choose in the first place. So that’s pretty rad. And, for the most part, we are not judged by our decision to change or not change our name. I’ve had friends take their husband’s last name, keep their maiden name, tie the names together with a hyphen, and create an all-new name. THERE ARE NO RULES ANYMORE.  If you really wanted to, you could change your name to Princess Consuela Banana Hammock like Phoebe from Friends.

But after a lot of internal back and forth, I decided to change my name and take Brad’s last name. For a few reasons:

• • Going from a last name that begins with “G” to one that begins with “A” is basically like getting a social promotion. Let’s do everything in alphabetical order now, guys!
• • A last name with three letters? Think of all the time I’ll save by not having to write out three additional letters on forms and applications. I am all about efficiency!
• • And now for the actual, non-joke reason. Thinking long term; if Brad and I are lucky enough to have children, I want to have the same last name as the rest of my family. This is very important to me. I don’t want to feel like an outsider. I want us to be the Ash family. Not the Ash family—and Elyse.

As someone who calls herself a feminist, it was a little weird to change my name, since it seems on the surface  to be making a huge, annoying change for a guy. But feminism is not about standing up to “The Man.” It’s about making your own choices. Celebrating your right to decide what is right for you. So that’s what I did. I made my own choice. Brad never pushed or bullied or manipulated. He let me decide which felt right to me (which, he shouldn’t really get kudos for doing since that should be expected, but what the hell; go Brad!) And I decided, on my own, to make the change. To merge our last names along with our lives. To put on our united front. To be the Ash household.

And yet, it’s STILL weird. There was something about Elyse Gibson. The cadence. The way it looks. The comfort of the letters being arranged just so. It’s like when you do a major renovation on your house; and it just doesn’t FEEL right. Of course it’s beautiful and still your home. It just takes a while to get used to where the new drawer handles are, where you keep the oven mitts now, and the way the floor feels.

I was in the elevator the other day and was basically bullied into introducing myself, and wasn’t sure how to do it. Elyse Gibson just came so quickly and naturally! It was a reflex. Elyse Ash I have to prepare to say. To write. To sign. It’s not instinctive yet. I know that will come with time and that now is just the funny, odd in-between time. But still. It’s a big change. A hard change.

So now I’m Elyse Ash. I still think Elyse Gibson just SOUNDS better. The rhythm. The two syllables followed obediently by another two syllables. It rolls off the tongue. Elyse Ash is kind of tricky to say. The soft “s” followed immediately by the “sh” makes me sound like I have a serious lisp. This is why it was such a great consolation to hear the following words from a dear friend/true feminist/amazing writer: “I actually think you went from the name of a restaurateur heiress to a novel character.  So I am good with the change.”

Novel character, eh? Ok. I’m sold.

That time was yesterday afternoon, after the Color Run 5K here in Minneapolis. I left out this story in my previous post, because it kind of warrants its own; since I DID almost murder Brad and end up on an episode of 20/20 or maybe its more dramatic, cable step-sister Snapped.

We decided to take our 1989 Nissan Pathfinder (aka the Black Pearl, aka The Pearl) to the race at the Minnesota State Fairgrounds yesterday, since it’s old as dirt and is covered in dirt, as well. We knew we’d all be messy afterward and it was just the best logistical way for Brad, Molly, Molly’s sister, her boyfriend and me to all get to the race.

We left all our valuables in the car: phones, wallets, etc. since everything in the color race gets pretty wrecked. So that seemed like safest bet. We locked everything in the car and Brad put the key into a tiny, baby pocket they sew into runner’s shorts. It’s also important to note that we had to park in like Africa. Ok, not ACTUALLY Africa. But it was 90 degrees and (no joke) about 5K away from the actual 5K. That’s a LOT of K’s people.

Fast forward to after the race. It was a total blast and we were all colorful smiles. But we’re also all SUPER HOT (again, it was 90 degrees) and messy and covered in powder and crud and sweat. It was fun. But at this point, we were ready to go home and have a nice shower and nice bloody mary. So we start walking back to the car and Brad all of a sudden stops and turns to us,

“The key isn’t in my shorts pocket. It must have fallen out.”

“You’re kidding.” I said.

He was not kidding. He had lost the key somewhere in the last 10K’s of color and chaos. And I was already downward spiraling into panic. Probably because, with the exception of like, the OCEAN, this was the worst place in the world you could lose a key. The Minnesota State Fairgrounds is HUGE. Disproportionately huge. Just think of all the livestock and games and rides and live concerts and activities and FOOD and sponsorship booths they cram into the Minnesota State Fair every year. THAT’S how big this place is. Now imagine that it’s covered in color and everything is a total mess…

Oh, and did I mention that 19,000 people ran in this race? I feel like that’s an important detail because it conveys HOW chaotic everything was. There were a million people who all looked like they’d been beaten up by an army of Rainbow Bright minions. I feel like Lady Gaga would have really approved of this race. But anyway.

So we’re basically drowning in a gigantic rainbow of people and now we have to find this one key. Oh, and it’s the ONLY key to The Pearl. Oh, and all our wallets and phones are locked in the car. Oh, and it’s 90 degrees. Oh and there are a million people around us.

I have to say, that Molly, her sister and her sister’s boyfriend all handled themselves in the highest regard. They were all calm, cool (metaphorically speaking) and collected. Asking helpful questions like, “When was the last time you remember seeing the key” to try and roll out certain parts of the race. All I was doing was FUMING angry and eye rolling and twitching. Not very helpful…but wow. Those Houllihan’s. They are a classy bunch. Seriously.

So all we can do, really, is start retracing our steps.

About 15 minutes into our walk back to the starting line, Brad takes a second and re-checks his runner’s shorts. He looks up at us and pulls the key out.

“They fell into the built-in underwear.”

My first thought: Gross! My second thought: COMPLETE RAGE followed by a wave of relief. But the rage came first. How dare he get us all so bent out of shape. HOW DARE HE BE SO IRRESPONSIBLE. Of course NONE of these are rational thoughts. It’s not REALLY his fault that the keys fell out of his pocket. I just honestly have no idea what we would have done if he hadn’t found them that easily. Spent all day hunting for them? Broken into the Pearl to get our phones/wallets and cab it home? Passed out from heat stroke and sued Brad? I don’t know. I’m REALLY glad he found them and we could all go home and get water and showers and alcoholic beverages and pedicures and naps. If I had been trapped there all day, BELIEVE ME, I would have certainly manslaughtered my husband.

But, I didn’t murder him. I didn’t even get to punch him (he ran away too quickly). And that’s what counts, right? And I most certainly plan on bringing this up at our 25th wedding anniversary because I will NEVER forget this happened. You hear me, Brad? Never.

[The above photo is a dramatic reenactment of said account]

“What I really want to tackle next is to get a hobby. My aunt and uncle were visiting on Sunday and my aunt was like, “so Laura what do you do in your spare time? What are your hobbies?” and I was like “UHHHHHHHHHHHH IS TELEVISION NOT A THING?” My other fake-hobby though, is white collar crime: aka using work office supplies for personal use.” – My friend, Laura

After this conversation with my dear friend earlier today, I started thinking about hobbies. What are hobbies? What counts as a hobby? What are MY hobbies?

It’s easy for Brad. He has a lot of hobbies: cooking, carpentry, gardening, running, working on cars, watching football/hockey, baking, DIYing…the list goes on.

My hobbies are: getting brunch with friends, making tea, doodling and writing in notebooks, going to concerts…

See the difference? Brad’s hobbies (with the exception of watching sports) are all things  he does consistently, is getting really great at, genuinely enjoys, spends time on and invests money in. My “hobbies” are so fleeting and vague…they are more just like spontaneous moments of pleasure rather than things you can get better at. Like how much better can I possibly steep tea?

When I hear the word HOBBY, I think of passion bordering on fanaticism, commitment to a craft, skill and expertise. People like stamp collectors, or people who dress up for Comic Con, or who love restoring old cars. People who are married to their craft. I just feel like how fanatic can I be about reading on the couch? Sorry self, but the Hunger Games does NOT count as a hobby.

I enjoy a wide variety of things like writing poetry, reading, making playlists, shopping, Instagraming, scrapbooking (shut up). But I just wonder; are these even hobbies? With my commitment to these activities spotty (at best) and none of them requiring much skill…they just don’t measure up to Brad’s one million hobbies. I’ve TRIED to develop hobbies. I wanted to join the rollergirls, but the time commitment (3 times a week!) was just too much for my 60-hour-a-week-sometimes job. My free time is so sparse…so special…that instead of trying to ACHIEVE MORE (get better at sewing, singing, soccer, WHATEVER) I really just to try to enjoy myself.

This reminds me also of a study that I saw on the Atlantic this week about how Americans with different education levels spend their  leisure time. It’s actually a really interesting article.

How important is it to have a hobby anyway? Isn’t the point of having a hobby to have fun? So why do we (or maybe just me?) put pressure on ourselves to have hobbies?

So perhaps my hobby will be NOT having a hobby. I’ll get very good and be very committed to not worrying about how I spend my free time. I will simply spend my free time listening to the wind and my whims: sometimes sleeping late, sometimes being ambitious and working out in the morning, sometimes hostessing and sometimes hibernating. Just doing what feels good and right. And always writing. Writing, writing, writing.