When you start a lifelong hobby at the tender age of sixteen, it’s virtually guaranteed to see you through a lot: various stages of awkwardness, confusion, frustration, epiphany, and change, for starters. It’s called growing up, and I toured those stages of adolescence and young adulthood quite literally on foot. For the past eight years, I’ve been a runner, each footstep carrying me though life as I know it. As you can imagine, I’ve worn through many pairs of Asics in the process.

As a sophomore in high school, I picked up the jogging habit that was already a constant in my dad’s life. Up until that point, my music knowledge had been gleaned from the same parental sources: I’d listened to a strange combination of Motown and classical symphonies forever, never really extending my own musical tastes past the edges of theirs. And while oldies and opera sufficed as the soundtrack for family car trips, my new running habit allowed for freedom of musical choice. Armed with headphones and a Discman, I added artists to my repertoire, slowly becoming enamored with the songs that propelled me on increasingly lengthy jogs. I discovered Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Bob Dylan a few years into my running career, at eighteen or nineteen, swam to the bottom of their discographies and drowned myself in sound. All the while, I was pounding pavement or snaking through wooded trails, running away from a few heart-ripping breakups and familial dysfunction, and towards new friends, new love, and eventual peace within my home.

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When you’re suddenly bedridden on a three-day weekend, courtesy of a particularly nasty cold, reading magazines is a cheerful way to pass the hours (unlike blowing your nose through entire boxes of Kleenex). In doing so, I was inspired by a section in Glamour magazine, where stylish girls shared their tips for dressing with flair. The catch? They made less than $30K per year…but from their wardrobes, you could never tell! Needless to say, I mined their interviews for money-saving ideas. One girl said that every season, she made a strictly-edited list of coveted closet additions, and stuck to it (rather than picking up items here and there as the spirit moved her). It makes sense, right? Grocery lists keep you from trolling the aisles in search of frivolous sugary purchases, and to-do lists at work keep me on track to get out of the office on time…it’s about planning ahead so you can stay focused and maximize your resources. So I think I’ll do the same for my summer shopping list!

Side note: I’m totally loving Glamour! I didn’t read it growing up (I was kept busy with the ridiculous number of other magazines my mom subscribed to). But they’ve caught my eye recently by featuring thought-provoking pieces on body image, and by practicing what they preach (a beautiful, fuller-figured woman is featured on this month’s cover, in a swimsuit!). I love this—sure, many women’s magazines now feature articles to the tune of “You’re Beautiful Just the Way You Are,” but few offer great work (like cover opportunities) to models who look like normal people. So kudos to Glamour for challenging the status quo with action, not just lip service.

Without further ado, my must-haves for summer!

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Am I the only one who imagines her life set to a soundtrack? Sometimes, I catch myself pressing the “play” button in my head as I walk down the street. If my steps are determined and purposeful, I choose a track with a driving beat. When I’m overcome with some sort of angsty emotion (heartache comes to mind), something soulful rings through my ears. I’d be far too bashful to be the object of so many moviegoers’ gazes, but I’ll admit this: I love imagining that my feelings are so epic as to deserve their own 3-minute, cinematic scenes (set to to my favorite songs, of course).

Earbuds and my trusty little iPod make those daydreams portable, but my nostalgic side prefers the old-school romance of vinyl records. As I mentioned last week, Saturday was Record Store Day, when music nerds like me came out of the woodwork to celebrate with special vinyl-only releases and nifty deals at our favorite record shops. That day, Ted and I added six albums to our collection; his contributions were a Brazilian samba album by Jorge Ben, Loudon Wainwright’s Album III, and something by his favorite mandolinist David Grisman.

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For me, new life stages usually beget the realization that I need to change my clothes. Expectations and attitude, sure, but more importantly my wardrobe. What made this post-grad realization different, though, was that I knew it’d be permanent. For that first big college internship, I hurried out for a summertime business-casual shopping spree. But I knew that come August, like midnight for Cinderella, I’d be back in my carefree collegiate duds.

This time, there’s no expiration date on my job, and I was in need of more than those internship holdovers I wore a few Julys ago in Chicago. It was Mall Time! But serious Mall Time, not like those lazy, aimless excursions of junior high. This time, I was ready with a plan of attack, my eye relentlessly on the prize.

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It wasn’t until I was an adult that I learned redheads were made fun of for their natural coloring. In maintaining that innocence, I at least had the benefit of being female; my male counterparts likely learned about this stigma much earlier on. (And I was certainly aided in the matter by not living in the UK.)

Rather than see it as a source of shame, I was quite proud of my hair color, which I thought of as a badge of honor. I was partially brainwashed into this opinion by my mother, who (bless her heart) was always pointing out the ginger actresses in People magazine, and to this day still sends me the occasional ginger-themed article via e-mail. As any teenager might imagine, all this positive reinforcement was eye-roll-inducing at the time, but it always made me feel a little bit special at an age when everything else about my appearance felt awkward.

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I’ll admit, being a perfectionist can be a useful thing: my bills are always paid on time, I never miss a work deadline, and my meticulous measuring skills usually lead to successful batches of cookies and brownies. On the other hand, there are plenty of times when that perfectionism is problematic, such as when I refuse to buy furniture until I find exactly the right thing to complement the blue shade of the walls, and the other furniture I already have, and no no no, that chair is too boxy and that one’s seat is too deep!

Are you exhausted yet? Care to sit down on a comfortable reading couch? I am, finally. This oversized chair arrived today, and I’m so excited to sprawl out under a fleece blanket and just read. Here’s what’s on my must-read list right now.

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Well, hello there! (Yes, I realize that there’s nobody out there yet. I am, however, comfortable with talking to myself.)

I’ve decided to take a flying leap into the abyss of the Internets and try my hand at blogging. It feels only natural for someone who misses the writing assignments of long-ago high school English classes—and someone who’s itching to learn more about her camera. And why not share the love? I’ve long been a lurker on my favorite blogs, culling inspiration (and recipes) from their posts, but have never really given back to the community.

Plus, there’s lots to mull over. As other recent college grads can attest, this point in life is both momentous and confusing: we have our entire life stories waiting to be written, but all these choices and options can feel paralyzing. I’m reminded of an issue of Psychology Today that my roommates and I often flipped through, pausing at the dog-eared article entitled “The Art of Now.” It was a six-step, detailed list providing instructions on how to stop overthinking and start living in the moment. Ironic, no? But paradoxically, that’s sort of the perfect way for my list-making self to start exploring. With endless directions to turn now that I’m living on my own, a little organization helps me focus my spontaneity. Most often, I turn to lists to find direction, whether they be to-do lists, life lists, wish lists—heck, even New Year’s resolutions! I just can’t fight my natural planning tendencies, so I may as well use my OCD powers for good rather than evil.

So it feels like a natural step to start publicly checking things off my lists
on A Little Ginger. (It’s really an appropriate name, given that I’m a five-foot-two redhead who feels at home in the kitchen.) I hope you stick around (or rather, join me) as I start writing that story.