This is what adulting looks like in my world.

Wondering what grand sartorial statement to make this July 4 weekend (beyond nails jauntily painted in shades of red, white, and blue, of course)? Problem solved: our Adulting sweatshirt - you know, your favorite sweatshirt in your closet? - is now available as a tank top. And not just any tank top...the best tank top. Elise and I tried a whole bunch of different cuts and fabrics, and found one that is soft and ever-so-slightly slouchy in all the right places, meaning the muffin-top-concealing ones. (Visible bra straps not included, but obviously recommended.)

Note: this style runs a touch big - I usually wear a medium in tops, but am a small in this one because the armholes are a little oversized (meaning that the tank is extremely summer-friendly, but also that you'll probably want to wear a bralet or bathing suit top underneath regardless of which size you choose).

Here is me alone, because I was too shy to ask for a photo with Richard.

Cool, so I now officially have a HUGE crush on Richard Branson. (It's ok: Kendrick knows, and I think he has a huge crush on Richard Branson, too.) I guess I need to do some catching up on my Virgin lore, because I hadn't heard the story of how he started his airline before, and it's a doozy: he got bumped off of a flight on his way to see - and I quote - "a lovely lady friend," and was so annoyed that he hired a plane, wrote "Virgin Airlines, Flights $39" on a blackboard and wandered around signing up all the other passengers who had been bumped...and then called Boeing the next day to inquire about purchasing a used 747.

THAT IS SO BADASS.

We are, at present, camping - but not, like, "camping," like "yay, hamburgers!"...like camping. In the middle of absolutely nowhere. With no running water or bathrooms or humans that aren't us anywhere in close range, and with a park ranger who informed us upon our arrival that we were not to leave until the designated departure time. And when I said "What if there's an emergency?" he said, "I guess you call 911."

Important detail: I have no cell phone service here.

(Or I sort of do - I managed to find a single spot in our site that had enough service to allow me to set up an extremely weak personal hotspot, which I used first to email my parents and tell them where, exactly, we are, because it occurred to me that I gave this information to literally nobody prior to our departure, and if Ranger John shows up tonight and sets animal traps to catch us and then puts us in his woodland dungeon, it'd be nice if somebody at least had a hint where to start looking. And then I used the remaining molecule of Internet access to write this post, because I have skipped a day of posting only once in my eight years of writing this website, and I don't want anyone to notice that I didn't post on Friday and prematurely suspect that we are currently starring in a real-life The Hills Are Alive. I mean, we might be. But let's at least wait and see, shall we?)

If you have never been to a swap party, here's a solid life tip for you: Go to one. Or host one. Because what will happen is you will clear out all that stuff in your closet that you don't actually wear, and possibly replace it with stuff that you will.

But throwing a swap party isn't actually as simple as "invite people over and let them trade stuff" - it works much better if a little organization is involved. When faced with the prospect of owning cashmere sweatshirts and designer bags that they do not have to pay for, people tend to do better with a few rules.

These are mine.