Send This Snow To Colorado

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

Today is one of those misty, overcast days in New York when people can't seem to decide whether to wear their wool coat, sleeping-bag coat or (in my case, new) trench coat to best combat the weather. One thing's for sure, though. Everyone wears rubber boots, in varying degrees of ugly.

Walking from the train to work this morning, the conditions made me feel like I was truly in the Northeast. Something about mist and fog feels very nautical to me, as cheesy as that is to admit. (Oh, COME ON, they don't have weather like this in Boulder, its been awhile!) As I walked down 57th Street, my mind wandered to thoughts of riding around in my best friend's jeep and sailing with her in Rhode Island. Ah, summer...

Then, as soon as it began, the daydream is over. Hello work. Every day, I spin around the revolving door and my day officially begins.

Things at work have loosened up quite a bit in the past two weeks, which makes my job feel much less exhausting. Its funny how mis-connecting a phone call can make you doubt your competency, but believe me, it does. I'm off and running now with a week's worth of training (after a month of learning the hard way), and a week of my boss being out of the country on top of that.

To be perfectly honest, I'm not a natural executive assistant. I've been called a lot of things in my 26 years, but I'm pretty sure none of those included, "great multi-tasker," "excellent concentration," "patient," "sits still," or "quiet." My boss thought that I could "do this job with my eyes closed" when she hired me, yet I'm fascinated by the meaning of a "really great assistant." Hmm...fascinated might be taking it a bit far.

So what else is happening? New York Fashion Week was last week, so every newspaper, magazine, subway poster and billboard was a reminder of the direction that I want to take my life .....eventually. I've decided to give myself two years here, 1. to adjust (apartment, job, friends, etc.) and 2. to do enough investigating/research to come up with a passion-for-fashion plan, before I put any pressure on myself. The hard part will be reminding myself that I have "a plan to make a plan."

I guess I'll end with the biggest news: I've found an apartment! After the Douchebag 2.0 Thailand Crisis a few weeks ago (which, btw, don't hold your breath for "Manboys of New York Part 2" since I've left that drama far behind) I was left to fend for myself apartment-wise, which turned out to be very wise, indeed. Instead of spending close to $5,000 moving into a new, two-bedroom apartment, I accepted a terrific sublet offer to live with a friend, Stephanie.

My current rommate, Danee, met Stephanie while living abroad in London and the two are pretty much best friends, from what I can tell. My delicious, pre-CBS baking and cooking must've paid off if Danee felt comfortable enough to recommend me as a roommate. Maybe comfortable isn't the word, considering how everyone's clothes may fit post Lindsey's stress-induced baking. We've all spent time together since I've moved here, and I'm really looking forward to having a closet in the city to call my own!

The apartment is a six-story walkup on Mulberry and Grand, which is absolutely perfect if you're into things like garland and garlic. Mulberry Street is one of the final remains of the neighborhood known as Little Italy (now mostly overrun by Chinatown) and I'll be living in the smack dab center of all it's gaudy glory!

Wish me luck moving this weekend in the middle of YET ANOTHER snowstorm. Photos to come!

Manboys of NYC (Part I)

I just spent the morning reading about the Literary Manboys of New York City. That's right, Manboys. I've also read enough self-fulfilling apology letters in the last four days to last me a lifetime. Oh, and I've sworn off checking my blackberry before I get out of bed in the morning. So THAT'S what's new with me.

I've pulled myself from the wreckage of learning that the guy I liked slept with a girlfriend of mine in Thailand while they were traveling, and have nursed myself back to health with a little remedy I like to call wine/pasta/mom-and-sis-weekend/chocolate/friends/chat-roulette/hot-Lupa-waiter/weed. I'm feeling much better, thank you for asking. My initial shock (not at all "surprise") turned to angry indifference over the weekend, particularly after reading the vague apology letters that flooded my inbox.

Why anyone would think that it's a good idea to send a written apology to a pissed-off writer is beyond me. A phone call would've probably rendered me speechless, but an email apology is just begging for a response. So, with restraint, I critiqued. I criticized his apology's (self-serving) effectiveness, approached the actual issue from a creative angle (to make sure he was actually paying attention), and then threw in a snarky zinger for good measure (slash, for womankind).

As I predicted, writing a response didn't make me feel any better. Instead, my heart pounded out of my chest, my adrenaline surged, and I thought I was going to faint on the subway platform. His second response came almost immediately once I was outside. There were so many "so sorry's" that my blackberry looked like an SOS receiver for ships lost at sea. ...Lost is right.

There's two phenomenons happening to men in the United States between the ages of 25-36 (give or take however many years it takes to relate your own example). The first is not exclusive to men: The quarter life crisis. The second is most common amongst artsy, creative types, but I'll just call them: Manboys. Let's start with the quarter life crisis scenario, since I'm feeling a little guilty about using all caps to get my point across last night.

Quarter life Crisis (n.) [krahy-sis] [krahy-sissy] [krahy-baby] 1. You can't make any decisions because you don't know what you want. And you don't know what you want because you don't know who you are. And you don't know who you are because you're allowed to be anyone you want. Characterized by unrelenting indecision, isolation, confusion and anxiety about working, relationships and direction.

Logan sent me a great article about Crisis .25, which completely informed this post, so go read it. The author writes, "Imagine a day in the life of a couple you probably know. He's 27 years old, she's 26. They wake up beside each other in his downtown bachelor apartment and have sx that neither of them particularly enjoys. They've been sort-of dating for a while now, but they're not willing to commit to each other: he likes her, but doesn't know if he always will. She can't decide if she likes him more or less than the other two guys she's dating. ...He doesn't really hate his job, but feels as if his skin is crawling with vermin most of the time that he's there, so he has a plan to move to Thailand..." STOP. Thailand....really?? How many of you have actually been to Thailand? It's a dirty, catch-all cesspool for people between the ages of 18-36 who are trying to find themselves while masquerading as backpackers. What's with all the hype? Hasn't anyone seen Brokedown Palace??

"...He goes to the bar after work to meet up with some university friends, where they talk about their jobs and make ironic jokes about people. ...She clicks through Facebook photos of girls she knew in high school posing with their husbands and babies ...'When did this happen for them?' she wonders. ...They both eventually fall asleep ...wondering what it is that's wrong with them that they can't quite seem to understand."

If, at any point in your late twenties, you find yourself wondering 'When did this all happen,' or you suddenly feel a deep sense of regret about the unconscious way you've been living the last 5 years of your life, its safe to assume that you've entered Crisis .25. Sit down. IT WILL ALL BE OKAY (says the 26 year old).

Its true that to most of the guys that I've known, the quarter life crisis is triggered by "a kind of malaise that the end of youth is really the end of fun. And that you're never going to have any fun again, because you have to work. You're never going to have sx again, because you're going to get married. Your life is over." COME ON. This slew of misconceptions brings two things to mind: All women (especially not the career-driven urbanites of nyc) are not out for the same 1950's style, one-size-fits-all commitment level from day 1, and you can redefine "working" or "grown up" or "age appropriate" in whatever way you want. There are no rules that say wearing makeup or heels will make you a grown-up, just ask 4-yr old Libby Fraser. Those fears are phony. I also think women of my generation have more experience evolving, redefining, in this way. (As Alanna summed it up last night: Women are more evolved.)

...Where did the time go? It's already time to leave. Part II tomorrow...

xoxo Goodnight!

Tired of This Black and Blue

Monday, February 15.

I can't decide whether "things are never as they seem," or if "things are always as they seem." What I can tell you is that the difference depends on how well you listen to your intuition, your gut.

Have you ever told someone who was asking you for advice that they already know the answer? I might even argue that the more a person asks others for advice, the more certain they are of the outcome. They just don't like it.

One thing is certain: being in tune with your intuition really sucks. At the times when you need it most, it hardly ever sends the message that you want to hear (which is why it's easy to ignore). One's intuition is clearly guided by something of a much higher power than ourselves, god, fate, or some other omniscient, gray-space life force we can't quite put our finger on, making it even harder to take seriously. But none of that matters at the end of the day. Do you know why not?

Because after 26 years, facts are facts. I can ignore the deep, aching something's-suspicious-here feeling in my gut, but when it turns out to be true 99% of the time, intuition wins. There's just no messing with statistics, friends. Math is math. I know this because I failed Calculus twice in high school. Forreals.

I know this is a pretty bullshit-vague post that's not the least bit insightful, but the truth is that I'm tired and I feel like shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit about some whorey news that I heard over the weekend. The second I get over the disturbing fact that "things are always as they seem," I'll write about a topic that's mildly uplifting. I promise.

Zzzzzzzzz....

It's Saturday!

It's Saturday February 6, and I can't sleep in past 9am. Things like that might matter on a hot, sunny summer day, but when there's snow on the ground and freezing temperatures outside, I'd rather be cozied up in bed for the better part of the afternoon. Tough luck. I'm going to change into some spandex and head uptown to my favorite yoga class. It's a 90-minute heated vinyasa at noon today, yikes. Wish me luck!

Grace Hotel

Crap. These posts are getting lazier and lazier. There's really no excuse, except tonight I have a good one. My good friend Katie Lime has just gone full-time jewelry designer and she's hosting a party tonight to celebrate in Brooklyn. As it turns out, my boss left early today and I can scoot before 7pm. With a 45 min train ride ahead of me, I need all the time I can get!

Real quick, though. I had an amazing adventure last night! Possibly the best since I've been in nyc. It all began with the text, "pool party?" from my friend Oren at 6:30pm. Did I mention it was 34-degrees last night? Intrigued, and understanding how rare pools are in manhattan, I said yes.

After that I went home, collapsed on the couch for twenty minutes, made some broccoli pasta, and managed to find a second wind. When he told me to meet him at 11 in Times Square, it crossed my mind that maybe the whole thing was be some kind of hillarious, initiation joke. Times Square? Really? Images of myself, bikini-clad in a trench coat, bathing in the bright-as-day lights, alone in Times Square flashed through my head before I brushed them away and hopped on the 1 train.

We met up at Oren's apartment in Chelsea and took a cab uptown to the Grace Hotel on West 45th Street. "It's really amazing," Oren told me as we walked through a deserted Times Square. I could tell he was excited by the way he jumped from one description to another, from tall, black swimsuit models to the best way to sneak three friends in for the price of one.

When we got there, the pool was deserted. It sits at eye level in a room off the front lobby of this tiny, boutique hotel. You'd never even notice the Grace Hotel unless you knew exactly what you were looking for. I'm not even sure we would've found it were it not for the round, orange sign illuminating the sidewalk outside.

By the time we got there, whatever sort of Wednesday night "party" was happening was pretty much over, but the bartender let us have free reign for the rest of the night.

Pink and yellow lights illuminate the seductive-looking pool as soon as you enter through the bar. There is a flat wall behind the pool, used to project movies on the weekends, and a stadium-style lounge area with neat towel pyramids and oversized pillows. At the top of the lounge area are three glass rooms; a steam room, an open shower room, and a sauna. Since the sauna was barely warm, we turned the steam up as high as it would go in the first room and spread our towels out facing one another. Within two minutes, the steam was so thick that the whole room was a cloud and I couldn't see a thing.

I'll let the photos speak for themselves, but the place is terrific. I think it only cost $5 to get in the pool and though the drinks aren't cheap, it's more than worth it for a couple hours of swim time, dance beats, and sauna soak in the middle of December. Who knew Times Square could be so relaxing?