THE TORTOISE & THE HARE

It feels appropriate to compare my first year in New York to being a turtle frightened back into its shell. Luckily, I've caught my breath, stuck out my neck to see if the coast was clear and have found my way back to the race.

I can't even believe its been TEN MONTHS since I moved to NYC! I've already lived in four apartments, given directions to a tourist, yelled at an intern right after my boss yelled at me, fallen for a guy too good looking to be straight (SO unfair), had a half-dozen celebrity sitings, befriended more Jews than exist in the entire Midwest, spent an entire Sunday in Central Park, kicked my Yellow Cab motion sickness to the curb, shopped a designer sample sale (well, maybe a few), modeled for The Early Show, saw a taping of The Daily Show, attended a fashion show during NY Fashion Week (photos here), and slept through an entire night.

If I tried to tell you all the things I've learned so far (about myself, about friendships, about what I want to do with the rest of my life) it would be impossible--quite possibly, boring as hell. Besides, I'm only beginning to recognize how moving here (which sometimes feels like, giving up everything I ever wanted in Colorado and submitting myself to torture) has changed me. So instead, I'll share just one thing and save the rest for a more intimate setting. Say, coffee on the front porch swing at the Back Cabin or two bar stools on the end after a long brunch at Brasserie 1010.

One thing I've learned is that trying too hard to make things perfect can bring you to a screeching halt. Perfectionism is something that I've struggled with (ehem, excelled at") my entire life and learned to manage long ago. In all familiar settings, that is. Pair a new city and a new job with a serious penchant for critical observation and you've might as well have a corpse on your hands.

Naturally, I'm exaaaaaggerating, but you get the point. It's hard to do a perfect job of something when you have no idea what (the eff) you're doing. Remember that next time you try to out-perfect yourself in unfamiliar territory--that's all I'm going to say. Sadly, it applies to my blog, too. For some reason I got it in my head that every post, every sentence, every word had to have this weight and wisdom that became completely unattainable in an everyday sense. I mean, sure, writers hit the jackpot here and there, but really...blogs wrapped up with a perfect little bow each time? Reminds me a lot of trusting a guy who doesn't exist to deliver all the right presents to all the right children of the world in less than eight hours one night of the year. DOESN'T HAPPEN.

For awhile, I didnt know what to say...and I didn't know what was worth saying..and I didn't really feel like I was the authority on anything. Which, for a writer, is a lot like having laryngitis: you can't say a whole lot when you lose your voice.

In terms of dealing with perfectionism in unexpected places, I finally decided that something, anything is better than perfect-nothing. And if I have to post half-blogs or only have time for a photo, its better than silence. Let's be honest, I'm not a very quiet person. The important thing is that I'm writing and while no one in this big, fat city probably gives a shit, I know at least three people (besides my mom) who do.

Since you know who you are--thank you for the emails, Facebook messages, encouraging voice mail and persuasive harassment to get me to write again. ...Even if it is 4:27am.

Xxxxxx and now Zzzzz...