10.08.2010
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...
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...
7.08.2010
Sheeesh
http://blogs.psychcentral.com/mindful-living/2010/07/proclamation-of-psychological-independence/
5.16.2010
Simple Diary
Jess and I perused the gift shop (ahem, exited through the gift shop) after spending some time at the Whitney Museum this afternoon, and came across a terrific surprise: Keel's Simple Diary. Jess, her mom (Coleen) and I quickly decided that we couldn't live without our own, and took home copies in royal blue, orange and yellow, respectively. (The diary's author--that's strange oxymoron--Philipp Keel, has a lot to say about why people choose the color that they do.) For each day, the Simple Diary asks you to chose from three descriptions that best complete the sentence, "Your day was (only chose one)." For example, a. a lettuce, b. an ostrich, or c. a bonus. You can see how this keeps things much more interesting than your typical diary. In the intro, Keel writes that "there are three reasons why most people, although they have tried, wont keep a diary: 1. Not every day is very eventful. 2. It actually takes a lot of discipline (regarding 1 even more so). 3. In retrospect, many find what they have written quite embarrassing." His version, as you will see below, has a completely different take on recording the day's events (not to mention a fantastically-creative use of adjectives). Sadly, tonight marked the end of Jess's NYC visit, so we've agreed to use the diaries as a way to stay connected. I'll do my best to post our entries here from time to time, for comparison, and with as little editing as I can manage. To kick off our little experiment, the three of us filled out our first pages tonight after dinner...
Lindsey
Jess
Coleen (aka Mama Petrey)
Lindsey
Jess
Coleen (aka Mama Petrey)
5.15.2010
Brainwash
Mom,
I saw this movie last night: Exit Through The Gift Shop
Its all about street art (ahem, graffiti... stenciling... public/semi-illegal street installations, etc.) and one notoriously-anonymous artist, Banksy, in particular. I know the subject matter might not sound appealing to you at first, but I can assure you there's more depth here than it may seem. Its a great documentary about how urban street artists run around at night with buckets of glue, climbing billboards high above the city, searching for vacant lots and the "best walls" to display their work, why they do what they do and how the mainstream media/art world misconstrues the whole lot. Decide for yourself, but the film is basically a hoax based on two incredible street artists, Shepherd Fairey and Banksy, who turn the camera around on this documentary "filmmaker" (really, just a crazy French guy who loves videotaping everything around him). They encourage him as a pop/street artist and he gets all this media attention, then sells his (crap art) for millions of dollars.... Anyway, its super-entertaining and a provocative commentary on today's art culture. If you can find where its playing around you, GO SEE IT.
Most importantly, it will really inspire you to see everyday life as a canvas of possibility! Mmmmuuuuuaaa!
STREET AS GALLERY
5.04.2010
Saturday
When I moved to New York back in December, there were some things that I had in mind. Namely, artsy parties, artsy men, more fashion than I could every get tired of (or afford), fanTAStic restaurants and dressing fabulously. I had reached a point in my life where the place that I lived no longer offered me the type of challenges or growth that I craved. I resigned to give up my comfortable one-bedroom apartment, my garden, and a three-block walk to a mountain park for any sign of, well... grass or privacy.
What I didn't have in mind were some of the unbelievable ways I would be pushed, the insecurities and temptations that would pull me or how quickly my energies would dissipate during the course of an exhausting move while recreating my social life from scratch. It seems obvious, but on top of everything, I can't seem to get it through my head that these things don't happen overnight. THe stakes are high, the expectations higher and my self-standards are through the roof.
In times like these, its no wonder that yoga makes me cry, restless nights leave my eyes bloodshot and that I don't feel quite like myself. In honor of clearing my mind and showing myself a little love this weekend, I've resigned to give myself a damn break. It's nothing but double cappuccinos, French photographer exhibits and brownies for breakfast --if that's what will make me happy.
Au revoir! That's all for now! Mmmmmuuuuuuaaaaaa!
5.03.2010
4.28.2010
4.20.2010
Chester
Today is Friday, April 23. (I've had to update the date three times since I've started...saved...re-started this post.) I've been slammed at work for four days and this is the first five minutes that I've had to check in. Since I left you, I've become obsessed with a taco stand in the East Village, Snack Dragon. I discovered a Sullivan Street Bakery in Hell's Kitchen, near my office (try the tortino di cioccolato. I diiiiie) ...I brunched at Balthazaar ...found out that Lupe's on 6th Ave serves tostadas instead of pancakes, like I thought ...I saw my first Broadway musical ...witnessed my life flash before me twice (once because I forgot my Metro card and wasn't sure that I could get to work, twice because I locked myself out of my apartment) ...made my first irritated remark to a tourist ...AND mourned the death of my grandfather: the late, great Chet Wielgos.
My grandfather passed away several weeks ago after a relatively short battle with lung cancer --the best you can hope for in a worst-case senario, and he will be missed tremendously. On the day of his funeral, we sat in the 70-degree sun and listened to a bugler play taps into the Indiana breeze. I'll never forget it.
On my way back to New York, I thought maybe my grandfather had been reincarnated as a stranger (rather, many, very friendly strangers). Anyone will tell you that my grandfather was a walking, talking Associated Press wire. Any time of day he could feed you information on the latest, greatest whatever was happening, debate politics, or tell you more about the news happening in your own town before you ever knew it happened.
The stranger-reincarnation started with the old man TSA agent who held up the airport security line for ten minutes while he embarrassingly flattered me with compliments and told that he wanted to come with me on my flight, and the New Yorker who went out of his way to wish me a good morning. Out of nowhere, people were approaching me, left and right, to say hello. It's hard to explain why these interactions were different than before, but it's easy to understand how moving to a city like New York will suddenly make you feel very invisible. Then, suddenly, I was the ONLY person that everyone noticed. And you know what? That's the way it felt when you spent time with my grandpa --like you were the only person that mattered.
(I have to quit that before I tear up. R.I.P. Chit-chat-Chet!) There's more...
4.14.2010
Imogene & Willie
This is just the sweetest, coziest website --I love it. The designers real names are Matt and Carrie. Their self-described concept is "a mix of product design, product execution, and product distribution...all in one retro-fitted gas station. It is like an artisan bakery for premium apparel." I'll take two of whatever they're cookin' up, yummm!Photos by Aron Wright
3.22.2010
New Friends In Unexpected Places (And A Few To Boot)
OUI! So many, many things... Today is Friday, March 26. My last post was a downer. I'm not even going to reread it. In the end I was so sick of looking at my crappy sentiments that I published it unfinished, whiney and melodramatic. Ew. Today is a new day. Ready for a not-so-PC, ADD-style installment of Linda's Life? Here goes, in hot new rewind stylee...
Entertaining.
Monday night Danee and I went to Upright Citizens Brigade for my friend Oren's comedy show, Front Page Films. Despite the pouring rain, we managed to slip into some open seats a few minutes after the start of the show. My favorite segment? A candlelight ballad, sung by the group's red-haired counterpart. The song's about writing lies in your diary --your Liary. Is hillarious and brilliant and hats off to a much-needed laugh. Performing on stage looked like so much fun.
Even More Entertaining.
Being at the same party with the girl who slept with the guy I liked while they were in Thailand (GWSWTGILIT). Oh wow, that sentence has filth written all over it, I'm going to go wash my hands...
Most Entertaining.
Managing uncomfortable emotions in public places (read: rage. Though may include snot-sobbing sadness). In other words, playing a game I like to call "acting mature": saying hello to the GWSWTGILIT and giving her a hug. And by "entertaining," I mean completely fcuking excrutiating.
Crazy-making.
Let's talk about a few things that happen to me that don't seem to happen to anyone else... By the time I walk from the train to my office every morning, my skirt makes its way 180 degrees to the right, around my body. A couple times, it has even twisted my shirt along with it. I dont know which is worse: trying to akwardly readjust as I'm walking down the street or walking into the office with my clothes on sideways. Is troubling. Here's another question: what is it about the left stocking that makes every pair of tights I wear so uncomfortable on one side and not the other? I wear them a lot. I notice these things. Just saaying...
Sarah Palin is so gimmicky.
...Sorry, I got distracted by her cheerleading antics on tv right now. Blah
Refreshing.
Following a particularly harrowing week of work recently, something incredible happened. At once, the tides changed, the sea parted, and the skies cleared ...ALL...BECAUSE I PLAYED COMPETITIVE GOLF IN HIGH SCHOOL. Whaaa? Yes. Now in most situations I dont really consider this a cool thing to brag about, but when I do occassionally let the cat out of the bag, its a tremendous hit. Especially with two CBS News executives --one of whom "kidnapped" me for a field trip last Friday to the driving range at Chelsea Piers. They've nicknamed it "the most expensive driving range in the country," and if right now you can't imagine anyone classier than me, you should know one more thing. I had to kick off my heels, roll up my pants, and go barefoot!
Speaking of Fridays... I'm out of here! Have a great weekend, everyone. I'll write soon ...so many adventures, so easily distracted. xx
3.17.2010
A Long Way From Last Year
Happy St. Patty's Day, everyone! In honor of this delightful holiday I'm going to dedicate no part of this blog to beer, shamrocks, leprechauns or Irish trivia. (For the facts, see here.) I was visiting New York, however, this time last year, so it is remarkable to think of how much my life has changed since then.
This time last year I was living in Boulder, working for a financial planning and was about a week away from being unexpectedly laid off --yikes! As turmultuous as the incident was at first, the circumstances gave birth to one of the best summers of my life (in fact, my last in Colorado), prompted my "volunteership" at Warren Miller Entertainment, and was the catalyst that finally motivated me to move to New York!
Now here I am, Day 111, knowing one thing for sure: I probably would've never made this move if I knew how hard it was going to be. (Ha!) But seriously, I'm not saying that I regret moving because I don't regret it at all. I'm just surprised by how quickly (and rather naievely) I have brought myself face-to-face with some of the toughest challenges of my life. My naievite is melting away faster than you can say the word, and I'm just hoping that my positive outlook doesn't wash away with it.
One of the main reasons why I haven't written lately is because I'm afraid of what I might say (frustration is a 4-letter word?). I've been put through the wringer a bit, so I needed to put things in a little broader perspective first.
This time last year I was living in Boulder, working for a financial planning and was about a week away from being unexpectedly laid off --yikes! As turmultuous as the incident was at first, the circumstances gave birth to one of the best summers of my life (in fact, my last in Colorado), prompted my "volunteership" at Warren Miller Entertainment, and was the catalyst that finally motivated me to move to New York!
Now here I am, Day 111, knowing one thing for sure: I probably would've never made this move if I knew how hard it was going to be. (Ha!) But seriously, I'm not saying that I regret moving because I don't regret it at all. I'm just surprised by how quickly (and rather naievely) I have brought myself face-to-face with some of the toughest challenges of my life. My naievite is melting away faster than you can say the word, and I'm just hoping that my positive outlook doesn't wash away with it.
One of the main reasons why I haven't written lately is because I'm afraid of what I might say (frustration is a 4-letter word?). I've been put through the wringer a bit, so I needed to put things in a little broader perspective first.
3.02.2010
Stomach Ache
Today is Tuesday, March 2 and I don't know what my problem is. I can't satisfy my craving for pizza ...and pasta...ribolita...more pizza ...french bread rolls ...chicken and sausage gumbo... I don't know what's happening to me, but I can tell you that I'm putting an end to it tomorrow! This all started two weeks ago when my boss was out of the office.
She left me specific instructions to order cupcakes for the President of CBS News and Sports, for his birthday, the day after she left. No big deal and considering I'm on the unofficial hunt for the best cupcake in nyc, I thought it would be fun to try a new place on the Upper West Side and sample one myself. FUN, that is, until that day turned out to be one of the worst, slushiest, snow-stormy days and none of the bakeries would deliver.
Knowing the answer in my heart, I decided to ask one of the other assistant's for her opinion of the sceniario. "Definitely order from a place that delivers," she suggested. Since every bakery from here to Queens told me I was out of my mind (well, one place offered to deliver for an extra $30), guess who had to drag herself outside in the slush? Yours truly, Linda Super Assistant: committed to excellence in the face of every Noreaster.
I flagged the first cab to Columbus Avenue Magnolia Bakery, picked up six cupcakes, and turned right back around. After sloshing through the lobby on a mission, I carefully composed myself and triumphantly opened the door to the President's office.
...Who had already left for the day.
My heart sank as his assistant shrugged somewhat sympathetically. "Don't tell (your boss," she said. "It's okay. He will get them tomorrow when he comes in, and will be even more excited."
But, no. To make matters worse, the next day was the start of Lent, and he had given up cupcakes for the next forty days. Which is what I'm going to have to do if I keep up with all this pizza and pasta and absolutely delicious Magnolia cupcakes!
Following Operation Hope-My-Boss-Never-Finds-Out (which, of course, she did), a box of 16 Magnolia cupcakes were delivered to our office as a thank you gift. Having your first choice (well, second choice) of 16 exquisitely-frosted, deeeelicious delights is almost too much to bear. But I managed to limit myself to one the first day and two "try" bites of reject cupcakes leftover on the second day. (Don't order the caramel-whatevers or the carrot cake ones with pasty cream-cheese frosting. Ask Jen. It tastes like glue.)
Yesterday there were birthday cupcakes from Cupcake Cafe for an executive's birthday down the hall. Let me just say that these were much easier to resist. Cupcake Cafe specializes in (admittedly, beautiful) butter cream flowers that, luckily, do nothing for me. I brought one back to my desk to be polite, but promptly threw it in the trash.
And JUST when I thought that I was in the clear... finishing off my healthy greek yogurt breakfast... in walked another coworker with a box of donuts! I'm tempted to find out from her where they came from (because the half of half of one, followed by the half of another that I tried, was amaaaazing), but I don't trust myself. By midmorning I had a stomach ache and by now it looks like Hansel and Gretel ran circles around my office all afternoon.
I rounded out the afternoon with a delicious slice of pizza from Casabianca, across the street from my office, and (gasp) half a diet coke. Is it just me or is there something about working in an office that makes you crave a crappy, diet soda? Ick. Enough of that fizz, I'm going to punish myself with a CoreFusion Yoga class tonight at Exhale. The only other time I took this class, my quads were so sore I couldn't walk right for three days. It's the only class I've ever taken where you have to wear mandatory socks to grip the ballet bar. I'm actually nervous.
FREE Cupcakes tomorrow (...will this ever end?)
2.24.2010
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!
2.17.2010
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.
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!
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!
2.15.2010
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....
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....
2.06.2010
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!
2.04.2010
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?
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?
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