Random Daily Musings

Wow.  It’s been exactly eleven months since my last post.  That last post came just about a week after I met my (now) fiance, David.  It was also scribed just a week after I switched offices.  I had just moved into a new apartment way up in the nosebleed section of Manhattan.  I was living with two good friends, from whom I have now either moved apart or away from.  I was twenty-six, thinking I couldn’t get older.  And now here I am, almost twenty-eight.  Seems unthinkable.  In five days, on November 1st, I will move again; a huge, rent-stabilized one bedroom in my ideal neighborhood:  Midtown West, just one block from Columbus Circle, and two to the park.  Hearst Tower is on my block.  I love that building.  Filled with such possibility.  I love watching the impossibly stylish women teeter in their Manolos as they rush into work in that building, as I am coming back from my morning runs.  I used to go to castings there.  Mainly for Cosmopolitan magazine.  I no longer model.  Don’t miss that world.  Questioning every bite, doubting every decision.  Growing out hair, only to chop again.  No, I am much happier now, I think.  “What do you do?”  People ask.  “Everything.”  I do everything now.  It’s interesting, but unstable.  Not that I’ve EVER known stability- not in the workplace. 

It’s OK, though.  The few stabs I’ve had at stable jobs, I’ve absolutely hated.  Hustler by nature.  Can’t work for anyone else, either.  I can work WITH people, but not for them. 

And life is unstoppably interesting.  Every year different.  Last year was the year of the marathon, of my first trip abroad, of deciding to go to grad school.  This year has been the year of finding truth and love with another human, of stopping to look around, of making A LOT of mistakes, and of deciding NOT to go to grad school.  Filled with tons of uncertainty, wonder, and at times, fear.  In some ways, this has thus far been my best, and in some- definitely the worst.  This years lessons were hard ones.  There were many failures, and a few successes, but it was, most certainly, interesting.

Remember back to the days before social media had really made it’s grand entrance, back to when if you wanted to get in touch with someone, you had to use an actual landline, and then you had to actually SHOW UP on time because cell phones were not yet a prevalent part of society?  Way before the days of Facebook , when you had to actually phone someone (Not text, CALL) to find out what they were up to?  And a lifetime before Foursquare , which allows you to not even have to call, nor text, but simply to hit the “Friends” button to see where your companions are so that you can meet up?  Remember when in order to syndicate your media pieces, you actually had to email them, rather than just posting a URL to Twitter? Remember this time?   Yeah, I barely do either. 

If you had told me ten years ago, when I was in the midst of my pimply, awkward, boy-terrified teens that there would soon be a world where I could do nearly all communication online or via text, rather than shaky-handily calling my crush, only to hang up three times in a row when he answered, I would’ve begged for you to transport me right then and there into the future.  I have a barrage of friends who NEVER actually use their cell phones to make calls, (nor do they answer them).  They ONLY text, and even if you call them, they will listen to the voicemail and then text in response.  I wonder how these people got through those awkward teen years when you had to be courageous enough to live in the moment of the phone call.  Perhaps, if they had answering machines, they were chronic screeners.  I admit that I am prone to the cell phone screen myself.  In fact, I do it a lot, and for selfish reasons:  usually I just want to hear what you leave on my voicemail and then respond to it when I’m in the “right frame of mind.”  I don’t want to have to think on my feet.  I want time to formulate an intelligent and sound response, and then I will call you back.  I think about the “screen” a lot actually, and periodically go through phases where I force myself to pick up each and every call as it comes in.  I find that I am more productive and lively when I do this, but unfortunately, I’m never quite able to keep it going. 

Facebook is yet another way to tactfully avoid potentially awkward situations.  Let’s say, for example, that you’ve just had an argument with Friend A, and you want to see how REALLY angry they are.  Well, if they are the rabid sort of FB user, all you need to do is hop online and check out their status.  If they are still really pissed, you will probably know it.  I think about FB a lot in terms of dating, also.  There’s always that moment, when you first start dating someone, when you have to decide whether or not to make the leap.  Do you befriend them immediately?  Do you wait until you’ve really determined that you like each other?  Or do you creepily stalk them, praying that they don’t have their profile set to private?  But let’s say that you do decide to befriend them.  You search for their name, and discover that THEY’RE NOT ON FACEBOOK?!  How, HOW, is this possible, you wonder?  Everyone is on Facebook.  Even your (God help you) mother!  How can you possibly get to really know this person without viewing their profile, wall comments, relationship status, and obliterated college photos?  Suddenly you become a bit untrusting.  What does this person have to hide that could deter them from joining the rest of society? You realize that if you wish to continue to date this freak of nature, you will have to actually ask them the questions that you are curious about. 

And now of course, we have Foursquare.  You don’t even have to text to find out where the party is on any given evening.  You can simply identify where all of your friends are, and drop in on the one(s) that you desire to see.  Foursquare is also a fantastic way to sneakily avoid certain parts of town where you may run into those that you really do not wish to see.  You are once again able to avoid the happenstance of the real world. 

I realize that none of this is particularly profound, and I’m certainly not the first to ponder  the issue, but I do wonder where all of it is leading.  Are we turning into a world of agoraphobes?  Will the cell phone one day become obsolete, and instead we will simply have “text machines?” Oh, wait.  We already do:  the iPad.  But will this become mainstream?  Will we one day all just sit in our apartments and video chat, glass of wine in hand?  Of course, there are a myriad of ways in which social media is fantastic, and I don’t think we need to go into that.  I am a huge proponent (and abuser) of it, but I do question whether or not it’s turning us all into a bunch of scared, Xanax-popping, recluses.  On those days where I force myself to answer every call as it comes in, even if it is the dreaded “Unknown Number,” I find myself living in (and missing) the days of the good old-fashioned rotary phone.  Behind every ring was an uncertain possibility, and you were forced to remove yourself from whatever activity you were currently involved in.  Perhaps this is all just my issue, but I think it’d be nice to remove ourselves from behind our laptops, smartphones, and other social facemasks for just a bit.  Too much comfort is isolating.      

I finally bought the ticket.  During my long run a few weekends ago, in order to avoid the inevitable pain that threatened to sneak up on me during mile seven, I instead directed my thoughts to the question that looms constantly over my head, “What do you really want to do in this life?” 

This year, my twenty-sixth, has been, as have most of the past few, an extensive series of pivotal highs and monumental lows.  Much like that song from the Stephen Sondheim musical, “Follies,”  I can attest that in my past few years, “Good times and bum times, I’ve seen them all and, my dear, I’m still here.”  The first few years of my twenties were spent as they are all too often (and perhaps should be) spent:  screwing around, partying, laughing, getting into nonsensical trouble, and being completely devoid of (or perhaps avoiding) whatever meaningfulness I ultimately wished to discover.  For whatever reason, maybe because I’ve crossed the threshold from my early twenties and am now rapidly approaching my latter twenties, I feel my life’s biological clock beginning to tick.  Twenty-six.  All the kids back home are married, and have numerous kids of their own…as well as husbands, and houses, and car payments, and play dates, and pediatrician bills, and mortgage payments, and God-I-Hope-For-My-Own-Sake, just a tad bit of melancholy for the single, nomadic, bohemic, and (seemingly) carefree life that I lead.  Because if they don’t, then Lord, I’m a sorry case. 

Anyways, I digress.  Bottom line:  I’m beginning to REALLY feel the pressure to produce the fruits of my lifetime, whatever those may be.  And not only do I feel the pressure to produce, I also feel the incredible heaviness of needing to know something.  Just a little something.  A pearl or two of wisdom to guide me through the high seas.  I’ve written before about how training for the marathon has taught me a lot, not only about myself, but also about life.  And (this is going to be TERRIBLY cliche- please forgive) life really is like a marathon.  Somedays three miles feels like an agonizing twenty, and vice versa.  Somedays my weary mind or aching body won’t even allow me to set foot outside the door, and other times, despite my physical or mental state, all I CAN do is run.  But the most important thing that I’ve learned throughout all of this is that you have to JUST DO and don’t think too much.  Lest you think I sound too much like an inspirational copy writer for Nike, I will continue; the major reason we don’t all accomplish all the things we’d like to, or talk about, or promise ourselves that we will AT SOME POINT do, is uncertainty, fear, and discomfort, but those are all a part of life.  Running a marathon is NOT comfortable.  It hurts, and you sweat, and you get frustrated, and you make sacrifices to other aspects of your life, but for whatever reason, you need to do it.  You WANT to do it, and so you just DO. 

I’ve been wanting to run a marathon for about five years now…or, arguably, I’ve been wanting to run one my whole life but just didn’t know it for the first twenty-one years.  And there are two other things that I really have to do:  write a book (or at least write regularly in some capacity), and last but certainly not least:  travel.  Now, while I do truly believe that we should absolutely accomplish everything (or at least all the major things) that we wish to during our lives, I do believe that there is a time for each goal to be undertaken.  The marathon seemed the best place to start for me, mainly because I so happened to do a half marathon with my mom six months ago, and it felt so good (and somewhat easy) that I decided to really actually DO the real thing.  It was very scary to start, and I feared I would, as I had in the past, only make it a week or two before throwing up my hands.  But I was determined.  And through the frustrating runs where I stopped every five minutes to walk, and the fifteen milers that I breezed through, I kept going.  I missed an entire week towards the end of this training, but I knew it was going to be OK.  And in fact, the next week was that much better.   And now, with the achievement of this goal just a few short weeks away, I’ve begun to think about what I want to tackle next. 

I have for years made numerous dream trips with friends.  We would sit in front of the computer, logging countless hours on Expedia, and Priceline, and all the other major travel sites, looking up dream vacations.  We’d have long, romanticizing conversations about what it would be like to drink espresso after espresso at an outdoor cafe in Paris.  How warm and blue the Mediterranean would be on the shore of Florence.  How big kangaroos would really appear, in person, in Sydney, and most importantly, how satisfied and fulfilled we would be having experienced these things.  For YEARS I’ve been playing the “What If/How’s It Going to Be Travel Game.”  And the thing with games is that if you play them long enough, you really start to want to win.  So, it was on this very long eighteen mile run a few Saturday’s ago, that I decided that I would simply DO.  I would simply “But the Ticket.”  Because really, that’s all you have to do to travel.  And sure, money is of course, always a factor, but I’ve been spending and saving wisely (not to mention working very hard) for the past few months, and I had the money in my bank account.  And yes, it IS nice to have a cushion.  But “cushions” don’t take you to Europe.  So.  I bought the ticket.  And it was scary.  And my palms sweated and my blood pressure skyrocketed.  But after I shakenly clicked the “Confirm Payment” button, and it was all over, and I couldn’t refund it because I had not allowed myself to buy the recommended travel insurance, I felt calm.  And like I had made a terrific decision.  I bought the ticket about a week ago, but I still don’t really believe it.  (Despite what my bank account tells me).  It just doesn’t feel real.  Much like the fact that I will be running 26.2 miles in just seventeen days, I just can’t believe I’m here, in this place, where things that I’ve really wanted are starting to happen.  And it’s not as if these things just fell in my lap:  I worked and planned hard for both of them.  I know these are just the tip of the iceberg:  I’m not going to be satisfied with a mere eleven days in Europe, nor will I be satisfied just finishing one marathon, but these things are both a damn good start.   And the funny thing about just DOING is that STARTING is by far the most difficult part.  After that, it’s just a journey.  And all of these journeys become our story, and who knows, maybe even this short “story” will eventually turn itself into a book.  And if it does, then I’ll have the most enjoyable experience one can have:  tackling new mountains and more uncomfortably-uncharted ground.   

My heart pounds.  My fingers shake.  “Be strong,” I scold myself.  “You can handle this- no matter the outcome.  Just.  Open.  The.  Mailbox.”  Key in slot.  I turn it slowly.  It makes a cinematically shrill creaking sound.  My heart is now threatening to explode, blood pressure is dangerously high.  I take a long, deep breath and with great trepidation, force myself to reach inside.  My eyes automatically scan for the least threatening of the contents:  Time Out New York (“Excellent!  Can’t wait to find out the newest hot sushi joint!”), Ikea catalogue (“Fantastic.  We need a new shag rug.”)  A handmade envelope from my mother— one of her newest crafty endeavors (“Aw!  Her latest artistic undertaking in the scheme to assuage the boredom of her recent retirement.”)  A packet of those neighborhood coupons that one will consistently go through, pull out three or four that seem pertinent to one’s lifestyle, and then three months later realize that they’ve taken over your refrigerator door, and that you no longer have enough magnets (“Meh.”)  And, then.  Oh, God.  Oh, No.  There it is.  What you’ve most been dreading for the past three months. 

An ominously thick, plainly marked envelope from the I.R.S.

Some pieces of seemingly threatening mail can be ignored:  collections letter for a $107.63 electric bill that you apparently “owe” because you forgot to call the power company to turn off your service after your lease in your Los Angeles apartment ended, and you moved back to the East Coast.  Bank statements that seem to come in groups of four or five when you’ve overdrafted— listen, you already know that they’ll suck that obscenely high $35 charge right out of your account the second you deposit your next check, despite the fact that your checks usually take seven days to clear— apparently the bank can overlook the time delay when it is, in fact, THEM who is owed the money.  Pleading letters from your college alma mater, requesting that you PLEASE donate AT LEAST $500 to them, as they are in dire need of funds to help expand the cafeteria (evidently the $45,000 a year you paid to go there was not enough).  And last, but certainly not the least, the parcels that can fairly simply be ignored:  $1096 “administration” bills from the Emergency Room, which you were forced to drag yourself to on Christmas Eve, because rather than being on a plane home to rejoice in the season with your family, you are puking your guts out from apparent salmonella.  Now the devils want you to pay over a G for the ten minutes that the rude person who checked you in “devoted” to you?  Yeah.  That one’s getting trashed. 

You cannot, however, ignore the I.R.S. Well, Ok, Correction:  You CAN ignore the IRS for about an hour.  You will have tossed that envelope on the kitchen counter.  “I just can’t deal with this right now,” you’ll say to yourself.  But the fact of the matter is that that hour will not let you rest.  You’ll try to watch TV.  You’ll try to make spaghetti.  You’ll take a long shower.  But you can never, ever forget about the presence of that envelope.  And then, finally, you’ll rip it open, torn envelope cascading to the floor, and rapidly scan the frighteningly official document.  “Give it to me!  Give it to me!”  you’ll think exasperatedly.  “Am I being audited? Penalized with a very high interest rate?  Seized of all my personal belongings?”  These are serious concerns.  And this is why you cannot ignore the IRS.

No.  You, my friend, are a freelancer (i.e. you work only when someone chooses you to, and without any sort of benefits).  Often times, you’ll go days/weeks/months without a gig.  You’ll be stressed, and depressed, and probably living off of Ramen noodles.  And then…You…Get…A…Gig!  It’s two weeks long, $40 an hour, 6 hours a day. $2400!!  $2400!!  $2400!!  You can pay your rent ($900 for your Upper-Upper West Side- re: Harlem- studio), and your cellphone bill $100, ConEd ($60), your American Express bill ($500— you’ve bought A LOT of Ramen in the past few weeks), your student loans ($300), and a big bag of Kibbles for your feline companion, Mr. Bob ($55).  Great!  Now you’ve got… $485 to live off of…until your next gig.  “But, BUT!  Your forgetting someone!” Uncle Sam says with a smirk.  “You owe US roughly $720 of that check!”  Suddenly you’re in the hole by $235.  So, obviously, you don’t pay them out of that check.  And, of course, the cycle just keeps repeating itself.  The IRS will advise you to put aside a third of each check.  A THIRD.  How. Is. This. Possible?!  It isn’t.  It just IS NOT. 

People who aren’t freelancers, or, the more P.C. term- “Independent Contractors”- will easily look askance at you when tax season roles around and they’re busy planning trips to Acapulco with the $3500 they just got back.  “How in the world do you OWE $5000?!” They’ll exclaim, looking at you with that “WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN DOING WITH YOUR MONEY?” judgy-face.  Um, surviving? 

People who have salaried jobs don’t realize how great they have it.  You know, without a doubt, week after week what you’ll be making.  You can budget.  Put $300 a week aside for rent.  Pay your phone bill on time every month.  Have a few celebratory drinks on Friday and not live with the regret that you just spent $50 on alcohol, without knowing when your next check is going to arrive.  You don’t have to wince with every purchase that you make.  You budget- yes, but you know, that every pay day, your check will arrive, and you can do whatever you have to/wish with the money until the following week, when you get paid again.  There’s always another check waiting to come.  You can comfortably buy Tropicana Orange Juice, which is a solid $2 more than the “Grocery Store Brand” that we freelancers purchase, berating ourselves for our love of Vitamin C. 

Sometimes I wonder why I don’t just join the normal 9-5 job force.  The comfort, stability, and scheduled lifestyle sure do seem appealing.  But of course, with a regimented routine also comes a loss of freedom.  The ability to sleep in late when one has stayed up too late the night before watching Judge Judy re-runs.  The freedom to take or reject jobs at will.  Going on vacation after working diligently for a few months, which seems like a reward.  The constant variety of gigs.  It’s an exhilarating lifestyle for those who can handle it, and in a way, cooly bohemian.  Romantic, even.  But like with all seemingly pleasurable experiences, there’s always someone or something to keep us in check.  And for we freelancers, that thing is the IRS.    

8 p.m.  September 22nd.  A thunderstorm on the Autumnal Equinox.  Thelonious Monk keeps me company as I sit alone in our new apartment.  A vodka cocktail eases my nerves of spending only my second night in this cavernous space.  I’ve checked the windows, door to be sure they’re locked.  There are so many windows and I don’t know my neighbors from Adam.  This building is typical of the Upper West Side; gut renovated pre war— massive, which, mixed with the supremely low rent, is the usual appeal that draws the likes of my type into The Heights. 

I went grocery shopping this evening— an attempt to explore my neighborhood and to begin to make this new place feel homey.  Cupboards and fridge are now stocked.  Chicken breast and fresh produce are easily a fraction of what they are in my former Gramercy neighborhood.  So, I cooked a lavish meal for a party of one.  The leftovers will become tomorrow’s lunch, a three dollar affair as opposed to the usual $8-10 that I would otherwise (guiltily) purchase for myself near my East Village office. 

From my bedroom, which sits in the front of the unit and has glorious bay windows, I can easily see into nearly all of the apartments of the adjacent building.  The beauty of living on the 6th floor.  (Or, perhaps, the curse— as my neighbor across the way seems to enjoy leaving his drapes wide open as he unabashedly watches porn video after video.  From his selections, he is evidently very into exceedingly large bottoms.)  Temporarily without the modern conveniences of cable and wireless internet, my viewing pleasure has been confined to these windows.  I am a voyeur,  getting a feeling for this new location, without having to leave the safety of the thin panes of glass. 

I have the same discomfort (that I finally grew to be comfortable with), as when I lived on the other, Eastern side of Harlem.  I’m hyper-concious of being an outsider- wincing whenever someone stares too long at me, seemingly reminding me that I-Am-Not-In-My-Element.  My nickname has returned to Snow Bunny (sometimes Snow White, Snow Queen, Snowflake— essentially anything preceded by “Snow”).  In Spanish Harlem, this used to infuriate me.  Now I just find it tiresome.  I’m well aware of what I am- that I’m different here than I apparently am in Midtown, and “Thank you very much for pointing the obvious out to me.”  But I suppose I will, in time, get used to it again. 

What I’m not yet used to, what will surely take a bit of adjustment, is being completely removed from the neighborhoods where I am most comfortable and where I have, for the past eight years, spent the majority of my time.  I can no longer walk to my favorite haunts.  Now I have to decide, REALLY think about, whether or not that hour long train ride (or $25 dollar cab ride) is worth it.  So far, I don’t think it’s frequently going to be.  And while this is going to take me some time to settle into, I think it’s ultimately for the better.  When one lives in their most comfortable neighborhoods, one tends to, more often than not, seek the outside world, as opposed to staying in and perhaps indulging a bit more in the “inside world.”  This is the inner, rather subconscious, appeal of moving so far north.  As anyone who’s spent any length of time in New York City can attest to, it’s remarkably easy to “get caught up,” and forget what it is that one really wishes to do.  The longer you live here, the more people you know, the more parties/events/dinners/birthdays/gatherings that you feel obligated to attend.  How often we find ourselves saying, “Ugh.  I really wish I could just go home, but such-and-such from out of town is only in town this one night, and I HAVE to see them before they go!”  Or, “Sure.  I’ll go to Friend X’s play.  I guess the gym and my writing will just have to wait.”  The oversaturation of things-to-do— the pressing socialization— becomes very monotonous and, after a while, quite boring. 

I have, on very, very few occasions, found it necessary to take the subway in the past year that I lived in Gramercy.  I could literally walk anywhere that I really desired to go.  Granted, I’m only two days into my Heights Experience, but I am relishing in the fact that I now have so much time to read on the train.  I have a near hour to settle into the new day, and collect my thoughts.  It’s a slower pace in a sprinting, rushing, knock-you-over city.  And I’m quite liking the opportunity to breathe a little deeper.    

A certain phrase has been lingering in my frontal lobe area lately.  A simple, perhaps cliche quote, but it’s somehow become my unintentional motto. 

“Nothing in this world worth having ever comes easy.” 

I don’t know where I picked that up.  One morning it just appeared on the tip of my forethoughts.  It’s now usually the first thought upon waking and realizing that I must go subject my body, and often of more trial— my MIND— to running mile upon painstaking mile.  It resurfaces on the rare occasion that I have a cigarette craving, and of course screamingly pulsates against my brain on Saturday nights, like this evening, for example, when I begrudgingly force myself to study for the LSAT rather than traipse around the city causing mayhem and abusing my liver. 

Somehow I ended up here:  age 26.  Twenty-six.  Two decades and a little over another half on this planet.  I should absolutely have done SO. MUCH. MORE. by now.  Twenty-mother-f*%$#ing- six years.  So very much has happened between college graduation and here.  I mean, it must have, right?  Because I feel so far removed from my twenty-two year old self.  How little I knew, despite thinking I knew it all.  How much growing, and learning, and changing, and heartbreak, and confusion across every single possible spectrum has occurred between then and now.  And yet, I sort of feel as though I didn’t do anything.  I feel as though I simply kicked my feet up, threw my head back, and spun around in circles offering myself to the universe to do with me as it pleased.  And it did…do something.  I suppose I “lived.”  I tried a lot of things.  A lot of locations, friends, relationships, jobs, personal philosophies, and hairstyles.  Some things stuck with me (namely, the hairstyle), but many more fell away.  I know a little better now what “works” and what doesn’t.  I know now that seeking pure hedonistic pleasure will ultimately leave you unhappy, and that the things that truly make you happy, often times separate you from others momentarily, and are initially quite hard.  These are not, of course, concrete rules, just generally true for me at this juncture.  TWENTY-SIX. 

By no means do I think I’ve figured it out.  I certainly haven’t.  I still don’t know anything, and wish desperately that I could be better at so, so, SO very many things.  But I think perhaps wisdom means attempting to accept certain personal truths that may have seemed intolerable before.  So, if the mundane quote is true, and nothing worth having comes easy, then WHAT do I HAVE?!

1) A growing sense of confidence in my abilities to conquer goals

2) A better understanding of why I tend to tilt towards self-destructiveness, and as such, better coping mechanisms.

3) Realization that relationships of all sort (friendship, familial, and romantic) are all endlessly complicated, and there are absolutely no concrete rules, except for the ones that you establish for yourself.

4) The somewhat new knowledge that I am incredibly reliable…to others, but also (new development) to myself.

5) That sometimes being a bit selfish is not only just OK, but actually conducive to achieving whatever it is you’re striving towards.

Ok, I completely did not set out to make this a self-help-y post, but you know what?  Screw it.  These are the thoughts in my head right now.  TWENTY-SIX.  Hopefully by the time I’m ten years older, I will have revamped and expanded on most of these “revelations.” I’m not sure how I got here, but I hope I keep going for a very, very long time.  Twenty…six.

The idea of “letting go” has been all around me lately, especially in my current state of smoking cessation.  You know how when working towards a goal, and then after days, weeks, months of blood, sweat, and tears, you finally accomplish it and it feels like such an easy feat that you wonder why you didn’t do it long ago?  Well, that’s how I’m feeling about quitting smoking.  And coincidently, that’s how I felt when I finished the half-marathon back in April.  It was like seeing someone you recognize on the street, but not realizing that you recognize them until they are halfway down the block.  It’s like doing a mental doubletake and then spinning around and calling out my own name…  Ok, that was a little too heady for a Saturday morning.  Anyways, I’m feeling more and more in tune with myself. 

I unintentionally started mentally prepping to quit about two months ago.  Every  ten bucks that I threw down on a pack made me depressed, and every inhale I took made me sick.  But still I did it, like a dog who keeps eating until he throws up.  But I became more and more aware of every cigarette I smoked and more and more disgusted every time.  Until one morning, twelve days ago, I woke up and discovered that I was out of cigarettes.  After two months of berating myself and wondering how I, an otherwise intelligent person, could continue on with such a gross habit, I found that I simply could not bring myself to waste another $10.  So, I just decided that I wasn’t going to buy a pack.  And I didn’t.  And I haven’t.  And I figure I’ve saved about $120 in the past week and a half, just by NOT BUYING A PACK. 

Five years ago I abruptly stopped another bad, life-threatening habit.  I had been fairly severely eating disordered since the age of…14?  15?  It’s a bit hard to remember.  But a very long time.  For years I would go through patterns of not eating, followed by bouts of bulimia.  At my very worst, right before I stopped, I was throwing up seven times a day.  This was in the midst of my senior year of college, and I still have no idea how I ended up graduating with a 3.9 GPA.  Let’s just say I was EXHAUSTED all the time.  Anyways, when I went into my therapist’s office on what would end up being my third to last session, and announced that I had not thrown up in three days, she was shocked.  Fortunately she knew me well enough at that point to realize that I never lied to her during our sessions, because going from throwing up seven times a day, every day, to stopping completely is incredibly odd for an eating disordered person.  And I wasn’t using my anorexic tendencies either.  I was eating normally and felt better than I had in years.  I’m still not sure if I can explain what happened to me on that day that I quit, but much like in the past few months of agonizing “smokey time,” I just grew sick of it.  I just didn’t want to do it anymore.  And I rationalized and realized after months (or in the eating disorder case, YEARS) of committing this bad habit, I just DIDN’T WANT TO DO IT ANYMORE.  And as anyone who knows me, and this is especially true of all of my former food service employers, can attest to— It’s REALLLLLY difficult to get me to do something if I decide that I don’t want to. 

I realize that I’m only twelve days into my cessation, but this is in no way like any other time I’ve (languidly) tried to quit.  Something has switched in my brain.  And I’m not quitting for anyone, or with anyone.  I can’t even say, self-helpedly, that I’m quitting for myself.  I really wish that were the case— unfortunately, I think I will always have a touch of a self-destructive streak.  I’m simply quitting because I want to.  I don’t want to smoke.  I don’t want to spend upwards of $300 on cigarettes a month.  I don’t like the tight-chested, light-headed feeling.  I don’t like “clutching” onto something when I’m stressed/bored/angry/sad/etc.  So, i’m letting go.  Like an inmate awaiting the day of release, I have been keeping a scrap of paper on my dresser, and every morning I draw a slash on it.  It’s title is “Days Free.”  Because that’s how I feel.  It’s funny because smoker’s tend to smoke for control issues, but in reality, THEY are the ones being controlled.  So I am no longer bound and tied.  My brain has finally let go, and I am happy to be able to breathe a (deep) sigh of relief.  

Sometimes you need the unsolicited advice from those who’ve known you for a while.  Sometimes it may seem scathing, sometimes it may hurt, and then there is the rare occasion when it makes you laugh and gives you a little confidence boost.

Thank you, Marie, for your email regarding my writing.  It really made my day, and made me ecstatic to know that other people are reading.  I write not only for myself— it helps me get to the bottom of problems, concerns, confusing situations, rants, and the like, but I also write for others.  I write to encourage, to inform, to share ideas, to make people laugh, and also to provide sympathy on the myriad of typical, albeit absurd, human conditions.  I write also because I love words and the way in which you can group them, creating subtle yet vastly different ideas and images.  I write because I have to, and my fifteen or so journals that I’ve kept since the age of six represent this need.

I started to get “better” about two months ago.  And by that, I mean I began to become a better version of myself.  I was tired of just working to survive, and had become too wrapped up in my job and the stress of bills and whatnot.  I was not doing any of the things that I ultimately aspire to do.  So I decided that I was just going to “start.”  I have, at this juncture of my life, the following life goals:  1) To run at least one marathon, 2) To write at least one book, 3) To travel the world, and 4) To find some sort of constant inner happiness.  So I started training for a marathon — I am now more than two months in, and KNOW that I will finish and I am just ecstatic to be in this place.  I also started working on a book, or, rather, RE-started writing a book I had begun a while ago (I have a bevy of these.  In fact, I even have a folder on my desktop entitled, “Books that I’ve begun.”) And I’ve also started to try to get my finances in order, so that hopefully, at some point in the near future, I can afford to begin to travel the world.  All of these things, as I work towards them increase goal number four— and though still not in a place where I feel constantly “comfortably” happy, I am working on it, and improving. 

Training for the marathon has not only improved my physical fitness, but also my mental fitness.  Many runners will tell you that they work out a lot of problems during their runs.  This is definitely not the case for me.  Instead, I become rather Zenned out, and very much find myself focusing on the here-and-now.  Rather it’s my experience, and the connections that I’ve made between marathon training and the real world.  I used to start training for marathons, only to quit, frustrated, after a mere week or two.  I was mainly frustrated because I felt I wasn’t perfect enough.  Perhaps my runs weren’t as fast or long as I wanted them to be.  Perhaps I missed a day and rather than resuming, just called the whole things off.  I naturally have more of a “sprinter’s” mind than a marathoner’s mind, but that has always been a hindrance for most things in my life.  The marathon is training me to take each moment, good or bad, on or off, as it comes, and not to allow the downs to ruin the whole experience.  It’s also been a tremendous confidence boost-  committing to a feat that very few people ever complete in their lives; to see and feel myself becoming stronger, more capable, and to know that I CAN and WILL do this. 

I am also proud to say that this experience, and being able to live more in the moment, has lead me to be successfully smoke free for ten days now— the longest I’ve ever quit since 2007.  I really, honestly feel as though I may succeed this time.  And to be honest, it’s been relatively easy.  Perhaps I’m finally at the place where I am really ready to STOP.  Again, as with the marathon, I’m taking it moment to moment, minute to minute, hour to hour, and day by day.  Because the funny thing is, is that a whole bunch of moments together equals a whole lot of time. 

So, thanks, Marie.  You are right.  Thanks for the kick in the pants and the motivating email.  Sometimes we really need one of those, and I will do my best to pay the advice forward. 

I have not been to yoga in months. I’ve only gone running approximately six times in the past three months. I have not finished a book since… well, I have no idea. I have written from time to time, but certainly not enough. I’ve gone to museums, exhibits, shows, theatre, etc…but I never do that as much as I’d like, either. WHAT DO I DO?! I work. Nearly every minute is dedicated towards trying to figure out how to pay my rent, my phone bill, ConEd, Capital One, Credit One, the IRS, NYU Med Center, and maybe helping out that homeless person who so often loiters in front of my building. I’m sick of it. I want enough money to be comfortable (and OK, so my idea of “comfortable” might be a tad exorbitant), but I don’t want to have to THINK about it. I want to be able to “om” away my anxieties in peace, without that nagging voice in the back of my head chastising me for not showing an apartment at that very moment. I definitely don’t think I can do this job much longer. And I’m not blaming the job— it’s fine, but I just don’t think I have it in me to work with no guaranteed results. And yes, it has, thus far, always worked out. I have always managed to make rent, pay my bills, and still drink my wine and eat my food, but there’s always that fear that IT JUST WON’T.

I had an interesting conversation with my mother last night. We were, as we have a lot recently, talking about career change and the evolution it creates in oneself. She said something that I was initially a touch offended by, but then I came to understand it. In regard to my impending enrollment in law school, I said that it would be very nice to be back in school— to have a solid commitment for three years, and then (hopefully), a solid career that I will love and stick with. She said “It will be nice for you to actually stick with a job.” I was offended because I’ve always had a pretty strong work ethic. But then I remembered how many bar/restaurant/promo jobs I’ve quit, and I saw her point. But those are different. I HATE those jobs. They make me severely depressed and occasionally hostile, and are overall not good for me. Call me a romantic, but I don’t think that I (or ANYONE, for that matter) should have to do anything that they don’t like, let alone HATE. But I HAD to do those jobs to survive in the acting world, so I did them. But unfortunately, at some point, my distaste for them muddled and disillusioned me toward the idea of “being an actor” to the extent that I had to quit it all. I think this is why real estate offices are filled with so many (former) actors; we do love our art, but we’re not willing to hate the rest of our lives in order to partake in it. Real estate provides the flexibility that we’ve grown accustomed to, and the high of closing a deal, of course, mimics the high of booking a gig. I also don’t think that I’m really a performer. I think that I’m an overachiever/adrenaline junkie who has a slight love for the dramatic ups-and-downs. I also love pretending to be other people, to have a taste of what it’s like to be someone else, but the taste is never enough— never feels 100% wonderful, and thus, is continuously disappointing. No, I realized that I don’t want to PLAY other people, but rather, I want to BE other people. Meaning, I want to try as much as I can (for real, not on stage or in front of the camera), and keep what works and toss away what doesn’t.

My initial fear with going to law school (aside from the LSAT..eek) was that I would get halfway through it and realize that I didn’t want to be a lawyer. I still have a bit of that fear, but even if that does happen, I’m committing to at least finishing it out and obtaining my JD. Worst comes to worst, I end up well educated and with a pretty solid degree. Let’s be real— it’ll inevitably serve me better than my theatre and philosophy degrees! And should I actually hate it and not want to practice, well, then I guess I’ll just try something else. But, I am absolutely positive that there is no way in the world that I could hate it more than bartending/promoing, and look at how long I did that!

When I first decided that I needed a break from acting (or perhaps even a permanent change…I’m not yet sure), I debated on what my next move would be. I have a lot of interests. It eventually came down to either becoming certified to teach yoga, or to go to real estate school. I ultimately chose real estate because it was a relatively quick fix, something I’d always kinda thought I wanted to do, and I figured it would be more lucrative than teaching yoga. Also, while I’m all about the yoga, I’ve never been much of a “teacher” and thought that I would probably get kinda bored with that kinda quick. I definitely think I made the right decision, but I also always knew that this was a bridge job…that I needed things to change quickly, and then, after a while, I’d see where I ended up. I love to write. I love to think. I love to try to fix things/make them right. And I do tend to love stressful, yet rewarding jobs…law school seems right.

So, while initially a bit offended at the comment, I realize it was not a slight at me. Just that it really is time that I find, and commit, to something more permanent…something that I (think) I’m going to love. I’m throwing pencils at the ceiling and hoping that maybe, just maybe, this one will stick.