Tag Archives: 20-something

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The Five Year Scam

As part of our final grade my senior year in high school, my English teacher had us write a five-and ten-year plan for how we envisioned our future life. Already quite deep into my love affair for this sparkling city, my cinco-de viva plan (or however you say that in Spanish?) — for 22 — went something like this:

Living in a luxury apartment in the heart of midtown, hustling and bustling with the best of ’em. Working as an editor at a big magazine, going to fancy parties and wearing fancy things, but writing about important topics — other than accessories and blow jobs. Dating a handsome man who would fall magically in love with me and propose at the top of the Empire State building.

What my life actually looked like at 22:

Living in a rundown brownstone that consistently reeked of reefer, sharing a communal bathroom with strangers. In, um, Harlem (but told my parents it was the Upper West Side so they could sleep at night). Working at a small trade business magazine, writing about tax benefits, sales, marketing and entrepreneurial success stories. My paycheck didn’t afford fancy things and my title didn’t offer fancy parties, but I did master the fine art of making Ramen delicacies. I started this blog a day past the big 2-2, and started my tumultuous relationship with Mr Unavailable/Possibility a month later.

Funny how things don’t really go according to plan, right?

As I (gulp) approach my 10 year out of that Southern high school and my (gulp) five year out of college, I find myself thinking about how I once pictured my life and how it really is, and maybe more interesting, how much of what I thought I wanted at this age, I don’t anymore.

I can blame it a little on conforming to the ways of the city that never sleeps, of how it tricks you into seeing endless options for as far as you see skyscrapers radiating in the distance. The city makes you believe in anything you set out to do, anyone you hope to find and any chance you dare to take. It doesn’t swallow you up for giving something a shot, instead it encourages you to take another leap, have another date, spend a little more money, buy that plane ticket, try something new again.

And so I have been.

I’ve been busy learning and soaking up just about as much as I can from my job. I’m coming up with excuses and finding opportunities to travel. I’m signing up for races I’m not convinced I should run, but fully dedicated to trying. I’m dating when it feels right and stopping when it doesn’t. I’m coming and going, quickly and slowly, just as I want, just as the mood strikes, just how it should have always been.

Because five year plans never turn out in the sweet little ways you think they will. Your illusions of how things are supposed to work out are just that, illusions. They are beautiful pictures crafted with the best-intentioned hand, but ripe with ideas of what life looks like, not what it actually feels like. Not what it actually means to live.

Because living doesn’t include plans and it doesn’t go on a pre-determined schedule or a course or events. It doesn’t follow rules and it refuses to make them. It doesn’t fit into a box of certain size or fit itself underneath a sweetly tied bow.

Instead, it surprises you.

Your five and ten year plan seem silly in comparison to your actual existence. What you dreamt for yourself still rhymes in the some sort of way, but those plans feels more like a scam. If everything worked out just as we hoped, just as we mapped it out, we would miss all the fun. All the good stuff. All the anger, the disappointment, the fear, the love, the passion, the struggle, the conquering, the battle, the success, the failure, the romance, the roughness. The shine after it all.

You’d miss the best parts of your 20-something years.

Especially the part where you look back on your life and those choices you made, out of spite, out of intrigue, and you find yourself smiling at the experience. Thankful you didn’t always pick the easiest road, but the one that seemed the best, and maybe the hardest, at the time. You would miss the part where something hits you — probably in the middle of an ordinary day — and you realize that blueprint doesn’t fit you anymore.

And that no plan really does at all. Maybe it never did to begin with.

Because finally, after fighting the should-be’s and the could-be’s and the supposed-to’s and all the pressuring words that did nothing but haunt you, you have found yourself released from the language. You’ve found yourself free from the scam — I mean, the plan — and happily ever after without a clue of what’s next.

And you know — or at the very least, you hope — it’s going to work out in a way that no pencil, no high school paper, no fortune teller, no anyone or anything could have ever predicted.

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Believing in the Unknown

I traveled to North Carolina last weekend for some much needed time with my family. The three days and some loose change of hours were blessed and bittersweet — we all knew the time was too short, as it always is, and the circumstances, not ideal. My father– the brawly fireman that fights as fiercely as he loves — has had three surgeries in the past six weeks. My mom has taken on the role of sole caregiver, bandage changer, and keeper of the finances, the household and the sanity, leaving her, unsurprisingly, a little insane.

With the kindness of my great job, I took off a day to help out and give as much support as I could offer. The trip was full of some tears and laughs, red wine and margaritas, shopping trips and steaks shaped like hearts, all underneath the transcending beauty of the bright blue Carolina sky. I always forget just how vast and endless it feels in the south — uninterrupted by the skyscrapers and smog, quiet and subtly enticing. I spent my mornings waking up early and retreating to our back porch, drinking coffee and just staring at the horizon, gulping in the fresh air and the crispness of the day. I walked barefoot with my family pup, Suzie, feeling the dew on the grass and the gushy, gooeyness of the mud in between my toes. I tiptoed from stepping stone to stepping stone to retrieve the mail and take out the trash; all the while my dad, sore from surgery, hollered out for me to come back inside. Then at nighttime in layers of jackets — my mom’s and then my dad’s because I forgot to bring one of my own — I looked up at the same familiar stars that I used to dream under, thinking about those same shining lights in Manhattan that I’d one day be part of.

It reminded me of being a kid. And I liked it.

Nothing can quite prepare you for the truly hard parts of being an adult– leaving the home you knew and the parents who raised you on hearty meals, boat rides and unconditional, encouraging love. Or learning how to save money for a future you’re not sure you’ll actually see, while spending enough to create memories today that you’ll tell your grandchildren about 40 years from now. Or how your 20s feel so incredibly long and intolerably fast all at the same time, making you squirm somewhere in between thinking you’re getting old and that you’re too young enough to care.

It’s confusing and maddening, and yes, beautifully educational.

At the ripe ‘ole age of 24, I’m proud of the decisions I made and of the zip code I selected — but as wonderful as my little apartment and job is, I still miss my mom and dad. I still long to be taken care of like and to be void of any responsibilities, cares or concerns. When my greatest achievement was catching those fireflies and sneaking a flash light under the covers so I could write in my diary. When boys only mattered enough to hold hands in the hallway and call you for half a minute at night. When your parents seemed ageless and young, incapable of being human, but rather all-powerful superheroes who rescued you from all of the bad guys – the boogeyman, the bullies and the insecurities that wrestled your mind and mirror. When time seemed like something obsolete and fascinating, when adulthood meant turning 22 and having all of your dreams already perfect.

Once you’re actually a 20-something, you realize that nothing is perfect and that maybe, nothing will ever be exactly how you planned.

But that’s why childhood needs to be sweet. So that when you’re sitting on a bus back from JFK on a Sunday night, longing for the comfort of your dad’s arms and your mom’s laughter, you savor the life you’ve already had. You can close your eyes, even if they’re filled with tears and your heart full of prayers. You can think about those memories to keep your warm and keep your hopes high. They remind you of where you came from and how you were able to be the lady you are, living this life you worked hard to create.

So that even when times are unsure or uncertain, for when you realize how little control you honestly have over everything, for when things change and so do you, you think about those possibilities you always knew were possible. You remember those people who told you that you could if you set your mind to it.

You open your eyes to look outside to that skyline, its dazzling puzzle luring you in, once again, to take another step. To give something another try. To keep believing in the unknown, in the things that have yet to come, the people you’ve yet to meet, the experiences you haven’t felt yet.

If you believed in them when you didn’t know any better than to believe in extraordinary, imaginary things, you can believe even harder when you do know better. Because that’s when believing gets tough, that’s when it becomes worth it.

That’s how dreams become more than stars glittering above your 7-year-old head on a chilly North Carolina night. That’s how you go from being a wanderlust kid to an adult that knows the unknown isn’t as scary as it feels, it’s where all the magic actually happens.

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So Very Worth It

In a few weeks, I’ll celebrate the third anniversary with the city I love.

It’s seen me through for better and for worst. It’s pushed me out of a love I hoped would last and into days I never wanted to end. I’ve seen it transform itself and me with it’s ever-changing, ever-beautiful ways. It’s still like living in a dream, but it’s more like living in an interesting world I created. That I achieved. That against the odds, I found and made for myself. The streets don’t scare me anymore but they do entice me. I don’t feel like I’ve finished all the things I came here to do but I know I’ve done quite a lot in not a lot of time.

I flow better with the rhythm and the speed of the people and with buildings that surround and challenge me. I’ve given into wearing black, yet I still let my colorful intentions radiate. I understand and have experienced the harshness of the land and the field I’ve decided to pursue. It hasn’t always been easy, not at all, but it has always been a journey, with every step and certainly every stumble. Not matter if there was something — or someone — to break my fall or… nothing at all.

I’ve dated and fallen in love with the natives here — men I used to refer to as businessmen, but now adequately equate as investment bankers or financial traders, even though it all seems like all business (and all cold-hearted) to me. I’ve fished on all the dating sites that I can and I’ve met a few good ones among the constant crash of terrible matches. I’ve tried my hand at the bars on the east and those on the west, but I’ve settled into neighborhoods that fit me better than the rest.

I’ve learned to judge in ways I’m not proud of, but I’ve also developed opinions that I now stand firmly beside. I’ve left the island only to feel in my bones that I would never feel as much at home as I do in this strange place. I’ve missed trains and opportunities, passed by strangers who could have used my help and given too much of myself to someone who didn’t really need it. Or want it. I’ve been embarrassed of ignorance in a city so full of brilliance, and I’ve savored my Southern roots for all that they’re worth and all that they’ve made me. I’ve missed people I’ve yet to meet and hungered for days I have never lived but I’ve also finally learned to settle into the skin and the place I’m in.

I never knew for certain that I would make it here in New York, an urban jungle that determines making it anywhere else in the big old world with all it’s big old cities. I didn’t doubt my abilities or my talents or my humble, caring attitude that I still believe gets me further than anything else. It’s even more powerful than the sound of my heels clicking miles before I appear. I wondered if I would become anther listless writer, another hopeless dreamer who lost her way somewhere between New Jersey and Queens. I didn’t know if I could convince someone to give me a chance or if I could even survive on the minimal salary that I knew would come with my very first big girl job.

But I did believe I should try.

Even if failed to a disappointing demise and had to tuck my Tigar tail and catch a flight to the bittersweet Carolina, I knew I had to give it a go. Remorse I could live with, regret I could not.

It all worked out– as I imagined it possibly would. And I worked myself out in the process. It’s easy and probably sensible to argue that these changes and these growths were mainly due to my age — so much happens in the years between when you’re old enough to buy a beer and when you face the big three zero. But I have to give credit to the city that made me brave. That made me a fighter. That knocked me down and encouraged me to never stay sitting for too long.

I often wonder if I’ll stay here in this island forever– if New York is where I’ll want to raise my children, should I be lucky enough to have them. I think about the days when I’ll move in with a man into a (nicer!) apartment and when I make more money to do more things, and yes, give me more responsibility and accountability. Though I feel like so much has happened on these avenues and in those changing wintry or steamy seasons, if I’m really honest, it’s really just begun.

And the beauty of not knowing my fate with my sweet and seductive city is just like not knowing my fate with anything else: it’s a little scary. But it makes me hopeful more than it makes me anxious. If so much good has happened and I’ve been able to move past the bad to find the parts that I can learn from — surely what’s ahead of me is even better than what’s behind me. Perhaps the heartaches and headaches and growing pains are far from over — but I do think that a love, an apartment, a moment with my wonderful Manhattan are silver linings I’ll one day be able to experience.

No, moving to New York has never been completely, totally perfect. Not my life here, not the dating adventures I always blog about. But you know what? That’s what makes it so amazing. That’s what makes it — and will always make it — so very worth it.

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Learning To Say Yes

Last year I vowed to learn how to live — with a list of 50 things I wanted to accomplish and intended to write about. But as it often does, time ran away from me, with weeks and months that moved far too quickly.

But it wasn’t a complete failure — I did do a few things on that lofty compilation. After getting up the courage to take Accutane (yikes!), my skin is finally clear enough to grace the streets bare — and my give-a-damn meter is frankly a lot lower than ever, making me less concerned with strangers I pass. With my friend M, I threw my hair up in a SJP-bun and walked through the village, pretending to be the gritty hipster I’m definitely not. And my friend A and I saw OAR, while M and I went to a Christmas spectacular of sorts that would have been much more fun with a few more glasses of wine. I succeeded at many difficult recipes, much to the delight of my friends and co-workers who got to be my taste testers. This summer, I got over the fear of spending money quite easily and then resorted back to my old ways after purchasing a very expensive fur ball.

I did have a serendipitous encounter with a Puerto Rican cardiologist I’ll never meet again and never know the last name of. I made friends with girls at a bar instead of flirting with guys, and though not intentionally, I went on many dates with guys under 5’10”, though they claimed otherwise on their online dating profiles. I’ve gone a few weeks without drinking alcohol, thanks to the potential alarming side effects of Accutane, but pre-skin-clearing-miracle-drug, I danced on more than a few bar tables with the best group of gals Manhattan has ever known.

I’ve planked in a public place, though the trend quickly faded into Tebowing, which I admittedly have never done. I signed, sealed and delivered more than a handful of sweet notes to my friends and family over the year — just to let them know how much they mean to me. My mom and I had an amazing time in New York and I’m looking forward to her second trip here this May. I think I’ve been a better friend and hopefully was a great bridesmaid to the new Mrs. in my life. I continue to donate to charities I love and my room is in a constant redecoration state because I simply can’t make up my mind.

I’ve tried to keep a budget through Mint, through apps, through spreadsheets and though nothing has really stuck, I’ve somehow stuck with a budget of sorts that’s allowed me to save… sorta. I’ve bought several people coffee for no reason at all, and every month I always buy something for someone else, even if it’s just a drink for a friend having a rough time or celebrating a new victory. My roommates have forced me to recycle and I thank them for it, and my dad thanks me for calling him way more than I used to. I’ve regained my workout schedule — running five days a week — and with it, lost ten pounds that has made a world of a difference in how sexy I feel.

I had a fantastic trip to Puerto Rico all by myself that I’ll never forget and can’t wait to tell my children about one day, but I’m looking forward to going to Costa Rica with M this year. Thanks to a little pup named Lucy, my apartment is way cleaner and organized than it has ever been before. My gay hubby has forced me into karaoke and staying out until 4 a.m. several times, and I’m proud to be the new owner of at least half a dozen more heels. I’ve also found a certain peace in myself that continues to grow each day.

30 out of 50 isn’t so bad but it’s also not A+ student behavior that I usually hold as my standard. So instead of making a list of little things that I hope will make me a better rounded and more fun girl — I’m just tackling one of the leftover 20 resolutions I had from last year.

Saying “yes” more.

Like agreeing to a date with a guy that I’m not exactly into because of petty reasons. Booking a trip to Chicago for a weekend at the spur of a moment. Going out with my friends to Brooklyn even though it’s so (so, so, so!) far away from my cozy Upper West Side apartment. Tackling a new project at work that I wasn’t sure I could accomplish or not, but want to really give it my best shot. Painting the walls of my room without worrying if it’ll all be the wrong shade. Giving in to buying that dress that I think is too expensive but honestly looks so fabulous on me. Making out with a handsome stranger outside of a bar because it feels right, even if he isn’t right. Staying out a little too late and having a little too much to drink on a Saturday night because I’m young and still can for a little longer. Taking that hot yoga class instead of sticking to my normal routine. Trying a new food that sounds — and probably looks — quite disgusting, but I’ll be glad to add to my roster of things I’ve tasted. Signing up for that half-marathon in April that I’m worried I won’t be able to finish, but going to give it my best go anyway. Writing blogs even if they aren’t perfect because I’ve missed this space so much in the past year. Giving myself freedom to do the things I’ve always refrained from because I wanted to feel safe. Because I wanted to stay in a warm bubble until I figured everything out…

…but I’ll turn 25 this year.

And many things aren’t exactly how I thought they’d be while other things are much better than I ever imagined possible this early into my life. So instead of worrying if I do everything right — as I always have before — I want to make a commitment instead to just do… everything I can, by saying yes to it all.

Happy 2013!!

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Let My Heart Design

There are moments in every 20-something’s life where you the world you’ve created doesn’t seem at all like you thought it would. There are these days where you feel out-of-place in your own skin, where your thoughts don’t seem to be your own and where doubts are far more common than reassuring sentiments. There are these ideas that pop into your head that you can’t shake and these desires that strike your soul that seem so positively unsettling, it’s inspiring.

One of those thoughts hit me the morning after I returned to New York after Christmas.

I opened my eyes, irritated that I woke up nearly two hours before I should have, and after twenty minutes of tossing and turning, I gave into my internal alarm clock and sat up in bed. There in the uncanny silence that this city only offers before the coffee is brewed or the street vendors set up shop, I really looked around my room — for probably the first time since I moved to this apartment in May.

I saw the pale-green walls that I didn’t paint. The mismatched frames that dusted my IKEA bookshelf and the dirty laundry piled in the corner. The lack of a bed frame. The desk that I never use, but has rings from beer glasses I actually filled with orange juice, not booze. My closet that’s practically begging to be cleaned out, sprouting shoes from the right, growing scarves from the left. The suitcase that won’t fit in said-closet, so it’s wedged under the window, with a wooden box covering it.

What does this space say about me? I wondered. Does it say a successful editor lives here? Someone who is full of optimism and lives a full life? I questioned, pulling the covers to my chin and turning off the fan I use to fall asleep with. No, it doesn’t. This space says nothing about me other than I have stuff.

But those weren’t the thoughts that struck me — it was this one: You’ll enter your mid-twenties this year, what have you actually done with your life? Does this room show that you’re still figuring that out?

This isn’t the first time I’ve analyzed my personal aspirations or intentions. Actually, I’d say I’m in a constant state of personal wonder as an explorer of my own self, constantly prying into the places I let no one else go, trying to make sense of the person I am and the woman I hope to be. But this very, very Virgo-ness comes with its downfalls — some would say that I can’t get no satisfaction, others would say my hopes for something more are selfish. I’d say it’s a little bit of both — sometimes I only want what I can’t have, but most of the time, I figure out ways to make the things that are the most important to me less like dreams and more like reality.

But I haven’t really traveled. My “studying abroad” experience was interning in New York — a destination that in comparison to North Carolina, is quite foreign. All of my savings, all of my efforts went into making the big move, so thousands of dollars to visit Spain or Greece fell low on the travel priorities. But now I’m here, so why not see the world outside of the island of Manhattan? I gave up on a second language in college, but I constantly find myself tuning into conversations in dialects I can’t understand, endlessly entertained by the jokes I don’t catch or the romance I can only see through body language, not speech. So why not learn? I’ve been running for years — off and on, mind you — but I’ve never ran more than a 5K. So why not try more? And though I have an entire Pinterest board of apartment decor I love, I never invest in anything other than brunches and lunches, clothes and books, wine and cheap accessories I find in the Village. So why not push some money toward making my place, look like me?

But what is me? I considered, standing up to put on my robe and flipping on a hand-me-down lamp. Who am I, now that I have the big girl job, the big girl location and the big girl life? Am I big girl now? What does she look like?

And so, I entertained my overly-structured, thoughtful-self and wrote down the things I knew about myself. My strengths, like being brave when I’m afraid, and afraid when I fear losing something that’s special. My ability to balance the best while handling the worst. My unyielding, everlasting, overly positive perception of love — between lovers, between friends, between families, between strangers. My courage to share with the world the things that most people never address privately. How I can see the good in the gullible soul, the great in the gray hair.

And I listed my weaknesses.

Like being far harder on myself than even the most dedicated hater of this blog. Or for putting the needs of unavailable men before the basic needs that keep me humming a little happy tune just for me. Or the way I can be oversensitive about things that are merely opinion, and saddened by the coolness of facts I wish weren’t so. How I snap at those who care when they see me clearer than I see myself. When I’m boastful in times when I should be humble, how I can be quick to judge and slow to forgive. Or worse, when I’m forgiving of those who don’t deserve it and resentful of those who do.

Or how, like in this moment, I’m overly critical of everything in my life, including the place I lay my head.

But I have my heart, I thought. It’s a bright shining center in the middle of a me that’s oftentimes, very messy. It’s the most brilliant part of me, that those I love see all the time, and strangers comment about on the street. It’s the part of me that feels warmed by the wide-eyed faces of babies on the train, and the me that waits until a kitten finds its way back into an apartment before I stop watching it. It’s what makes me give up my seat for those who need it, pause on the busy streets to let someone else pass and always offer to help, no matter how busy I am. It’s what makes me a dedicated friend and a loving partner. It’s what allows me to be walked all over and bruised, but still get up and do it all over again. It’s what allows me to choose the happiness of others over the satisfaction I’d maybe prefer.

So no, maybe I’m not where I thought I’d be. Or maybe I’ve come a lot further than I believed I ever would. Perhaps my passport is blank, along with the pale-green walls that I really don’t care for. Maybe I’m approaching the middle point of my second decade on this planet and I haven’t scratched the surface of what I hope to do in this lifetime.

But I have time to see places I want to see. Time to find the parts of me I’ve yet to discover. Time to paint my room before the Spring arrives. Time to learn how to say “love” in every language I find intriguing. Time to put that word to use with men who are worthy of all it entails.

And time to let my heart design my space, my intentions and my life. After all, without it, nothing I see around me (or inside of me) would be possible.

PS: I was amazed with how many Valentine’s were sent last year from all over the world. Your touching words, your kind sentiments and the way you expressed all the things you hope for, as well as all the things that make you so beautiful – were incredible. I hope you will take a moment to write a Valentine about all the things you love about yourself, all the things in the future you can’t wait to experience and what  self-love means to you. I’ll publish your words – along with a link to your blog, if you blog – on Valentine’s Day. Or if you’d rather be anonymous, that’s fine too.

Go here to submit your Valentine. You deserve it. Tell me how sweet it is to be loved by you.