Back in the jungle. Back to the grind. Sirens ring in my tender, California spoiled eardrums, while some teenage punk grabs his man bits in front of my Starbucks window perch. Scarf twirled jauntily round my neck, oxford walking shoes on feet, tis truly a comfort and curse to be back in the city.
Funny the things one grows accustomed to. Four AM drag races down my apartment's cross street. Morning Spanish lessons with the man who sells me my New York Post at the corner bodega. Mariachi bands interupting my ipod coma as the subway jerks me towards midtown. It is not the pristine waterside splendor of Seattle, nor the cookie cutter comfort of suburbia. I walk with shoulders hunched and scowl on my face, avoiding eye contact and terrified of tourists. Yet New York Melody is a character I wear like second skin. Constantly perturbed, bitter, aware of the ironic in all facets my day, this depressive diva wears her tough gal armour as though she graduated from the school of hard knocks. In Reality, she graduated from Suburban Bubble High, class of Fantasyland, and in truth, all this posing makes her tired. (And methinks tis also creating a permanently hunched right shoulder.)
A ceaseless chill bites my cheeks. Strangers step upon my toes. An intruder has broken into my local gym and now we must all carry IDs with us. Is a strip search on the horizon?
Truth be told, I want my sunshine back. I want to cruise the highway with Ipod blaring, no fear of guitar strums and yodels interrupting my tunes. I want to take my morning jog and know with absolute certainty that every single person along the trail will greet me with a smile and "Hello". To stand tall and gaze upon the world with an eagle-eye stare, and not an ashamed glance from downturned lids. Let's face it, as much as I am a posseur in the form of a Jaded Jill, I simply want a world where folks stop and breathe.
When I breifly visited Seattle, I adopted a child.
Not literally, of course. Twas one of those "Pay $22 a month, give your girl in Guatemala a college education" type situations. In New York, I admit to being guilty of brushing past the man on the street with clipboard in hand and photo of starving child in Africa on display. But... well, I don't know. Something about the spirit of joy and giving, community and overall Hippy Granola-dom in WA compelled my charitable butterfly to emerge from the cocoon. It may be a scam, but to at least feel human again for a brief moment was a bit of a shock. There can be sunshine and lollipops and all of that nonsense, even in the rainiest state of the country.
So the motto of the story is thus: Grumpy Grandma's gotta get herself the hell outta dodge to find a new attitude. Either that or get the dodginess outta this hell known as Manhattan.
Either way, and I now have a child in Guatemala. Maybe I'll go live with her.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Quarter Life Crisis
As I savor the flavor of airport TCBY yogurt, the rich dutch chocolate swirled with vanilla bean slowly slipping down my parched throat, I am at the same time struggling to swallow a scream which threatens to emerge from said throat. Panic is setting in. Crisis chic is my ensemble de jour, and I am wearing it fully accessorized. Waiting in the Phoenix Airport, my resting point between the sure shores of Cali and the concrete jungle of NYC, I become fully aware that this past week's journey back west has been more than a celebration of my twenty-something years on earth. What began as a mere jaunt down the plant-lined paths of memory lane has turned into a catalyst of an experience: a perusal of the past forcing an about face to the future.
A quarter life crisis.
As an adolescent, I always found such comfort in the knowledge that I was fully certain of what I wanted to be "when I grow up". A small pitying smile played on my lips while fellow friends dabbled in General Education, dropping this major for that, living on a whim and a prayer. "Not I!" said the sheltered, Disney fed and bred drama queen. "Broadway or Bust" was the mantra engrained on my still developing brain, and this sureness (combined with a deadly fear of failure) led my life to revolve around a certain but simple reality. One goal, one path, one option, one... singular sensation. Trapped in my "one"-ness, suffocated and scared.
And then I saw the world.
Well, bits and pieces of it. A sampler platter, a tapas plate, a tantalizing appetizer of the human existence outside of myself. All at once fascinating, vibrant, stunning, terrifying, and mine for the conquering. I found myself haggling with petite (but persistent!) proprietresses in the markets of Kowloon, Hong Kong. Mountain biking through the hilly terrain in Skagway, Alaska, cross rickety railroad ties bordering seaplane runways. Panamanian baskets, Costa Rican bowls, Florentine paintings, Murano glassware- collecting the entities designated for a future place of prominence in the Museum de la Melody’s Casa. Preparing for the ultimate “Life on Land”, I knew an inevitable return to the daily grind was to be expected. There was a time I embraced that notion, lived for the idea of normalcy.
And then I came “home”.
Daily life became daily routine became daily depression. The activities I once so looked forward to (Grocery store shopping! Live television!) became monotonous, mundane, and left me feeling hollow. After an AM spent waiting in a cramped holding room with 300 carbon copy chorus cuties only to kick-ball-change my way to a night job catering to the whims of entitled Upper West Siders, all that would cycle through my dead-tired mind was a re-run movie entitled “A Year Ago Today”, starring moi.
“A Year Ago Today: I was sitting on a dock in Venice, sipping wine from a bottle as gondoliers drifted by, a song on their lips and a suave smile melting my heart.”
“A Year Ago Today: I was zip-lining through the Costa Rican rain forest, repelling down a cliffside, and diving into hidden lagoons, followed by a feast of black beans and plantains.”
“A Year Ago Today: I was visiting the Blue Mosque of Istanbul, munching on candy-coated almonds at the Spice Market, gazing upon piles of ancient rugs, tinted lamps en masse, and draped silk scarves, a tear in my eye as the call the prayer commenced.”
A year ago today, I knew me. Now, I wander the urban streets of Manhattan in a haze of confusion. Who am I, and where do I fit into this landscape? I gaze upon gals, glamorous and girly, gregariously pursuing “the dream” day in and day out, the marquees and city lights twinkling off their kohl lined eyes. I am the UFO, an unidentified foreign object, un-relatable female oddity, an imposter among show tune spouting, name-dropping die-hards.
Of this I am sure: I suffer from an extreme case of Wander Lust. Symptoms: A never-ceasing desire to be on the move, exploring unfamiliar territory with life in luggage and lovingly creased guidebook in back pocket. Side Affects: a loss of ability to set down roots, create lasting relationships, and quit envying Samantha Brown.
So the question becomes thus: How do I find the cure?
Let the quarter life crisis continue…
A quarter life crisis.
As an adolescent, I always found such comfort in the knowledge that I was fully certain of what I wanted to be "when I grow up". A small pitying smile played on my lips while fellow friends dabbled in General Education, dropping this major for that, living on a whim and a prayer. "Not I!" said the sheltered, Disney fed and bred drama queen. "Broadway or Bust" was the mantra engrained on my still developing brain, and this sureness (combined with a deadly fear of failure) led my life to revolve around a certain but simple reality. One goal, one path, one option, one... singular sensation. Trapped in my "one"-ness, suffocated and scared.
And then I saw the world.
Well, bits and pieces of it. A sampler platter, a tapas plate, a tantalizing appetizer of the human existence outside of myself. All at once fascinating, vibrant, stunning, terrifying, and mine for the conquering. I found myself haggling with petite (but persistent!) proprietresses in the markets of Kowloon, Hong Kong. Mountain biking through the hilly terrain in Skagway, Alaska, cross rickety railroad ties bordering seaplane runways. Panamanian baskets, Costa Rican bowls, Florentine paintings, Murano glassware- collecting the entities designated for a future place of prominence in the Museum de la Melody’s Casa. Preparing for the ultimate “Life on Land”, I knew an inevitable return to the daily grind was to be expected. There was a time I embraced that notion, lived for the idea of normalcy.
And then I came “home”.
Daily life became daily routine became daily depression. The activities I once so looked forward to (Grocery store shopping! Live television!) became monotonous, mundane, and left me feeling hollow. After an AM spent waiting in a cramped holding room with 300 carbon copy chorus cuties only to kick-ball-change my way to a night job catering to the whims of entitled Upper West Siders, all that would cycle through my dead-tired mind was a re-run movie entitled “A Year Ago Today”, starring moi.
“A Year Ago Today: I was sitting on a dock in Venice, sipping wine from a bottle as gondoliers drifted by, a song on their lips and a suave smile melting my heart.”
“A Year Ago Today: I was zip-lining through the Costa Rican rain forest, repelling down a cliffside, and diving into hidden lagoons, followed by a feast of black beans and plantains.”
“A Year Ago Today: I was visiting the Blue Mosque of Istanbul, munching on candy-coated almonds at the Spice Market, gazing upon piles of ancient rugs, tinted lamps en masse, and draped silk scarves, a tear in my eye as the call the prayer commenced.”
A year ago today, I knew me. Now, I wander the urban streets of Manhattan in a haze of confusion. Who am I, and where do I fit into this landscape? I gaze upon gals, glamorous and girly, gregariously pursuing “the dream” day in and day out, the marquees and city lights twinkling off their kohl lined eyes. I am the UFO, an unidentified foreign object, un-relatable female oddity, an imposter among show tune spouting, name-dropping die-hards.
Of this I am sure: I suffer from an extreme case of Wander Lust. Symptoms: A never-ceasing desire to be on the move, exploring unfamiliar territory with life in luggage and lovingly creased guidebook in back pocket. Side Affects: a loss of ability to set down roots, create lasting relationships, and quit envying Samantha Brown.
So the question becomes thus: How do I find the cure?
Let the quarter life crisis continue…
Monday, April 19, 2010
Spring Awake and Sing
(aka the day I waited 8 hours outside in the cold at a non-equity open call... and lived to tell the tale)
I should know by now that in my person, there is simply no tolerance for these sorts of scenarios. And yet, somewhere in the barely breathing cock-eyed optimist hibernating within me, the idea seemed like a breeze. Open call for the first non-equity company of "Spring Awakening". With an 11 AM go time on a Sunday, the concept was, in theory, relatively pain-free. (After weeks of 10 o'clock starts, this extra hour seems a God-send). Truly, who in their right minds is going to pop out of bed on a holy morning, the day of rest, for some non-union gig?
The answer: seemingly every barely legal Broadway baby on the East Coast proper. We're talking Pennsylvania prepsters, Jersey juveniles, and the occasional tri-city tot. A day off from studies equals the chance to realize their tween dreams of Broadway stardom. Grandma should have known. Rounding the corner to Chelsea studios with a lovely cushion of two hours to prepare, my mind is blown as I see pubescents on parade, a line blocks long streaming from the building doors. Passers-by gape in curiosity at this mob scene. A new reality show in the works, they wonder? One of those MTV "Jersey Shore on the Hills of Laguna Beach" type programs? Trust me, mama nearly flipped a 180 right back to the 1 train after sighting the mob scene. Lawn chairs were out, for goodness sake. Sleeping bags and overnight cases appeared in view. And yet, to the line's end I marched, rationalizing that, with nothing but an evening shift at the restaurant on my day's agenda, why not wait?
And wait I did. Numbers were passed out, "So You Think You Can Dance" style. My official badge? 410. Two hours early, and I am in the mind blowing multiple hundreds. Yet I hunker down for the long haul. Ipod out and book opened for perusal, I am distracted by constant fascinating characters surrounding me. First, there are the front-of-liners. We're talking those crazy kids who managed to stake a claim at the queu's tip top, and in passing I managed to scope their story. College kids from Pennsylvania, they hopped in their jalopy and cruised down to Manhattan for a 1:30 arrival time... meaning AM... meaning the approximate time your typical 20-some-odd is hitting the hay on a weekday. To sit outside in under 40 weather and brutal wind chill. My question is such: how does one function to their maximum ability under such conditions? I, for one, croak like a chain smoking tranny if I attempt to vocalize with less than my eight hours. Add to that slumbering restlessly in freezing weather, and one questions how stellar a performance shall be showcased. But back to jalopy they sleepwalk, day over and nothing to show for it but seriously droopy eyelids and possible pneumonia.
Then, there is a sight which I thought I had left long behind after by days of California community theatre: stage moms. As in several. As in they loaded up their mini-vans with the entire HS Drama Club for a lil field trip. "Bring your audition dress and "Wicked" song book, Sally! You're gona be a star!" Nothing is more distracting while trying to read a novel than having your thought flow interupted as Mrs. Meyers discusses the Long Island Playhouse production of "Music Man" in which her beloved boy was one of the 76 trombones or some nonsense.
As the clock strained towards evening hours, I had to evacuate operation audition as my work shift drew near. And truly, the only thing I regret is missed hours of shut eye.
I may sound jaded. But it is only because I'm jaded. A young twenty-somthing, I struggle with feeling like an old has-been, washed up and burnt out. Something in my mind-frame needs to change. EIther that, or I need a new background setting. Hence the upcoming vacay as Miss Matched takes on the West Coast. A brief stop in Washington followed by California shenanigans, me-thinks this much desired trip shall add as fresh pep to my step. A new dawn.
A spring awakening, if you will...
I should know by now that in my person, there is simply no tolerance for these sorts of scenarios. And yet, somewhere in the barely breathing cock-eyed optimist hibernating within me, the idea seemed like a breeze. Open call for the first non-equity company of "Spring Awakening". With an 11 AM go time on a Sunday, the concept was, in theory, relatively pain-free. (After weeks of 10 o'clock starts, this extra hour seems a God-send). Truly, who in their right minds is going to pop out of bed on a holy morning, the day of rest, for some non-union gig?
The answer: seemingly every barely legal Broadway baby on the East Coast proper. We're talking Pennsylvania prepsters, Jersey juveniles, and the occasional tri-city tot. A day off from studies equals the chance to realize their tween dreams of Broadway stardom. Grandma should have known. Rounding the corner to Chelsea studios with a lovely cushion of two hours to prepare, my mind is blown as I see pubescents on parade, a line blocks long streaming from the building doors. Passers-by gape in curiosity at this mob scene. A new reality show in the works, they wonder? One of those MTV "Jersey Shore on the Hills of Laguna Beach" type programs? Trust me, mama nearly flipped a 180 right back to the 1 train after sighting the mob scene. Lawn chairs were out, for goodness sake. Sleeping bags and overnight cases appeared in view. And yet, to the line's end I marched, rationalizing that, with nothing but an evening shift at the restaurant on my day's agenda, why not wait?
And wait I did. Numbers were passed out, "So You Think You Can Dance" style. My official badge? 410. Two hours early, and I am in the mind blowing multiple hundreds. Yet I hunker down for the long haul. Ipod out and book opened for perusal, I am distracted by constant fascinating characters surrounding me. First, there are the front-of-liners. We're talking those crazy kids who managed to stake a claim at the queu's tip top, and in passing I managed to scope their story. College kids from Pennsylvania, they hopped in their jalopy and cruised down to Manhattan for a 1:30 arrival time... meaning AM... meaning the approximate time your typical 20-some-odd is hitting the hay on a weekday. To sit outside in under 40 weather and brutal wind chill. My question is such: how does one function to their maximum ability under such conditions? I, for one, croak like a chain smoking tranny if I attempt to vocalize with less than my eight hours. Add to that slumbering restlessly in freezing weather, and one questions how stellar a performance shall be showcased. But back to jalopy they sleepwalk, day over and nothing to show for it but seriously droopy eyelids and possible pneumonia.
Then, there is a sight which I thought I had left long behind after by days of California community theatre: stage moms. As in several. As in they loaded up their mini-vans with the entire HS Drama Club for a lil field trip. "Bring your audition dress and "Wicked" song book, Sally! You're gona be a star!" Nothing is more distracting while trying to read a novel than having your thought flow interupted as Mrs. Meyers discusses the Long Island Playhouse production of "Music Man" in which her beloved boy was one of the 76 trombones or some nonsense.
As the clock strained towards evening hours, I had to evacuate operation audition as my work shift drew near. And truly, the only thing I regret is missed hours of shut eye.
I may sound jaded. But it is only because I'm jaded. A young twenty-somthing, I struggle with feeling like an old has-been, washed up and burnt out. Something in my mind-frame needs to change. EIther that, or I need a new background setting. Hence the upcoming vacay as Miss Matched takes on the West Coast. A brief stop in Washington followed by California shenanigans, me-thinks this much desired trip shall add as fresh pep to my step. A new dawn.
A spring awakening, if you will...
Friday, April 16, 2010
Romancing Via Text- The New Frontier
So, I thought it was absurd when two box office superstars released the movie "You've Got Mail?" Really, Tom Hanks? You've Oscars on your mantelpiece and yet you create such non-sense? A romantic comedy (as it must be, if Meg Ryan is involved), the flick remakes a classic (and superior) film, "Shop Around the Corner". Tis the tale of two competing workplace foes who unknowingly meet and fall in love via chat rooms and instant messaging. At the time, the entire concept seemed absurd. Whatever happened to the quaint notion of boy-meets-girl IN PERSON? Live, flesh and blood encounters? In the age of technology, convenience is key, the first date foregone in favor of a text message leading to a pre-nup. There is an instant gratification mentality which leads the general population to use mass means of technology in the place of face-to-face interaction.
And I too, it seems, have fallen prey to this curse.
Unknowingly, it appears I have stumbled into a text-mance, one which was not sought out and ultimately leaves me a bit perplexed. The man tis nearly a stranger, a friend of friends seeking to do this struggling actress a favor by housing her in his abode as she seeks new lines of employment. In the process, messages have begun to fly from one iphone to the next, rapid pace word exchange for hours on end. Witty banter abounds as we each try to outcharm one another with hilarious puns and daily anecdotes. What began as a speedy means of communication has turned into a techno-first date, but can one truly decifer their emotions via words on a screen? I have yet to meet this fellow, to encounter his person in the flesh and discover whether this repartee can tranlate from screen to being. After all, I highly doubt that I am as endearing when dealt with live, so their is a high liklihood this delimma works both ways. And there are other seemingly minute factors which can lead to major amorous issues. For instance, what if he's stinky? Until the iphone comes out with smell-o-text, I cannot possibly know whether or not his pheramones are to my liking. Does he spit when he talks? How tall is he? And more nerve-racking: what if I disappoint? There are too many variables in this text-mance situation. Therefore, I decree, tis best to wait and see.
The scenario I envision? Myself on the couch, host in bed in the next room, us clicking away a mile a minute on our tele-touch screens, trying to recreate the playful patter which has become second nature. Or I will dsicover he's mute. I suppose a text-mance romance is better than a no-mance romance.
And I too, it seems, have fallen prey to this curse.
Unknowingly, it appears I have stumbled into a text-mance, one which was not sought out and ultimately leaves me a bit perplexed. The man tis nearly a stranger, a friend of friends seeking to do this struggling actress a favor by housing her in his abode as she seeks new lines of employment. In the process, messages have begun to fly from one iphone to the next, rapid pace word exchange for hours on end. Witty banter abounds as we each try to outcharm one another with hilarious puns and daily anecdotes. What began as a speedy means of communication has turned into a techno-first date, but can one truly decifer their emotions via words on a screen? I have yet to meet this fellow, to encounter his person in the flesh and discover whether this repartee can tranlate from screen to being. After all, I highly doubt that I am as endearing when dealt with live, so their is a high liklihood this delimma works both ways. And there are other seemingly minute factors which can lead to major amorous issues. For instance, what if he's stinky? Until the iphone comes out with smell-o-text, I cannot possibly know whether or not his pheramones are to my liking. Does he spit when he talks? How tall is he? And more nerve-racking: what if I disappoint? There are too many variables in this text-mance situation. Therefore, I decree, tis best to wait and see.
The scenario I envision? Myself on the couch, host in bed in the next room, us clicking away a mile a minute on our tele-touch screens, trying to recreate the playful patter which has become second nature. Or I will dsicover he's mute. I suppose a text-mance romance is better than a no-mance romance.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Table for One
The scenario is such- an aging, graying male (possibly late fifties?) appears in the doorway of my "day job" location. A fairly typical burger joint, it is not necessarily an establishment that begs repeat visits, unless one is a fan of over-priced meat patties and the potent odor of gruyere cheese. Yet here he arrives, sometimes both lunch and dinner, daily, without fail, only one request from his lips.
"Table for one".
Now, this frequent customer is clearly struggling from some ailment, though what exactly, one can't be sure. His gait carries a bit of a limp, and all movements take a lengthy, seemingly painful amount of effort. Sometimes, in my moments of lingering soft-heartedness (for there doesn't seem to be much left in this New York transplant) I have to fight back the tears welling up. It just seems so cruel to me, a life of endless meals on a loop, the scenery barely changing day in and day out. I even find myself wondering if he orders the same meal at every sitting. WIth not even a book as his companion, this man appears truly alone.
I long to know his story. Was there ever a "someone" else to share with him giant burgers and a sm'ores shake? Has he always possessed this staggering stance and ackward movement? In my hyperactive mind, I concoct fables of great loves lost, hopeless romantic Manhattan fairy tales where a once amourous duo had the world on a string and a future full of fantasy. Yet their great affair ended tragically, with this poor man alone, living in a perpetual groundhog's day, and apparently in need of daily doses of greasy gastronomy.
What frightens me the most is truly a selfish notion: I don't want that to be me. As much as I claim to be single, independent, and strong, the thought of living this life alone petrifies me. Yet already, I see similar cyclical patterns in my behavior that alarm. Even now, as I type this tale, I am eating my afternoon cup of Tasti D Lite frozen yogurt... as I did yesterday... and the day before... and the day, well you get the picture. A woman caught in a rut, continually whiling away the days with an almost obsessive need for routine, for SAMENESS. I convince myself it is all in the name of comfort and organization, a well-oiled machine with no fear of dysfunction. In reality, it is merely an excuse to coast by daily with a buffer of safety and security. I believe that it may be time to take a leap and make real the hopeless romantic fantasies I envision. Stop daydreaming and start day-living. My fascinating, burger loving
VIP may keep his "Table for one".
For me, one is simply not enough.
"Table for one".
Now, this frequent customer is clearly struggling from some ailment, though what exactly, one can't be sure. His gait carries a bit of a limp, and all movements take a lengthy, seemingly painful amount of effort. Sometimes, in my moments of lingering soft-heartedness (for there doesn't seem to be much left in this New York transplant) I have to fight back the tears welling up. It just seems so cruel to me, a life of endless meals on a loop, the scenery barely changing day in and day out. I even find myself wondering if he orders the same meal at every sitting. WIth not even a book as his companion, this man appears truly alone.
I long to know his story. Was there ever a "someone" else to share with him giant burgers and a sm'ores shake? Has he always possessed this staggering stance and ackward movement? In my hyperactive mind, I concoct fables of great loves lost, hopeless romantic Manhattan fairy tales where a once amourous duo had the world on a string and a future full of fantasy. Yet their great affair ended tragically, with this poor man alone, living in a perpetual groundhog's day, and apparently in need of daily doses of greasy gastronomy.
What frightens me the most is truly a selfish notion: I don't want that to be me. As much as I claim to be single, independent, and strong, the thought of living this life alone petrifies me. Yet already, I see similar cyclical patterns in my behavior that alarm. Even now, as I type this tale, I am eating my afternoon cup of Tasti D Lite frozen yogurt... as I did yesterday... and the day before... and the day, well you get the picture. A woman caught in a rut, continually whiling away the days with an almost obsessive need for routine, for SAMENESS. I convince myself it is all in the name of comfort and organization, a well-oiled machine with no fear of dysfunction. In reality, it is merely an excuse to coast by daily with a buffer of safety and security. I believe that it may be time to take a leap and make real the hopeless romantic fantasies I envision. Stop daydreaming and start day-living. My fascinating, burger loving
VIP may keep his "Table for one".
For me, one is simply not enough.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Where is the love?
So today... I was walked all over. Literally. A fallen woman- trampled. The black spot on New York City's sidewalk- ignored. True to the klutzy gal that I am, this morning's casual sprint led to a tumble near Columbia Pres. which still leads my mind to reel. No one stopped. Not a one. Female jogger: tripped and fell, scraped and bloodied and out of sorts, yet not a single persona stopped to offer assistance. In fact, I was stepped over. People actually ignored my pain, straddled and walked over my sprawled being, and continued on their journey. Now, this is not to say this damsel was in distress or needed assistance, and yet, the realization that my circumstance merited neither concern nor assistance leads me to ponder- where is the love? This instance furthers my speculation that Manhattanites have become completely numb to human sentiments, withdrawn and shuttered from the true sensations of everyday life. So accustomed we become to the glazed over glare, the ignorance is bliss mentality which is oh-so accomodating to sidewalk shuffles and power-stomping our way to the agenda's next appointment. Woman on pavement? Leave it to NYPD ro decide, we have brunch to attend. Is it any wonder we as a society are losing the ability to feel connection, to step outside ourselves, to love? I am Lazarus. I am a blind beggar woman, pock-marked and left to fester so miss Manhattan can grab her Mocha-choca-latta at the local Starbucks and be on her way. Something has to change, or else the isolation which is city life shall grow monumentally, leaving us urban folk with dire desire for good ol' fashioned human connection.
NYC: Where is the love?
NYC: Where is the love?
Monday, April 12, 2010
A person... can develop a cold...
or bronchitis, as a certain Manhattanite has woefully discovered. The cherry blossoms bloom, tricycle toting tots terrorize the Upper West Side, and I endure the phlegmiest cough known to man. Longing to romp in a romper in the sun, I instead tightly roll my snot-stuffed being into fetal position, watching "Weeds" marathons and eyeing the clock's hands as they count down the hours of my suffering.
Ending self-induced pity party, in all honesty, the insane amount of downtime has led me to reflect on the past, then past the past, and further into the past until 3rd birthday party Barbie doll cakes were on the brain. Along the way, I mentally rehashed the many relationships I have lived and loved through over the course of time, and in doing so, the true issue with my dating life became clear- I have NO type. There was the first love, then the first REAL love, followed by random college shenanigans, the man I almost married, a rebound personal trainer, a finance man, a bar hopping mixologist. And then there is moi. Who am I, and where do I possibly fit in among this who's who of the male species?
Therein lies the problem, the winter of my discontent- I have no particular type for my dream companion because it is through my relationships that I search for and, ultimately, lose myself. Grasping at wisps of their identities in order to create my own persona, and in doing so, becoming a mimic, parroting their ideals and thoughts as if my brain had magically concocted them all by its little self. Granted, I am well aware that in every coupling, a certain amount of give and take is expected. We let them watch the game when all we desire is to indulge in a marathon of "Project Runway". I have faked interest in learning to speak Cantonese in order to garner a bookish beau's approval. Wrestling matches, learning to bar tend, going to trivia nights... I shudder at the many undesirable activities I have endured in the name of being a "couple".
Now, this isn't a "gal on the soap box railing against relationships" scenario. Rather, I think I am finally gaining insight into why I am single... and why I am okay with that. It feels as though, for the first time in a long while, I am rounding myself out as a whole, substantial individual. Discovering passions, freeing myself from pre-conceived notions of who I need to be versus who I actually am. Just me. Alone. Lil ol' me. The knowledge that I don't need a counter part has forced me to balance myself, enriching areas which I once relied on another to complete. Granted, girl still has a loooong way to go. Yet hopefully, after such a long self-imposed dry spell, when the next man mate comes into Miss Match's path, she'll be more of a woman than ever before. Just hope those testosterone types can handle it!
Ending self-induced pity party, in all honesty, the insane amount of downtime has led me to reflect on the past, then past the past, and further into the past until 3rd birthday party Barbie doll cakes were on the brain. Along the way, I mentally rehashed the many relationships I have lived and loved through over the course of time, and in doing so, the true issue with my dating life became clear- I have NO type. There was the first love, then the first REAL love, followed by random college shenanigans, the man I almost married, a rebound personal trainer, a finance man, a bar hopping mixologist. And then there is moi. Who am I, and where do I possibly fit in among this who's who of the male species?
Therein lies the problem, the winter of my discontent- I have no particular type for my dream companion because it is through my relationships that I search for and, ultimately, lose myself. Grasping at wisps of their identities in order to create my own persona, and in doing so, becoming a mimic, parroting their ideals and thoughts as if my brain had magically concocted them all by its little self. Granted, I am well aware that in every coupling, a certain amount of give and take is expected. We let them watch the game when all we desire is to indulge in a marathon of "Project Runway". I have faked interest in learning to speak Cantonese in order to garner a bookish beau's approval. Wrestling matches, learning to bar tend, going to trivia nights... I shudder at the many undesirable activities I have endured in the name of being a "couple".
Now, this isn't a "gal on the soap box railing against relationships" scenario. Rather, I think I am finally gaining insight into why I am single... and why I am okay with that. It feels as though, for the first time in a long while, I am rounding myself out as a whole, substantial individual. Discovering passions, freeing myself from pre-conceived notions of who I need to be versus who I actually am. Just me. Alone. Lil ol' me. The knowledge that I don't need a counter part has forced me to balance myself, enriching areas which I once relied on another to complete. Granted, girl still has a loooong way to go. Yet hopefully, after such a long self-imposed dry spell, when the next man mate comes into Miss Match's path, she'll be more of a woman than ever before. Just hope those testosterone types can handle it!
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Spring Fling...
Spring has sprung on the island of Manhattan, ushering in record breaking high temperatures and nose-stuffing allergies. Along as well come spring flings, mother nature making the inevitable call to both genders, coupled and not, to... well... get busy. Procreation is our calling, after all. Victoria's Secret bags are clutched in the hands of ever hopeful maidens, while the average Joe' s gym attendance suddenly spikes. The more hemlines are hiked, the more fingers become interlaced as partners do their dating dance amidst toy puggles and tykes on training wheels. (On multiple occasions, I have sighted the "hands-in-each-others-back-pockets maneuver, which forces an innate gag reflex.)
And here sits the perrenial Old Maid, tippety-typing away on her keyboard, most likely on the verge of a quarter life crisis. Searching for meaning in every day monotonies, yearning for true fulfillment, yet not entirely sure what that means or how to capture it. Soul-searching leads to self doubt, obsessive compulsive tendencies trap me in a vicious cycle of which I struggle to break free. Questions arrise- do I continue on this struggling actress schtick, though not altogether certain it is my real passion? Do I cart my indecisive behind back to class and obtain a degree in something marketable and reliable? The problem is, if I don't perform, all I want to do is read and write. The introverted book worm am I. And fairly certain this will not lead to a lucrative career.
So with all this chaos swirling through my mind, tis truly shocking I have not yet managed to snag a mate, eh? For surely bi-polar, somewhat manic depressive, OCD-minded gals are a hot commodity on the dating market now. (Was thinking of adding this to my personal traits on match.com, yet am so frazzled that I refuse to even view my profile anymore. It is as though viewing the portrait I painted of myself six months ago as oppsed to the space cadet I have become as of late is more self-exposure than I am willing to allow myself.) Rather, I wake every morning with the mantra flowing through my mind "New Day, New Beginning". But truly, I am fairly certain I used up my alotted quota of new beginnings some time ago.
Loopedy-loo, cyclical days, round-about eves. My world is a permanent 360 rotation, a hamster wheel in which I feel myself running... and running... and running... towards a never changing horizon.
So the question is thus- do I stop the endless marathon, or change the view?
And here sits the perrenial Old Maid, tippety-typing away on her keyboard, most likely on the verge of a quarter life crisis. Searching for meaning in every day monotonies, yearning for true fulfillment, yet not entirely sure what that means or how to capture it. Soul-searching leads to self doubt, obsessive compulsive tendencies trap me in a vicious cycle of which I struggle to break free. Questions arrise- do I continue on this struggling actress schtick, though not altogether certain it is my real passion? Do I cart my indecisive behind back to class and obtain a degree in something marketable and reliable? The problem is, if I don't perform, all I want to do is read and write. The introverted book worm am I. And fairly certain this will not lead to a lucrative career.
So with all this chaos swirling through my mind, tis truly shocking I have not yet managed to snag a mate, eh? For surely bi-polar, somewhat manic depressive, OCD-minded gals are a hot commodity on the dating market now. (Was thinking of adding this to my personal traits on match.com, yet am so frazzled that I refuse to even view my profile anymore. It is as though viewing the portrait I painted of myself six months ago as oppsed to the space cadet I have become as of late is more self-exposure than I am willing to allow myself.) Rather, I wake every morning with the mantra flowing through my mind "New Day, New Beginning". But truly, I am fairly certain I used up my alotted quota of new beginnings some time ago.
Loopedy-loo, cyclical days, round-about eves. My world is a permanent 360 rotation, a hamster wheel in which I feel myself running... and running... and running... towards a never changing horizon.
So the question is thus- do I stop the endless marathon, or change the view?
Friday, January 1, 2010
2010 Date Odyssey
Tis the new year, the new decade, the dawning of a new era for lil Miss Matched. To be completely honest, I haven't the foggiest clue what the upcoming 365 days hold for me. I can barely create a to-do-list in regards to tomorrow's activities, let alone the moments which wait ahead. Jobless, loveless, and still searching for the perfect dining room table, truly anything may await me on the horizon. Luckily, the holiday season has given me a much needed excuse to meander around, lolly-gagging in a permanent food coma. I dash from home furnishing store to store. Ikea, West Elm, and Target have become my second homes away from my brand new abode up in the Inwood hood. DIY decor distracts me from the gnawing anxiety building up within my gut, the pang of panic which comes from uncertainty. Truly, the unknown does not mesh well with my anal retentive being. I am of the day-planner diehard variety, and when my sticky notes become sparse, my highlighted agenda barren of ink, the general aura of moi becomes a not-so-attractive shade of grumpy gray.
Yet I am absolutely determined to begin this 2010 with not a whimper but a resounding bang. Especially after the events of last night's festivities, which left me even more certain that I am now in a new stage of life, a truly grown-up gal looking to assert herself in the the world in a different light. The realization of my seemingly sudden maturity came in the form of a job which I "worked" (and I use the term very loosely) on New Year's Eve. Not being a particular fan of this holiday, I jumped at the opportunity to forego the usual debaucherous shenanigans of the holiday in order to make some spare change through a promotional job. 'Twas also fortuitous that my mom (who is in NY helping me create a tres chic new pad) was around for the evening and willing to join me on my random money-making escapade. So there is as of yet no particular main squeeze dans ma vie. Who cares if I did not have (and still have not EVER received) a New Year's kiss? (Sorry, my shipmates, but I will forego counting the three-way smooch on the open decks as we rang in '09!) Rather than sulking around, drowning glass upon glass of champagne as I wallow in a pity party for one, mums and I went on a shopping spree, decked our divine selves out in full diva regalia, and prepared for a New York New Year's to knock the socks off those measly Times Square festivities. Ryan Seacrest be damned, we were taking on the town, the world, the universe... or, as we came to discover, a bunch of grossly intoxicated, underage girls in barely-there, sparkly strapless numbers, escorted by the financial types who buy them lettuce leaves and vodka-cranberries.
I cannot go clubbing.
When did mid-twenties become ancient? I suddenly feel like a should bear the moniker "cougar", seeing as I most males there certainly entered the venue after flashing faux-identification hot off the presses. One gentleman dances with a bowl atop his moptop hair. The Jonas Brothers look-a-likes in the corner pound shot after shot of Jaeger in an attempt to fully take advantage of the open bar. Pink-bikini clad dancers slickly bump and grind atop vodka coated platforms, attempting to avoid a certain male with a leg-licking penchant. One hour in- first bathroom vomiting sighted. Slightly later- trash cans used as latrines. The dance floor becomes a slip and slide, body groping accepted as de rigueur. One knows toes shall be stepped upon without the slighest apology and the only means of obtaining a beverage is a flash of one Benjamin Franklin toward the bartendress's flustered face. My mother and are so busy being stampeded at the bar counter that the countdown is completely missed.
"What time is it?"
"Um... 12:05... so... Happy New Year?"
By 12:30, job completed, we trudge through a crowd thick as molasses in order to obtain winter wear from a coat check area reminiscent of a war zone.
Cab- Hailed. Classy, Sophisticated Party Dresses- Tossed Aside in preference to PJs. Prosecco in hand, deep breathing exercises are practiced in an attempt to begin recovery from the trauma known as the NYC Club experience. If never again entering such an area means I shall be single and celibate for the rest of my days, that is a risk I am willing to take. I prefer to keep my alcohol in my glass rather than sticking to the soles of my stilettos. And I will be damned if a man is allowed to get his grubby paws on my brand new BCBG frock (unless specifically invited to do so).
I will admit, there were a few random texts sent my way during the course of the eve which lit a spark in an otherwise dreary atmosphere. Certain witty banter passed between communication devices that left a grin upon my otherwise grouchy (but glossed) mouth. A few gentlemen caller prospects on the horizon leave me hope for the days to come. Many of these kind words arrived from the cellular devices of my match.com mates. And yet a certain someone, the one whose words let loose the (cliche) butterflies in my vodka filled tummy, is a man who unexpectedly entered my life as this past decade drew to a close. Which leaves me hope... and a knowledge that the unknown future is what makes everyday life an adventure. Onward towards 2010 my alcohol-coated (but still fabulous) stilettos now march...
Yet I am absolutely determined to begin this 2010 with not a whimper but a resounding bang. Especially after the events of last night's festivities, which left me even more certain that I am now in a new stage of life, a truly grown-up gal looking to assert herself in the the world in a different light. The realization of my seemingly sudden maturity came in the form of a job which I "worked" (and I use the term very loosely) on New Year's Eve. Not being a particular fan of this holiday, I jumped at the opportunity to forego the usual debaucherous shenanigans of the holiday in order to make some spare change through a promotional job. 'Twas also fortuitous that my mom (who is in NY helping me create a tres chic new pad) was around for the evening and willing to join me on my random money-making escapade. So there is as of yet no particular main squeeze dans ma vie. Who cares if I did not have (and still have not EVER received) a New Year's kiss? (Sorry, my shipmates, but I will forego counting the three-way smooch on the open decks as we rang in '09!) Rather than sulking around, drowning glass upon glass of champagne as I wallow in a pity party for one, mums and I went on a shopping spree, decked our divine selves out in full diva regalia, and prepared for a New York New Year's to knock the socks off those measly Times Square festivities. Ryan Seacrest be damned, we were taking on the town, the world, the universe... or, as we came to discover, a bunch of grossly intoxicated, underage girls in barely-there, sparkly strapless numbers, escorted by the financial types who buy them lettuce leaves and vodka-cranberries.
I cannot go clubbing.
When did mid-twenties become ancient? I suddenly feel like a should bear the moniker "cougar", seeing as I most males there certainly entered the venue after flashing faux-identification hot off the presses. One gentleman dances with a bowl atop his moptop hair. The Jonas Brothers look-a-likes in the corner pound shot after shot of Jaeger in an attempt to fully take advantage of the open bar. Pink-bikini clad dancers slickly bump and grind atop vodka coated platforms, attempting to avoid a certain male with a leg-licking penchant. One hour in- first bathroom vomiting sighted. Slightly later- trash cans used as latrines. The dance floor becomes a slip and slide, body groping accepted as de rigueur. One knows toes shall be stepped upon without the slighest apology and the only means of obtaining a beverage is a flash of one Benjamin Franklin toward the bartendress's flustered face. My mother and are so busy being stampeded at the bar counter that the countdown is completely missed.
"What time is it?"
"Um... 12:05... so... Happy New Year?"
By 12:30, job completed, we trudge through a crowd thick as molasses in order to obtain winter wear from a coat check area reminiscent of a war zone.
Cab- Hailed. Classy, Sophisticated Party Dresses- Tossed Aside in preference to PJs. Prosecco in hand, deep breathing exercises are practiced in an attempt to begin recovery from the trauma known as the NYC Club experience. If never again entering such an area means I shall be single and celibate for the rest of my days, that is a risk I am willing to take. I prefer to keep my alcohol in my glass rather than sticking to the soles of my stilettos. And I will be damned if a man is allowed to get his grubby paws on my brand new BCBG frock (unless specifically invited to do so).
I will admit, there were a few random texts sent my way during the course of the eve which lit a spark in an otherwise dreary atmosphere. Certain witty banter passed between communication devices that left a grin upon my otherwise grouchy (but glossed) mouth. A few gentlemen caller prospects on the horizon leave me hope for the days to come. Many of these kind words arrived from the cellular devices of my match.com mates. And yet a certain someone, the one whose words let loose the (cliche) butterflies in my vodka filled tummy, is a man who unexpectedly entered my life as this past decade drew to a close. Which leaves me hope... and a knowledge that the unknown future is what makes everyday life an adventure. Onward towards 2010 my alcohol-coated (but still fabulous) stilettos now march...
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