Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Life. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 20, 2013
If I had one year to live...
For one day.....
I would eat. I would gather my friends and family and make all the meals that have been close to my heart for years. We would eat Mac and Cheese, Umami Burgers, bacon, gravy, mashed potatoes, french fries, Ledo pizza, chicken wings, flaming hot cheetos, chinese food, Meatballs, MORE CHINESE FOOD, Taco Bell, and maybe some obnoxiously priced fine dining that may or may not satisfy me. We would feast and laugh and feel sick afterwards.
And along the way, I'm sure we'd get fat. But that no longer matters since I'm dying, remember? All the laughter echoes through me.
For the next year......
I would not quit my job. If I remained healthy enough I would continue working, at least part-time, because somehow I value being a part of society. Being independent and establishing your sense of meaning and contribution in life is what makes us feel alive. I value myself and my accomplishments, however long and hard and stressful the road was. I value my coworkers and the relationships I've established with them. We're like an obnoxious family, and I wouldn't give that up so easily.
Within the year, I would take some time off , charter a yacht, and take two groups of people on vacation. I would spend all my money on the people that make me happy.
On one vacation.....
I would take my family. I would choose an exotic location like the Greek Islands because they're the most beautiful place I've ever seen with my own two eyes, and I want my family that I have loved forever to experience the same beauty I was lucky enough to once see. I want to laugh with them, binge eat Gyros while watching the sunset, share stories, drink wine with my mom and dad, reminisce about our childhoods with my brother and sister and how we expected so much out of life when we were little.
To be a super hero...
To be a famous actor....
To be a doctor....
To be a singer....
To be an author...
To be a professional soccer player...(my brother's dream, not mine. Trust me.)
We would discuss all of our dreams and realize that just because they may not have come true, doesn't mean our lives were less meaningful. We would realize that having meaning in life comes from the relationships you've built and the knowledge and love and compassion you've shared. We'd re-tell the story of Dad winning the 3-legged race at my sister's 3rd grade field day by discretely carrying her across the finish line. Because he wanted her to win so badly. Then we'd laugh at the thought of my dad dragging his 3rd grade daughter that was tied to his leg across the finish line, like Tom Hanks in Saving Private Ryan. We'd laugh so hard that wine flew out our noses.
We'd look at each other in sadness knowing that all good things must eventually come to an end, but smile from knowing that this very moment was still ours and no one could take it from us.
On the other vacation....
I would take my closest friends. Since money is no object when you find out your dying, I would charter a Yacht through the Caribbean around all the Virgin Islands. It would be quite the irony for a charter full of "queens" to set foot on a virgin island, but since I'm the one that is dying I arranged that on purpose. Because it's funny. A lot of my friends have become my family. Sometimes going through the most awful aspects of life and being there for one another without blinking an eye is what true relationships and bonds are made of.
We'd lay on the beach, drinking beyond what's considered "healthy" and swapping stories about who we think is most likely to accidentally take home a transvestite or contract syphillis from a smuggled pigmy midget. And then we'd belly-laugh.
Towards the end we may get sad that things were ending but, still, that very moment was ours. I would take the laughter and love because they live on through one another. The fancy yacht is just a minor detail. I promise. Because it can't come with you when you die.
And then....
I'd find true love. I never really have before, so now I have one year to find it. My friends Emily and Megan have found true love with 15 different men since 8th grade, and I'm extremely jealous.
I would open myself up to experiences I'm not used to, allow myself to become more vulnerable, take risks and tell some stranger whom I found attractive, "Hey. You're cute. Let's do this". I would live as though the consequences and outcomes are irrelevant. After all, if I'm dying, aren't they? But those consequences and outcomes should have always been irrelevant. How come I never realized this before?
Here's how I would fall in love:
I see him reading a newspaper on a bench next to the Hudson and I ask him why he's smirking. He looks up and says, "Just reading this story of two lesbian penguins at the zoo who got pregnant from scissoring". He had me at lesbian penguins.
We would spend the afternoon together, exploring the city and having drinks at some candle-lit bars in LES. Then we'd make it across the Williamsburg bridge to Miss Favela because I like dancing at a bar underneath a filthy bridge. I'm no better than a troll. We order caipirinhas, one after another. We leave at 1am and make-out outside the bar. His name is Alex, which I like because I can easily pronounce it when I'm drunk. We catch a cab uptown to his apartment.
The cab is racing up 8th avenue. The windows are down and our hands are intertwined and there's a perfect summer breeze running through our hair as the buildings fly by. I look over and see him staring out the window and then staring back at me. He smiles and I wonder how this happened, how we found one another.
And the breeze is rushing by.
And this time, this moment, with this one person, is all I need. I don't want it to end because the thought of it ending is too tragic to bare. I close my eyes and hope and pray that somehow this cab ride will last forever. And then I realize, in that moment, maybe I found true love.
And I smile because it wasn't too late.
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Middle Eastern Flair
Last month I decided to buy a Groupon for a "Relaxing Shave and Haircut" at some Barber Shop in Rockefeller Plaza. I'm not sure about you, but every time I buy a Groupon I feel a sense of accomplishment akin to how I feel when I'm ordering off the McDonald's dollar menu. Something about 4-piece nuggets for $1 seems to good to be true. Sometimes if I'm lucky I'll get a 5th nugget for free. I'm making out like a bandit! I'll think to myself. That's the same feeling I get when buying a good Groupon. It's as though I've spotted some crazy deal that no one else has found and I'm taking the suckers down for everything they're worth. $20 for an $80 haircut and shave? How do these people make any money?! For some reason I feel as though I'm the pioneer of online discounts and deals. In reality, I think I'm just an idiot and often times get EXACTLY what I paid for.
Anyway, Pride weekend was coming up and naturally I had to look my best so that the gays wouldn't snicker and jeer and throw apple martinis at my face. So I booked my appointment with the Barber Shop in Rockefeller and skipped out of my apartment on a fine Saturday afternoon. It was actually 95 degrees and I took a cab and arrived late, lost, and annoyed so it wasn't all that "Relaxing" thus far. I checked in and was directed towards a single chair next to a man named Mohammed. The chair sat alone in a store that looked to sell mainly hair products, facial exfoliates, and some heavy duty electric razors. Crowds of people walk the concourse area of Rockefeller Plaza quite freely, so the position of the chair made it seem like the perfect setting for Mohammed to conduct a public execution. I looked over at the table next to Mohammed's chair and saw an assortment of electric razors and sharp knives. For a second I thought I had booked the wrong Groupon and got nervous that I was going to have my undercarriage shaved and groomed in front of all these people.
"You sit. OK? My name Mohammed".
Well this should be interesting, I thought. So I sat.
He covered me in the typical smock, except this one latched around my neck so tight that I felt like a duck being prepared for a Foie Gras feeding. Mohammed was on the phone speaking in Arabic the whole time, which I didn't mind because sometimes I'm that asshole that speaks on the phone while ordering at Starbucks.
He reaches for a pair of clippers and says, "How you like?"
"Well I don't want it too short so just keep the same form and make it a trim. Not too crazy, ok?"
"NO. Not Craaazy...is good. You like! I Promise!" replies Mohammed. My hair is now in the hands of Allah.
Bzzzzzzzzzzz I can hear the sound of the clippers striking the side of my head and sheering off every piece of hair that stood in its way. It happened so quickly that I'm fairly positive I blacked out at some point. When I looked in the mirror the two sides of my head were completely shaved. Gone. For some stupid unbeknownst reason to me, I'm never good at speaking up in these situations. A blind woman with hedge clippers and missing thumbs could be cutting my hair and, the instant it reaches the point of no return where things have gone terribly wrong, I just close my eyes and hope it's over soon. I imagine this is what married sex must be like. And when she's done, she'll ask if I like my new haircut and I'd say "Yes this looks great thanks so much it's the best ever!" while slipping her a $20 tip on my way out the door. This particular situation proved no different.
The buzzing continued and I looked on in horror. I was in such a state of shock that I literally lost all speech and motor senses. I thought about getting up to run, but my legs weren't working. I was frozen stiff like a Kardashian in the presence of a black penis. Do with me what you want, Mohammed. Take everything and just finish me off.
As the buzzing continued, I looked on in horror when I realized we had reached the "Relaxing Close Shave" portion of the Groupon. I only realized this because the same electric razor that was used to chop my hair off was now being run profusely over the entirety of my face and all the way up to my nostrils. Then all of a sudden, the chair tilts back violently and Mohammed returns with a scalding hot towel. 1, 2, 3!! he counted and threw a scolding hot black towel on my face. I laid there at a 120 degree tilt in a blacked-out state of confusion. My face was covered and the only visible feature of mine were my eyes, so for all intents and purposes Mohammed had dressed me in a Burka. A little boy walked by pointing in horror and asking his mom if I was being tortured. YES, LITTLE BOY. GET. HELP! I thought.
When Mohammed returned he took the hot towel off.
"Berry Good, yes?"
"Mmmhmmm" I replied softly.
He then picks up the close shave knives and begins hacking away at my face. With the speed of a butcher dismembering a live chicken, Mohammed navigates my face and gets uncomfortably close to my jugular vein area.
The whole thing takes only 20 minutes. Once he finished, he repeats, "Berry Good, yes?"
"Mmmmhmmmm" I reply again. This time with tears welling in my eyes as I see the mounds of my hair that's fallen victim on the ground.
The final touch was the freezing cold towel he wrapped my face with and pressed down against my nose to the point that I literally could not breath. I took Mohammed's hairy arm with my hand and eased it off my face and sat myself up right. I looked in the mirror and laughed in hysterics at what had just occurred. I laughed even harder when I saw the results of my haircut. It was the only reaction my body could think of. I resembled, almost exactly, a tiny red tomato with the green leaves that stick out on top. Mohammed had not only given me the worst haircut I've ever seen, he actually stood proudly next to it. Presenting it to the passersby as if to say, "Yes my peoples you, too, can look this awful if you come to see me!".
With this particular Groupon, tip was not included. And obviously being the dumbass that I am, I removed $10 from my wallet and gave it to Mohammed. And as the $10 left my hand and went into his, I smiled and said "Berry Good", knowing that it was he who go the better end of the bargain this time.
Anyway, Pride weekend was coming up and naturally I had to look my best so that the gays wouldn't snicker and jeer and throw apple martinis at my face. So I booked my appointment with the Barber Shop in Rockefeller and skipped out of my apartment on a fine Saturday afternoon. It was actually 95 degrees and I took a cab and arrived late, lost, and annoyed so it wasn't all that "Relaxing" thus far. I checked in and was directed towards a single chair next to a man named Mohammed. The chair sat alone in a store that looked to sell mainly hair products, facial exfoliates, and some heavy duty electric razors. Crowds of people walk the concourse area of Rockefeller Plaza quite freely, so the position of the chair made it seem like the perfect setting for Mohammed to conduct a public execution. I looked over at the table next to Mohammed's chair and saw an assortment of electric razors and sharp knives. For a second I thought I had booked the wrong Groupon and got nervous that I was going to have my undercarriage shaved and groomed in front of all these people.
"You sit. OK? My name Mohammed".
Well this should be interesting, I thought. So I sat.
He covered me in the typical smock, except this one latched around my neck so tight that I felt like a duck being prepared for a Foie Gras feeding. Mohammed was on the phone speaking in Arabic the whole time, which I didn't mind because sometimes I'm that asshole that speaks on the phone while ordering at Starbucks.
He reaches for a pair of clippers and says, "How you like?"
"Well I don't want it too short so just keep the same form and make it a trim. Not too crazy, ok?"
"NO. Not Craaazy...is good. You like! I Promise!" replies Mohammed. My hair is now in the hands of Allah.
Bzzzzzzzzzzz I can hear the sound of the clippers striking the side of my head and sheering off every piece of hair that stood in its way. It happened so quickly that I'm fairly positive I blacked out at some point. When I looked in the mirror the two sides of my head were completely shaved. Gone. For some stupid unbeknownst reason to me, I'm never good at speaking up in these situations. A blind woman with hedge clippers and missing thumbs could be cutting my hair and, the instant it reaches the point of no return where things have gone terribly wrong, I just close my eyes and hope it's over soon. I imagine this is what married sex must be like. And when she's done, she'll ask if I like my new haircut and I'd say "Yes this looks great thanks so much it's the best ever!" while slipping her a $20 tip on my way out the door. This particular situation proved no different.
The buzzing continued and I looked on in horror. I was in such a state of shock that I literally lost all speech and motor senses. I thought about getting up to run, but my legs weren't working. I was frozen stiff like a Kardashian in the presence of a black penis. Do with me what you want, Mohammed. Take everything and just finish me off.
As the buzzing continued, I looked on in horror when I realized we had reached the "Relaxing Close Shave" portion of the Groupon. I only realized this because the same electric razor that was used to chop my hair off was now being run profusely over the entirety of my face and all the way up to my nostrils. Then all of a sudden, the chair tilts back violently and Mohammed returns with a scalding hot towel. 1, 2, 3!! he counted and threw a scolding hot black towel on my face. I laid there at a 120 degree tilt in a blacked-out state of confusion. My face was covered and the only visible feature of mine were my eyes, so for all intents and purposes Mohammed had dressed me in a Burka. A little boy walked by pointing in horror and asking his mom if I was being tortured. YES, LITTLE BOY. GET. HELP! I thought.
When Mohammed returned he took the hot towel off.
"Berry Good, yes?"
"Mmmhmmm" I replied softly.
He then picks up the close shave knives and begins hacking away at my face. With the speed of a butcher dismembering a live chicken, Mohammed navigates my face and gets uncomfortably close to my jugular vein area.
The whole thing takes only 20 minutes. Once he finished, he repeats, "Berry Good, yes?"
"Mmmmhmmmm" I reply again. This time with tears welling in my eyes as I see the mounds of my hair that's fallen victim on the ground.
The final touch was the freezing cold towel he wrapped my face with and pressed down against my nose to the point that I literally could not breath. I took Mohammed's hairy arm with my hand and eased it off my face and sat myself up right. I looked in the mirror and laughed in hysterics at what had just occurred. I laughed even harder when I saw the results of my haircut. It was the only reaction my body could think of. I resembled, almost exactly, a tiny red tomato with the green leaves that stick out on top. Mohammed had not only given me the worst haircut I've ever seen, he actually stood proudly next to it. Presenting it to the passersby as if to say, "Yes my peoples you, too, can look this awful if you come to see me!".
With this particular Groupon, tip was not included. And obviously being the dumbass that I am, I removed $10 from my wallet and gave it to Mohammed. And as the $10 left my hand and went into his, I smiled and said "Berry Good", knowing that it was he who go the better end of the bargain this time.
Wednesday, May 15, 2013
Lessons in the City that Never Sleeps
Things lately have been hectic. I work a ton, party a ton, and try to stay healthy by exercising a ton as well. It seems like I blink and my days are gone. It's weird because I spend most of my days thinking about what I want: A nicer apartment, an apartment with windows in the living room, a higher salary to afford said apartment, a cleaning lady, a trip to the Caribbean, a nice suit, blah blah. A Bike, room to store a bike, a bigger apartment with bike storage, a six pack, a puppy, a room that can fit a queen bed. All these things I want. And none of these things I have.
I spend far too much time at work stressed and pressured and just utterly drained. And I find myself being jealous of the lives of others. The photographers that get to be out at photo shoots every day. The actors and musicians who get to perform and sing and *gasp* do what they love and even make a living from it. I even at times get jealous about the Starbucks workers, because they seem so stress free. Sometimes, I dream of quitting my job and becoming a receptionist so I can read magazines about Kim Kardashian's obese pregnancy all day and watch youtube videos of dogs dancing to hard core raunchy rap music. Because at my core, I'm quite shallow and very easily entertained by reality television and mostly anything uploaded to Youtube. Particularly if it involves a black woman "twerkin'" by the dairy aisle at WalMart.
But my job consumes me. I travel frequently, I interact with clients, and for the first time in my life and career I am in a position where what I do actually matters and my thoughts and ideas are now seemingly important and valued. Um, what? CEO's and CIO's look to me for answers and solutions for various problems, and I need to know exactly how to help. And yet, I'm (barely) 28 and scared shitless. I drink and smoke and maybe even pop an extra pill or two on my prescription, so the thought of my day-to-night-to-weekend transition from "Work Andres" to "Not work Andres" is a Paradox which I find comedic. And yet, people trust me with big responsibilities and look to me for answers. So, I can't let anyone know I'm scared shitless because in this industry and in this city, you have to have balls made of brass and never back down. If you're not on your A game, you're not in the game at all. So I put on my hustle and flow and make it work. Somehow. And it does.
And then I sit and daydream about laying on a beach while sipping a pina colada that's gently rested on the firm bum of a very sculpted cabana boy. Because I feel captive in an office. I feel captive to the anxiety and stress that comes along with being an adult. And maybe I'm realizing for the first time that I am somewhat successful. And, at times, I don't like it. Not one bit.
But this is exactly what I came to New York to do. I wanted a change. I wanted adventure. I wanted a job that travels. I wanted to be important. I wanted to be somebody. And now that I am, it scares me. I'm scared that I'm not good enough or smart enough or that I may burn out too quickly or, worst of all, that I'll start to hate New York because I'll associate it with stress and fear and anxiety.
I think a city like New York is actually exactly where everyone should live at least once in their life. The fear, the stress, and the desire to perform and come out on top, even if it leaves you broke and lonely with a piece of stale cheese in your fridge and a nickel in your savings account, mold you into a person you never knew existed. I would argue that the fear and pressure that I feel as I'm walking into a client meeting or a boardroom full of executives to give a presentation is nothing short of crippling and at times terrifying. But, it's something I wanted for myself. It's why I came. And the fear and pressure has taught me that no matter what, I can get through it. This city, beyond anything else in my life, has taught me the value of perseverance. I can't think of many other cities that can do that. Success and adventure and challenges never come if you don't leave your comfort zone.
And on nights when I find myself thinking "Shit, Andres. You're going to be 50 and living with a roommate because rent is too expensive. And you'll be working until you're 100 because HAH! What's a savings account? And you'll certainly be alone because no one in this city really wants to date. But maybe it's you. Maybe you're too caught up in yourself to let anyone else in." Maybe. All of that could be true, but I know one thing. I know that I can come home after a long day, pop an ambien, take a stroll a few blocks up to Columbus Circle and sit next to a couple on vacation from Spain and a homeless man reeking of urine and all three of us, simultaneously, can enjoy the beauty of those fountains that shine at night. And I know that I can walk over to the Duane Reade on 58th, give a dollar to the old homeless woman who somehow broke a small piece of my heart, and talk to her. About her life. Her dreams. And even Ed Koch.
"Tell me," she said, with tired eyes and a toothless smile that hid so well beneath her weathered face. "Tell me, do you know what happened to Ed Koch?"
"No," I said, nervous to disappoint her. "Let's look it up."
So there I sat, with an old homeless woman and my iPhone, reading to her the Wikipedia page for Ed Koch. Her eyes filled with tears knowing he had passed away in February. I asked her if she had known him, to which she replied, "Yes, but ohhh so many years ago". She told me stories of how she lived in France and England with her husband who worked as a wealthy bondsman back in the day. Stories of cocktail events and social gatherings and a life that most anyone would want. And, yet, here she was. All these years later her world turned upside down. And whether or not any of it was true, which it could very well be, it didn't matter. I was intrigued by the fact that a city which can give you so much can at the same time take so much away. And for that hour, the woman and I spoke and shared stories and even laughed. It's ironic because often times you think of homeless people as being "needy" or "relying on the kindness of strangers". In this case, she helped me realize what it is to be human and the importance of the relationships you have with others. It's not always about the money or the big apartments or the nice suits. I'm the first to admit that those are great. But they don't bring happiness - at least not long term. The only thing that truly brings happiness is the relationships you have with the people that matter the most to you. It's a lesson I need to constantly remind myself of.
In a city as busy and crazy as New York, it's funny to see how small things that slip by in the day to day grind have a funny way of reappearing when you just stop, look around, and admire the energy and life that surrounds you.
And just as things may have taken a turn for the worse for the homeless woman, it's entirely possible (even if unlikely) that things could turn around for her once more. And that's the whole point, isn't it? Possibility. There's always a possibility for something, or someone, great to come along. But we need to be available and open to those opportunities without letting fear or self-doubt get in the way.
I tend to lose sight of that notion, particularly when I get too caught up in the daily grind. I used to think "What do I want to do with my life?" or "How do I do what I love and still be able to make money?" And now, strangely enough, I more often times think, "What do I want to get out of my life right now?" Because this moment is all that exists and matters. The right now. So what do I want out of my life right now? I'm still figuring some of that out, but I can confidently say that I want a direction that points forward. And I think I'm finally getting it because at least I now know that I'm asking the right questions. And in time, the answers and solutions will come. They always do. Even if it's at 2am in Columbus Circle on ambien, chatting with an old, homeless billionaire.
I spend far too much time at work stressed and pressured and just utterly drained. And I find myself being jealous of the lives of others. The photographers that get to be out at photo shoots every day. The actors and musicians who get to perform and sing and *gasp* do what they love and even make a living from it. I even at times get jealous about the Starbucks workers, because they seem so stress free. Sometimes, I dream of quitting my job and becoming a receptionist so I can read magazines about Kim Kardashian's obese pregnancy all day and watch youtube videos of dogs dancing to hard core raunchy rap music. Because at my core, I'm quite shallow and very easily entertained by reality television and mostly anything uploaded to Youtube. Particularly if it involves a black woman "twerkin'" by the dairy aisle at WalMart.
But my job consumes me. I travel frequently, I interact with clients, and for the first time in my life and career I am in a position where what I do actually matters and my thoughts and ideas are now seemingly important and valued. Um, what? CEO's and CIO's look to me for answers and solutions for various problems, and I need to know exactly how to help. And yet, I'm (barely) 28 and scared shitless. I drink and smoke and maybe even pop an extra pill or two on my prescription, so the thought of my day-to-night-to-weekend transition from "Work Andres" to "Not work Andres" is a Paradox which I find comedic. And yet, people trust me with big responsibilities and look to me for answers. So, I can't let anyone know I'm scared shitless because in this industry and in this city, you have to have balls made of brass and never back down. If you're not on your A game, you're not in the game at all. So I put on my hustle and flow and make it work. Somehow. And it does.
And then I sit and daydream about laying on a beach while sipping a pina colada that's gently rested on the firm bum of a very sculpted cabana boy. Because I feel captive in an office. I feel captive to the anxiety and stress that comes along with being an adult. And maybe I'm realizing for the first time that I am somewhat successful. And, at times, I don't like it. Not one bit.
But this is exactly what I came to New York to do. I wanted a change. I wanted adventure. I wanted a job that travels. I wanted to be important. I wanted to be somebody. And now that I am, it scares me. I'm scared that I'm not good enough or smart enough or that I may burn out too quickly or, worst of all, that I'll start to hate New York because I'll associate it with stress and fear and anxiety.
I think a city like New York is actually exactly where everyone should live at least once in their life. The fear, the stress, and the desire to perform and come out on top, even if it leaves you broke and lonely with a piece of stale cheese in your fridge and a nickel in your savings account, mold you into a person you never knew existed. I would argue that the fear and pressure that I feel as I'm walking into a client meeting or a boardroom full of executives to give a presentation is nothing short of crippling and at times terrifying. But, it's something I wanted for myself. It's why I came. And the fear and pressure has taught me that no matter what, I can get through it. This city, beyond anything else in my life, has taught me the value of perseverance. I can't think of many other cities that can do that. Success and adventure and challenges never come if you don't leave your comfort zone.
And on nights when I find myself thinking "Shit, Andres. You're going to be 50 and living with a roommate because rent is too expensive. And you'll be working until you're 100 because HAH! What's a savings account? And you'll certainly be alone because no one in this city really wants to date. But maybe it's you. Maybe you're too caught up in yourself to let anyone else in." Maybe. All of that could be true, but I know one thing. I know that I can come home after a long day, pop an ambien, take a stroll a few blocks up to Columbus Circle and sit next to a couple on vacation from Spain and a homeless man reeking of urine and all three of us, simultaneously, can enjoy the beauty of those fountains that shine at night. And I know that I can walk over to the Duane Reade on 58th, give a dollar to the old homeless woman who somehow broke a small piece of my heart, and talk to her. About her life. Her dreams. And even Ed Koch.
"Tell me," she said, with tired eyes and a toothless smile that hid so well beneath her weathered face. "Tell me, do you know what happened to Ed Koch?"
"No," I said, nervous to disappoint her. "Let's look it up."
So there I sat, with an old homeless woman and my iPhone, reading to her the Wikipedia page for Ed Koch. Her eyes filled with tears knowing he had passed away in February. I asked her if she had known him, to which she replied, "Yes, but ohhh so many years ago". She told me stories of how she lived in France and England with her husband who worked as a wealthy bondsman back in the day. Stories of cocktail events and social gatherings and a life that most anyone would want. And, yet, here she was. All these years later her world turned upside down. And whether or not any of it was true, which it could very well be, it didn't matter. I was intrigued by the fact that a city which can give you so much can at the same time take so much away. And for that hour, the woman and I spoke and shared stories and even laughed. It's ironic because often times you think of homeless people as being "needy" or "relying on the kindness of strangers". In this case, she helped me realize what it is to be human and the importance of the relationships you have with others. It's not always about the money or the big apartments or the nice suits. I'm the first to admit that those are great. But they don't bring happiness - at least not long term. The only thing that truly brings happiness is the relationships you have with the people that matter the most to you. It's a lesson I need to constantly remind myself of.
In a city as busy and crazy as New York, it's funny to see how small things that slip by in the day to day grind have a funny way of reappearing when you just stop, look around, and admire the energy and life that surrounds you.
And just as things may have taken a turn for the worse for the homeless woman, it's entirely possible (even if unlikely) that things could turn around for her once more. And that's the whole point, isn't it? Possibility. There's always a possibility for something, or someone, great to come along. But we need to be available and open to those opportunities without letting fear or self-doubt get in the way.
I tend to lose sight of that notion, particularly when I get too caught up in the daily grind. I used to think "What do I want to do with my life?" or "How do I do what I love and still be able to make money?" And now, strangely enough, I more often times think, "What do I want to get out of my life right now?" Because this moment is all that exists and matters. The right now. So what do I want out of my life right now? I'm still figuring some of that out, but I can confidently say that I want a direction that points forward. And I think I'm finally getting it because at least I now know that I'm asking the right questions. And in time, the answers and solutions will come. They always do. Even if it's at 2am in Columbus Circle on ambien, chatting with an old, homeless billionaire.
Monday, January 30, 2012
Not a Sermon, Just a Thought
Have you ever found yourself at those crossroads in life where you second guess every decision you've made that has gotten you to where you are? Those moments where you kind of snap into a sudden burst of realization and you think to yourself, Holy shit, what have I done?! Where you wonder if everything you did that lead up to this very moment was the right thing, and if the results were worth it. I've been having quite a few of these lately.
A year ago, I was sitting at my desk in DC, doing a job I had no passion for and feeling like I was just going through the motions, like a robot with its batteries going on red. I remember thinking to myself When is this going to change? and feeling like if it didn't soon, I would just implode. My life was not where I had wanted it to be, and my soul yearned for something more. Something Better. I knew that it was up to me to change things and that I had two choices: I could sit and complain and accept the fact that I was unhappy and frustrated, living a life of quiet desperation that would never truly be my own. OR, I could do something about it. After all, this is my life and I'm in control of it.
For some reason, I had always had this false sense of hope that something amazing would present itself, as though a gift wrapped from the heavens would fall into my lap and I would open it, look inside, and find the perfect job, the perfect relationship, the perfect bank account, the perfect body, the perfect house, the perfect life, the perfect everything that could so nicely and adequately fit in this box. And then I would take my perfect smile, look up to the sky, whisper "Thank you", and live my life happily ever after. How moronic. I don't know why it took me so long to realize it, but that moment is not coming. Maybe it was the way I grew up, going to the best schools where you and your peers are constantly told, "You're special. You guys are going to be someone, and be the best of the best." And then in college, where it seemed like life, if only for a split moment, could actually be as easy as the notion that You take this many credits, you do well in them, you pass and you move to the next stage. And then after all this, you reach the last stage, where you graduate and then find a great job and live happily ever after. When was anyone going to stop and tell me, "Um hey, excuse me sir, guess what! All those things you were taught to believe and think to be true? Yeah, they were mostly lies. Sorry."
It took me until I turned 22 and had my first pretty much terrible office job experience for me to realize that it was all a lie. Or at least that it wasn't what I was taught to expect. And then various mid-life crises later, I continued to realize it - the lies that people told me. If things were that easy, we would all be living the perfect lives. Nothing is perfect, and that's ok. But I've come to realize that much of life is about compromise. There's moments where you'll find yourself more frustrated and unhappy than others and you'll think only about all the imperfections that are consuming you, which allows you to quickly lose sight of the amazing things that surround you. Not everything is always bad all at once - you just think they are.
Since I was a little boy, I would come to New York with my parents and be in complete awe from the magic that I felt existed here. I would see it on TV, come visit friends, and tell myself over and over One day my life will be here. So I took charge of my unsatisfying life and did everything I could to get here. I saved money, I worked at a job I disliked and stuck with it to keep me ahead of the curve. I networked and fought and clawed my way through the barrier of that NYC skyline and I made it. I remember while going through the process thinking to myself It's hard now, but the ending will be so perfectly worth it. Perfect, right?
Well, since I've arrived here I think it's safe to say things have been a little less than perfect. Transitions are always difficult and no matter how you prepare for them, you WILL receive your fare share of surprises, and some of them may seem insurmountable. I dealt with a less than desirable apartment hunting experience (that you can read about below)but I fought through it and all fared well in the end. Everyday in NYC is a financial struggle in the beginning, and don't be fooled by anyone who tells you that it's not. It most definitely is, but it's something you prepare for and make changes to accomodate for it. You compromise between the things you want and the things you need and make decisions based on what you can afford. For instance, I've come to realize I can't afford cheese in Manhattan super markets, as it costs about $8.00 for a pack of 6 slices. I love cheese, but this is my compromise. Until I get a raise or become rich and famous, I won't be able to afford cheese. That's life. That's compromise. And actually because I happen to love cheese so much, it's actually a sacrifice as well. And to get what you really want in life, you have to make those compromises and sacrifices to get to the glory that lies ahead. Somewhere up ahead, it's better. It just has to be.
My first few months at work in New York City have been very hard as well. Adjustments are a challenge, and so is learning an industry from the bottom up, working 10-12 hour days, and doing a job that in most other places would require 2-3 people to do but here, it's only you. None of this is easy. I can't begin to describe how hard this transition has been and how close to defeat I've gotten - and it's only been 4 months! But everyday I tell myself This is what I wanted; it was my "dream" to live here and make a spectacular life for myself. Not yet DAMNIT!. Deep inside I know this is where I belong, and I'm certaintly not going down without a fight.
And as I've been having these really awful, long, frustrating days at work where all I want to do is just run outside the building with my hair in my arms, screaming at the top of my lungs, and just give a big "fuck you" to all the roadblocks that keep getting in my way, I've found myself again in a situation where something needs to change. No one is coming to rescue me. It's up to me to survive and become the person I envisioned for myself here. I'm in the city I want to be, and that alone required me to pull strength and perseverence from out of my ass and make it happen. And that was me, I did all of that. I fought to change what I was unhappy with and did it, which means I can certaintly do it again. I can't allow my unhappiness and frustrations to take over my life like they used to. I have found myself thinking Holy shit what have I done? Did I make a mistake coming here and losing all of my savings, giving up a high paying job in DC just to be more unhappy at work than I was before? I know one thing: I do not and will never regret what I did. I just need to learn how to make things work for me and at some level believe that they eventually will.
So just because things have been hard and it's easy to feel defeated and sad, I have to realize that there's things within my control that I can change. And this is something that so many people won't often realize, but happiness is a choice just as much as misery is a choice. We choose to be miserable if we continue to stay in a situation that makes us miserable without doing something about it. If you're miserable at work, find out why. If there's a reason behind it that can be fixed and addressed, then take control and fix it. If not, then take control and find something else. But never lose control of your own life, even when it feels like you're constantly slipping on ice and grasping for something to hold on to. Take control of these things because I can assure you that there is no magical fairy flying around on the cusp of delivering you a perfect solution or a beautiful escape. And if you're happy, enjoy the fuck out of each and every second of it because THAT is what life really is about.
By focusing on all the things that were stressing me out and going wrong, I lost sight of all the amazing things I have in my new life here. My friends, my coworkers, my apartment, my awesome roommate (who also doubles as a pet cat because he does nothing but sleep and poop), my karaoke skills that are a new hit in the West Village bars, all of these things are what make my life here pretty fucking great. So I have to make positive changes in terms of career and work because I'll be damned if they will take me away from everything I have here and everything I did to get here. Finding what you love to do and loving where you live are two exceptional foundations to happiness and self acclamation.
The other day, after an incredibly long and stressful day at work, I was walking home with my co-worker, Iris (who moved here from CA ), having one of those moments where we think What the fuck? Is this our life? Is this really what we wanted? And then, at that very moment, we both look up and spot a pair of 65-foot tall tits on an H&M billboard and smile at one another. "Of course we want to be here," she says. "Where else can we be walking home from work and look up to see a pair of 65 foot tits staring right down at us, as though taunting and laughing at the silly moment in time where we doubted ourselves." And that's how I knew that, often times, magic can come in the set of two very gigantic 65 foot breasts under an H&M ad. And I want to be where the magic still exists.
"No it won't all go the way it should, but I know the heart of life is good."
A year ago, I was sitting at my desk in DC, doing a job I had no passion for and feeling like I was just going through the motions, like a robot with its batteries going on red. I remember thinking to myself When is this going to change? and feeling like if it didn't soon, I would just implode. My life was not where I had wanted it to be, and my soul yearned for something more. Something Better. I knew that it was up to me to change things and that I had two choices: I could sit and complain and accept the fact that I was unhappy and frustrated, living a life of quiet desperation that would never truly be my own. OR, I could do something about it. After all, this is my life and I'm in control of it.
For some reason, I had always had this false sense of hope that something amazing would present itself, as though a gift wrapped from the heavens would fall into my lap and I would open it, look inside, and find the perfect job, the perfect relationship, the perfect bank account, the perfect body, the perfect house, the perfect life, the perfect everything that could so nicely and adequately fit in this box. And then I would take my perfect smile, look up to the sky, whisper "Thank you", and live my life happily ever after. How moronic. I don't know why it took me so long to realize it, but that moment is not coming. Maybe it was the way I grew up, going to the best schools where you and your peers are constantly told, "You're special. You guys are going to be someone, and be the best of the best." And then in college, where it seemed like life, if only for a split moment, could actually be as easy as the notion that You take this many credits, you do well in them, you pass and you move to the next stage. And then after all this, you reach the last stage, where you graduate and then find a great job and live happily ever after. When was anyone going to stop and tell me, "Um hey, excuse me sir, guess what! All those things you were taught to believe and think to be true? Yeah, they were mostly lies. Sorry."
It took me until I turned 22 and had my first pretty much terrible office job experience for me to realize that it was all a lie. Or at least that it wasn't what I was taught to expect. And then various mid-life crises later, I continued to realize it - the lies that people told me. If things were that easy, we would all be living the perfect lives. Nothing is perfect, and that's ok. But I've come to realize that much of life is about compromise. There's moments where you'll find yourself more frustrated and unhappy than others and you'll think only about all the imperfections that are consuming you, which allows you to quickly lose sight of the amazing things that surround you. Not everything is always bad all at once - you just think they are.
Since I was a little boy, I would come to New York with my parents and be in complete awe from the magic that I felt existed here. I would see it on TV, come visit friends, and tell myself over and over One day my life will be here. So I took charge of my unsatisfying life and did everything I could to get here. I saved money, I worked at a job I disliked and stuck with it to keep me ahead of the curve. I networked and fought and clawed my way through the barrier of that NYC skyline and I made it. I remember while going through the process thinking to myself It's hard now, but the ending will be so perfectly worth it. Perfect, right?
Well, since I've arrived here I think it's safe to say things have been a little less than perfect. Transitions are always difficult and no matter how you prepare for them, you WILL receive your fare share of surprises, and some of them may seem insurmountable. I dealt with a less than desirable apartment hunting experience (that you can read about below)but I fought through it and all fared well in the end. Everyday in NYC is a financial struggle in the beginning, and don't be fooled by anyone who tells you that it's not. It most definitely is, but it's something you prepare for and make changes to accomodate for it. You compromise between the things you want and the things you need and make decisions based on what you can afford. For instance, I've come to realize I can't afford cheese in Manhattan super markets, as it costs about $8.00 for a pack of 6 slices. I love cheese, but this is my compromise. Until I get a raise or become rich and famous, I won't be able to afford cheese. That's life. That's compromise. And actually because I happen to love cheese so much, it's actually a sacrifice as well. And to get what you really want in life, you have to make those compromises and sacrifices to get to the glory that lies ahead. Somewhere up ahead, it's better. It just has to be.
My first few months at work in New York City have been very hard as well. Adjustments are a challenge, and so is learning an industry from the bottom up, working 10-12 hour days, and doing a job that in most other places would require 2-3 people to do but here, it's only you. None of this is easy. I can't begin to describe how hard this transition has been and how close to defeat I've gotten - and it's only been 4 months! But everyday I tell myself This is what I wanted; it was my "dream" to live here and make a spectacular life for myself. Not yet DAMNIT!. Deep inside I know this is where I belong, and I'm certaintly not going down without a fight.
And as I've been having these really awful, long, frustrating days at work where all I want to do is just run outside the building with my hair in my arms, screaming at the top of my lungs, and just give a big "fuck you" to all the roadblocks that keep getting in my way, I've found myself again in a situation where something needs to change. No one is coming to rescue me. It's up to me to survive and become the person I envisioned for myself here. I'm in the city I want to be, and that alone required me to pull strength and perseverence from out of my ass and make it happen. And that was me, I did all of that. I fought to change what I was unhappy with and did it, which means I can certaintly do it again. I can't allow my unhappiness and frustrations to take over my life like they used to. I have found myself thinking Holy shit what have I done? Did I make a mistake coming here and losing all of my savings, giving up a high paying job in DC just to be more unhappy at work than I was before? I know one thing: I do not and will never regret what I did. I just need to learn how to make things work for me and at some level believe that they eventually will.
So just because things have been hard and it's easy to feel defeated and sad, I have to realize that there's things within my control that I can change. And this is something that so many people won't often realize, but happiness is a choice just as much as misery is a choice. We choose to be miserable if we continue to stay in a situation that makes us miserable without doing something about it. If you're miserable at work, find out why. If there's a reason behind it that can be fixed and addressed, then take control and fix it. If not, then take control and find something else. But never lose control of your own life, even when it feels like you're constantly slipping on ice and grasping for something to hold on to. Take control of these things because I can assure you that there is no magical fairy flying around on the cusp of delivering you a perfect solution or a beautiful escape. And if you're happy, enjoy the fuck out of each and every second of it because THAT is what life really is about.
By focusing on all the things that were stressing me out and going wrong, I lost sight of all the amazing things I have in my new life here. My friends, my coworkers, my apartment, my awesome roommate (who also doubles as a pet cat because he does nothing but sleep and poop), my karaoke skills that are a new hit in the West Village bars, all of these things are what make my life here pretty fucking great. So I have to make positive changes in terms of career and work because I'll be damned if they will take me away from everything I have here and everything I did to get here. Finding what you love to do and loving where you live are two exceptional foundations to happiness and self acclamation.
The other day, after an incredibly long and stressful day at work, I was walking home with my co-worker, Iris (who moved here from CA ), having one of those moments where we think What the fuck? Is this our life? Is this really what we wanted? And then, at that very moment, we both look up and spot a pair of 65-foot tall tits on an H&M billboard and smile at one another. "Of course we want to be here," she says. "Where else can we be walking home from work and look up to see a pair of 65 foot tits staring right down at us, as though taunting and laughing at the silly moment in time where we doubted ourselves." And that's how I knew that, often times, magic can come in the set of two very gigantic 65 foot breasts under an H&M ad. And I want to be where the magic still exists.
"No it won't all go the way it should, but I know the heart of life is good."
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