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.

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.