Good Friday, Now That You Mention It...

Don't worry about things that haven't happened yet.

A simple yet invaluable pearl of wisdom - and one I have received more times than I can count. Be it from a friend, family, lover or stranger, it lands with varying degrees of impact and at times I swear on my very existence I'll never need to hear it again.

And, without fail, I'll feel the words wash over me again, as if for the first time.

In New York City, we are perpetually surrounded by people tormented by addictive lifestyles. Unable to relinquish the habits that imprison them. Their vices range from alcohol to sex to dieting to working to coffee to exercise to money to everything in between. And the lesson that seems to continually fall on deaf ears is that any thing - even that with the best intention - can be done to unnecessary excess.

As a genuine Libra, I pride myself on a delicate balance of life - work and play, comedy and drama, business and art, chocolate and salad, family and friends...it's an obvious and deliberate part of how I choose to live.

But like any addict - any habitual user of anything - I use all of the good I do, all of the well-meaning effort as justification for my sinful behavior. To award myself a sense of entitlement for my bad habit.

And, just like everything else, it's a habit that's hurting me first and foremost, with the people I love most deeply running a close second.

-

A necessary distinction to be made is that my worrying by no means renders me unhappy. If anything, it is the price I choose to pay for happiness - the lingering 'what if' question than can be applied universally as if to acknowledge that, yes, life is so fucking great - because xyz hasn't happened yet.

But what about deleting the 'yet' - three innocent letters loaded with implications. What about, without abandoning responsibilities, liberating myself from the minor potential that things will go wrong? Enough is enough.

Aside from biting my nails and diet soda, I've never failed to conquer a demon. Some times it's just a little more overdue than others.

Re-Entering the Void

The approaching weekend (I use the term loosely as today is still tragically Tuesday) has served as a beacon of hope and strength for me for over a month now. Unfortunately, I have concluded that the universe wants the preceding week to be as unbearable as possible in order to ensure my appreciation.

But complaining about the comically varied incidents that have led to this conclusion would just add unnecessary insult to injury. So I will try to condense it into one, concise, unrelenting dilemma.

Where do I belong?

I have blessings in spades. Complaining about any part of my life, at this point, is just asking for the karmic pendulum to swing in the opposite direction and restore the balance. I'm not that stupid. But I am...confused. In flux. I sort of feel as if my wheels are spinning while I continue to go nowhere.

And I refuse to settle. The same reason I was single for the first 22 years of my life is the reason I find myself yet again teetering on the edge of professional blankness - more qualified, for sure - but nameless, homeless, and directionless. That I am capable is far from the question. I want to do what I want. And because I have played my cards right, lead a morally commendable existence, given of of myself - paid my dues, if you will - for so long at this point, I feel as deserving of a job I love. This is a rare confession for the girl who has trouble seeing herself as deserving of the many fortunate twists that brought her here in the first place.

So maybe that's the first neccessary step. Here's hoping.

Cheers to health.

Today is the first day this week - or dare I say, in over a week - that I have not been in some physical pain. Excuse the apparent melodrama - but it is a fact - I have done a lot of pain-inducing activities, been teetering on the edge of sickness, and had a nasty (but not uncommon) pinched nerve in my neck.

Unfortunately I'm no stranger to long-term bouts of pain (never utterly incapacitating but at times intolerable). But I have been recovered for a few years now, and it is amazing how quickly we forget our greatest trials, and revert to taking life's most basic necessities for granted.

So here's to today's absence of pain, an unbelievably freeing, essential gift. And a reticent 'thank you' to the universe, as well, for the unwelcome yet necessary reminder of lucky I am to be young, well, and alive.

I don't care if the train runs late, if the checks don't clear, if the house blows down..

I'll be off where the weeds run wild,
Where the seeds fall far from this earth-bound town.
And I'll start to soar,
Watch me rain 'til I pour.
Catch a ship that'll sail me astray
Get caught in the wind, I'll just have to obey
Til I'm flying away...
-Craig Carnelia


They say that Saturday’s earthquake in Chile has altered the Earth’s distribution of mass ever so slightly, speeding up its rotation and thus decreasing the length of every day by some minute fraction of a second.

The latter part – the shortening of days bit – is inconsequential in magnitude. Besides, if you are like me and subscribe to the belief that time is purely relative, the claim that days have shortened smacks of scientific propaganda. But the notion that the entire world in which we live has forever changed a singular incident, in a singular country, on a singular continent is unnerving, to say the least.

This whole real-life manifestation of the Butterfly Effect is jarring enough – without inevitable consequence of applying it to our own lives.

If I had taken one step, uttered one sentence, formulated one thought differently- could it really have resulted in an outcome entirely different from the one I am currently living?

My answer is Yes. And the only way to cope with this devastating theory is to employ the ‘ignorance is bliss’ mentality – to plunge ahead with the comfort that we would never know the difference. Maybe life would be exponentially better. Maybe I’d be dead.

My life has been a bit off-kilter in the last week; a head-cold, a myriad of aches and pains, and a lingering sense of uneasiness have forced me to question what has thrown my own world slightly off its axis. Changes are occurring. They may be both good and necessary, but they’re still changes – and attention must be paid. Cruising through them without proper recognition could potentially backfire.

So with that I raise a glass to the express train instead of the local, stairs instead of elevators, March instead of February, a new home, a family who remains 3000 miles away, an ever-changing career path. An ever-changing sense of self.

It’s hard, and weird, and terrifying. Not in theory, not hypothetically, and not by some inconsequential fraction of a percent. In reality.

I don't know, maybe I'm just a fool.
I should keep to the ground, I should stay where I'm at.
Maybe everyone has hunger like this-
and the hunger will pass-
but I cant think like that...

I am, therefore I blog.

This weekend, I lived New York City.

On Thursday night, the city caught me in a moment of vulnerability and turned my should-be 15-minute journey home into an hour long, cold and snowy mess. On Friday morning, I opened my front door to nearly 2 feet of snow piled atop the cars parked along west 91st street, which had been shoveled haphazardly by someone who presumed that, given the amount of snow continuing to fall, their efforts were futile. I begrudgingly plodded to work in a snow-day outfit not suited for the Fashion District.

Friday didn't get better for some time. The cable guy didn't show because, evidently, the idea of working during a snowstorm like the rest of us (or calling to notify me that he wasn't coming) proved too much for him. More enraging still is the fact that I will be without cable for another two weeks - a fact that infuriates me only on principle, as I am gleefully stealing internet at the moment, have the entire series of Sex and the City on DVD, and frankly don't have much of an interest in television these days. Still, the mere notion that I am at the mercy of Time Warner's total absence of customer service gets under my skin more than I should admit.

Fortunately, thanks to a handsome and strapping shoulder to cry on (and one who eagerly ventured to pick up a pizza when delivery was, let's face it, not a likely option), Friday did turn around eventually. A healthy dose of perspective and some spectacular moments thrown in there and, before I knew it, the weekend had been restored.

Saturday, I took a Krav Maga Women's Self Defense Seminar in Chelsea with (and at the recommendation of) my personal New York City guru (and bff), Alyssa Galella. For those of you like myself who thought that Krav Maga was simply the pseudonym of some hippie who gets paid to show women how to kick ass in her Chelsea-based studio, let's turn to wikipedia:

Krav Maga (pronounced /ˌkrɑːv məˈɡɑː/; Hebrew: קרב מגע‎, IPA: [ˈkʁav maˈɡa], lit. "contact combat" or "close combat") is an eclectic hand-to-hand combat system developed in Israel which involves wrestling, grappling and striking techniques. Krav Maga is also known as Israeli jiu jitsu, its philosophy emphasizes threat neutralization, simultaneous defensive and offensive maneuvers, and aggression. Krav Maga is used by the IDF Special Forces units and several closely related variations have been developed and adopted by law enforcement, Mossad, Shin Bet, FBI, SWAT units of the NYPD[5] and United States special operations forces.

If that isn't hardcore enough for you, try to pack as much of this little practice into a 2 hour seminar as possible, including a boot-camp style workout in the top 30 minutes that deemed my decision to go sans-sports bra completely insane. Add to that starting pilates classes this week, joining the gym, and moving into a 5th floor walk-up, and lets just say I'm cursing muscles I didn't even know existed. Still, the seminar provided a tremendous release and sense of empowerment that came perfectly on cue.

Saturday night brought a mind-fuck (in the best possible way) presentation at the Hayden Planetarium entitled Sonic Vision - a 30 minute roller coaster of images and music that makes you wish that LSD were legal, cheap, and had no potentially devastating long-term psychological effects. Until that's the case, I highly recommend this little $15 trip ($12 if you can snag a discount) as a way to kick off a night of stuff that won't be nearly as cool.

Our subsequent 'stuff' was sufficiently cool, though. A concert in Brooklyn, with at least two friends planning on attending, was enough to lure me and the beau to Park Slope - much, MUCH uncharted territory - to a gem of a venue called Union Hall - a bar in one of these converted warehouses that reminds us Manhattanites what breathing room feels like. With two Bocce courts awkwardly/endearingly situated front and center in the main room, and a cozy concert hall nestled in the basement, the place has an identity all its own and I think we were all too charmed by it to worry about the inevitable $40 cab ride back to the Upper West Side.

Sunday was, in short, a dream, and filled as it should be with coffee-drinking and Upper West Side exploring with a very special man, running into a beloved old neighbor on the street, and living fully, on my time, and my terms, without guilt or obligation.

It is this kind of life-filled life that had led to my waning frequency of blog posts as of late. But I'm rededicating myself, because life has never been more worth documenting. And we all know I'm not much for cameras.

Just like that.

It is the ailment of the overachiever to be constantly racing to catch up with oneself. For this reason, I often unconsciously sell myself short, deny myself credit where credit is due because of any perceptible difference between my reality and my outlandish expectations.

Case in point: I graduated from college one year and 7 months ago, almost to the day. Yet ingrained in my mind is the inaccuracy that I have been out of school 2 years and counting. An insignificant difference in the grand scheme, perhaps, but in the that crucial 2-year post-graduate window of self discovery, five months is fairly substantial - nearly 25% of it, in fact.

Right now I am absorbing the shock of a 30 hour period that was, in ways, life changing. Yesterday at approximately 1pm I found the apartment I had been dreaming of since I first took residence in Manhattan one year and seven months ago. This dream apartment would grant me a sense of independence and maturity that I simply have not been able to achieve under the watchful eyes of a building my parents virtually hand-picked and provided for me - one so luxurious that rarely did a day pass that I didn't find it exorbitant, far exceeding the needs of someone like me - a young, capable and practical woman who cherishes privacy and is tormented by waste.

Today, at 7pm, I signed a lease.

Perhaps not the largest of milestones, but still a significant one - one that will shape at least the next year of my life and, consequently, those to come. One that will not sever, but at least loosen the ties that I have never lived without. And this decision is in no part an effort toward nobility; I am well aware that my circumstances still place me in just about the highest bracket of good fortune for someone my age, particularly taking into account the ratio of parental support (emotional and financial) to personal freedom. My parents are not nosy, commandeering, or nitpicky. They love, respect, and celebrate who I am in every way they know how. They are simply generous and devoted. And I am finally in a place where I feel like I can start to shed the layers of self-imposed guilt and learn to accept it, with unending gratitude and the ambition to move forward with fervor and integrity.

If I can do that in 30 hours, what can't I do in five months?

In the last eight months, I have reconnected with and been adopted into a theatrical family without whom I cannot imagine my life. I started working at Primary Stages only three-quarters of a year ago, and yet I feel as if I have never known my life without them. An artistic nucleus that represents to me such quality, consistency, humility and bravery as I have ever seen, run by a family of people who love and respect their work but never let it come before the people who make it happen.

A professional identity, artistic purpose, and daily incentive to work as hard as I can - in eight months? I'll take it.

In the last three months I have embarked on a new relationship, the details of which are too significant - too personal - to discuss here. Suffice it to say, three months is far less than five, and still more than enough for life to kick you in the back of the knees and show you who's boss - in the best way imaginable.

So what was missing in that first eight, even nine months or so after college that forced me to keep treading water, scrambling just to keep afloat emotionally as I tried to figure out even one reason to wake up in the morning? Now the reasons are so abundant and apparent, I can barely get my shoes on before I'm out the door.

For the first time since the staggering halt that followed graduation, I'm getting my momentum back. My adult momentum...and not the kind I had in college or high school, branded with an expiration date. This time, it doesn't have to stop.

And I vow not to shortchange myself five months or even 30 hours. Life is waiting, in spurts and stumbles and failures and triumphs, just around the corner. Maybe it's a job, maybe it's a boyfriend, maybe it's an apartment. Maybe it's your parents or maybe it's just a good book or the right song. The shape it takes is irrelevant, as long as, at the opportune moments, it reminds you that you deserve nothing less than all of you dreams coming true. The rest is up to you. The rest is up to me.

You had it coming, buddy.

Today's most gratifying piece of frivolous news had to be three year-old who, after being handed a freshly caught fowl ball at a Phillies game by her overzealous father, promptly threw it back into the field.

Not only do I laugh out loud every time I am revisited by this image, but I find it to be such hysterical karmic retribution for what I consider to be two of the most irritating human conditions: 1. The assumption that any instance of good fortune at least momentarily eclipses any need for human logic; and 2. Everyone's dumb preoccupation with their own children. I mean, come on, you're willing to sacrifice owning a tangible piece of sports history* for one solitary gesture that you likely deem as 'cute', even though your concept of cuteness has become so dangerously skewed by the affliction of early parenthood.

*Note: The magnitude of this description varies depending on what kind of baseball fan you are, I suppose, but I do not take the catching of a fowl ball lightly under any circumstances.

I harbor no real resentment toward parents or children or the dangerous combination of the two (two which you are likely responding, "Are you SURE about that?") I just find it truly, insanely hysterical that people who have children allow themselves to, on a REGULAR basis, be reduced to the same level of intellect as their spawn.

And will there come a day when my words prove hypocritical, and the sight of my own child's glowing smile is enough to reduce me to a pile of babbling mush? Maybe. But I'd like to think that I'd have the presence of mind to raise to kind of children who understand the sacred institution of Major League Baseball and who would behave accordingly.