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The Opposite of Loneliness

"I no longer think being in love is the polar opposite of being alone, however. I say that because I used to want to be in love again as I assumed this was the opposite of loneliness. I think being in love is an opposite of loneliness, but not the opposite. There are other things I now crave when I am lonely, like community, like friendship, like family. I think our society puts too much pressure on romantic love, and that is why so many romances fail. Romance can't possibly carry all that we want it to ... When you live on your own for a long time, however, your personality changes because you go so much into yourself you lose the ability to be social, to understand what is and isn't normal behavior. There is an entire world inside yourself, and if you let yourself, you can get so deep inside it you will forget the way to the surface. Other people keep our souls alive, just like food and water does with our body."

- "Blue Like Jazz"
Donald Miller

I started reading this book a few weeks ago - it has an interesting tagline - "nonreligious thoughts on Christian spirituality." I am mostly through it and have both liked it at times and subsequently, been annoyed by it at times. I made the error of reading reviews online before I bought it and definitely can say that I agree with the major criticism of the book. That being the author sometimes comes across as too pretentious (or for a more scholarly term, too cool for school). I find myself nodding in agreement with half of what he says, marking paragraphs and truly been given food for thought. Other pages, I really just get bothered by the author, who seems to think that his constant references to pipe smoking make him soooo awesome. After all, everyone knows that Christians don't smoke pipes. Or ride motorcycles. /end sarcasm.

I digress.

The excerpt above is from the most recent chapter I finished, which is entitled "Alone." There was another paragraph before it that I did not quote - one in which he discussed being in that kind of all-encompassing love that everyone has experienced. The kind which is so wonderful because you realize that you forget your own problems and find someone else more important than you.

Therefore, in 1+1=2 mentality, not being in love should mean you are alone ... which really is never the case. Being alone becomes a choice, when you choose to push people away. I thought it was interesting how he made the point that society overemphasizes romantic love - as the answer to, or cause of, everyone's problems.

And that can't be the case.

I am one of those people who is okay doing things by myself. I can see a movie alone, take a vacation alone or go to a concert by myself. It's not to say that I wouldn't prefer doing things with other people ... BUT ... I will never sacrifice wanting to do something simply because no one else is interested that day.

I have also lived alone for a number of years. I have defended it by saying that I love my own space (which is true) and that I can always find someone to spend time with when I don't want to be alone. But it is just as easy, if not easier, to find yourself disappearing within and becoming a victim of your own thoughts and habits. The more you isolate yourself, you lose an appreciation for the company of others. I never thought this could be the case.

And I end this with one of my all-time favorite quotes:
"Jen lives alone. Give her a Wii and some cats and she'll never leave her apartment ... especially if there's any kind of marathon on the ABC Family Channel." - Kristen Pressler

(Maybe I should rethink the alone thing ...)

An Affair to Forget

Dan: I fell in love with her, Alice.
Alice: Oh, as if you had no choice? There's a moment, there's always a moment, "I can do this, I can give into this, or I can resist it", and I don't know when your moment was, but I bet you there was one.
- "Closer"

During my morning commute I often find myself reading over the person's shoulder who sits next to me. Nine times out of 10, my subway neighbor is reading AMNY or Metro, one of the ubiquitous free newspapers.

Last week, an ad on the back of one of the papers caught my eye - an ad for a company called Ashley Madison. The company, whose slogan is "Life is short. Have an affair," is an online personals site "aimed at facilitating extramarital affairs."

Needless to say, I was disgusted.

Yes, I know that Craiglist definitely delves into shady encounters. I know that plenty of people probably lie both online (and in real life) and that plenty of people surely have affairs. It just bothered me fundamentally that a company would exist for this sole purpose - to help married people cheat.

I remember years ago, seeing the movie "Closer" with my friend Brad. If my memory can be trusted, the movie trailer did not indicate that the film was about cheating. I simply remember that it looked like a unique relationship movie - and the fact that the trailer featured a favorite Damien Rice song didn't hurt, either.

Much like my reaction to the Ashley Madison ad/concept, "Closer" left me feeling not only sick to my stomach, but sad. It was too real.

I felt disenchanted, as if all of my hopes for the future were really futile. I was left thinking that fidelity is an illusion, that people lie to suit their own desires.

I never wanted to believe that this is what people are really about. Conversely, I wanted back my (possibly naive) belief that true, traditional love does exist - and that people work to keep relationships and families together.

And then on my morning commute, I was reminded of the dark side. That people give up. That people are selfish. That people don't consider the consequences of their actions.

The popular argument is that Ashley Madison isn't changing the playing field; it is merely giving people another avenue to find a way to cheat. Perhaps this is the case. But a back page ad advertising this ideology is never want I want to see.

Won't You Be Mine?

So Sunday is Valentine's Day ... and today is Lincoln's Birthday (and my friend Brian's birthday - happy birthday, Brian!).

Sometimes what you write on a particular topic just can't be trumped - so rather than trying to one-up myself ... I give you last year's tribute to The Olives of Holidays, Valentine's Day.

I'll be waiting for your clever e-card.

The Missing Piece of Fulfillment

I remember when I was turning 30, that the consolation prize was "feeling secure in your skin." Countless people encouraged me to embrace this new decade, because unlike my 20s, I would feel secure with who and where I was in my life.

Not surprisingly, 30 doesn't feel any less confusing than 29 did ... or 21 did ... or 15 did. Yes, I feel like I have a better handle on my career - for the first time in quite awhile, I am energized by what I am doing and see where it can go. At 21, I had twenty different careers I wanted to pursue. At 15, I thought I could become a fashion designer - with zero eye for fashion and even fewer art skills, if that is possible.

But you realize that your career isn't everything. When I tell people that I work for a non-profit organization, their first reaction is often to ask, "Why?" And with all honesty, I can say that on my worst day of work, the families that I help can so easily remind me why I do what I do. On one side of the coin, working for people who face bigger challenges than you do reminds you how good you really have it. On the other hand, knowing that what you do directly benefits people makes it more than a paycheck. You know that answering that one last e-mail, late at night on your BlackBerry, could have helped a mother who thought she had no options to find help for her child.

Yet even knowing that you help people isn't infinitely fulfilling. When I lived in Charleston, I volunteered at the MUSC Children's Hospital. My responsibilities were simple - I played with the inpatients to give their parents a break inbetween visits and to keep their minds off of what was really happening. You can never underestimate the strength of terminally ill children and their families - it is the only place where what seems to be the worst thing imaginable, never is in their eyes. For every child I had the chance to meet, I wanted to fix his life.

And so we pray. I was raised like most kids of my generation in my neighborhood - a Christmas and Easter Catholic who attended religious education long enough to complete my sacraments. I grew up with Catholic and Jewish kids until I left New York for Georgia. My freshman year left me feeling out of place, surrounded by people who were not only of other faiths, but had been truly raised in the church. I was ripe for the pickings by the cults - you know, the ones who prey upon lonely out-of-state freshmen in the dorms. I remember going to see Phish perform in Atlanta and going home for dinner with a girl who lived on my hall. Her mother asked me what religion I was and replied, "You do know Catholicism is a made up religion, don't you?" And while I obviously knew that it wasn't, I hadn't the slightest clue how to reply.

My senior year, I volunteered at the Catholic Center to teach religious education classes. I was paired up with a girl who became one of my closest friends and together, we taught a small group of fourth graders. I was obviously learning with them. I remember a few key moments - accidentally telling the kids in one breath that I was 20 and then telling them that my Christmas tradition was "going out drinking on Christmas Eve." Another time, we were supposed to discuss a chapter on stewardship ... and it was about recycling. I had no idea how to reconcile the two. So I read it in my best "Jesus voice" and we moved on. I also may have been struck by lightning on the way home.

Either way, I was trying hard to find a place for religion in my life. I started attending church on Sundays at the Catholic Center and for the first time in my life, didn't have to look at the cheat sheet when I recited the Apostle's Creed. I lapsed when I returned to N.Y. (mostly because I really didn't like the particular church I grew up in) but kept the idea of faith in my mind. When I moved to Charleston, I found a Catholic church that I fell in love with. I thoroughly enjoyed my Sunday 5 p.m. masses and listened intently to the priest, whose messages were relevant and thought-provoking.

Again, being in the South I had more friends that considered religion an important, if not the most important part of their lives. I actively wanted to feel what they did - but wasn't sure what the missing piece was. And, unlike other faiths, the one thing I embraced most about Catholicism was forgiveness - I didn't want to practice a faith that involved being saved.

One of my good friends was extremely active in her church - her entire life pretty much revolved around it. I was curious - she seemed happy with a very structured life (due to her denomination) and I envied how "sure" she seemed about all of it. A few years later, she had a crisis of faith and began to question what it all stood for. I watched as she had to dissect her beliefs into minutae - to find out what she really believed in, as opposed to what she was simply told to believe in. She returned to her faith and found that at a particularly challenging time in her life, there is no way she could have lived without it.

I don't think I would be happy embracing a "very Christian life" - as I said, the concept of being saved is not what I believe in. I think at times, my life would feel more fulfilled if I actively included religion in it. Yet I never want it to feel forced. I want it to be something that I discover and impart in my own life.

So what gives you the answers? What makes your life make sense; what makes you feel both comfortable and content being YOU in your own skin? What makes you feel like you are making your mark on the world and really living your life - not just waking up and seeing the hours go by? How do you decide that most of the stuff you dwell on really doesn't matter and devote yourself to figuring out the things that do?

I want to be a better person.
I want to be happy in my career.
I want to find love and give love in return.
I want to have faith.
I want to be steadfast in what I stand for and believe in.
I want to be an example for other people.

How do I find the missing piece to feeling secure, complete and most of all, fulfilled?

"This is your life, are you who you want to be
This is your life, is it everything you dreamed it would be
When the world was younger and you had everything to lose"
- "This is Your Life"
Switchfoot

Face Value

Surprisingly, I didn't have a clue who Casey Johnson was when I found out that she died. I say surprisingly because I tend to read a lot of random things about celebrities - or should I say "celebrities." Between what I see on the internet and read over people's shoulders on the subway each morning, I am usually pretty up-to-date with the celebrity universe. But when I saw Casey Johnson on the cover of the NY Post after she passed away, I didn't have a clue.

While anyone's passing is a tragic story, all you could think while reading it was "trainwreck." Plain and simple - her celebrity was fabricated and her life was surely completely disastrous and empty. It reminded me of when I watched Britney Spears' documentary on MTV. I tuned in expecting to be entertained, but was left feeling sorry for her. Sorry that she felt she had to spend her life being someone she wasn't. Sorry that for someone who could have (and should have) had everything, she was left with almost nothing, in the grand scheme of things. Shortly after, I read this article in New York magazine.

Although the whole article is worth a read, this is the part that stood out the most to me - "As I knew her, Casey systematically seemed to enhance her already plentiful natural assets until she became almost an anime creature with exaggerated cheeks, lips, and breasts. As if she thought she would never be pretty enough. Or good enough. So she decided to become famous, like her idol, Marilyn Monroe. Because, after all, if you’re famous, everybody loves you, right? They all respect you and want to be you …"

Although this was really about the Britneys and Caseys of the world, it resonated with me for a different reason. It was the concept of thinking that there is always a fix. Always another version of you that is going to be better, another version of you that is going to make you happier within the universe.

There can always be a smarter you, so you can impress the people you strive to match intellectually.

There can always be a prettier you, one that doesn't have the flaws that only you notice.

And once you figure out what you think this version is, will you ever be pretty enough? Smart enough? Or simply put - enough.

Will you end up being one of the Britneys or Caseys - the person who believes that if you pretend to be someone else long enough, that you actually can become that person? Or can you learn to be happy with who you are at face value?

"Wanting to be someone else is a waste of the person you are." - Kurt Cobain

Auld Lang Syne

I am superstitious about a number of strange things. I believe that bad things will happen if I hear "Black" by Pearl Jam (I finally smartened up and took it off my iPod, hoping to foil the karmic gods of grunge music). I hesitate when the 28th of each month rolls around ... and breathe a sigh of relief when I make it through unscathed. And when it comes to holiday superstitions, I believe that your New Year's Eve will be reflective of the year to come.

So evidently my heat broke in the middle of the night. My last apartment had two operating temperatures - 50 and 95. It was always super hot unless it was windy, in which case the draft through the windows would knock it down to "really freaking cold." Needless to say, I was super excited to live in an apartment with central heat and a thermostat ... until the furnace decided to break. And in the grand scheme of how things work in NYC apartments, my landlord (who speaks Albanian) sent in a "friend" who lives in my building (and speaks Yugoslavian) to fix the heat. It's nearly 3 p.m. and I still don't have working heat. I'm not entirely sure if or when I will.

The first question of superstitions is this: does that one about New Year's Eve apply to the whole day or just the romantic-at midnight part of it? In other words, is my 2010 already doomed or is there still time to salvage it?

Regardless, it brought something else to the front of my mind about resolutions. Year after year, I make a list of generic resolutions - often so many that it would be impossible to actually remember them, let alone make them happen. So this year, I am trying something different.

In 2010:
I am going to learn to take things as they come and try not to let details overwhelm me or stress me out.
I am going to focus on what is good and positive in my life, rather than thinking about what is missing or what would theoretically make it better.
I am going to recognize my own accomplishments for what they are, instead of thinking that I should always be doing more or better than I am.
I am going to set realistic goals for my own success - and realize that making it halfway there isn't a total loss or failure.

And most importantly, I am going to work harder on being present. I have a tendency to live my life either judging in retrospect or looking ahead without a plan. And much like today, I wonder how my life passes me by, where the year has gone.

I remember this day last year like it was yesterday. I remember thinking about everything that wasn't what it supposed to be, yet being too scared to move forward. I spent the next months looking back, rather than focusing on what was happening in real time, and repeated my mistakes. And if I wasn't looking back at something and trying to figure out what could have been different, I was blindly looking ahead - escapism - for the next great thing to happen.

Is this the perfect New Year's Eve? Not so much so far. But you know what, it could definitely be worse. Here comes the reality check: if I had heat yesterday, hopefully I should be able to have heat again. And while it could end up being a completely wicked inconvenience, it's not the end of the world.

I have a roof over my head. (And a pretty awesome place to live, when there is heat ...)

I have a job that allows me to help people who face much bigger challenges than I do and helps keep my pity parties in check.

I have great friends and a wonderful family who remind me what love really means.

And throughout all the mess of this day, someone is still managing to make me smile.

So when the clock strikes twelve, whether it was a good New Year's Eve or a not so good one, superstition be damned. I am going to have a good 2010.

"Wonder whose arms will hold you good and tight
When it's exactly twelve o'clock that night
Welcoming in the New Year, New Year's Eve
Maybe I'm crazy to suppose I'd ever be the one you chose
Out of the thousand invitations you receive
And though I know I'll never stand a chance
Here comes the jackpot question in advance
What are you doin' New Year's, New Year's Eve?"


- "What Are You Doing New Year's Eve"

The Secret to Happiness

"If it makes you happy, it can't be that bad
If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?"
- "If It Makes You Happy"
Sheryl Crow

Everyone who spends time with me, especially during the winter months, knows one thing. I am a native New Yorker, but I don't love New York.

There, I said it.

I should feel guilty about that, right? After all, don't people dream of living here? Come here with nothing but a bus ticket and a dream? Or is that a movie plot from Lifetime ...

Either way, it turns out that I'm not the only one who isn't in an "Empire State of Mind" - in a recent state-by-state study of happiness, New Yorkers came in last. Dead last. As this NYT article so eloquently states, "If there were a National Happy League, we’d be the New Jersey Nets. We’re No. 51 out of 51."

Here's a bit of methodology: "One was a survey of 1.3 million Americans done over four years by the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, which asked people about their health and how satisfied they were with their lives. Those self-assessments ... included state-by-state variances on quality-of-life gauges like climate, taxes, cost of living, commuting times, crime rates and schools ... people knew what they were talking about when they said if they were happy or not. Americans who described themselves as satisfied tended to live in places where the quality of life was good by most standards — where the sun shone a lot, the air was reasonably clear, housing didn’t leave you busted, traffic wasn’t too fierce and so on."

I would love to have answered these questions. Let's see - the East Side air quality isn't so good, so I shouldn't be running outdoors. But a gym membership will knock me back at least $70/month on my already beyond overstretched budget. Climate? 2009 was awesome. It rained the entire month of June and we had a blizzard the other day. Cost of living? Not only insane, but we are conditioned to rationalize that its totally worth $2K in rent for a one bedroom apartment because it has a dishwasher. Commuting times? Well, let see. The MTA's doomsday budget eliminates one of the two trains that I can take into the City, beginning this summer.

Okay. So I am being really Debbie Downer. I get it.

Last week, there was this awesome post on Gawker touting the new issue of New York, which included everyone's favorite annual treat,"Reasons to Love New York." As Gawker so rightfully states, "an exercise in NYC boosterism which we must grudgingly salute, ourselves being sometimes given over to that overwhelmed feeling of 'why the f*ck am I here'—a feeling which is probably most effectively addressed by making just such a list. (Because there are so many reasons!)" My personal favorite is #43 - Because We Keep Digging. Good news, folks, in 2017 there will be an East Side subway line and you will no longer be forced to ride the 6 train at 7 a.m. with your face lodged in a fellow commuter's (or crackhead's) armpit.

And to continue giving credit where credit is due, I love Gawker's take on this study. "Research Question: Why are New Yorkers miserable? Hypothesis: Because New York is not a pleasant place to live." And even better, the last line - "Although this entire line of inquiry is based on the false assumption that New Yorkers give a sh*t about being happy."

I think that about sums up what makes me unhappiest about New York - even more so than the weather, commuting or the rent on my apartment.

It's the attitude that you develop when you're here. Just like that, you don't care anymore. You get irritated every morning in the 59th Street subway station when people surreptitiously "merge" in line for the escalator, rather than waiting in line. You can't walk at a leisurely pace - leisurely here is considered speedwalking in any other place. You hate when people order or pay slowly, even when you have nowhere to be. You forget how to smile. Because quite frankly, smiling at strangers is just flat out creepy. People get away with it in other places. I think I did it in San Diego. I don't think I creeped anyone out. (Maybe.)

So what does it all mean? Who really is happy? According to this study, "People in sunny, outdoorsy states - Louisiana, Hawaii, Florida ..." Louisiana? Seriously? I think they are mostly overweight, too. Hawaii? I can believe that. They also pay about $16 for a gallon of gas. Florida? You have to escape New York to move to a sunnier (and more humid) version of it and suddenly everything is okay?

Everyone who knows me well knows that I always wanted to live in California. Put quite simply, it is my happy place.

Interestingly enough, it ranked 46th in the study. Why?

"Many people think these states would be marvelous places to live in. The problem is that if too many individuals think that way, they move into those states, and the resulting congestion and house prices make it a non-fulfilling prophecy."

So, I-love-New-Yorkers, what makes you happy in a place that does everything in its power to make you miserable? Is it the ability to get food delivered at any hour, even in a blizzard? Is it the fact that anywhere else you go, NY's version of "it" (museum, restaurant, theate) is simply better? Is it the feeling you get when the Yankees won the World Series this year, when you hear "New York, New York" that even when you don't love New York, you're proud of it?

You tell me.

"If I can make it there
I'll make it anywhere"
- "New York, New York"
Frank Sinatra

Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus

I remember exactly when my dad told me that there was no such thing as Santa Claus.

Ironically (or maybe a good idea on his part), we were on our way to Santaland in Macy's Herald Square, headed up one of those rickety old wooden escalators that only exist in the upper floors of the store.

Logistically, I knew better. After all, I was the kid who left a letter once asking why Santa and the Easter Bunny had the same handwriting. I once called my parents out for "being cheap" - after all, all of my relatives gave me presents. Santa brought me presents. But not them, no. They must just be cheap.

While all the signs pointed to his nonexistence, I believed simply because I wanted to. The fairytale of the Christmas season began when McDonald's started playing its commercials and the Sears toy catalog arrived in the mail. I remember painstakingly making lists for toys that Dad would have to assemble at midnight with Japanese instructions. I remember my aunt trying to explain that she didn't buy me a Pogo Ball because they weren't safe and it was for my own good. I remember when my parents would let me open one present on Christmas Eve to keep me from waking them up at some ungodly hour the next morning and when we eventually switched over to celebrating on Christmas Eve.

Being in New York City everyday tends to make the holiday season feel commercialized and "unspecial." You get caught walking behind ten times as many clueless tourists and shopping in the stores is an unthinkable option. Hearing that Mariah Carey Christmas song hundreds of times makes me want to go deaf. And there is a part of me that gets caught up in the fact that the holidays can make you feel lonely; they can make you miss people who are no longer with you.

But then there is the part that makes you remember what makes it special.

I love Christmas lights. For some unknown reason, I love garish lighting displays and enormous lit trees.

I love decorating the tree at my parents' house and reminiscing over the 30 plus years of ornaments, including ones they made together before my brother and I were even born. I adore my parents' nativity set (which I believe belonged to my grandma) that, for some reason, has two Jesuses and about seven wise men. Perhaps there was a fire sale that year.

I love my parents' stories of how I was once punished on Christmas morning for drawing a marker moustache on a baby doll I had just been given, and the time they thought it would be funny to give me and my brother coal. Or, when my brother and I took Jesus from the nativity set and rode him on the fire truck we had gotten.

I cherish old family traditions. I remember when my nanny was alive and we celebrated Christmas Eve in a big way. Christmas Eve dinner, eaten after Mass, was an amalgamation of all of our favorite foods - namely: lobster tails, twice baked potatoes, string beans and Carvel ice cream cake.

I look forward to new traditions. This is the second year of celebrating Christmas Eve with my sister-in-law's family - who nobody can rival for a good time. It is a night filled with food, drinks, Secret Santa gift exchanges and a "12 Days of Christmas" singing/acting competition (you have to be there to get this one ...)

I get it, why people get caught up in the commercialization of the holiday, and can't see what there is to love about it. It all just comes down to stepping back and remembering a time when things were simpler and everything seemed like magic. Being grateful for family and friends and all the good things that we truly have. Thinking about someone who makes you smile.

And maybe again, it's time to believe in Santa Claus, instead of adding up all the reasons that you shouldn't.

"It was Christmas Eve babe
In the drunk tank
An old man said to me, won't see another one
And then he sang a song
The Rare Old Mountain Dew
I turned my face away
And dreamed about you"
- "Fairytale of New York"
The Pogues

Learn Your Lesson, Lest You're Too Late

Last week was a long one. By the time the weekend rolled around, I was both physically and mentally exhausted and more than ready to decompress.

On Saturday, I joined some friends for a dim sum excursion in Flushing (quite an adventure for a person who eats as plainly as I do) and spent the afternoon in what could only be described as a dim sum coma. In other words, I happily camped out on the couch and pretty much didn't move for the rest of the day. The worst part was that I didn't even feel slightly guilty about it.

I began working my way through my DVR - I watched last week's Glee episode (which will totally make you cry), last week's Gossip Girl (which makes Chuck Bass look like a good guy, once again) and another episode of Gone too Far, featuring a really scary alcoholic girl from Middleofnowhere, Texas. Upon running out of television shows, I moved to movies. I watched The Departed (or more accurately, watched Matt Damon ... the plot was secondary). My next selection was White Oleander.

I read "White Oleander" a number of years ago and to be honest, I barely remembered it when I started watching the movie. The plot is rather dark and kind of sad; to sum it up thematically, it's primarily about abandonment. But there was a quote in the movie which stood out - "Don't attach yourself to anyone who shows you the least bit of attention because you're lonely. Loneliness is the human condition. No one is ever going to fill that space. The best you can do is know yourself ... know what you want."

And that moment, in an otherwise wasted day on the couch provided me with clarity. It reminded me of something that I already knew but often forget.

We all know better. We just try to talk ourselves out of reason. Simply because we can.

And by the next day, it didn't matter if it made sense. I no longer cared why or why not. I just knew that it didn't matter anymore. And that was just fine.

"Go on and it won't be too soon
You're gone, you're gone, are you waiting for somethin?
Go on cause I won't be back soon "
- "So Long"
Guster

The Other Side of the Coin

I often have an idea for a blog post bouncing around in my head for a few days before I get the chance to write it. If a particularly good idea or sentiment comes to mind, I'll jot notes on my BlackBerry. Rarely have I started out thinking about one thing and then by the time I penned it, been given enough reason to completely disagree with it.

Try to follow this one ...

I have a tendency to think about my life in cycles. In other words, when Halloween rolls around, I reflect upon where I was on that day a year ago. When the weather gets cold, I start thinking about my life in winters past. Yesterday, I was talking with two of my friends about people I had dated in the past year. When I look back on relationships, I am guilty of falling victim to the Pollyanna Syndrome - remembering positive things more readily than negative things.

I thought about how I enjoyed spending winter nights eating takeout sushi on the couch with him. I remembered watching an all-night marathon of "Rob & Big" on MTV and of going to get bagels for breakfast the next day. I smiled thinking about how he would text me "good morning" and "sweet dreams." For a moment, I felt sad - that I was really missing being in that place.

Then the other day, I remembered arguing with him on Thanksgiving Day. I remember being on vacation and wondering where we stood, since he left it open-ended before I left for my trip. I remember sitting next to him, more than once, without a thing to say, because I just didn't think he cared.

On paper, he was everything I was looking for. I'm not going to lie - I can still take out the mental checklist and realize that finding that combination isn't easy. But then you remember a checklist isn't everything - a person isn't a checklist and a good relationship can't be created from a list of options.

This morning. I started thinking about the other side of that coin. In other words, people I have dated who I reference negatively. I thought in particular about an ex from a few years ago who was always kind to me, cared about me and for that period of time, made me happy. Yet whenever I look back at that time in my life, I see only negatives. I see someone who didn't fit any of the options on my checklist and I wonder why I thought it would fit.

To put it in cliche terms - square peg. Round hole.

I remembered this morning what used to make me smile about him. I thought again that maybe, a person can't be judged against a list of options.

One instant message conversation changed my mind.

I remembered why we set certain standards for what we need in a person. While not everything comes down to education-family-job, there is a reason you seek out a "type." And most importantly, there is a reason that some people, while not wrong for someone else, will never be right for you.

And that's not necessarily a bad thing.

You Can't Always Get What You Want

In my last apartment, where I lived for two years, I could not control the temperature. It was reminiscent of dorm life, except it was significantly more costly, I didn't have a white board on my door and I didn't have 25 types of cereal at my disposal. I swore up and down that once I could spend my night somewhere that wasn't either 54 or 96 degrees that I would be content.

I stumbled upon the proverbial pot of gold when I found my current apartment on Craigslist. For once in my life, I can say the downturn of the economy benefited me, as the apartment would have been out of my price range a few months prior. Due to my previous living situation, I was ready to sign the lease once I saw that the apartment had a thermostat. Central air and heat? Unheard of in New York. In addition, the apartment has brand-new stainless steel appliances (including a dishwasher!), a washer and dryer and a Jacuzzi tub.

I've been pretty damn happy.

When I lived in Long Beach, parking could be somewhat torturous during the summer. After all, I lived across the street from the beach. And the beach I lived across from was not just any beach, but the one that the 1,000+ participant volleyball league took place at four days per week between Memorial Day and Labor Day. If you got home after 7, you would be (at best) relegated to a sand lot where you would be ticketed if you forgot to move your car by midnight. I also got my car stuck in the sand once or twice. The good part about Long Beach was, if you didn't move your car, you could keep that spot forever. This is not the case in Queens.

When searching for the perfect image for this post, I stumbled upon one on the same topic, as this person so cleverly calls it, "the alternate side parking shuffle." I will continue to borrow from this person's post, as her description hits the nail right on the head - "The shuffle is a daily event that spans about an hour and half on streets all across the city. The idea is that cars vacate one side of the street, allowing the street cleaner to come through. It’s also a municipal money making machine. Every person I know who has a car gets more than a handful of street-cleaning tickets a year."

I will start by saying that I am devoted to never getting a $40+ ticket for having my car on the wrong side of the street. I have post-it notes that I alternate on the inside of my door that read "move car at night" and "move car in morning." I use my BlackBerry to remind myself *exactly* where my car is and when it has to be moved, just in case I forget. After two months, I was starting to think that I had the system figured out. In other words: moving your car at night is usually easier than moving your car in the morning. Avoid streets that have many driveways. As I said, I felt like I was beginning to master the system.

Then last night happened.

It took 35 minutes to find a parking spot. My car might as well be parked in Beijing.

While hiking back from my parking spot, I passed one of the many deli-bodega-corner stores in my neighborhood and invested a dollar in the lottery. Tonight, I will win Mega Millions and the first thing I will buy is a parking spot. Because that, is all it will take for me to be happy now.

Freedom Isn't Free

In July of 2003, 27-year-old Lt. Pete Ober died in a helicopter crash, proudly serving in the United States Navy. Since the war began, 4,332 American soldiers have been mortally wounded in Iraq. Pfc. Matthew E. Baylis was killed just days before his 21st birthday in Baghdad, supporting Operation Iraqi Freedom, in May of 2007. Between July 25 and August 7, 2009, nine U.S. Army soldiers, five Marines and one U.S. Navy sailor were killed in Afghanistan. One of them was 29-year-old Capt. Matthew Freeman - he had been married just weeks before he deployed.

All three of these men dreamed their entire lives of serving their country and made the ultimate sacrifice by giving their lives for our freedom. All three of these soldiers were sons and brothers; two were husbands of my close friends and one was the proud father of a little girl.

I am so proud of the brave men and women who serve our country, yet I ache for the mothers, fathers, husbands, wives and children who have to say goodbye to their loved ones. I admire their selflessness - I could not imagine how hard it is to let someone go, knowing he is putting himself directly in harm's way.

I am at a loss as to how to convey my emotions in this post - I have so much pride and gratitute for those who are giving up everything to serve in the military. Yet I feel so much pain knowing that these families (and the entire world) have lost some of the finest people who will ever walk this Earth.

During Matt's memorial service, one eulogizer rightly said, "The world needs more Matthew Freemans."

And the world does. It needs more Matthew Freemans, more Pete Obers and more Matt Baylises.

Please remember our honorable servicemen and women - and their families, who are braver than we could ever imagine.

Freedom isn't free.

If you have the ability to make a contribution in their memory and honor:

Pete Ober:

Peter Benjamin Ober Memorial Fund

c/o Citadel Foundation

171 Moultrie Street

Charleston, South Carolina 29401

Matt Baylis:

Contributions in his memory to Wounded Warriors (http://www.woundedwarriors.org/), AER (http://www.aerhg.org/) or USO (http://www.uso.org/) are appreciated.

Matt Freeman:

Captain Matthew Freeman Memorial Scholarship

Bryan Bank

PO Box 1299

Richmond Hill, GA 31324

great expectations

Tom: What happens when you fall in love?
Summer: You believe in that?
Tom: It's love, it's not Santa Claus.
- "500 Days of Summer"

For someone who doesn't often see movies while they are actually in the theater, it is out of the ordinary for me to have seen three movies in roughly three weeks. On Saturday I saw one of the best movies I have seen in a long time - "500 Days of Summer."

The movie begins with some dialogue explaining that, yes, this is a story of boy meets girl, but there is one thing it is not.

And that is a love story.

This is where I beg to differ.

It is, indeed, a love story. But it's not the kind of love story that you usually see in the movies. It wasn't predictable - it made me happy; it made me sad. I felt optimistic and remembered exactly what feels great about being in love. I felt frustrated when I remembered what it feels like to lose that.

Here's your plot - Tom is the guy that every girl wants to meet (or so I think). He is creative, artistic, listens to Brit-pop and wants to find his soulmate. On a chance encounter in his office, he meets Summer, who he immediately falls in love with. Summer insists that she doesn't believe in love, doesn't believe in relationships - they're messy and she hates labels. As the story progresses, you see what looks to be a happy couple, from one side. From the other side, you see what really exists - a person who is too afraid to commit because she can't acknowledge that she's not truly happy. Instead, she hides behind excuses.

I don't want to give away the movie, which is what makes writing this particular post so difficult. The happy moments that Tom and Summer share in the movie remind me of what I am looking for ... or at least what I hope is out there. The sad moments remind me that, well, people can and will break your heart.

But in the end, it's all worth it, isn't it?

Prioritizing

"Action expresses priorities."
- Mohandas Gandhi

I started spending time with someone who I often have thought-provoking conversations with - the kind of discussions that force you to really understand exactly why you believe what you do. While we have generically discussed many of the topics that you're supposed to avoid while getting to know someone (religion, the concept of marriage and fidelity, kids and families), one of our recent conversations struck a chord with me - while it was initially about relationships, it brought to light ideas about priorities in life.

My stance was that while it is important to have your own set of priorities and to respect the other person's priorities, there is a distinct difference between putting someone second as opposed to fifth or eighth. Here goes nothing - each and every minute of our lives is a competition for what's most important. Hence, prioritizing is something we do 24-7, whether we acknowledge it as such or not.

You know that (for most people), you are going to work five days a week. For most of us, that schedule isn't clearly defined as 9-6, Monday through Friday. We're going to find ourselves at our computers certain late nights, on our BlackBerries Sunday mornings and on conference calls with other countries on holidays. Many of us travel for work and sometimes don't know what that schedule is until a day before. Some people don't work the traditional weekday/day schedule - my ex was a police officer who worked 12-hour night shifts. Eventually, I adjusted to random phone calls at 3 a.m. when his night was slow and that first night he was off when he was barely awake.

Aside from work, we try to balance a litany of responsibilities and activities in a week's worth of time. Whether it is time with our family, going to the gym, catching up with a friend for drinks or enjoying downtime with a book or the DVR, it never seems like there are truly 168 hours in a week. So where does dating, and eventually, being married (and even more eventually, having a family) fit into all of this?

It all comes down to priorities.

In the midst of this conversation, he posed an interesting question - is it selfish to put your job first?

At the time, I responded with what I said earlier. Everyone has a responsibility to his/her career, especially at a time like this when we are all grateful to be employed. The hope is that also many of us are doing work that we find rewarding (whether for financial or other reasons). I felt that beyond that, if you really want to be with someone, you (consciously or subconsciously) shift your remaining priorities. Once again, there is a difference between knowing that you're on the higher end of someone's list, rather than the lower end.

I started thinking about this conversation again this morning - do New Yorkers put too much emphasis on careers? Are we so embedded in the workaholic/competitive/24-7 mindset that we forgot that work shouldn't always come first?

I still have yet to come up with an answer that I am 100% sure about. Much like everything else, it seems to be shades of gray. Can you have a functional relationship/marriage/family if you are someone who always puts work first, or do priorities have to change as your life evolves?

Whatever (Folk Song in C)

"They come here alone and they leave in twos
Except for you and me who just came to use
If you're all done like you said you'd be
What are you doing hanging out with me

Why you tell me stuff that's so plainly untrue
If you'll be straight with me, I'll be straighter with you
If you're all done like you said you'd be
What are you doing hanging out with me

I've been wanting to do anything for a long time
But whatever you got right now will probably suit me fine
If you're all done like you said you'd be
What are you doing hanging out with me"
- "Whatever (Folk Song in C)"
Eliott Smith

For someone who is as much of an idealist as I am, I surprisingly gravitate towards things that are gritty and real. I enjoy watching "Intervention," because half the time it feels good to root for someone who deserves a second chance at life and the other half, you are reminded how messed up and truly selfish people can be. I mostly read memoirs - the stranger your story, the more epic your struggle, the more likely I am to be compelled.

I've always enjoyed music that lands on the darker end of the spectrum. I am amazed by what songwriters can convey in lyrics, be it love, lost love or emotional pain. I constantly try to interpret songs to figure out what that person was thinking when s/he penned the lyrics to a song.

The song above is by Elliott Smith, who wrote a litany of dark and depressing (yet hauntingly beautiful) songs. Aside from the song posted above, another favorite of mine by him is "Say Yes." His songs are raw, emotional, honest, and in most cases, painful. I was looking online for an interpretation of "Whatever," when I stumbled upon this blog.

I'm not sure why it resonated with me. As the writer said, "To me, the songs were dark but beautiful, haunting yet comforting, stark and lush at the same time." I couldn't agree more. But she was given the opportunity to find out why, to dig deeper. And to learn that sometimes, understanding someone's pain can take away the beauty. Make it too hard to listen to it and less beautiful.

The ending of this blog says it simply - "They say you should never meet your idols. Nor should you get too intimate with their demons. Today, I can’t separate the songs from the story. Each one is a reminder of how cruel life can be -- allowing someone like him, someone with that much talent and heart, to suffer through so much pain for so long."

Rest in peace, Elliott Smith, and all the poets who suffer from pain for which there is no fix.

For Daddy

I have only one picture in my wallet and this is it. I think I am about three or four years old and I'm riding on my dad's shoulders. He always says that this is why he lost his hair, that I pulled it all out. I inherited many traits from him, one being the inability to smile in posed photos. We both manage to put on the worst of fake smiles if photos aren't taken candidly. I love this picture in particular because we were obviously goofing off before it was taken and I probably hadn't mastered the art of the fake smile yet at that age.

Looking back at pictures when I was a little girl, you can see that I followed my dad everywhere. I wanted to be taller (because I thought that taller = older) so that I could go out with my dad when he went out with his friends or after work. When we were building our house, there are photos of me wandering around the construction site while he worked on it. I wanted to do everything that my dad did.

My dad has always loved horse racing as he and his mom always went to Belmont. My dad would take us to Belmont when I was a kid, but he never got the right results. After about two races, I would whine that I was hot/cold/bored/wanted to go to the playground. In hopes of keeping me still for just one more race he would give me $2 to bet on a horse. To be honest, I don't think I ever won. And when I lost, I would cry until he would give me back the $2 that was never mine in the first place.

Growing up, I always loved board games. I'm sure that he was forced to play a few with me when I was younger, but he crafted a creative excuse to get out of it. Most games have an appropriate age range listed on them, such as "for ages 4-8." According to dad, that was set in stone. Clearly, he was over eight years old, and if he was caught by the "Game Police," there would be nothing but trouble. When I was older, I could usually get him to play Scrabble with me, knowing very well that all of his turns would take FOREVER. We were playing one time when after more than a few minutes of deliberation, he threw down "twinbeast." I think I gave it to him, because even if it wasn't a legit word, it was a pretty cool one.

We were raised as baseball fans in our house. I played all boys little league until I was about 10 and it broke my dad's heart when I quit in favor of girls' soccer (which he referred to as a "Communist sport"). It didn't matter to him that I had a .035 batting average (which my brother figured out and would chant at me when I played) - it mostly mattered to him that I didn't "throw like a girl."

My dad would get us Mets tickets at least once a year and he took us out of school for the tickertape parade when they won the 1986 World Series. He also asked us to write something for school about what we learned. I was seven years old. Even a tickertape parade was supposed to be an educational experience if I missed school. Dad took our grades very seriously and didn't like for us to miss school. Years later, I am not sure if he didn't want us home with him while he was off from work or if he really felt that six hours of school were super important. One thing then that always remains true - dad is a great caretaker when anyone is sick. He has taken care of all of us through colds, fevers, wisdom tooth extractions, mono, surgeries - you name it. When I had mono and couldn't swallow anything, he made sure that I had pastina, milkshakes and ice pops at my fingertips.

For most of my younger years, dad was home with us in the mornings to send us off to school. My brother and I were two of the least alert people before school and dad would often catch us staring blankly out the window while our waffles got cold. He would come in the kitchen, clap his hands and sing, "Pick up the fork and put it in your mouth!" Repeatedly. Dad was also in charge of making sure my hair was combed before I went off to school. He would sit me down and comb my hair every morning, sometimes re-doing my part two or three times to make sure that it was perfectly down the middle. He not-so-successfully tried to master ponytails and braids, but as he once remarked looking at a second grade class photo, "I must have done your hair that day."

Although mom was mostly responsible for teaching me to drive, dad was the one who taught me how to drive stick. I also remember him exclaiming, "Jesus Christ, are you trying to kill me?!" when I pulled into traffic without looking, mostly focused on what gear I was currently in. Dad was the one who did most of the driving when I moved to and from college (15-18 hour roadtrips) and he was also tasked with driving me to the airport when I would fly back to school after holidays. Some of the best conversations that we have had took place during those early morning trips to LaGuardia. Prior to 9-11, it was completely feasible to get to the airport ten minutes before your flight and still board with checked baggage. Dad and I liked to test that theory. Nine times out of ten we would be running late, wondering if the plane was going to leave without me. I remember him slipping a few bucks to someone in the airport to let me jump the line as we ran through the airport. This was in stark contrast to mom, who would have us at the gate three hours before the plane was there. When I was in college, my dad always wanted me to dress up when I flew home. He felt that it was important to look presentable while flying - which was mostly not the case in general college dressing. I know that on more than one occasion in college, I wore either boxer shorts or pajama bottoms to class. My hallmates and friends always knew when I was flying home, because suddenly I was in black pants or a skirt.

As I said before, I inherited a number of traits from my dad. We both like to be the life of the party and we're both storytellers. We love to make people laugh and we can always succeed in making each other laugh. We like to sing in the house when we're home together and we like to dance, any chance we get, since, yes, we do have a choreographed performance.

My dad can fix or build anything, and I grew up taking it for granted that every male was like that. I was sorely mistaken. My dad can explain any part on a car or a dishwasher and tell why it's not working. He built a deck and a shed from scratch and has remodeled most of my parents' house. He just installed a shower curtain rod in my new apartment and is getting ready to make magic happen - he is going to turn a single closet with one bar into a closet that can actually hold things. When I first panicked over having one closet, I shouldn't have. No one else could solve a problem like that as quickly as he could, or as effectively. He is the first person to drop what he is doing to help, even when need a car battery at 9 p.m. or I lock myself out of my apartment.

In the same vein, he has helped move me and my brother no fewer than ten times. One of my favorite stories involves my brother moving from Boston. He had a dresser or a desk that he didn't want to take with him and the city wanted a ridiculous amount of money to dispose of it. Dad simply took out a chainsaw, cut it into many, many small pieces, put it in a Force Flex garbage bag and dropped it down the trash chute. When I was moving out of Charleston and we knew I wasn't bringing home the couch, he wanted to launch it off the third story balcony. After all, why carry it down the stairs? Mom wasn't onboard with that solution, though.

My dad has always helped me, no matter what kind of trouble I had gotten myself into. He has listened to my problems and offered me advice, even if I didn't take it. He taught me how to treat people and to respect people for who they are. I learned from him that hard work is the most important thing - and that you can support a family well by doing so. He has shown me in the way that he loves and takes care of my mom, what a good marriage looks like. He has taught me about cars, music, football and the value of using a level when hanging anything on a wall. Mostly, he has taught me how lucky I am to have him as my dad.

Happy Father's Day, daddy. I love you.

When Reality Becomes Real

"Never allow anyone to rain on your parade and thus cast a pall of gloom and defeat on the entire day. Remember that no talent, no self-denial, no brains, no character, are required to set up in the fault-finding business. Nothing external can have any power over you unless you permit it ...- Og Mandino


I wrote a post a year or so ago about denial, which begs repeating. Why is it so hard to convince ourselves of things about people that are so obvious and right in front of our faces? Why is it so difficult to tell yourself that, yes, people can be selfish. I've always wanted to be someone who sees the best in people, even when that "best" is clearly something that I've imagined. Obviously, this hurts more than it helps.

Denying reality because you want to hope that someone is better than s/he is never works. Sooner or later, often when it hurts more, you finally realize the truth.

The truth being:
- that not everyone is worth second, third and tenth chances.
- that history does (and will) repeat itself.
- that you can't do the same thing more than once and expect different results (see above).
- that things do get better once you accept things for what they are (not what you want them to be/hope they can be/perceive them to be) and decide to move forward.

... which reminds me of another great quote: "Don't make someone a priority who sees you as an option."

Don't let someone think that you deserve less than you do. Don't let someone convince you that you are worth less than you are. Slowly pulling off a band-aid causes more pain in the end than accepting that it will hurt and letting it all go at once, once and for all.

And now I am done with truisms and metaphors.

Just Say No to Tourists

"You don't have to go home but you can't stay here."
- "Closing Time"
Semisonic

I have a love-hate relationship with Long Beach, where I live, especially at this time of year.

I love waking up and not hearing horns and sirens outside my window. I love getting home at night when it's dark and humid and the only thing you can smell is the ocean. I love walking on the boardwalk and running on the beach. I love deciding on a minute's notice that I want to walk across the street and camp out on the beach with a book for half an hour and not having to drive to do so.

What ruins my town are the people who don't legitimately live here.

My favorite place I ever lived was Charleston. Sad but true, I grew to acknowledge that tourism was what kept the City alive - and more than once, kept me employed. While it never became any less frustrating to get stuck behind a horse carriage when you were already running late for work, the tourists mostly stayed downtown. In other words, they were somewhat avoidable.

I acknowledge that it's Memorial Day and that it is, indeed, a beautiful day outside (a true rarity these days). My morning started off with a run on the boardwalk - while the boardwalk was slightly crowded, it wasn't problematic. After discovering that I had no milk to make cereal for breakfast, I decided to go food shopping, among other errands.

I went to Starbucks and CVS. I washed my car (which was covered in an entire winter's worth of grime and fresh spring pollen) and headed to Waldbaum's (the one supermarket in Long Beach) to buy food. First, I heard a man asking where they sell "goat" in the store. Last I checked, goat isn't commonly found among chicken and steak - at least not in Long Beach. I tried my best to get through the store as quickly as possible, dodging people and dirty looks from people who stood on their phones with carts blocking the aisles.

Every line was terrible. I chose a line in the u-scan section and tried my best to be patient with the two people ahead of me. The first woman finished scanning - I even stayed patient while she let her sub-10-year-old son run her credit card and press the buttons. Then the next woman began scanning. She had scanned roughly 1/4 of her items when her husband joined her on line with seriously an entire cardboard box full of chicken. Time to switch lines.

I move to the line next to me, which seems to be moving at a decent speed. The people in front of me begin scanning their items, which mostly seem to be those probably less than $1 each containers of generic iced tea. Then, she begins to peel a 30 cent off coupon from each one and try to scan it, unsuccessfully. But no, she will not give up without a fight. After all, there is money to save when you are buying 70 containers of generic iced tea.

To the right of me, there are kids from the City who are proclaiming loudly, "Wow, you know you're not in the City when you can stretch your arms out and not touch both sides of the aisle in the store!" Yes. Waldbaums is like Disney World, isn't it.

I finally leave the supermarket and head home. By this point, all of the decent parking spaces are taken. I see someone getting ready to pull out of a space on the opposite side of the median ... which means you have to hit two lights to get over there. I made the first light and watched the person get ready to pull out of the spot. Then, as I waited at the light, I watched this magnificent cougar in a Mercedes convertible run the light to steal the spot. Nothing like parking a freshly washed car in the sand "parking lot."

Oh, and I forgot to buy milk - the one thing I went to the store for.

My parents invited me out for dinner tonight which seemed like a good plan. Then I remembered I will get stuck in beach traffic driving out there and Hamptons traffic driving back.

FML.

What You Wish For

I turned 30 exactly one month ago to the day. While I felt the usual frustrations with turning a year older, I was trying not to succumb to the feelings of "what does 30 really mean?" In other words, I told myself that I wasn't going to ruminate about marriage, kids, and the whole concept of a future any more than I had at 29, 25 or 21.

When I first moved back to N.Y. from Charleston in 2005, I told myself that it was a temporary stop, a layover, if you will. After being back a year, I created a new master plan for myself. I would go back to school and get my Master's degree to teach English. While I certainly wouldn't make the money teaching elsewhere that I would teaching here (no, I'm not referring to the City schools), a teaching degree would be versatile. I wouldn't get stuck in New York.

I actually declared a major in education my freshman year of college. By the time I finished my lackluster freshman year, I had vaguely switched over to journalism, unsure of what I really wanted. I dug myself a hole, selecting a degree that all but guaranteed I would have to live near a major city to find a job - N.Y., Chicago or Los Angeles. Going back to teach would allow me to go west, move back to Charleston ... the opportunities seemed endless as long as a position was available.

Fortunately but unfortunately, I gave up the idea of pursuing teaching when my current job came my way, offering money and opportunity. At the time, the plan was to "give New York a fair shot" and then consider transferring to Los Angeles within the organization. Last year when I renewed my lease, I told myself that would be my last year in New York. I was ready to go to California to pursue the life I had always dreamed of, this July.

Over the past six months, I temporarily sidelined my plan to move cross-country. I felt like the current state of the economy made it an irresponsible time to make sweeping changes. After all, I could still move out west in another year. While I wasn't happy pushing my dream aside, I felt like I was making a responsible choice for my future.

I planned to move closer to the City this July when my lease was up. After all, I generally spend a portion of all seven days in the City - commuting was no longer worth the headache. I started looking and found (by N.Y. standards) a dream apartment. The apartment boasted amenities atypical of N.Y-area rentals - central air, a washer/dryer and even better, it was brand new. I was content to pay a broker fee, even at a time when everyone insists I should be getting more for my money. For a moment, I felt okay with my decision to stay in New York.

Then, in typical New York fashion, I inexplicably lost the apartment before I even got to sign the lease or pay the deposit, due to a shady broker. All at once, it reminded me how difficult and unreasonable things are here, such as finding housing. Not only do we pay exorbitant rents that are completely not in line with our salaries, we also accept the idea that we will not have air conditioning, more than one closet or a dishwasher for that price. Why should I pay a fee equivalent to one month's rent to a broker when I find an apartment on Craigslist?

Losing the apartment unearthed a wave of emotions, mostly reminding me how much I didn't want to be here. After all, it hardly seems worth it to get so little for so much work and money when I don't even want to live here in the first place. It reminded me that, at 30, I'm not getting more opportunities - I'm getting fewer. Honestly, it feels like a waste of time to be practical and stay somewhere that I don't want to be because I am "thinking of my future." Really, what am I thinking about? How much I don't want to spend another year here, let alone the rest of my life. Every year that I spend here makes it seem less and less likely that I'll ever leave.

Unfortunately, bad thoughts snowball. You start off feeling negative about one thing in your life and it brings to the surface everything that isn't going how you hoped it would. Before you know it, you're having one of those days where everything sucks.

"Woke up today, to everything grey
And all that I saw, just kept goin' on and on
Sweep all the pieces under the bed
Close all the curtains and cover my head
And what you wish for won't come true
You aren't surprised, love, are you"
- "What You Wish For"
Guster