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| It’s that time of year again. That period of time between Christmas and spring, where the weather is still cold but the festive holiday spirit is long gone. It’s at this time that I find myself inexplicably restless and craving change in my life. It’s been like this for as long as I recall. Back when I was a student, this would be the quarter or semester my grades would take as nose dive as apathy kicked in. Now at work, it’s my productivity and motivation that’s stalled. Several incidents have happened lately that have made me take a moment to smell the proverbial roses and realize that I’ve fallen into such a dull routine of work, eat, sleep with occasional bouts of drinking. It’s not that I’m unhappy; things are going well, just so damn monotonously. Too often my answer to “What have you been up to lately?” is absolutely nothing. Over the last couple weeks I haven’t been able to stay off travel sites. Iceland. Barcelona. South America. Places of adventure and exploration, a subtle shift from the beautiful blue waters of Jamaica, Dominican Republic, Bahamas that I would normally research. I don’t know if spending a chunk of change on a change of scenery will break the drudgery, but it’ll at least provide a temporary break from routine. Ugh. Emo. Spring hurry up and get here.
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| One of the duties of best friends is to share many juicy details of dating stories with each other. Thus R and I always keep each other posted on the latest news on the war front, from those first undecipherable text messages on though to the nebulous endings. Being that he is a guy, I value his opinion as he can provide the male’s perspective on a situation. I take his advice more often than not, and vice versa. This probably explains why we are both still single. As a gag Christmas gift, I decided to pick up a dating book for him as my advice has obviously gotten him no where this past year. After browsing around the relationships section of B&N (none in humor or self-help sections as I had originally guessed), a thick black book with bold gold lettering caught my attention – “The Game: Penetrating the Secret Society of Pickup Artists,” a non-fiction that chronicles the tales of a journalist as he infiltrates the lives of professional manwhores and learns the tricks of the trade. Perfect. One more person to cross off my Christmas shopping list. A couple days later on a frigid and slow Saturday afternoon, I peeked inside the still-unwrapped book out of curiosity and was promptly sucked into the outrageous world of a pickup artist, where every woman was a mere target to conquer with carefully timed strategies and tactics. This book was definitely not meant for any woman's eyes. Within the first fifty pages of the book, I recognized tactics that some guys had used on me to a T. Going kino, negging a target, mind tricks as conversation points. Some guys I’m ashamed to admit were successful and I had felt intrigued enough to continue the conversation or give them my number. I felt…manipulated for falling for these tactics. The thing is, I know this is a relatively well-known book and some of my guy friends have read parts of it if not the whole thing, so it’s not like this is a book for solely read by sketchy guys. I began to wonder which of the guys I’d met in the last few years operated by such manuals and how much I’d fallen for or how much slipped by my attention. Should a girl feel flattered that a guy will resort to such maneuvers to initiate conversation with her or should she feel like, well, just another target like any other? The book is still sitting here next to me. I still haven’t made it past the first fifty pages and can’t decide if it’s a good idea to read on. On one hand it serves as a good cautionary tale, but on the other it’ll probably make me five times more cynical than I already am. I'm also reconsidering wrapping this up as a gift for R because if I ever see him pulling anything from this book, I will be tempted to switch teams and kill his game. This time intentionally. | | |
| Yesterday, as my coworker and I were chatting, she mentioned her child's school was holding a fundraiser, selling the standard chocolates, giftwrap, and magazines. Out of courtesy, I agreed to take a took at the wares she was peddling and let her know if something caught my eye. As I paged through the booklet, I was immediately whisked back fifteen years... Every year in elementary school, I remember getting so excited when the teacher would announce the annual giftwrap fundraiser. As soon as the fundraising booklets were distributed, I would examine the latest offerings, running my finger through the neatly layered swatches of wrapping paper samples and make mental notes of all my favorite shiny, glittery, and even holographic wraps. And who could forget the prize book? Pages and pages of swag of every kind, enticing the next generation of salesmen to set lofty goals and sell, sell, sell. Me? I always had my heart set on a pair of Moon Shoes, contraptions that were basically mini trampolines you strapped onto each foot that, with enough imagination (and trust me I had plenty), mimicked the sensation of walking in zero gravity. Mine for the low, low price of 75 rolls of wrapping paper. I would enthusiastically set out in my neighborhood with my sister, both of us armed with our booklets of giftwrap samples and gap-toothed smiles. However, in a tiny city less than five miles in diameter, most houses were hit up in the first couple days by the most aggressive of saleskids. Our neighbors, probably quite used to the annual barrage of kids during these couple weeks, would smile politely at us and tell us how they wished we'd stopped by a couple days ago because goshdarn, they'd just bought 10 rolls from some other little girl. Dejected, we'd move on to the next house and I'd think dark thoughts about that little overachiever that was 10 rolls closer to her sales goals. I never did get those Moon Shoes. As I flipped through my co-worker's kid's booklet, I couldn't help but think about those elusive Moon Shoes and wonder what awesome prize the kid was aiming for. So those of you receiving Christmas presents from me this year, take note of the awesome wrapping paper I picked. I promise I've gotten over that shiny, glittery, holographic phase. | | |
| It's no secret that Manhattan is chock-full of colorful characters, each wrapped up in his own world and, in stereotypical New York fashion, oblivious to (or just ignoring) everything and everyone else around them.
Over the last couple years, I've noticed that NYC subway commuters represent a microcosm of every possible permutation of personalities found among the 1.6 million Manhattanites bustling about the city - archetypes of all sorts of sane and crazy (more of the latter), pressed up against you on your morning commute to work.
Depending on the day of week and time, there is a different cross section of the city to experience. Monday, 8:30am: White earbud-clad young professionals clicking impatiently through overplayed iPod playlists, suits clutching their pink-tinted Financial Times folded expertly to minimize surface area, the occasional scared-looking family of eager tourists blatantly disregarding advice to avoid the subway during rush hour
Wednesday/Thursday, 9pm: Happy hour revelers passed out shoulder to shoulder with homeless bums, lithe yogis sipping Smart Water with their yoga mats rolled neatly in their bags, panhandlers condensing their life stories to fit within the one minute between stops
Friday, 5pm: Office workers-turned-contortionists that wedge their way every little available inch of space in attempts to get away from the office as soon as possible, "sick passengers" causing delays from two trains ahead probably dying of asphyxiation and/or claustrophobia
Saturday, 9am: Overdressed and rumpled partygoers doing the ride of shame, organimaniacs clutching "I AM NOT A PLASTIC BAG" totes ready to hit the farmers markets, mariachi bands in full-on bejeweled outfits and sombreros
The fustercluck of clashing personalities sardined together creates a perfect setting for some of the most bizarre things I've seen in the city, from a blind man bitchslapping a girl across the face to a bum showdown as two of them arrived from opposite ends of the car to deliver their spiels.
Every ride is always a new adventure with a fresh cast of characters. It's currently 4:30pm on a Friday afternoon. You know what that means. Time to begin those calisthenics in preparation for the ride home and get myself ready to tune in to the next crazy episode of the subway series. | | |
| I will write regularly again. Soon.
That's what I've been telling myself for almost a year now. Everytime I open up Xanga, there they sit: my half-assed attempts at new posts. A solid beginning here. A brief observation there. Incomplete ponderings all check-marked as "Private." I always tell myself I'll go back and finish them up some day, but in their current state they aren't in any shape to share. Some day.
Last year, a friend of mine sent me a short article by Harvard Law Professor and author Alan Dershowitz entitled "The Perfect is the Enemy of the Excellent." In it, Dershowitz writes of his distinguished peers who, despite their brilliance and wealth of endless knowledge, rarely published any works because of the fear that their glowing reputations could be tarnished by publishing imperfect work. Instead, Dershowitz chose another path, deciding that the need to share and spread ideas outweighed the pursuit of perfection. He published his works regularly, flaws and all. Any criticism he received, any theories that were refuted were just chances for him to learn and grow.
In absolutely no way am I suggesting that anything I write is earth-shattering knowledge that will rock the foundations of the 21st century. Nooo way. My takeaway is to let go. Stop letting the need to crank out something worthy of a Pulitzer (or e-props!) get in the way of even attempting something I truly enjoy. So look out. Rambles coming soon at a blog near you, in all shapes and forms, finished or not.
In my toe-dip back into regular writing, I wrap up with my favorite quote from Dershowitz's article that resonated with me in more ways than one: "The search for perfection is illusory and has no end."
I'm not even going to get into how that translates to my love life. Kidding.
That's already all written up in Half-Assed Private Entry #6. 
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