Pent Up

I can't stand being cooped up in the apartment much longer. I feel cut off from the rest of the world, as if there are islands of people I know and love and in order to get to them I'd have to swim (or, in this case, walk) a really long way. New York without public transportation is like being a marathon runner whose fallen flat on his face during a race.

I miss the freedom of being able to go outside and be outside all day and do whatever I like, like see improv shows and visit friends. Being inside has made me restless to the point of wanting to do stupid things just to keep myself entertained with the possible outcomes of said stupidity. Like, all I can think about is wanting to text Kismet. I don't even know what to say! "How about the weather recently, huh? heh heh, I really like you. HA! Joking! But, not if you like me too." Fuck. Even if I were to get a conversation going I don't know how we'd meet up. It'd be such a heroic force of will (going from Manhattan to Queens right now is pretty hard).

I'm getting frustrated even while watching the animated series called Avatar, an anime from 2005 that I've recently discovered as my new obsession. (It's a fantastic show!) In it, among other amazing plot lines, two of the main characters have a lot of feelings for one another and they dance around the subject of confessing their love. I keep watching this tantalizing love dance and almost pull my hair out from the angst it is causing me! Then, on top of that my room mate has his girlfriend staying with us and listening to the two of them giggle in the next room as I try really hard not to listen and feel obnoxious about my existence, is, well, the aftermath the hurricane has provided for me to deal with.

I need to get out of the house! I want my life back! C'mon New York! Let's get back on our feet and move again! And Kismet: Show me a sign! I'm dying for attention over here!

Aftermath

The silence now that the storm is passed is filled with the chattering of human voices, as the neighbors emerge from their houses and take photos of the damage. I peeked out the window before leaving the apartment this afternoon and marveled at the number of families trotting down the middle of the street that would otherwise be busy with city traffic.

The sidewalks are covered in a thick blanket of leaves, branches and shrubbery. Then, there are the downed trees. I am shocked by what I saw while walking around the 4 blocks we explored today! My street, 48th street, which connects Sunnyside to Astoria, is lined with old London Plane Trees that are pretty old for New York City trees. They swayed in the winds of the hurricane like little baby saplings in a breeze last night. And today when we went out to look at the damage, these monster trees simply fell, over pulling open the concrete and smashing everything underneath. It's an awesome sight to see. There are 4 toppled trees on my block alone!

I haven't ventured out of my area yet, but the photos I am seeing on the flooding and destruction in Manhattan is really scary. I can't imagine looking out my window to see several feet of flood water. I remember wading across water that got to mid thigh here in Queens and being totally floored and jarred by the experience, but to have an entire neighborhood under water!?

I hear many people are still out of power, many are stuck in their homes until the water recedes, and many have lost their livelihoods to floods and fallen trees. I feel like all of this is somehow fake, like it's some big  joke that will go away when I wake up tomrrow. I remember, in college, watching the movie "Cloverfield" with my then boyfriend and friends. The movie is about a huge extraterrestrial monster destroying New York City Gozilla-style. Watching that film in theatres I remember thinking how unimaginable it was to think that the seemingly indestructable city like New York could be destroyed. Apparently all it takes is a lot of wind and a 12 foot storm surge...

Sandy

The winds are whipping outside like I've never heard them before. The 80 year old trees that line our block are swaying like grass in the wind as the 6 of us: my roommates, friends, sister and I watch for the trees and the close proximity the branches have to our windows.

It was laughable when the storm first started. Now since the sun has set the night has gotten creepier as photos from flooded streets, fallen trees and deaths begin to crop up on the Facebook newsfeed. The group and I have been watching TV, playing games and dancing to music to make the time go by, but the storm provides the most amount of entertainment.

Our lights are flickering, the wind sounds like a truck engine, a tree collapsed across the street, and the empty stillness of a usually busy sidewalk is eerie. Halloween can go suck an egg, this storm trumps the scary contest this year.

Still, in the bands of wind and rain, there is a simpleness to life here in the apartment that I haven't found in a while. I did Yoga with the girls of the house, flowing through a sun salutation and working up a sweat in our living room. The boys are playing chess, we watched about 3 hours of Avatar, and we've all played a game of Monopoly. I find that the uneasiness of being cooped up all day has forced me to finally turn to projects I have otherwise put off, like editing movies I've filmed. Oh, and drinking sangria and Hot-Totties has helped as well. My sister is making cookies and we'll all rally around another game of Monopoly later, I suspect.

I worry about the flooding areas of the city. I hope those people are doing alright. Here in Queens the odds of a flood is pretty low as we're on much higher ground than a lot of the rest of the city. I also keep checking the status of the mass transit system as well: no nothing. If you need to get somewhere: don't go. Although, my sister's friend chanced that theory when he took the 20 minute walk from Astoria to get to Sunnyside this afternoon. The guy's about 100 pounds, it amazes me that he wasn't blown away! But, it's nice having 6 of us here to keep each other company. Safety in numbers, no?

Kismet

I'm still reeling from the last 24 hours. I met a guy. I went on a date with him. And then, I had the most amazing morning waking up next to this person and experiencing the thrill of meeting someone you feel like you've known for a whole lot longer than just a few hours.

I don't want to jump to conclusions. I have in the past... In fact, I've jumped to such extremes with certain people I've met that I begin to plan my wedding day with them in mind after only knowing them for a few weeks. I'm trying to keep a level head. I don't want to label anything, I don't want to get any hopes up (especially mine!) about this guy and then be horribly disappointed.

We met at the opening of one of my best friend's play. I dropped my coat off in the auditorium and turned around to go use the bathroom when I saw what I thought was a familiar looking face in the light booth of the theatre, so I waved hello. He waved back. Then, on second thought, I realized I didn't actually know him and felt a bit embarrassed. The second time I walked past the booth during intermission I smiled so I looked like all was intentional. He smiled back.

I waited for my friend to come out of the stage door so I could congratulate him. He came out all smiles and I wished him well. Then in slo-mo: there was the stranger who smiled at me in the light booth coming across the lobby. I saw this third potential interaction as a huge opportunity! "Hi. I'm Natalie." I said, reaching out my hand. He took my hand and replied. "Hi, I'm Kismet." (Ok, so Kismet is super duper not his name, but I think you all get the idea here with the name changes.)

Kismet has blue eyes (surprised?), he's European (another one!!), speaks 3 languages ("What's the word for boobies in french?") and is pursuing a masters in Theatre Directing (Oh! I just died a little from a nerdy meltdown over the potential ideas we could hypothetically bounce back and forth in late night idea exchanges).

Our first date was a pretty sloppy snog-fest. We each had a couple beers and then wound up making out in the 2nd bar we were in before deciding to take the show on the road and make-out more while walking down and then up Amsterdam avenue while splitting a large can of BudLight and ogling the brownstones that lead to the Museum of Natural History. Winning!

I guess what really got me most about Kismet was the sheer comfort I felt being around him when I woke up in his room the next morning and felt no embarrassment or awkwardness. It was a truly wonderful change. We spent the entire morning, and a small chunk of the afternoon, making breakfast together, listening to music and locked in an epic cuddle-fest. Cutie was not the most comfortable experience, it was a fun time, but I never felt particularly warm about him. Kismet, however, walked me to the subway this morning and full on kissed me outside the entrance before shyly asking if I wanted to "...do this again sometime, or something?" I died. Melted right to the floor. Except, in real time I tried to keep a straight face. "Yeah, sure. I'd really like that."

Oh! Kismet! I'm such a romantic! I'm such a sucker for public displays of affection! And plus, any guy who gives me a wink and a thumbs up when I put on Beethoven's 9th Symphony as a breakfast background noise is a major winner in my book. That symphony's, like, super nerdy and over an hour. And then, he put on Beethoven's 5th Symphony as a followup. Hot.

Getting Dumped: 2012 Style

I feel like I just got dumped because I never heard back from Cutie yesterday after my prompt of "You doing anything tonight?" never got a response. After concluding that that was the "I'm breaking this off" text that wasn't actually sent, I hung up my Cutie "hat" and moved on. I am not devastated, nor am I in need of any consolation. I got the message loud and clear. I am left wondering at the way we communicate now in this silent culture of texting, though.

Cutie was a fascinating relationship in that I would categorize the entire interaction as a series of one night stands with the same guy. We saw each other for about 5 weeks, about once a week, and after every time I wondered if I would ever really see the guy again. The relationship was just that "casual." I have a voicemail that Cutie left on my phone by accident. I lost my phone in his room and had him call me, then he forgot to turn off his phone so I have a 45 second voicemail with no content except some background noise. I listened to it the other day and thought it was a perfect metaphor for our interaction: silence, little content, and a forgetfulness thrown in there for good measure.

In fact, Serendipity (the last boyfriend) and I had very little interaction on the phone as well. I'd send a text and get a response back in a couple hours. We talked on the phone, meaningfully, once. Otherwise, our entire relationship was a texting match or a phone call just to iron out a detail that the texting couldn't. In comparison to the first relationship I had where texts actually cost money and we had to call one another to figure out what the hell we were doing that evening, the last few guys I've dated have been all texts. I only spoke to Dominos on the phone once, and that was to break up with him!

So, I feel like now I can trump the "I got dumped with a text" statement and say: "I got dumped with a 5 hour grace period I gave him to respond to my booty call and heard nothing, so I'm assuming we're done through his use of the choice of a Non-Text." No message, but I get it loud and clear. So, I won't respond to your non response and you can take that non-commital answer as a rebuttal to your first non-commital non-response.

And, anyway: I have a pretty exciting date tomorrow night with an MFA student whose going to Columbia. Hah!

I'm Non-Texting the world right now with how much I love being single. Right. Now....

Growth to the Extreme!

At 8:30am this morning, I was pushed onto the 7 train and squeezed in with hundreds of other New Yorkers like cows in a slaughterhouse. I walked in huge groups of people, all walking the same speed and direction and with the same neutral expression on their faces down long hundred-foot hallways. I watched as hundreds of people moved along the platforms, almost like schools of fish, on their way up the stairs, down the stairs and onto the trains.

I was so glad I wasn't doing this every day just to get to work, I was a temporary visitor just passing through. It's stressful to be in such tight quarters with so many people, but then having to fight your way to the surface just to go to work? Stress-Fest! Every time a train pulled in it was packed so tight with New Yorkers that I couldn't see the inside of the train from the windows. And as I stood in the middle of an especially large group of commuters, I was in the awkward position of not being able to hold on to any poles, so I simply let the sheer amount of bodies surrounding me on every side hold me up as the train lurched and rattled along the track. I even had a full cup of coffee I sipped, but because the trains were so packed I couldn't lower my arm, so I let the coffee cup rest at my chin.

Simply put: Holy Shit the subway system is over crowded. I can't imagine that what I experienced this morning is healthy or safe! Fire hazards? What a joke! There were so many people that, god forbid, if there was something truly wrong the exits would not be enough to handle the stampede of folks! And even the sidewalks of New York are too small to handle the outflow of people from below!

According to the NYC Dept. of City Planning:
"New York City's population increased from 8,175,133 in April of 2010 to 8,244,910 in July of 2011. This is an increase of 69,777 residents or about 0.85 percent over the 2010 mark. The largest change in the city's population occurred in Brooklyn, increasing by almost 28,000 persons or 1.1 percent, followed by Queens, which registered an increase of 17,126 persons or 0.8 percent. Manhattan also showed a substantial increase of 16,075, which translated into a change of 1 percent. "

Woah.

So, as of 2011 almost 70 thousand people moved to New York. Meaning that one could bet there are even more people now. Manhattan Island is not getting any larger, though. So... maybe that can explain why I feel so packed tight.

To keep my mind off of how miserable that commute was I kept imagining wide open spaces and big old-growth trees... Being a guppy in a massive school of fish is no fun, and the city just gets bigger and bigger! 70 thousand people need a place to live, too! And eat! And work! And, according to the Census bureau New York's population has a good 30% of it in 25-35 age range. So, we're young, too. That also explains why I kept catching the eyes of many tired looking, trendy 20 something's also on their way to work, or, you know, unpaid internships.

I think I'll just stick to the off-peak hours so I can stretch out on the seats of the train car and pretend I'm only one of 20 individuals going to work.

The Holy Kiss

I got caught staring at a large black man clearly enjoying the jazz that was being played at my job last night. He was nodding his head and shutting his eyes and muttering "Damn!"under his breath. At each key change he'd nod his head in affirmation, like he had just taken a swallow of something really yummy. I couldn't stop staring at his utter enjoyment.

He looked over at the bar I was standing behind and caught my eye. I smiled, beckoning him to the bar. I felt I needed to explain myself further. The song ended and the man got up and walked over. I leaned in over the bar toward his face and he leaned in over the bar toward my face. I moved to whisper in his ear and he moved in to kiss me on the cheek. I felt his warm soft lips brush my face and could feel myself blush a deep crimson. 

What? Wait. No! That's not why I called you over!! Oh... awkward. 

I tried to rescue to the pause after I pulled away from him with a huge smile. "I like to watch people enjoy the music." I whispered as the next song vamped up. "Do you want a beer?" He pointed to an IPA and I jumped away, eager to get out of his circle. I smiled as I handed him the beer and waved away his money. "It's on us." I said. He put the money in the tip jar and moved back to his seat. 

I tried to focus on the music, but my mind started buzzing. That stranger, that worshipper of music just kissed my cheek. I don't know him from Adam and he just ambled over and as soon as I leaned in he planted one right on my face. I smiled, unsure of how to really feel about the occurrence. I guess I liked that. I didn't feel threatened by it, or anything. I looked out over the other heads of the nodding patrons, all there to experience the jazz and to drink in the sounds. I moved to make my way up the aisle that parts the small room I work in and did it more for the purpose of feeling the reverence of the listeners than to take drink orders. It's like walking through a church sermon in a church full of very dedicated converts. 

As I collected a few empty glasses I wondered if the "Holy Spirit" of the room would cause someone else to kiss me one day. I didn't mind that idea. I got the sense that the kiss came from a place of bliss through worship than any sexual drive. I smiled. And who says the power of prayer is only for churches?

Life in the Shitter

The rim of film covering the inside of the toilet bowl made me stop and stare for a moment. The toilet looked like it hadn't been cleaned in so long the original off-white of the porcelain made the brown of the inner parts of the shitter look like some new apocalyptic disease was brewing in a stew of I-Dare-Not-Think-About-It water.

I gazed down in horror at this scene, unsure of what to do next.

Here's the thing with needing a bathroom: The stakes are always high, and will just get higher the longer one delays. Having to relieve oneself is, I think, fundamentally one of the purest forms of comedy because everyone has a shared experience.

In this particular moment, standing in this small New York City apartment bathroom, I needed to go pretty bad. However, that toilet was so disgusting I considered running back home to my apartment and peeing there.

Another tangent: I used to lick subway poles when I was younger. I played in the public playground's sandboxes (also known as the filthy kitty-litter of New York's infants). As a kid I visited Coney Island's beach as I lightly kicked syringes out of the way before settling down for a day on the surf. I am no stranger to nasty, but I have to draw a line somewhere!

The hypocrisy of my childhood was that I would NEVER sit on a public toilet seat. In fact, I got to the point of being so sceeved out by toilets and other people's bathrooms that when I went to anyone else's house I would squat over their bowl as well. My precious tush was not going anywhere near anyone else's butt-rest. It took me years, and a whole lot of research, to finally get over my phobia of other people's bathrooms.

I suddenly judged the guy whose apartment I was in. I judged him pretty hard core. I cursed his name as I stood there doing the pee-pee dance. Fuck. Fuck. Guys are GROSS. Clean your damn toilet! It's not hard! Just pick up a scrub brush and swirl it around in the bowl a couple times and voila! Sorta' clean!

I got nervous standing there any longer than a couple minutes. What if the guy thinks I'm pooping? I'm taking an awful long time just to take a leak. The thought that he might be sitting in the living room thinking that I needed to go and take a dump in the middle of our make-out session made me overcome my fear of the petrie-dish-toilet and pee.

When I got back to the living room I had to reacquaint myself with this person I thought I knew. You're toilet just said volumes about you I thought. Then, I noticed he was rubbing hand sanitizer on his hands after having just blown his nose. What. The. Fuck.

The Death of an Ex

I thought you died today!

Seriously! I thought, for a moment, that you were lying somewhere on your death bed having just expired your last breath. I jumped to that conclusion when I was asked by a friend (in a sober, quiet, and bated voice) if I had: "...heard what had happened to you today?" WHAT HAPPENED!? Oh, you had a baby and a friend wanted to make sure I was up to date so I didn't find out through some other source. OK. Phew!

It's been a while since I've thought about you. You make regular appearances in my sub conscious, and you pop up in dreams from time to time, but generally I'm concentrating on the most recent guy in my life. Unless, of course, something out of the ordinary happens that reminds me of you. But, seriously, I don't give you a lot of rental space in my brain. Your memory has slowly started to fade out, like a black Tee shirt that's been washed so much it turns a dark charcoal and loses its original, powerful, black.

Thinking about you dead made me very sad and that caught me off guard. I remember (two summers ago, when we first decided to really not talk to each other ever again) I would bike home from work late at night. I'd be biking up a really steep hill to get on the Queensboro Bridge and I'd think about you as a character in my brain that I liked to torture so as to take my mind off of how awful it was to bike that hill. I'd imagine all the things I could say and I'd scream them at you in my brain. I'd hurl insults and create terrifically embarrassing scenarios to put you in and I'd watch, in my imagination, as you were peed on by a goat and then kicked in the nuts. Or, I'd wistfully place you in a moment when you somehow ran in to me on the street after I started dating Justin Timberlake and I'd pretend I didn't see you and you'd look so downtrodden that the paparazzi following us would notice and then do a very embarrassing interview with you right there on the street, and as they do it a pigeon would shit on your face.

You know, that kinda' thing, it'd help me bike up the hill.

Thinking about you being dead today was not fun. Not at all. Even though you're in another phase of your life and we don't talk anymore and I'm very happily not married to you; I still wish you health and safety. I wish you happiness and fulfillment. I wish you the life you want to live.

Isn't it funny how death can make us all the same? Like, in war times, when one is in the trenches, it really doesn't matter who has more money or fame or a happy family life, we can all die just like the next guy. And death is a means of measuring how much a person can really mean, can't it? Death can make a memory of someone precious, when before, when that person was alive, that memory was never really recalled or treasured.

So, I guess, what I'm trying to say is: I really care about you, even after all of the horrifically awful heartbreaks we put ourselves through. I mean, I'm glad we're not together, but there is still a place in my heart that loves you and wishes you all the best.

I'm really glad you're not dead.

A Snapshot

Our palms were locked.

"You know? I believe that the palms hold a lot of energy. When you touch something or someone with the palm of your hand you are really transferring a lot of energy to that thing. Holding hands with someone is so personal. It's not something I do everyday." I mused. I looked at the ten fingers interlocking. It almost all looked like it could have come from the same hand. I looked back at him, checking for what his response might be. There was morning sunlight blasting the room full of color, so that his blue eyes looked really clear. I took a mental snap shot. He smiled.

My sister told me she sees change in me every time she sees me. We were sitting on the couch in my living room sharing stories of childhood. The impromptu muffins we threw together with the ingredients lying around in my kitchen were baking in the oven downstairs.

"Really, Cait? I'm so different? It's only been a few weeks..."

"Yeah, remember that time you told me I looked like I lost weight? And I said, I just gained confidence?"

"uh huh"

"Well, I didn't mean to say that I disagreed with you. I could tell you were giving me a compliment. And, I might have lost weight, but what I meant was: I just feel so good about my body. I feel like I've really come to love myself. It's still a struggle sometimes, but I love what I am. And I can see that in you."

I looked at myself at that moment. I felt as if I was suddenly looking into a mirror which was facing another mirror, like in the bathrooms of a Greek Diner in Queens, when you can see yourself and the back of your head stretch off into oblivion. Each time getting smaller, but still reflecting enough to keep the next image going, as if you are forever multiplying another version of yourself. In that moment, I saw another reflection. 

I was back in the snap shot moment in my sunlit room. I looked at the floor: clothes were strewn about. My bra was mocking me as it lay on the floor by my dresser... yeah, last night's activities didn't give me a chance to really put any clothes away.

I didn't care.

"We should get something to eat. I've got eggs. And I can make some coffee." I said. Looking back at him. I felt calm and collected, unlike my room. This is new and exciting. And, even if it were to end tomorrow, I feel different, like I lost a few pounds of anxiety and replaced it all with fluffy carefree clouds. 

Speaking Up

I noticed the line, 5 people deep, in front of me and my bladder said: "Get help. Fast."

I approached the bald, 5% body fat, male yoga instructor flirting with another yoga instructor at the entrance to the studio. I waited for a quick break in their conversation and interrupted. "Excuse me, I was wondering if it would be kosher to use the upstairs bathroom?" The instructor looked at me like I had a booger in my nose.

"Upstairs is not open, and you would be skipping all of the people who have been patiently waiting in line to go." He said. I stared at him, feeling my face flush as the attention I had been giving my bladder filtered into a new energy of embarrassment and annoyance. How do you know I would skip everyone? I thought. Maybe, we could just open that restroom up and the line would go twice as fast, therefore none of us have to wait so long. Instead I said: "But, I really have to pee!" He motioned with a tired look that I should get back in line. "Maybe you'll make friends with someone and they'll let you skip them, or something." He said in a patronizing voice.

I walked, defeated, back to the now 7-people-deep line and waited.

I'm rarely admonished for pursuing other options in solving a problem, so when I am I feel incredibly weird. Was I being selfish in wondering about other alternatives to waiting in the line? Or, was I simply posing a question that caught the guy off guard and he therefore snapped back with a line to make me feel like asking that question was in some way wrong? I felt he had just assumed I was planning on skipping everyone in a selfish pursuit to empty my bladder, when honestly, that was on my mind, but not in a "fuck all of these people, I'm gonna go first" more like a "Let's make this line shorter... Jeez."

As I stood waiting the Yoga instructor motioned to the 3 girls in front of me saying: "You three follow me, I'm going to show you the bathroom across the hall." I watched as the line was shorted by half and I was suddenly next for the bathroom.

Oh. Ok, dude. I get it. You were too busy doing whatever it is that really, really, ridiculously good looking yoga instructors do all the time to realize that there actually was another bathroom. I felt really annoyed. I imagined myself walking up to him and saying "See!? That wasn't so difficult! And I turned out to be next in line, which is great. And, next time a student poses an ulterior plan, maybe you shouldn't just assume that they're in it to screw everyone else over!" Then, the whole room would break in to applause and I'd be hoisted onto the shoulder of the nearest hottie and carried around with cheers of "Way to say what you were feeling, Nat!" and "Nice! way to express yourself!" and "That wasn't passive aggressive at all! It was downright confrontational! Wahoo!"

I walked over to my yoga mat to begin class and wished I had the guts to say something. Part of me kept repeating my overly used mantra of: Just let it go, I know that was annoying, but it's not worth the trouble to say anything. The Yoga instructor told us all to get into Child's Pose to begin class and I folded over, the mantra being repeated over and over like a muzzle on my thoughts. Then, I heard another voice in the back of my head say: You know, Natalie, you've been saying this A LOT lately. Like, every time you get home and the apartment is a mess and you wind up taking out all the trash and doing all the dishes and bringing in the mail because other members of the apartment don't. Or when dozens of people are at the apartment until the wee hours of the morning and you weren't told they would be there. 

I sighed into my Child's Pose and sent a silent prayer to my body: Let's speak up for ourselves, Nat. Let's be our own Hottie lifting us up onto shoulders and cheering. I shivered at the thought of being that  brave, then allowed the yoga to begin.

Electro Therapy

I met a guy on the subway last night. Or, rather, he just started talking to me. When he first sat down I thought he was a bum. He was carrying a crate with something wrapped in a garbage bag in it that he propped up between his legs. He was carrying a big gray stained coat and a black back pack stuffed with stuff; it looked heavy. When he sat down next to me I actually considered getting up and walking to another seat. I expected a sour smell to come from his direction and wondered when he might start muttering to himself. He didn't. Instead he muttered to me.

"Sorry to bother you. But, I was curious about the book you are reading." He said, reading over my shoulder.

I looked up from "Drop Dead Healthy" by A.J. Jacobs and showed him the cover of the book. He read it over appraisingly and then said, "You know. I write a website about health. You should check it out."

I looked at the man again. Why did I think he was a bum? The crate could be some tool he needs at his job and maybe the coat is stained because he has kids and they spilled apple juice all over it. The man pulled out a bottle of oil and began to moisturize his hands. The oil smelled citrusy and made me feel comfortable. "Do you have a card?" I asked.

"No, but I'll give you the address." He pulled out a notebook covered in scribbles. He looked like a writer, for sure. I felt stupid at this point. Who was I to judge this guy? He is not only not a bum, he smells downright nice, he was wearing a Yankee hat that looked very trustworthy, and is giving me a web address for his website! I looked over the piece of paper he gave me and smiled. I hoped that maybe he'd read my smile as a: Hey, you're OK, man. When I got off at my stop I wished him a good night. "I hope you check it out!" He called after me as I stepped off. "I will!" I responded.

It turns out his site is an advertisement for electrical shock therapy treatment with a huge banner for NetZero across the top. Did I look like I needed Electro-shock therapy?

I wonder what A.J. Jacobs would think of electro shock therapy. And I wondered again what the crate that man was carrying was full of.

The Perfect Morning

I imagine the perfect morning would go as such:

I wake up to the soft and hushed breathing of his warm face wishing me a good morning. There is a whole lot of beautiful sunshine in the room and I know that no one else is in the apartment because it is our apartment and our bedroom and my stuff and his stuff and our city and we are waking up in this really comfy bed we just spent the entire night having a lot of really mind-blowing sex in as a celebration of an amazing show I had just done. 

Anyway, he wakes me up with kisses on my face and I giggle and we snuggle under the comforter that is like a warm cloud engulfing our deliriously, sickeningly delicious love. I ask what we’ll be having for breakfast. We slept in a bit, but it’s not so late in the morning that I feel like I need to really bolt out of bed in preparation for the day, let’s say it’s like, 9:45. He says we ran out of eggs yesterday and the only thing we’ve got is that artesian coffee that he bought a few days ago and we hadn’t yet finished yet. I groan in a mock “Oh, so what do we do now?” when really I am not worried about any of that, not at all. I have to be at the show again later in the day, but otherwise: we have the whole day together. He has the weekends off and other than the improv show later, I can look forward to spending the entire morning and afternoon with him. 

He chuckles at my groan and makes to get up to make the coffee because he knows I love coffee in bed. I stop him with a “where do you think you’re going?” look that also says: “Let’s get some cardio going this morning so we can really make that coffee earned.”

We finally spill out of bed to begin our slow weekend morning. I go in to take a shower, a nice, warm, wake-you-up shower and when I step out of the bathroom of the artfully and practically decorated apartment that we call our own, I smell that warm coffee. I hear him in the kitchen talking to someone on the phone. 

When I’ve changed into something really cute I just bought from Banana Republic on sale a few days ago, and walk over to the kitchen, he has NPR on and is reading the news on his ipad. A steaming cup of coffee is waiting for me on our wooden table that my Mom gave me when we moved into the Brooklyn apartment we share. 

“Who were you talking to?” I ask as I sit down and sip at the deliciously warm caffein. 

He looks up from him iPad and smiles. “I just ordered us some breakfast from that diner you really love.” He says. 

“No! Ohhh! You are so sweet! Did you get the eggs and bacon special that I really like?”

“Of course.” He says, like it’s really not a big deal, but secretly he knows it is a super big deal. I love small thoughtful things like when someone remembers my favorite meal or when someone makes a decision for the two of us and makes an order for food so that we don’t have to venture out into what looks like a relatively chilly morning. 

I look out the window as I drink and ponder the tree that sweeps its branches in the wind and wonder where all the leaves that have fallen off go. The doorbell rings. I get up to answer, he stays reading and NPR’s playing something really fun like some folk music. He loves music, and I love music, so there is always some wonderful piece playing to make the silences of our relationship toe-tapping.

We’re both working professionals at what we do. He makes really good money working for some kind of nerdy, know-it-all job like an internet start-up company, or as a professor, or a researcher or a lecturer or an architect or engineer, something like that. I’m performing constantly on all sorts of improv teams, and working part time for Comedy Central. My agents are working on getting me a good deal with some producers about this great idea I have for a movie. I’m making good money, too. 

The delivery boy hands me our hot, delicious smelling breakfasts and I tip him really well. I can see him admiring our apartment as he looks past my shoulders at the warm reds, browns and greens that decorate everything. We have healthy plants in the window that get watered everyday by my Boyfriend who has watered them ever since he got them a few years ago. We’ve got beautiful picture frames of the two of us madly in love while posing in photos of the places we’ve travelled to together and photos of our families. Our cat is playing with a small toy on our big persian rug that I love to run my toes through so as to not feel too cold on November days like this. 

We eat breakfast in relative silence, except for an occasional comment on something in the news. I check my email on my up to date and well thought out laptop, like a MacBook Pro. He’s still in his boxers and a tee shirt and has bed head and thick plastic hipster glasses that I just melt when I see him in. I like to steal glances at him whenever I come to a break in reading about the recent developments about my life, like what my agent said to the producers and when I may need to be flown out to California. He doesn’t notice the looks at first, but after a couple times catches my eye as well and smiles. He mouths “I love you” and I blush. “I love you, too.” I say out loud and I hold my hand out across the table and he takes it. Life is great, and it’s only 11:30am. 

New York Lameness

"I feel like I'm eating cereal without milk with this guy." I said to my friend on the phone tonight. "Like, the crunchiness is good, and I really like cereal, but it's lacking a really important ingredient." I thought about the words coming out of my mouth. I've said these before, except more like in terms of Pizza. Dominos pizza. Oh my god, I've landed myself in a bowl of milk-less cereal with Cutie.

I sat down in my living room and joined my sister in her youtubing, internet surfing binge and thought about my life choices recently. Today, in the park where I had lunch with a couple of improv class mates, we discussed dating in New York. The brunette in our trio lamented her frustrations with finding reliably not-crazy men in this city and how even the not crazy ones are not in it for the long haul, or even the several week haul for that matter, it seems more like if something is amiss in even the slightest way, you just throw off the cloak of that person and pick out another hottie to start dating, because Lord knows there are a whooooole lot of hotties parading around this city all the time. I fought back a bit, using my logical answer of "As soon as I stopped caring, I found guys to start dating." Which has worked for me the last few months.

But, do I not care? I texted Cutie tonight to see if he was free and got a "Sorry I'm working late" response which I took to the next level of "Let's just call it here." I wished him luck with that late night project and then settled in to believing I'll never hear from him again. Jeesh, this cereal is crunchy and dry. And, I feel a little let down ...I thought I didn't really care!

Is everyone here in New York to be the best at their careers and just screw each other with no real emphasis on anything solid? I couldn't even tell you Cutie's favorite meal or any of the names of his siblings, and I've seen this guy a couple times. I do know he works hard, and that seems to be the real common denominator for everyone here. No one has free time. Hell, I don't have free time and I have a LOT of free time! But, not for hanging out. I have free time to surf the web and get a mani-pedi and do yoga and walk around aimlessly for hours, but for a trip to a hottie hot-spot? Nope. Too tired. Too busy. Even as I write this entry I think about how I could have stayed at the theatre I just watched improv at, and maybe struck up a couple of conversations with some hotties I saw walking in as I walked out.

Especially with this whole epidemic of weddings and babies I feel almost like I somehow got left behind a grade in the school of life. I don't feel old, nor do I feel as if all my good years are "Passing me by" but, I can now start to spill over onto my other hand with the number of people I know getting married and the number of people I know having babies is starting to rise as well.

I look at the "dry cereals" that walk the streets of this city and try not to become brittle and hard and cynical like so many of my girlfriends seem to be becoming as another less-than-great guy lets them down.

I need a vacation. New York is really great for a whole lot of things, but when it comes to dating, it can be pretty lame. Maybe I'll visit Chicago. Although, I hear Portland and Seattle have nothing but girl-starved guys. I have nothing but cereal over here! Let's get some substance into this meal and have a real breakfast!!

Getting Halloween Ready

As halloween approaches I find myself in the awkward position of: Do I make my own costume? Do I buy the slutty Zombie costume? or do I just throw my hands to the sky and pronounce that I don't give a crap about this holiday? Every year it's the same dilemma.

When I was younger, Halloween was a Holiday of unbridled imagination and anxiety. As soon as October 1st swung around bright orange flyers would go up in the elevators of my building announcing the coming of the Halloween Party in the Lobby. There was always a sign up sheet next to the announcement where tenants would volunteer their apartments for Trick-Or-Treaters. As the days ticked on I loved running my finger down the list and noting who from the previous year had signed up and therefore who had the best decorations, or who was known for having the worst candy (Apt. 4L always gives us apples! Gross!)

In my building, Bianca on the 2nd floor was our Go-To Halloween coordinator. My sister and I would spend afternoons down at her apartment looking up costumes and how we would all coordinate, or not.  Bianca was always very particular about what our costumes consisted of. Did we have the right make-up? Were the wigs we were getting necessary? etc. It was always a process. My first year in college I felt completely left out of the loop as my sister was still back at home event coordinating with B. As an effort to keep me included, Bianca took the time with me over the phone to run through several websites before finding the "perfect"Beer Garden girl outfit. When I got it in the mail I realized the skirt was about 2 inches below my crotch and half covered my butt. I thought: Awesome.

On the big night, back home, all the kids in the building would gather in the lobby at the base of the stairs. In its HayDay, my building's Halloween party was so awesome, we'd get kids from other buildings to come and listen to the story teller and drink the punch and touch the "Witch's eye balls and Monster Hair." In my opinion though: the best part of the party was the Story Telling.

Cue: My Dad. In my eyes my Father was the epitome of Super Hero on that night. He had a Robin Hood Costume consisting of green tights, real custom hand-made leather boots with brass buttons, a hat with a feather, a white renaissance shirt, and the best part: A Super Human Super Large Wool Cloak. He'd call out in a booming voice that the stories were about to begin and a hush would fall over the crowd. Kids would kick and scratch their way to the front of the steps to get a better view as my Dad lit the "Halloween Candle" which was a large, white candle in an elaborate black sconce.  He'd say with a level of secrecy and authority that the Halloween Candle is lit only one day a year, and it invites the spirit of story telling into the room. It will burn as long as the stories are told, and then we'll all blow it out when the stories are done (That also marked the beginning of the Trick-Or-Treating!) I would listen to my Dad introduce that candle every year, and every year I would shiver with equal parts fear and pleasure in being witness to this magical event.

Now, 15 years later, I feel like I am still seeking that  rush of excitement over this Holiday. I mean, eating candy is fun, but I find that the best part of Halloween is being freaked the hell out. Last year, Mr. Tall took me up to Sleepy Hollow to walk a Haunted Maze and that was ridiculously cool. This year? Meh. I don't know. I wish I could transport myself back to the excited 10 year old I was and wistfully stare at the Halloween Candle that sat on a shelf in our kitchen all year collecting dust until Dad took it down, blew off the cobwebs and donned his Robin Hood cloak. Maybe I'll be my dad for Halloween this year.

A Canvas Created For Me To Screw With

My shared table at Starbucks consisted of Ortiz, the cop on her break flicking her finger on the screen of her phone as she wistfully stares at the window and listens to whatever music she has on in her earbuds. The blonde, sitting next to Ortiz, is eating a Biscotti and reading the Thursday Style section of the Times. Bob, the regular who comes to my cabaret and reads poetry at the Open Mic every other Friday, is sitting with his small alarm clock placed in front of him and is searching for a muse as he writes his next poem in long hand using a blue ball point pen and blank printing paper. The guy to my left, Tom, is a tourist. Tom looks like he might be French as all of his maps are in French. He looks up from his NYC Guide Book from time to time and takes a sip of his very sugary fuck-it-I'm-on-vacation frappuccino.

I'm sitting at the head of the table and recording this moment, because it's a really cool moment. I think this is a great example of a blank canvas happening at the modern Day-Time pub of New York. These people are here to sit down to take a breather, and when they are here doing that, it becomes a bigger moment than just a "breather." I look at it and think: how would one totally screw with this moment and make it funny or poignant or sad or crazy?

Bob's tracing the outline of his lips as he thinks of his next line. The Blonde is surreptitiously checking out the people coming in and out of the entrance before going back to reading the next article. Ortiz has her hands on her head and looks annoyed as she reads the next text. Tom's friend just sat down from a visit to the bathroom and the two are talking excitedly in french as the next destination is made and the map is consulted. I'm sipping my latte and feeling like a fly on the wall.

What would happen if I suddenly snapped and jumped up on the table and did a dance? What if I stood up and threw my hands to the ceiling and just opened my lips and sang the loudest version of "Fuck Her Gently" by Tenacious D? This moment right now as I write this, this incredibly common and delicate moment, is a result of everyone sitting at this table and trusting that for just a minute they don't have to deal with the threat of something outlandish like that happening like it could (and would) happen out there on the other side of the glass of the Starbucks store front. We all rented our seats at this table, we all bought our 3-5 dollar drinks and decided to park our butts here so we can avoid the crazy.

I'm smiling just thinking about what it would be like to laugh hysterically and then start playing "The Floor is Lava" with the whole cafe. I don't think anyone would be very appreciative of that, I may get a couple polite laughs and a few smiles, but this is not where that moment would happen.

And yet another reason for loving improv. If this were a scene, I could be that crazy person and my entire team would jump up on that table and dance like crazy people, too. I can mock that preciously common and fragile moment of all of these strangers sitting at a Starbucks table. And as a result of these thoughts, I'm loving the power of knowing I could destroy the moment in a frenzy of song and dance, but deciding instead to write about it and just exist here as a player in the tableau of this scene.

The "Uh Oh" List

I thought about other people I would really not want to run in to: there weren't many. Usually I don't mind seeing someone I know out in public, and usually I get along with most everyone I meet, so thankfully there isn't an army of humans that would make me run for the hills if I saw them. However, I'm sure we all have those 5 or 6 people that would be at the top of the "Please Don't Be Where I Am Right Now, Ever" list.

I went invisible last night. I used my mundane superpower by holding my breath, sucking on my lower lip, looking down at the floor and slowing my pace. I did NOT want the person I had spotted coming toward me to stop and talk to me, or see me or even think about me. I sent a silent prayer to whomever was listening at the moment and begged them to let him walk past me. He did. I don't know for sure if he saw me, I don't want to know, but I did find it funny that we happened to be on the same street at the same time (2am, by the way. What the hell?)

I find it amazing that someone I saw romantically and physically for a while, someone that I devoted a lot of time and energy toward could walk past me on a busy New York street and we could just miss each other. In fact, I wanted him to keep going! That chapter is so done, dude.

I giggled nervously after he passed and allowed myself to become visible again. I took a deep breath and marveled at the power of thought. I'd been thinking about him a lot lately, actually. He'd been coming up in conversations and memories and I wondered if I had conjured him, and that the person I saw walking toward me was just a ghost. I recalled his features: he looked pissed off, annoyed, or concentrating on some big thought. Maybe the ghost of the guy was frustrated that I had woken him up and demanded that he be on the street so late at night.

I am awed by the way events unfold and history loops and people come back into our lives for different reasons. Seeing Him last night made me wonder if I'll run in to other people I really don't want to see, and that by running in to them I'd have some kind of closure, as if, maybe I was the ghost stuck in purgatory and seeing a few people on my "Uh-Oh" list would help me come out of my limbo. I have one or two guys that I am very curious about running in to, even though they are still on my "Come Not Near Me!" side. If I did see them coming toward me, I wonder who would be more freaked? Them or Me? Maybe we'd both become invisible...

Quitting Facebook

What would it be like if everyone had a "Burn Book" they kept as a constant reminder that they did indeed make incredibly dumb choices in their lives involving other people? This Burn Book would be a photo album of sorts, kept up to speed with every guy (or girl) ever kissed or fooled around with or dated. There would be photos and notes taken and each page would be devoted to one person (and maybe if that person were in your life for a while, they'd get another page, or something).

These hypothetical Burn Books are getting closer and closer to reality when I go on Facebook and check out someone of interest. I feel almost dirty looking at old photos of people I just became friends with. I don't know this person, and suddenly I can see all the way back to 2006 when they were dressed as a green frog at their university's halloween party, and then two clicks later they look like they might have hooked up with half a dozen freshmen also at the party. Um... gross? That looks like 5 or 6 pages of your burn book, my friend. Here! I'll make it for you! All I need is right here, right down to the link leading me to the page of each one of the people you hooked up with and who they are dating and/or married to right now! Ahhhhh!!

I am in constant debate with myself as to whether I should get the hell off Facebook. Really. Talk about unplugging. It's just, the idea that all these thousands of pictures are available by just clicking a link makes me feel naked. I look at other people's photos and judge them, why shouldn't they do the same to me? Whenever I meet someone who is not on Facebook I feel like I've had a sighting of BigFoot to report. The person not on Facebook is so rare now, that I often wonder what their lives must be like when they didn't get the invitation to that party, or when they can't see all the cool footage from that stupid wedding, etc. It's amazing. There are babies now who have Facebook pages! There will be a whole generation of humans whose entire lives will be documented on this website. Oh my god. The amount of information one could gather on a person in 5 or 10 years is staggering to think about.

Then again, would anyone have predicted LIFE magazine flopping in its heyday? or could anyone have suspected that Woolworth's would have gone under when it was on top? Maybe Facebook will also have it's Roman Empire collapse as well? Nothing is too big to fall. History has taught us that over and over, and I think that very much applies to the virtual world.

Burn Books would be deleted and maybe we'd all have to figure each other out again and take someone's word when they say they've been to Spain (even if we can't go online to see the pictures to prove it). Ugh. I don't know. Facebook is: EveryOneLookAtMyBook and who can argue with that? I am totally that person, too. Until whatever happens, Facebook really is in its full swing of its own version of being the conquerer Alexander the Great. In fact, Facebook has more of a population united under one flag than any other empire in the history of the world, ever... Revolutions are planned using Facebook! Burn Books for countries! Epic. Epic. Epic. How can one walk away from that kind of power and draw? Until I can find the courage to do that, I'll never really know.

Carnegie Hall

We sat all the way on the right of the house, but close enough to see all the whites of their eyes. My mom and I took our seats next to an enormous woman dressed in sweats and wearing two pigtails, who immediately launched into all of her facts about orchestral music (I had no idea someone could be such a fan!)

While my Mom graciously nodded her head and kinda' listened to the woman's pontifications I gazed in awe at the beauty of Carnegie Hall. I looked up at the gabled ceiling, I counted the tiers leading to the roof, I felt the rich red velvet of the chairs we sat in, and read through the playbill. I felt like a little girl in the big grandeur of the auditorium.

This was the first time I had ever seen a Symphony orchestra play live indoors. I did see the NY Philharmonic in Central park this summer, but this was a completely different experience! The music vamped up and the sounds waves washed over the silent and intent audience like chocolate on a biscuit, coating everything in a rich layer of flavor. I'd shut my eyes and listen and imagine stories being played out for me, or I would open my eyes and watch the musicians as they swayed to the rhythms they were drawing (or plucking or blowing) from their instruments. It was beautiful.

As the little girl I felt I was, I remembered back to when I would dance in my grandparents living room when Grandpa played the NPR's classical music selections on the radio. I'd imagine I was a fairy or a princess or a witch and I would stomp around on the white rug and dance on the couches and chairs, letting the music tell me what to do and how to act and feel. In the auditorium I felt no different. I felt my heart flutter and my skin get goose-bumps and my fingers picking out the beat to the tunes. At the end of each piece I would whoosh the air out of my lungs and inhale, as if by breathing too hard during the orchestration I would ruin the spell.

At one point there was a pause to the music and a lady a couple of seats closer to the front sneezed. She sneezed so loud that even over the striking up of the violins the Conductor hear her and looked over his shoulder at the insulting sound. I chanced a glance at my Mother who was stifling laughter and I giggled as well. Oh, memories. Carnegie Hall is worth millions of them.

I can't wait to go back and hear more.

Girl Walks In To A Bar...

She's looking to learn something, maybe. Or, she's bored. Or, she's heard great things about this bar and figured she would try it out. She sits down at a stool and looks at the menu written in chalk on the board. That beer looks good, that scotch looks yummy, etc, etc.

A Second girl walks in to the same bar. This girl looks very similar to the first. She's a brunette, pretty, with big brown eyes, just like the first Girl. She too decided for whatever reason to come to this bar and see what the hype was all about. She walks over to the stools and stops. Wait a minute. I know that girl. The 2nd brunette says to herself as she watches the first brunette go over the menu written in chalk on the wall.

Suddenly, an evening that was supposed to be a no-brainer, became a super-brainer.

The Second Girl sits as far away from the First Girl as possible so as to avoid being seen. She picks up a food menu that is sitting on the old wooden dinged up bar top and pretends to be engrossed with the appetizers, but is actually stealing glances at the 1st girl who has just ordered a bourbon (Girl #2's favorite bourbon, as a matter of fact). Now, why should Girl #2 be so thrown off by the first brunette who came in and sat down? What is the reason to send this otherwise ordinary night into a frenzied anxiety attack?

Girl #2 knows Girl #1, but they've never met. It's just that Girl #2 has heard a lot of stories about Girl #1and the second brunette is pretty sure that the first brunette probably has heard of her as well. Tricky? But wait! There's more! These two girls know each other because they have slept with the same manipulative bastard of a guy!! Uh oh. Hold on a minute, though. There's got to be more to the story, right? Oy, yes. Girl #1 dated the guy for years. They broke up, and the guy went and told Girl #2 that he was oh so heart broken and that he could never get back with Girl #1 again, and wouldn't Girl #2 take pity on him and fall into his bed with him and they can live happily ever after? Girl #2 stupidly obliged the offer.

Once Girl #2 spent weeks on the phone with this woman-eating asshole trying to get the guy from dramatically deleting all photos of his previous relationship, and talking him down from acting like a crazy person, the guy suddenly disappeared. Only to resurface again and state that he was back together with Girl #1, but beseeched Girl #2 to please keep her mouth shut about the fact that he had slept with her a number of times because he didn't want Girl #1 to know the full extent of what had happened.

Girl #2 was angry! Actually: beyond angry! She was horribly depressed! She felt used. She felt low and dirty and unworthy. It was a rough summer. She promised herself she would never speak to that guy again and stuck to that promise even after he came crawling back on his knees and begged. Nope. Fuck off.

But, here the two were. Girl #2 didn't know what to do. To what extent did Girl #1 know of the 2nd brunette? What was the etiquette of broaching the subject? Should Girl #2 just ignore Girl #1 and pretend she didn't see her? Or, should she say something?

Girl #2 inched closer to Girl #1. They both really did have a lot in common. Girl #2 felt embarrassed by how much they had in common. Seems that guy liked a certain type, that's for sure...

"Um. Hi. Do you know me?" Girl #2 asked.
"Oh my god. Yes." Girl #1 responded, her eyes getting wide.

The 1st Girl sat holding her bourbon looking agog. The 2nd Girl stood behind the bar stool looking awkward and wishing she was holding a bourbon. Nothing more was said. The two stood and looked at each other for a while, as if what someone seeing a mythical creature they had only heard in legends would look like if that creature suddenly showed up at the bar you decided to drink at that night.

The two girls were still looking at each other at the bar as the scene fades out. There were no more words exchanged... yet. But, somewhere the Guy just woke up in a cold sweat as the nightmare he just dreamt unfolded into a reality.

Oh, Shit. They've met each other...

A Different Set Of Choices Leads To...

I lie awake and think about how different my life could have been had I married my first boyfriend. Then, I think about my first boyfriend and how much of a "first marriage" that would have been and shudder with relief. Then, I realize that I am thinking about the relationship I had with a now married man (What the Hell!?) who really did want to get married and start a family, I just wasn't willing to do that. And then: I think about people I know who did wind up marrying their first loves... cue: my parents.

...and then, I compare where I am now in my life to where my parents were at my age.

I'm by no means wishing I could live the same life my parents led! I gave that idea up when I decided to not marry my first boyfriend when I was 22. That decision made my life go in a completely different direction and now I am writing from an apartment I never could have guessed I would be living in at 25 in a borough I never thought I would be a resident of. Go figure.

My Dad was 25 when my mom and was pregnant. Granted, my mom was 30 when she had me so I will use the time line of my dad as a comparison as he was the same age I am now when I was born.

New York was a completely different place when my folks were here raising me in the early 90's. The Upper West Side near Columbia University was probably like what Franklin Ave. in Crown Heights is today: There were a few unsavory types roaming the gratified streets and the corner deli probably still had chicken wire over the windows. Now, the UWS is an American Apparel sporting, Chase bank rocking, Chipotle eating, plethora of chain stores frequented by Gap wearing Columbia students and Gucci sunglass-ed momma's punching in to their cell phones as they wait for the line of BMW's to cross Broadway before making their way over to the over priced gourmet supermarkets to buy gluten free cookies.

My parents were struggling with bills and making ends meet as my Dad pursued a master's in Library Science and Fatherhood. I remember eating a lot of "Tuna Wiggle" [Tuna Wiggle: A casserole-like stove top dinner recipe for the tight wallet consisting of canned tuna, rice, butter, milk and hard boiled eggs.] Now, at 25, I debate whether I want to buy myself a new pair of expensive leather shoes, or save the cash as plan a trip to China.

Is it that life in the 80's was so different? A couple of my friends are getting married, but just a few, no mass marriage pile-up yet. Will that happen later? Like, when we're all pushing 30? My parent's friends were all getting married at my age, does 25 years make a difference to the marriage age? Or, is it that I live in an urban area and therefore the marriage age is higher?

I don't know. What I do know is that at 25 I am feeling the urge to figure out something like a family and partner for life in a way that feels more biological than logical. (Again: Planning a trip to China and listening to the lady who does my nails bitch about how annoying her two kids are and her lazy husband not doing chores really turns me off of the whole "Family Life" thing for a whole lot longer!) But because this biological clock is going off, lying awake and thinking of what having a baby in my belly would feel like is more and more of a frequent occurence. And, when I do eventually have a family, I can't wait to see what my kid thinks about what Mom was doing at 25. (I may just leave out the fact that I am sharing a room with my sister, and instead inflate the China thing to maybe that I was living there...)