I thought I'd be tagging some of my training posts under "Challenges", but the actual training hasn't really posed the biggest challenges for me (yet). I'm finding the time to train between both jobs, and I have a training schedule that is not entirely too grueling (although my 7:30am cycling lesson in Brooklyn on Sundays is rough after leaving job #2 at 4:30am). I guess I've often personally defined challenges in more of an emotional category rather than physical.
And what I have found the most emotionally challenging are the sacrifices I've had to make in pursuit of my 30th year goal. I recently watched Olympic gold medalist Evan Lysacek describe his training days to Ellen DeGeneres (8-10am: core training, cardio, stretching; 11am-2pm: on the ice; 3-4pm: on the ice; 5-7pm: weight training, calisthenics, more core training):
"My philosophy going into Vancouver after Torino was just that no one would outwork me. And, you know, it was easy for me, actually, to get into that mentality because I enjoy working hard, and nothing makes me happier than knowing that I've given 150% at the end of the day. And, like, I was willing to sacrifice everything. And really that's what it took, was to sacrifice everything in my life. Every holiday. Every birthday. Every party. Every night out. And nothing made me more happy than to be able to do that and get home at night, and all I could think is that I had nothing left. I never wanted to get home and feel like I hadn't given everything that I had in my body that day."
I am not like Lysacek, who trains for the glory of victory, or like Georgian luge sleder Nodar Kumaritashvili, who died in Vancouver and was described as one of the more than 2,500 athletes who participate in the Olympics with no realistic expectation of winning a medal, but simply train for the thrill of competition and passion for sport.
My passion for this cycling journey across North America is not driven by victory, competition or acclaim ... but not unlike many others, my passion is rooted in the desire to live and live well. Since losing Rickey, I have been driven by my own personal mantra that we must be grateful to be given the years of which others are denied so that the few they might have been granted were not lived in vain.
But passion for anything does not come without sacrifice of something. To pay for my trip and the necessary equipment and other associated expenses, I've had to sacrifice time with family and friends in order to work a second job. Even as paid holiday leave at job #1 freed up time, job #2 consumed it. I had limited time with my family in Syracuse because I worked during the Thanksgiving holiday. I removed a trip to visit my boyfriend during this year's bj League season in Japan from my list of "priorities" because I wanted to earn more money through Christmas and New Year's. And I didn't want to lose my second job; as one of the managers at the Midtown Manhattan lounge once said: "We are in the food and service industry, people. We don't get holidays."
And rather than use all the extra money I've been earning to go see my brother in Shanghai, I'm now counting nearly four years that he has lived in China without a visit from his big sister. I would not have made it to my godson's christening in Durham if my best friend had not been so flexible with the date that he was baptized nearly six months later. I've declined invitations from friends for dinners, brunches, bridal and baby showers, and girls' night-outs. I've done quick drive-throughs at birthday parties in Manhattan and fell asleep before midnight at a friend's informal soiree at her Bronx apartment. I've been poor about returning phone calls, emails and text messages. There are at least four weddings that I won't be attending this spring and summer. And then, yesterday afternoon, after I returned from my cycling lesson in Brooklyn, I crashed in my bed and slept through a dear friend's birthday dinner that was taking place on the Lower East Side. And what's worse, I didn't even remember it was her birthday.
My goal for this cycling trip was to celebrate my 30th year and embrace the latest milestone in my life with "a personally challenging and fulfilling, health and wellness-enhancing, eco-friendly, extraordinary, cross-country adventure."
I suppose that I, like Lysacek, want to feel like I have given everything I have in whatever fulfills some sort of passion in this life. But giving everything I have for one moment also takes a lot of other moments away.
“For many of the competitors, this is really the moment. Most of them arrive with no realistic expectation of winning a medal. They’re just trying to do a personal best and soak in the entire experience.”
- Bob Costas, NBC Sportscaster
Showing posts with label about me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label about me. Show all posts
Monday, March 15, 2010
Monday, March 1, 2010
Fields of Gold
I have lived 11,000 days.
I began seeing years that Rickey never would when I turned 28 years old. It's difficult to comprehend that I am now older than he will ever be. That I am experiencing ages that he has not already lived first. That he was once three years older than me, and now, I am nearly three years older than he was when he died in 2003.
I often wonder if he will always feel older than me even as I continue to age ... or if my memory of him will begin to feel younger - the way teenagers seem so much smaller now than when I was 17. Since I will never see the wrinkles form in Rickey's face or hear the decades change his voice, will I one day view him as a 20-something kid ... while I look in the mirror and no longer recognize the old woman staring back? If I am granted the gift of time, what will it feel like to get older in a world in which he exists in some parallel universe where he never ages?
Walt, an old college friend, visited New York City last weekend. We were exploring a beautiful, snow-covered Central Park, strolling along pathways and trails and people-watching on various fields and quads. It was the perfect weather for enjoying snow. The temperature was cool and comfortable, but not warm enough to melt the 15-20 inches of fluffy, white layers that blanketed the park. The Great Lawn was riddled with snowmen, snow-women with anatomically correct acorns, and entire snow-families with little snow-dogs. There was even a remarkable likeness of the Marshmellow Man from Ghostbusters. The creativity was staggering.
I am reminded by the plaques on benches in Central Park that I am not the first - or even one of the few - to have experienced heart-wrenching loss. My favorite plaque, on a bench adjacent The Great Lawn, reads: Dad ... we will always remember you here. Playing tag and flying kites ... Hannah, Lucy and Henry.
Almost every hill was occupied by dozens of sledders or grated with crisscrossing sled tracks, the ephemeral hints of good times that had already been had. And when I see sleds, I am always reminded of Rickey. Of how, ten years ago, he spent the better part of an hour trying to sled down a hill at Western Carolina University standing on a lunch tray. His coveted prize? A kiss. A first kiss from me in that first winter of the new millennium.
The Western Carolina Men's Basketball coach would have been livid if he had known that one of his starting players had been trying to surf a snowy hill. That the hill had been dimly lit by the street lamps from the Helder Hall parking lot and sprinkled with baby trees and large rocks. And that his teammates, friends and I had looked on in amusement, laughing too hard to even think to stop him.
Walt and Rickey were both student-athletes. Though Walt played football, the two had known each other well during our days of purple and gold. As Walt and I trudged through the snow in Central Park ten years later and 700 miles away from our college stomping grounds, he shared the tales of Rickey's seven-month pursuit for the kiss that would eventually lead to a wonderful and rocky three-year college romance.
As I listened to Walt recount the stories, it was as if the snow around us melted away, unveiling a lush, green Central Park, and then the park itself slowly morphed into the beautiful, rolling hills of our Cullowhee campus. The memories were as crisp as if they were yesterday and as clear as if we were actually there - transported back in both space and time.
Walt laughed as he recalled a particular evening when the student-athletes were leaving study hall. Rickey had turned to him and asked, "What do you think of Katie? You think I have a chance?"
"You're Slick," he had replied, referencing Rickey's nickname, "You're the man."
Dre, one of Walt's teammates on the Western Carolina Football team, added, "Slick, if you get Katie ... dog, I'll give you my entire refund check."
Months later, after Rickey got me, I vaguely remember hearing him say to someone in passing on more than one occasion, "Where's my refund?"
I can't actually remember if it had been Dre to whom he had often laughingly posed the question. I had never known what that meant, and I had never asked. I can remember, on one particular occasion, peering over Rickey's customary headlock - our usual stance when we were hanging around casually with friends - his forearm draped across my collar bone, his hand lightly gripping my shoulder, his chin resting on top of my head. Someone passes by and waves and I barely notice a moment in time that would become one of the most replayed in my mind. I can hear Rickey's voice echoing in the memory, "Where's my refund?"
The face in the distance is hazy. Blurred more by the distance of time than actual space. I think the blurry figure says, "I gotchu."
Ten years later, returning to the present in New York, it felt unbearably bittersweet to choke back tears and swallow the resurfacing lumps in my throat as children shrieked with joy around us and families, friends and couples played merrily in the snow. Sometimes I can't remember Rickey's laugh and that makes him feel so far away.
Later that evening, Walt and I stopped for cocktails at a penthouse lounge in Midtown. More stories of Rickey came up, including another from the earlier days of our courtship. After eating dinner in Brown Cafeteria one evening, Rickey barged into Walt's dorm room in Benton Hall: "Walt, I messed up! I feel so stupid. I feel so lame."
"What happened?" Walt asked. "What did you do?"
Rickey was so distressed and seemed sincerely agonized that he had ruined any chances with me whatsoever as he grumbled: "I told Katie that I like her hair."
"So?" Walt replied. "She has nice hair."
"No," Rickey moaned. "I guess you had to be there, but I feel so stupid. So stupid!"
I laughed and laughed as Walt retold story after story over the flickering candle light of the Manhattan lounge. Some I had not heard before. As I listened to the things I had never known that Rickey had done or said, something inside began to hurt. The other lounge guests danced and chatted, completely oblivious to our private moment in the corner. The flashing lights of Times Square danced through the elongated windows and bounced off the sparkling walls. I could feel the tears stinging the corners of my eyes, trying to squeeze their way through the laughter. I'm always unprepared for those moments, when the stories bring Rickey painfully close, and I'm suddenly struck by how much I miss him.
Memories have a way of transcending time. Memories take you back and put you in the moment. Being able to relive those moments with an old friend - in the way that you can vividly share reciprocal recollections, share different angles and perspectives - makes the memory into a 3D hologram between you ... there is a comfort in that. The ability to bring the memory back to life through multiple accounts is what makes the transcendence lucid.
Yet it breaks your heart over and over to relive certain moments that you can no longer share with the people who were in them. In those moments, I am reminded that the stories are all I have left. Those few seconds always ache with soothing pleasure and simultaneous grief. I crave the high of remembering times gone by and, at the same time, scorn the low that comes with its finality. Nostalgia becomes an inescapable drug that soothes the surface while mutilating within.
There is comfort in being able to recall a memory with someone and knowing that they remember ... or in being able to tell them that you're sorry and having the reassurance that they know.
But when the memory involves someone who is no longer here, the memory becomes surreal, and it's pure anguish to re-realize that you cannot just call him up and say, "Hey, remember when ..." When you can't just let him know that you are thinking of him, when he'll never know that you are sorry, when over six years go by and he can't have any idea of how much you have been missing him ... that slices your soul.
It's the same deep ache that consumes me whenever I have the instantaneous, blissful urge to tell Rickey something immediately before I remember that I can't. After six years, six months and 27 days, that's the ache that I've begun to realize is never going to ease.
Realizations like that have a way of making time feel incredibly, excruciatingly, agonizingly finite.
I was batting back tears and trying in vain to swallow my emotions with my martini as Walt evoked a few more stories I had never heard. On another occasion, Walt had dragged a desk chair into the hallway of Benton, where Rickey was seated, receiving a quick line-up. Under the buzz of the clippers, he was visibly troubled by a rapidly approaching Valentine's Day: "I don't know what to do, Walt. I want to do something different."
Some of the other football players - within earshot through their open doors - began to make jokes, calling Rickey "Valentino", but he didn't care and continued to lament out loud: "Whatever I do, it's gonna be different."
"I think that was the year that Rickey took me to see Hannibal," I said, pulling myself out of another ten-year old apparition of Cullowhee, and rejoining Walt in the present in Manhattan. I was half-joking in an attempt to lighten the mood, half-serious because it was probably true.
"Well, that was definitely different," Walt replied, shaking his head and chuckling before the sincerity returned to his tone. "But he was so taken with you. It's very rare to see someone who is truly taken and doesn't care who knows it. Rick never tried to play it cool when it came to you. He was all in."
I never tire of the stories, even if I've heard some of them more than once or twice. Even if I hear them ten times, I'll never tire of sitting around and hearing them again and again. Of trying to feel close to Rickey and finding laughter. Even though it hurts.
"Do you ever wish we could go back and do it all again?" I asked.
"All the time," Walt said. "All the time."
Time.
It's a glorious yet burning constant. Rickey has been gone for 343 weeks. 2,403 days. 57,672 hours. 3,460,320 minutes. 207,619,200 seconds. Six autumns. Six winters. Five springs, and five summers. It has been six years, six months and 27 days since my last chance to tell him that I miss him. And I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, and I miss him.
I began seeing years that Rickey never would when I turned 28 years old. It's difficult to comprehend that I am now older than he will ever be. That I am experiencing ages that he has not already lived first. That he was once three years older than me, and now, I am nearly three years older than he was when he died in 2003.
I often wonder if he will always feel older than me even as I continue to age ... or if my memory of him will begin to feel younger - the way teenagers seem so much smaller now than when I was 17. Since I will never see the wrinkles form in Rickey's face or hear the decades change his voice, will I one day view him as a 20-something kid ... while I look in the mirror and no longer recognize the old woman staring back? If I am granted the gift of time, what will it feel like to get older in a world in which he exists in some parallel universe where he never ages?
Walt, an old college friend, visited New York City last weekend. We were exploring a beautiful, snow-covered Central Park, strolling along pathways and trails and people-watching on various fields and quads. It was the perfect weather for enjoying snow. The temperature was cool and comfortable, but not warm enough to melt the 15-20 inches of fluffy, white layers that blanketed the park. The Great Lawn was riddled with snowmen, snow-women with anatomically correct acorns, and entire snow-families with little snow-dogs. There was even a remarkable likeness of the Marshmellow Man from Ghostbusters. The creativity was staggering.
I am reminded by the plaques on benches in Central Park that I am not the first - or even one of the few - to have experienced heart-wrenching loss. My favorite plaque, on a bench adjacent The Great Lawn, reads: Dad ... we will always remember you here. Playing tag and flying kites ... Hannah, Lucy and Henry.
Almost every hill was occupied by dozens of sledders or grated with crisscrossing sled tracks, the ephemeral hints of good times that had already been had. And when I see sleds, I am always reminded of Rickey. Of how, ten years ago, he spent the better part of an hour trying to sled down a hill at Western Carolina University standing on a lunch tray. His coveted prize? A kiss. A first kiss from me in that first winter of the new millennium.
The Western Carolina Men's Basketball coach would have been livid if he had known that one of his starting players had been trying to surf a snowy hill. That the hill had been dimly lit by the street lamps from the Helder Hall parking lot and sprinkled with baby trees and large rocks. And that his teammates, friends and I had looked on in amusement, laughing too hard to even think to stop him.
Walt and Rickey were both student-athletes. Though Walt played football, the two had known each other well during our days of purple and gold. As Walt and I trudged through the snow in Central Park ten years later and 700 miles away from our college stomping grounds, he shared the tales of Rickey's seven-month pursuit for the kiss that would eventually lead to a wonderful and rocky three-year college romance.
As I listened to Walt recount the stories, it was as if the snow around us melted away, unveiling a lush, green Central Park, and then the park itself slowly morphed into the beautiful, rolling hills of our Cullowhee campus. The memories were as crisp as if they were yesterday and as clear as if we were actually there - transported back in both space and time.
Walt laughed as he recalled a particular evening when the student-athletes were leaving study hall. Rickey had turned to him and asked, "What do you think of Katie? You think I have a chance?"
"You're Slick," he had replied, referencing Rickey's nickname, "You're the man."
Dre, one of Walt's teammates on the Western Carolina Football team, added, "Slick, if you get Katie ... dog, I'll give you my entire refund check."
Months later, after Rickey got me, I vaguely remember hearing him say to someone in passing on more than one occasion, "Where's my refund?"
I can't actually remember if it had been Dre to whom he had often laughingly posed the question. I had never known what that meant, and I had never asked. I can remember, on one particular occasion, peering over Rickey's customary headlock - our usual stance when we were hanging around casually with friends - his forearm draped across my collar bone, his hand lightly gripping my shoulder, his chin resting on top of my head. Someone passes by and waves and I barely notice a moment in time that would become one of the most replayed in my mind. I can hear Rickey's voice echoing in the memory, "Where's my refund?"
The face in the distance is hazy. Blurred more by the distance of time than actual space. I think the blurry figure says, "I gotchu."
Ten years later, returning to the present in New York, it felt unbearably bittersweet to choke back tears and swallow the resurfacing lumps in my throat as children shrieked with joy around us and families, friends and couples played merrily in the snow. Sometimes I can't remember Rickey's laugh and that makes him feel so far away.
Later that evening, Walt and I stopped for cocktails at a penthouse lounge in Midtown. More stories of Rickey came up, including another from the earlier days of our courtship. After eating dinner in Brown Cafeteria one evening, Rickey barged into Walt's dorm room in Benton Hall: "Walt, I messed up! I feel so stupid. I feel so lame."
"What happened?" Walt asked. "What did you do?"
Rickey was so distressed and seemed sincerely agonized that he had ruined any chances with me whatsoever as he grumbled: "I told Katie that I like her hair."
"So?" Walt replied. "She has nice hair."
"No," Rickey moaned. "I guess you had to be there, but I feel so stupid. So stupid!"
I laughed and laughed as Walt retold story after story over the flickering candle light of the Manhattan lounge. Some I had not heard before. As I listened to the things I had never known that Rickey had done or said, something inside began to hurt. The other lounge guests danced and chatted, completely oblivious to our private moment in the corner. The flashing lights of Times Square danced through the elongated windows and bounced off the sparkling walls. I could feel the tears stinging the corners of my eyes, trying to squeeze their way through the laughter. I'm always unprepared for those moments, when the stories bring Rickey painfully close, and I'm suddenly struck by how much I miss him.
Memories have a way of transcending time. Memories take you back and put you in the moment. Being able to relive those moments with an old friend - in the way that you can vividly share reciprocal recollections, share different angles and perspectives - makes the memory into a 3D hologram between you ... there is a comfort in that. The ability to bring the memory back to life through multiple accounts is what makes the transcendence lucid.
Yet it breaks your heart over and over to relive certain moments that you can no longer share with the people who were in them. In those moments, I am reminded that the stories are all I have left. Those few seconds always ache with soothing pleasure and simultaneous grief. I crave the high of remembering times gone by and, at the same time, scorn the low that comes with its finality. Nostalgia becomes an inescapable drug that soothes the surface while mutilating within.
There is comfort in being able to recall a memory with someone and knowing that they remember ... or in being able to tell them that you're sorry and having the reassurance that they know.
But when the memory involves someone who is no longer here, the memory becomes surreal, and it's pure anguish to re-realize that you cannot just call him up and say, "Hey, remember when ..." When you can't just let him know that you are thinking of him, when he'll never know that you are sorry, when over six years go by and he can't have any idea of how much you have been missing him ... that slices your soul.
It's the same deep ache that consumes me whenever I have the instantaneous, blissful urge to tell Rickey something immediately before I remember that I can't. After six years, six months and 27 days, that's the ache that I've begun to realize is never going to ease.
Realizations like that have a way of making time feel incredibly, excruciatingly, agonizingly finite.
I was batting back tears and trying in vain to swallow my emotions with my martini as Walt evoked a few more stories I had never heard. On another occasion, Walt had dragged a desk chair into the hallway of Benton, where Rickey was seated, receiving a quick line-up. Under the buzz of the clippers, he was visibly troubled by a rapidly approaching Valentine's Day: "I don't know what to do, Walt. I want to do something different."
Some of the other football players - within earshot through their open doors - began to make jokes, calling Rickey "Valentino", but he didn't care and continued to lament out loud: "Whatever I do, it's gonna be different."
"I think that was the year that Rickey took me to see Hannibal," I said, pulling myself out of another ten-year old apparition of Cullowhee, and rejoining Walt in the present in Manhattan. I was half-joking in an attempt to lighten the mood, half-serious because it was probably true.
"Well, that was definitely different," Walt replied, shaking his head and chuckling before the sincerity returned to his tone. "But he was so taken with you. It's very rare to see someone who is truly taken and doesn't care who knows it. Rick never tried to play it cool when it came to you. He was all in."
I never tire of the stories, even if I've heard some of them more than once or twice. Even if I hear them ten times, I'll never tire of sitting around and hearing them again and again. Of trying to feel close to Rickey and finding laughter. Even though it hurts.
"Do you ever wish we could go back and do it all again?" I asked.
"All the time," Walt said. "All the time."
Time.
It's a glorious yet burning constant. Rickey has been gone for 343 weeks. 2,403 days. 57,672 hours. 3,460,320 minutes. 207,619,200 seconds. Six autumns. Six winters. Five springs, and five summers. It has been six years, six months and 27 days since my last chance to tell him that I miss him. And I'm sorry.
I'm sorry, and I miss him.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
The Many Worlds Interpretation on a 30-Year Old Mind
According to Hugh Everett, a physicist who formulated the Many Worlds Interpretation in 1957, anything that could have happened in our past actually did happen in some other universe ... so all of those alternate decisions and choices you could have made are still playing themselves out in other worlds ...
Yeah. Ok. I got that dramatic interpretation of Hugh Everett's concept from ABC's "Flash Forward
", but it's certainly a notion that has been pondered by thousands well before Everett published it. To wonder about how our lives would be different - in the past, right now or in the future - if we had made alternative decisions or done certain things differently. But it's also an idea that you have to let remain fleeting. "What ifs" have a way of consuming you with regret if you don't.
Inspired by a Marie Claire sweepstakes contest in 2008, I wrote a letter to my younger self, which - without realizing it at the time - revolved slightly around the Many Worlds Interpretation ... or a version of it that would later be dramatized for primetime television. I never submitted my letter to the magazine, but I shared it with family and friends, and now I share it again with you:
Dear Younger Self,
You won’t have what you thought you'd have by your late-20s. But you’ll be happy. You’ll have a 350-square foot apartment in Manhattan. A MetroCard. A job as an executive assistant surrounded by amazing women. You’ll have great friends, New York, phone calls from mom, dirty martinis (with gin), Lox cream cheese and bagels.
You’ll realize something new about yourself often. You won't seek to constantly reinvent yourself, yet you might not ever really know everything about you because different parts of you will change – sometimes frequently. This should probably bother you, but it won’t.
You’ll wish you were wittier, and you’ll be a sucker for a sense of humor. You won’t fall in love easily, you won’t get attached easily, and you’ll have to be both of those things if you’re going to get jealous easily; you’ll be able to thank a military-brat upbringing for that. You will be nominated for the "Most Friendly" Senior Superlative at your second high school, and you’ll be a "relatively nice" New Yorker 10 years later. But you’ll have a dark side, and you generally won’t trust those who don't. You’ll like to step back and absorb certain moments so that you can remember the details; you’ll do that most often when your friends are laughing.
You’ll crave cliché “Sex and the City
” moments because it’s how you once pictured your life – minus, of course, the Manolo Blahniks, Upper East Side brownstones, and voluminous consumption of Magnolia Bakery cupcakes without gaining a pound. Your narrative thoughts and meaningful conversations won’t be set to background music, but you’ll have the fantasy in syndication and the real thing right outside your window. You won’t worry that your life is becoming a cliché because there will be a reason that you are not the first to live life the way you’ll choose to live it. And you’ll want to be Melanie Griffith at the end of Working Girl
when she calls her best friend and says, "Guess where I am right now."
Good and bad things will happen. And you'll have regrets. A few will stay with you always. So embrace varying levels of disappointment so that you’ll recognize rapturous joy. Floss your teeth regularly. Take chances. Don't settle for what’s easy; seek what’s worth it. Take random walks in this city. Look for sights you can't believe, listen for sounds that tug at your heart strings, savor the feelings that take your breath away. Eat more fruits and vegetables; drink more water. Allow yourself to be swept off your feet regularly. Save money and spend wisely. Live like Anthony Hopkins in Meet Joe Black
so that you can wake up one morning and say, "I don't want anything more."
When you write this letter, you still won’t know who you are exactly, but you’ll realize it and be ok with it. And you’ll see that the only thing that matters for any of us in the end is that we once existed. So laugh more, love more, live more. Simply because you can.
Love Always,
Your 28-Year Old Self
P.S. And when you're 30, you'll cycle across North America [2010 revision].
I've been 30 years old for one month now. And two years after writing the letter to my younger self, I have let go of the melodramatic need to figure out who I am and am, instead, enjoying the many complex parts that make me and change me every day. And if Hugh Everett is right, I hope that most of my regrets are playing out in alternative universes and most of my joys are right here in my reality.
Yeah. Ok. I got that dramatic interpretation of Hugh Everett's concept from ABC's "Flash Forward
", but it's certainly a notion that has been pondered by thousands well before Everett published it. To wonder about how our lives would be different - in the past, right now or in the future - if we had made alternative decisions or done certain things differently. But it's also an idea that you have to let remain fleeting. "What ifs" have a way of consuming you with regret if you don't.Inspired by a Marie Claire sweepstakes contest in 2008, I wrote a letter to my younger self, which - without realizing it at the time - revolved slightly around the Many Worlds Interpretation ... or a version of it that would later be dramatized for primetime television. I never submitted my letter to the magazine, but I shared it with family and friends, and now I share it again with you:
Dear Younger Self,
You won’t have what you thought you'd have by your late-20s. But you’ll be happy. You’ll have a 350-square foot apartment in Manhattan. A MetroCard. A job as an executive assistant surrounded by amazing women. You’ll have great friends, New York, phone calls from mom, dirty martinis (with gin), Lox cream cheese and bagels.
You’ll realize something new about yourself often. You won't seek to constantly reinvent yourself, yet you might not ever really know everything about you because different parts of you will change – sometimes frequently. This should probably bother you, but it won’t.
You’ll wish you were wittier, and you’ll be a sucker for a sense of humor. You won’t fall in love easily, you won’t get attached easily, and you’ll have to be both of those things if you’re going to get jealous easily; you’ll be able to thank a military-brat upbringing for that. You will be nominated for the "Most Friendly" Senior Superlative at your second high school, and you’ll be a "relatively nice" New Yorker 10 years later. But you’ll have a dark side, and you generally won’t trust those who don't. You’ll like to step back and absorb certain moments so that you can remember the details; you’ll do that most often when your friends are laughing.
You’ll crave cliché “Sex and the City
” moments because it’s how you once pictured your life – minus, of course, the Manolo Blahniks, Upper East Side brownstones, and voluminous consumption of Magnolia Bakery cupcakes without gaining a pound. Your narrative thoughts and meaningful conversations won’t be set to background music, but you’ll have the fantasy in syndication and the real thing right outside your window. You won’t worry that your life is becoming a cliché because there will be a reason that you are not the first to live life the way you’ll choose to live it. And you’ll want to be Melanie Griffith at the end of Working Girl when she calls her best friend and says, "Guess where I am right now."Good and bad things will happen. And you'll have regrets. A few will stay with you always. So embrace varying levels of disappointment so that you’ll recognize rapturous joy. Floss your teeth regularly. Take chances. Don't settle for what’s easy; seek what’s worth it. Take random walks in this city. Look for sights you can't believe, listen for sounds that tug at your heart strings, savor the feelings that take your breath away. Eat more fruits and vegetables; drink more water. Allow yourself to be swept off your feet regularly. Save money and spend wisely. Live like Anthony Hopkins in Meet Joe Black
so that you can wake up one morning and say, "I don't want anything more."When you write this letter, you still won’t know who you are exactly, but you’ll realize it and be ok with it. And you’ll see that the only thing that matters for any of us in the end is that we once existed. So laugh more, love more, live more. Simply because you can.
Love Always,
Your 28-Year Old Self
P.S. And when you're 30, you'll cycle across North America [2010 revision].
I've been 30 years old for one month now. And two years after writing the letter to my younger self, I have let go of the melodramatic need to figure out who I am and am, instead, enjoying the many complex parts that make me and change me every day. And if Hugh Everett is right, I hope that most of my regrets are playing out in alternative universes and most of my joys are right here in my reality.
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Katie Project
My boyfriend thinks I'm just like Julie Powell. That's what I get for encouraging him to watch a romantic comedy.
Between basketball practice, team meetings and publicity events associated with the bj-league in Japan, he is fairly isolated during his downtime - namely because he doesn't speak fluent Japanese. Because of this general seclusion from direct American contact, he is easily swayed to consume any media that is produced in English.
"It was a good movie," Terrence said - something I'm sure he'd be less eager to confess if I had physically dragged him into a theater to see Julie & Julia myself.
"And Meryl Streep was adorable," he admitted - an opinion he was less reluctant to divulge since he has a widely-known affinity for cuteness (Side note: Julie never actually called Julia Child "adorable"). If you ever want to make a 6'9" heterosexual male melt, just send him a link to any "cute kitten" video on YouTube. He also thinks tall, awkward women are more appealing that short, cute women - which was another factor that made this movie an easy sell.
And then he added, "And you are just like Julie."
"What about me is just like Julie?" I asked. "Give me adjectives."
"Just like she is," he replied. "You saw the movie. I'm not going to go crazy typing it all out, but you act like she does." [I suppose I should also clarify that this entire conversation took place via AOL Instant Messenger.]
"Neurotic?" I probed.
"Yes."
"Obsessive?"
"Yes."
"Redundant?"
"Yes."
I paused, realizing that I had not come up with one endearing adjective to describe Julie.
"Focused," he typed, "And female."
"Thanks for putting a positive spin on this," I typed back.
I'm not sure what kind of picture this paints for anyone who might be reading this blog without ever having met me - especially if one already has a mental perception of a 30-year old, half-Filipina, half-White woman, who is tall for anyone of Asian decent, with a long torso, short arms, long legs and small, exactly-the-same-size feet (an apparently abnormal trait), as determined by the pro bicycle fitter at R&A Cycles a few weeks ago. When I shared my measurements with a coworker at job #1, who is four inches shorter than me, we compared arms and mine were, indeed, even shorter than hers. I can't believe I never realized I have short arms before, but my disproportioned measurements actually make sense. I am exactly what happens when you mix average-size White genes with much smaller Asian genes: long torso, long legs, short arms, small hands, small feet.
I suppose there are some similarities between us, which may be few to mention - since I don't know the actual Julie Powell anymore than anyone can claim by simply judging a Hollywood dramatization of someone else's life. However, we both live in New York City. We both consider moving from one New York borough to another (a span of mere miles) like changing planets - or, at a minimum, I totally related to the relocation scene at the opening of Julie & Julia.
We both like to eat (though I can name essentially everything that I know how to cook, which someone once told me - as I proudly listed them off - is not actually a good thing). We both work in cubicles - at least until her writing began to turn a profit. We both blog. Anyone, who regularly posts their thoughts on the Internet - with the hope and assumption that someone out there is going to care - is comprised of some level of narcissism. We both use hobbies as a channel for self-exploration; case in point: the blogging we both do ends up being more about ourselves than the hobbies. She has a "Donation" button on her blog The Julie/Julia Project, an avenue for others to make charitable donations to a non-charitable, self-absorbed cause.
We both enjoy writing and attempt - more often than socially accepted in literary academic circles - to make run-on sentences charming. I check my blog everyday for new comments, which - not unlike Julie in her early blogger years - also serves as a daily reminder that my mother is likely one of my only regular readers. And I relish any opinion that anyone might make an effort to share, openly accepting the occasional backlash it may incur, as I'm sure Julie has had to learn, since - through blogging - we indirectly welcome the equal advantage and risk of having people tell us what they really think. The aptitude to be simultaneously vulnerable and thick-skinned is also a characteristic that Julie and I certainly must share.
I suppose one of our likely-many differences (outside of stating my obvious lack of a dominant gene for red hair; then again, based on a few Google images, neither does she) is that she hates the subway more than I do (I still enjoy how my knowledge of it and familiarity with it make me feel like a New Yorker), and she drops the F-word in her previous and current blog more often than I would ever have the courage to use it to color my own writing - mostly because I know how much it will disappoint my parents, who will now be disappointed to learn how much I actually enjoy including it in my daily vernacular. The main advantage Julie has over me is that she began blogging random, inane thoughts before they became cliché.
Between basketball practice, team meetings and publicity events associated with the bj-league in Japan, he is fairly isolated during his downtime - namely because he doesn't speak fluent Japanese. Because of this general seclusion from direct American contact, he is easily swayed to consume any media that is produced in English.
"It was a good movie," Terrence said - something I'm sure he'd be less eager to confess if I had physically dragged him into a theater to see Julie & Julia myself.
"And Meryl Streep was adorable," he admitted - an opinion he was less reluctant to divulge since he has a widely-known affinity for cuteness (Side note: Julie never actually called Julia Child "adorable"). If you ever want to make a 6'9" heterosexual male melt, just send him a link to any "cute kitten" video on YouTube. He also thinks tall, awkward women are more appealing that short, cute women - which was another factor that made this movie an easy sell.
And then he added, "And you are just like Julie."
"What about me is just like Julie?" I asked. "Give me adjectives."
"Just like she is," he replied. "You saw the movie. I'm not going to go crazy typing it all out, but you act like she does." [I suppose I should also clarify that this entire conversation took place via AOL Instant Messenger.]
"Neurotic?" I probed.
"Yes."
"Obsessive?"
"Yes."
"Redundant?"
"Yes."
I paused, realizing that I had not come up with one endearing adjective to describe Julie.
"Focused," he typed, "And female."
"Thanks for putting a positive spin on this," I typed back.
I'm not sure what kind of picture this paints for anyone who might be reading this blog without ever having met me - especially if one already has a mental perception of a 30-year old, half-Filipina, half-White woman, who is tall for anyone of Asian decent, with a long torso, short arms, long legs and small, exactly-the-same-size feet (an apparently abnormal trait), as determined by the pro bicycle fitter at R&A Cycles a few weeks ago. When I shared my measurements with a coworker at job #1, who is four inches shorter than me, we compared arms and mine were, indeed, even shorter than hers. I can't believe I never realized I have short arms before, but my disproportioned measurements actually make sense. I am exactly what happens when you mix average-size White genes with much smaller Asian genes: long torso, long legs, short arms, small hands, small feet.
I suppose there are some similarities between us, which may be few to mention - since I don't know the actual Julie Powell anymore than anyone can claim by simply judging a Hollywood dramatization of someone else's life. However, we both live in New York City. We both consider moving from one New York borough to another (a span of mere miles) like changing planets - or, at a minimum, I totally related to the relocation scene at the opening of Julie & Julia.
We both like to eat (though I can name essentially everything that I know how to cook, which someone once told me - as I proudly listed them off - is not actually a good thing). We both work in cubicles - at least until her writing began to turn a profit. We both blog. Anyone, who regularly posts their thoughts on the Internet - with the hope and assumption that someone out there is going to care - is comprised of some level of narcissism. We both use hobbies as a channel for self-exploration; case in point: the blogging we both do ends up being more about ourselves than the hobbies. She has a "Donation" button on her blog The Julie/Julia Project, an avenue for others to make charitable donations to a non-charitable, self-absorbed cause.
We both enjoy writing and attempt - more often than socially accepted in literary academic circles - to make run-on sentences charming. I check my blog everyday for new comments, which - not unlike Julie in her early blogger years - also serves as a daily reminder that my mother is likely one of my only regular readers. And I relish any opinion that anyone might make an effort to share, openly accepting the occasional backlash it may incur, as I'm sure Julie has had to learn, since - through blogging - we indirectly welcome the equal advantage and risk of having people tell us what they really think. The aptitude to be simultaneously vulnerable and thick-skinned is also a characteristic that Julie and I certainly must share.
I suppose one of our likely-many differences (outside of stating my obvious lack of a dominant gene for red hair; then again, based on a few Google images, neither does she) is that she hates the subway more than I do (I still enjoy how my knowledge of it and familiarity with it make me feel like a New Yorker), and she drops the F-word in her previous and current blog more often than I would ever have the courage to use it to color my own writing - mostly because I know how much it will disappoint my parents, who will now be disappointed to learn how much I actually enjoy including it in my daily vernacular. The main advantage Julie has over me is that she began blogging random, inane thoughts before they became cliché.
Friday, December 18, 2009
30 Days to 30 Years
"When you’re five, you know your age down to the month. Even in your twenties you know how old you are. I’m twenty-three, you say, or maybe twenty-seven. But then in your thirties something strange starts to happen. It’s a mere hiccup at first, an instant of hesitation. How old are you? Oh, I’m – you start confidently, but then you stop. You were going to say thirty-three, but you’re not. You’re thirty-five. And then you’re bothered, because you wonder if this is the beginning of the end. It is, of course, but it’s decades before you admit it."
- Sara Gruen, Water for Elephants
On December 31, 2008, I wrote one blog post in particular - among many blogged personal revelations in my first blog about adjusting to life in New York City - about what I thought I knew about myself as time rolled into 2009. Here's what I still think I know as 2010 approaches:
I don't have a very good awareness of my personal space so I often bump into things. Because of that, I accidentally shaved off the very top of the middle finger on my right hand and permanently disfigured the nailbed when I was five years old, broke my right arm when I was six, and I have a permanent, dime-size, swollen bubble over the third metatarsal on my right foot. There are various scars on my legs, arms and back, and I generally have a few bruises or a twisted ankle at any given time.
In 30 days, I will turn 30 years old. My friend and fellow 30-something blogger pal, Wendy Atterberry, author of her personal blog City Wendy and contributor on The Frisky, created a list of "30 Skills Every Woman Should Have Before Turning 30."
Cycling across your native continent is not on her list of 30-year old belt notches, but it's not on this list of no-nos either so I can forge ahead with a clear conscience and the assumption that my 30th-year goal is Frisky-approved. I'm not sure why their approval is even important, but it's fit to be noted that I turn 30 in 30 days ... and according to all of these 30-something Frisky lists, there is a lot more that I need to do than just prepare to cycle across North America!
So first things first, who has the recipe for hard-boiling an egg?
- Sara Gruen, Water for Elephants
On December 31, 2008, I wrote one blog post in particular - among many blogged personal revelations in my first blog about adjusting to life in New York City - about what I thought I knew about myself as time rolled into 2009. Here's what I still think I know as 2010 approaches:
For me, there are only two places - New York City and everywhere else. The basic themes of the novel Rules for Saying Goodbye
generally define me, but I realize something new about myself quite frequently. I don't seek to constantly reinvent myself, yet I might not ever really know everything about me all at one time because different parts of me change, sometimes frequently; this should probably bother me, but it doesn't.
generally define me, but I realize something new about myself quite frequently. I don't seek to constantly reinvent myself, yet I might not ever really know everything about me all at one time because different parts of me change, sometimes frequently; this should probably bother me, but it doesn't.I don't have a very good awareness of my personal space so I often bump into things. Because of that, I accidentally shaved off the very top of the middle finger on my right hand and permanently disfigured the nailbed when I was five years old, broke my right arm when I was six, and I have a permanent, dime-size, swollen bubble over the third metatarsal on my right foot. There are various scars on my legs, arms and back, and I generally have a few bruises or a twisted ankle at any given time.
I wish I was wittier, but I typically end up bordering on corny and sarcastic. I like to surround myself with people who provoke thought. I'm a sucker for a sense of humor. I don't fall in love easily, I don't get attached easily, and I have to be both of those things if I'm going to get jealous easily; I can probably thank a military brat upbringing for that. I was nominated for the "Most Friendly" Senior Superlative at my second high school (I am still usually nice 10 years later). I like to step back and absorb certain moments so that I can remember the details; I do that most often when my friends are laughing.
I have - not so much a phobia of - but a general repulsion of clumps of dust, hair, and I despise grimy countertops. Despite a few isolated circumstances, I feel like a fairly lucky person - especially considering all of the horrible things that can happen and have happened to others in the world. I'm boycotting diamonds, and not because I don't absolutely adore them and not because of the movie Blood Diamond
, Kanye West's song
or other trendy political fads, but because of the book When You Ride Alone, You Ride With Bin Laden
by Bill Maher.
, Kanye West's song or other trendy political fads, but because of the book When You Ride Alone, You Ride With Bin Laden by Bill Maher.
Moving to New York City three years ago was the best decision I ever made.
When I used to have a kitchen with enough space for a table, I liked to read the back of the cereal box while I ate breakfast. I love Manhattan, Lox cream cheese with my Friday morning bagel ritual, weekend brunches, and Pinot Noir. I have a dark side, and I generally do not trust those who don't. I'm a chain gum chewer; not a nervous habit or to break any addictions - just do. I believe that only time tells all things, and it is the one thing I firmly stand beside and simultaneously fear because it is an undeniable, unpredictable constant that both richly and unremarkably defines all of us.
A few general standards that seem to remain constant about me include the following: I like astronomy (not astrology), chocolate, cultures, horseback riding, maps, national and international political affairs, nutrition, photography, reading (for fun, knowledge or to pass the time), some sports, travel and writing ... and if you've got undiagnosed OCD like me, you'll have noticed that I listed my general interests in alphabetical order. I just do organized shit like that with minimal effort.
I randomly quote movies, usually at relevant moments, but sometimes not. I'd like to sit with Stephen Hawking and talk about the mysteries of the universe over red wine and lightly toasted miniature bread roll slices topped with raspberry jam and warm brie cheese. I have a borderline-obsessive, but not-necessarily-unhealthy girl crush on Ellen DeGeneres. And not just because Ellen's good buddies with Sandra Bullock, but I genuinely think that if "Sandy" had been born in the 80s and went to Shell Point Elementary School in Beaufort, SC, Roger B. Chaffee Elementary School in Bermuda, or Northwoods Park Middle School in Jacksonville, NC, we'd have become lifelong friends.
I'm incredibly indecisive, especially when it comes to making a choice in a restaurant. And although I may not be sure of a lot of things, one thing I do know is that I gotta have more cowbell. And I hope to cycle across North America this summer.
A few general standards that seem to remain constant about me include the following: I like astronomy (not astrology), chocolate, cultures, horseback riding, maps, national and international political affairs, nutrition, photography, reading (for fun, knowledge or to pass the time), some sports, travel and writing ... and if you've got undiagnosed OCD like me, you'll have noticed that I listed my general interests in alphabetical order. I just do organized shit like that with minimal effort.
I randomly quote movies, usually at relevant moments, but sometimes not. I'd like to sit with Stephen Hawking and talk about the mysteries of the universe over red wine and lightly toasted miniature bread roll slices topped with raspberry jam and warm brie cheese. I have a borderline-obsessive, but not-necessarily-unhealthy girl crush on Ellen DeGeneres. And not just because Ellen's good buddies with Sandra Bullock, but I genuinely think that if "Sandy" had been born in the 80s and went to Shell Point Elementary School in Beaufort, SC, Roger B. Chaffee Elementary School in Bermuda, or Northwoods Park Middle School in Jacksonville, NC, we'd have become lifelong friends.
I'm incredibly indecisive, especially when it comes to making a choice in a restaurant. And although I may not be sure of a lot of things, one thing I do know is that I gotta have more cowbell. And I hope to cycle across North America this summer.
In 30 days, I will turn 30 years old. My friend and fellow 30-something blogger pal, Wendy Atterberry, author of her personal blog City Wendy and contributor on The Frisky, created a list of "30 Skills Every Woman Should Have Before Turning 30."
Cycling across your native continent is not on her list of 30-year old belt notches, but it's not on this list of no-nos either so I can forge ahead with a clear conscience and the assumption that my 30th-year goal is Frisky-approved. I'm not sure why their approval is even important, but it's fit to be noted that I turn 30 in 30 days ... and according to all of these 30-something Frisky lists, there is a lot more that I need to do than just prepare to cycle across North America!
So first things first, who has the recipe for hard-boiling an egg?
Saturday, June 20, 2009
Celebrating 30 Years Over 3,690 Miles
On June 20, 2010, in Astoria, Oregon, a group of cyclists will dip their rear wheels into the frigid waters of the Pacific Ocean and begin a 50-day journey across North America.
I have not always wanted to pedal my way across a continent. It's an idea I came up with when I turned 29 years old last January and realized that my next birthday would mark three decades of living. For a few heart-wrenching seconds, I felt the familiar anxiety of the quarter-life crisis setting in as my life - and everything I have not yet done - began to flash before my eyes with the horrific realization that I was nearly 30.
I had my first quarter-life crisis in 2005 when I turned 25 years old and realized that I was still living in the mountains of Western North Carolina - where I had gone to college and subsequently began employment - and I was still talking about moving to New York City.
Having achieved my goal of establishing a life in New York City by my New Year's Eve 2007 deadline (e.g. rent an apartment, secure employment, make friends to brunch with) - and have continued to survive over the last three years, it was time for a new initiative as my 30th year approached.
After almost a full minute of self-centric mental montages spanning three decades of what I had and had not had in my life, I took a deep breath and reminded myself of what they say: 30 is the new 20. Realistically, whoever-they-are coined that phrase in an attempt to feel better about being 30, but it was enough for me to pull myself out of the emotional rut and embrace the next chapter. 30 is the new 20, I reassured myself - even Jay-Z said it. Besides, when did it become a bad thing to get another year of life?
So I began thinking about how to celebrate it.
With some college girlfriends, I already have tentative plans for a long girls' weekend sometime next year to commemorate the arrival of our 30s. While I could not (and cannot) wait to party like it's 2010 with them, I desired something a bit more than just a three-day hangover ... I wanted to find my own way to congratulate myself on 30 years well done. Something challenging. Something personally fulfilling. Something adventurous. Something extraordinary.
The idea of skydiving was initially exciting, but after considerable thought, I noted it to be an activity better suited to my 60th or 70th years. In my latter decades, should my parachute fail to open, I will have done at least half of all the things I ever wanted to do with my life. I did not want to be uncontrollably speeding toward the Earth as the direct result of my own frivolous decision to jump out of a plane, thinking in my final moments, "Sh**! I never got married! I never had kids! I never had my photo taken on Salar de Uyuni!"
African safaris and around-the-world cruises were also appealing, but upon closer inspection, they seemed to be trips that I would prefer to share with family or friends and less likely to enjoy alone. I'm not sure how the idea of cycling across the United States first came to mind, but I began googling group tours and found America By Bicycle, a bicycle touring company with fully-supported tours that crisscross the nation along various west-to-east and north-south routes.
I imagined myself on my bicycle (which I do not yet own), conquering The West (which has pretty much already been done), gliding down Route 66 (which I don't think is actually on the tour), consuming as many calories as I want for eight weeks (which is not entirely realistic), and arriving on the east coast with the best legs of my life (which is guaranteed) ... at the ripe, young age of 30. A bike ride across the United States encompassed everything I desired of my new goal: a personally challenging and fulfilling, health and wellness-enhancing, eco-friendly, extraordinary, cross-country adventure.
On August 9, 2010, a group of cyclists will dip their front wheels into the chilly Atlantic waters in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, at the conclusion of a 50-day, 3,629-mile journey across North America.
I hope I am one of them.
I have not always wanted to pedal my way across a continent. It's an idea I came up with when I turned 29 years old last January and realized that my next birthday would mark three decades of living. For a few heart-wrenching seconds, I felt the familiar anxiety of the quarter-life crisis setting in as my life - and everything I have not yet done - began to flash before my eyes with the horrific realization that I was nearly 30.
I had my first quarter-life crisis in 2005 when I turned 25 years old and realized that I was still living in the mountains of Western North Carolina - where I had gone to college and subsequently began employment - and I was still talking about moving to New York City.
Having achieved my goal of establishing a life in New York City by my New Year's Eve 2007 deadline (e.g. rent an apartment, secure employment, make friends to brunch with) - and have continued to survive over the last three years, it was time for a new initiative as my 30th year approached.
After almost a full minute of self-centric mental montages spanning three decades of what I had and had not had in my life, I took a deep breath and reminded myself of what they say: 30 is the new 20. Realistically, whoever-they-are coined that phrase in an attempt to feel better about being 30, but it was enough for me to pull myself out of the emotional rut and embrace the next chapter. 30 is the new 20, I reassured myself - even Jay-Z said it. Besides, when did it become a bad thing to get another year of life?
So I began thinking about how to celebrate it.
With some college girlfriends, I already have tentative plans for a long girls' weekend sometime next year to commemorate the arrival of our 30s. While I could not (and cannot) wait to party like it's 2010 with them, I desired something a bit more than just a three-day hangover ... I wanted to find my own way to congratulate myself on 30 years well done. Something challenging. Something personally fulfilling. Something adventurous. Something extraordinary.
The idea of skydiving was initially exciting, but after considerable thought, I noted it to be an activity better suited to my 60th or 70th years. In my latter decades, should my parachute fail to open, I will have done at least half of all the things I ever wanted to do with my life. I did not want to be uncontrollably speeding toward the Earth as the direct result of my own frivolous decision to jump out of a plane, thinking in my final moments, "Sh**! I never got married! I never had kids! I never had my photo taken on Salar de Uyuni!"
African safaris and around-the-world cruises were also appealing, but upon closer inspection, they seemed to be trips that I would prefer to share with family or friends and less likely to enjoy alone. I'm not sure how the idea of cycling across the United States first came to mind, but I began googling group tours and found America By Bicycle, a bicycle touring company with fully-supported tours that crisscross the nation along various west-to-east and north-south routes.
I imagined myself on my bicycle (which I do not yet own), conquering The West (which has pretty much already been done), gliding down Route 66 (which I don't think is actually on the tour), consuming as many calories as I want for eight weeks (which is not entirely realistic), and arriving on the east coast with the best legs of my life (which is guaranteed) ... at the ripe, young age of 30. A bike ride across the United States encompassed everything I desired of my new goal: a personally challenging and fulfilling, health and wellness-enhancing, eco-friendly, extraordinary, cross-country adventure.
On August 9, 2010, a group of cyclists will dip their front wheels into the chilly Atlantic waters in Portsmouth, New Hampshire, at the conclusion of a 50-day, 3,629-mile journey across North America.
I hope I am one of them.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
