Travelogue: A Boat to Cross the Moat In My Head

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“THE PESSIMIST complains about the wind; the optimist expects it to change; the realist adjusts the sails.” – William Arthur Ward

It came at precisely the right time, this trip—an invitation extended after a celebratory shot of tequila in a dark New York club and a swing around the dance floor. “You,” he said. “You’re comin’ on the boat.” I asked him what boat and he said it didn’t matter. The next morning he sent me an emailed invitation and a sample itinerary for a flight taking off in barely four weeks. Within an hour, I had purchased an insanely expensive ticket to Turkey, having not even bothered to ask who else was coming. Thinking too much has never served me very well, anyway. In fact, thinking too much has always served me worst.

 

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Never Fall in Love with a Street Style Star: Part 2

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The following is a piece originally featured on The Style Con:

The bar’s in Williamsburg, occupying an odd slice of an intersection separating a handful of Polish delis, a denim shop, a decrepit video store that supposedly sells coke. It’s a local spot, a nice enough place with open windows and pretty terrible food. You wouldn’t commute out here specifically from Manhattan, and that’s why when I look up at our newest addition to the group, my mouth unattractively wrapped over the end of a fish taco, and see Henry O’Toole standing there in his three-piece suit and his raggedy beard, my blood slows to a crawl—heavy, leaden, resigned to yet another awkward three hours of my life.

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Felling the Wood: Tinder Sucks

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The following is an excerpt from a piece originally seen on Lady Clever:

‘Here’s a story: Girl walks into a bar. Girl sees her friends. Girl walks straight towards her friends because, man, these people are awesome! Girl orders a drink, talks to her friends, gets drunk with her friends. Girl lets the world disappear around her because she is so focused on having a great time. Girl leaves the bar, having not done one scan of the place looking for someone to, I don’t know, even make out with. Girl is single forever because she never took the time to look around the room. Ever.

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“(Dinner) Party of One”

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The following is an excerpt from a piece featured on Lady Clever:

White and green. That’s the color scheme of Gillian’s wedding. Really deep emerald, she adds. Very country club, I offer. She tells me about the three days of dress shopping and the ball gown-esque thing she eventually settled on. Structured and formal. “Just like us,” she quips. Gillian and Nathan are getting married in November, which seems soon. But that’s probably because I can’t imagine what it’s like to have a set wedding date– a number barreling at you from the distance like a freight train, until it arrives, and you’re surrounded by your country club colors and the gold walls of an East Coast church, standing next to a dude who stuck around for more than three weeks—a dude who, in theory, wants to stick around for eternity. The concept is unfathomable to me, like asking a kid who lives in some shantytown in Johannesburg to imagine what it would be like to get on a plane and travel to America, to live in a house with central heat and air conditioning, with a pool in the backyard and a freezer filled with ice cream. So laughably far off, so hilariously implausible. That’s what this feels like.

At least for me.

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“Taking Permission with Love” on Lady Clever

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…it got me thinking about mimicry in love, and the effect of the concept of “permission” in relationships when we get desperate—again—enough. At a certain point, dating feels like walking through a neighborhood Ralph’s, filled with big name brands and bleached white bread when all you want is a real peach off a real tree, some butter churned by hand. But you’re not going to get this in this proverbial Ralph’s, so you look for the next best thing: Some “peach pie” ice cream. That’ll have to do, you think. This is the best it’s going to get. And so you sit down with a spoon and some sticky fingers, never even thinking to just leave the damn store.

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“A Valuable Lesson in Being Yourself” on Lady Clever

tumblr_mh3g08XCbg1qa70eyo1_500The following is an excerpt from my piece “A Valuable Lesson in Being Yourself,” as seen on Lady Clever:

All the blood has begun to drain from my head, across my chest, through my arms, down my legs, and into my feet, where the energy that I imagine I am made of disappears through the cracks in the floor of this dark room. And so I stand, an empty tin can of a girl, lightheaded and speechless. I don’t know what I expected the answer to be when I asked the boy who never asked me to brunch what it was about me that wasn’t enough. You don’t normally ask loaded questions like this. But when you’re drunk and feeling the sting of rejection like a fresh, red welt, this is precisely the question you ask.

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“The Spectrum of Effort” on Lady Clever

Screen shot 2014-02-01 at 9.04.38 AMThe following is an excerpt from my piece “The Spectrum of Effort” as seen on Lady Clever:

Sweat pours from every inch of every body in this smelly, disgusting room. The towel on my yoga matt is drenched, slate blue where it once was gray, soaking up to the best of its ability while my vision floats somewhere between the ceiling and myself, unfocussed and unstrained in a restorative shavasana. We get thirty seconds here. Thirty beautiful, empty seconds.

“Go from one-hundred-percent effort to zero-percent effort,” the instructor says, a disembodied voice somewhere in another corner of the room. “Do it so quickly and so fully that everything in between disappears, like it never happened.”

I started taking Bikram yoga over a year ago to deal with some Hurricane Sandy-induced cabin fever, which was so significant it trumped all my years of humming and hawing over the aforementioned sweat and stink that was previously a workout deal breaker. The first class sent me out the door reeling in an exhaustion-induced, dehydration-riddled high that has since become more manageable in the year since I began practicing. But I don’t come for the highs anymore; I come to have my brain rewired within my skull, the thought processes altered in a way I cannot exactly describe. I come here for seemingly meaningless instructions that pertain to a pose that actually pertain to your life.

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“Gripes from Singleland” on Lady Clever

a-boy-standing-aloneThe following is an excerpt from my piece “Gripes from Singleland” on Lady Clever:

As each month passes, my kind becomes increasingly obsolete, a species on the verge of extinction. Our numbers dwindle, slowly at first and then more quickly towards the end, an insidious but expected decline, until, all of a sudden, you look around and you’re the only one left, the lone surviving cockroach after the asteroid strikes. Yes, that’s me. The last single girl in the room. The incidental holdout. The persistent proverbial roach.

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“Too Much is Never Enough” on Lady Clever

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The following is an excerpt from my piece “Too Much is Never Enough” on Lady Clever:

Four years ago, a friend of mine was going through relationship troubles with her then-boyfriend. Struggling with the idea of letting go of a person she loved very much, she, like many models tend to do, sought the advice of another half-naked coworker, an older Brazilian girl with whom she had often been trapped in a closet with for long stretches of time, alternating between trying on clothes for strangers and talking about life. Before the break-up that inevitably came, the Brazilian, in her deep, sexy Portuguese accent told my friend, “Girl, do not worry. You have too much sand for his sand truck.”

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“A Different Kind of Mile High Club” on Lady Clever

1960s-man-woman-airplane-cabin-stewardess-suits-vintage-photo-aluminum-can-advertisement-sodaThe following is an excerpt from my piece “A Different Kind of Mile High Club” on Lady Clever:

By the grace of the travel gods I have been upgraded to business class and am currently sitting next to a successful art director wearing very expensive sneakers and a pair of well-cut jeans. We bonded when he handed me, without even saying a word, a copy of Interview Magazine. Soon after our dinner accompanied by actual silverware was delivered, we became good chums, toasting the good life with plastic wine glasses filled with cheap Chardonnay. This is the type of stuff that occurs in the forward of an aircraft, unlike what routinely happens to me in coach, which is to be harassed by oafs for pieces of gum and starved out for about six hours. Apparently, getting upgraded isn’t just about the cookies; it’s about the company.

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