shake your bon bon

from weheartit.com

Once upon a time--third through seventh grades, to be exact--I was in love with a swivel-hipped singer named Ricky Martin. Remember him? I wanted to be the one making him take his clothes off and go dancing in the rain. Figuratively speaking, of course; I was only nine years old. Who do you think I am?

I had a poster of him in my bedroom, and, if my memory serves me well, I'm fairly certain that I practiced kissing on it. Typical. His face was just so tan and...well, symmetrical. Of course, I moved on to other, slightly more real crushes, and that poster is probably crumpled up somewhere in one of the many memory boxes I have in the storage closet. Also, it turns out Ricky Martin is quite gay. Story of my life, really, but it just allowed me to move on faster since I knew that now there really was no chance we'd ever be together.

Fast forward ten years or so. One sunny September Saturday, I walk into work and who is seated at a table by the window but Señor Ricky Martin himself. A little scruffy, with mirrored aviators on, but still, unmistakably, that tan, symmetrical face. One of my childhood idols, in the flesh, mere inches away. Sitting, unaware of the flood of emotions coursing through my body. Nostalgia. Breathless anticipation. An uncontrollable urge to laugh, both at myself and at how utterly ridiculous life is sometimes.

As Sir Arthur Conan Doyle once said:

"Life is infinitely stranger
than anything the mind could invent."

i bet you think this song is about you

from weheartit.com

I hate to say it, but it's true. I care about what I look like. I've always cared. I've always been the one comparing myself to others to make sure I'm cool enough, stylish enough, etc. I mean, we all do that, to an extent (at least, I hope so!). We need to make sure we look appropriate for the situation, the milieu, in which we find ourselves.

But lately I have found that I am succumbing to the pressures of New York City even more, in that I literally cannot leave the house without makeup on, or in the twenty minutes I spend in front of my closet every morning trying to decide what to wear. I have become even more obsessed with my image. And you know what isn't helping? Working at the restaurant.

I work at a pretty hip place. It's a hotel restaurant. I seat people who give hundred-dollar-handshakes, and celebrities. I need to look good so I get some tips. I need to look good, because otherwise, I will be looked down upon. Everyone's always telling me I do look good, and, sadly, these compliments have become what I strive for every night. If I don't get complimented, I'm doing something wrong.

The other day we got a new hostess. Tall, lanky, a beautiful doll. I felt like a child next to her. I found myself fishing for compliments from the staff to boost my temporarily deflated ego. I literally heard myself saying those words and wanted to slap myself.

Why does what you look like have to be such an important part of social life, especially here in New York City? It's funny (not in a haha-funny way, more of an interesting/ironic funny sort of thing) how far being good-looking can get you. Tall, attractive men get promoted more often, or so studies have shown. The pretty girls are the ones that get in to exclusive bars and clubs (not that that's what I aspire to, but still). It's all about image here, and I'm really starting to resent it. I want to rise above it. All I want to do is go camping in the Adirondacks for two weeks: no makeup, lake baths, no mirrors. And I don't want to be judged.

It's strange, really. All of the staff at the restaurant tell me they like me because I'm not all about image--there's more to me than just my face. And yet I find myself becoming more and more shallow day by day, spending less time beautifying my mind and more time learning how to apply my eyeliner just-so.

I think I need a swift kick in the rear.

objects in mirror are better than they appear(ed)

(fotolog on weheartit)

I was in the Strand recently, browsing through the maze of bookshelves and relishing the smell of books old and new. I stumbled upon the poetry section, and, always wanting to be more interested in poetry than I have been in the past, I decided to take a closer look and picked up a collection of T.S. Eliot poems.

I studied Eliot in high school, closely, even; we had to be familiar with some of his work and to be able to differentiate his words and structures from his contemporaries'. I flipped through the pages and found 'The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." The only thing I remembered about this poem was simply how much I had hated the fact that I had to read and analyze it.

I leaned against a pillar (fearing the bookshelves would fall like dominoes) and read the poem. "Let us go then, you and I / When the evening is spread out against the sky." I loved it. And I got to thinking...

It's funny how we often dislike (or even hate!) something we are forced to do, but then, upon re-discovering the same thing on our own, we change our mind. Like me and poetry, for example. Or me and art museums. Me and practicing piano. Or me and arugula. I could go on.

I wonder why that is, why things that seemed so horrible while they were occurring end up being some of life's little pleasures. I think it has a lot to do with independence and choice. Choosing to read a poem, or eat a pine nut, is a lot different than being forced to do so with no other reasonable explanation other than "Because I said so."

Choices...

Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
T.S. Eliot

caffeine & introspection

from weheartit.com

Over dinner the other night, some friends and I were discussing our personalities, and the vibes we give off to outsiders. It's an interesting thing to think about. How do others perceive you? We all like to think we send certain signals, but are they read in the way we want them to be? People dress a certain way to be considered just-so, or affect certain mannerisms to appear more flirty, businesslike, what-have-you.

Anyway, Stephen came up with a metaphor to illustrate our personalities for us. The three of us are in a café in Paris. Nneka is the one surrounded by fifteen French people, despite having come alone. She is the loud, gregarious one. Everyone wants to be around her. Her laugh is infectious, her personality draws you in. Stephen is the one surrounded by fifteen friends. The Frenchies are eavesdropping on the conversation, chipping in here and there, but from afar, and for not very long. Stephen keeps his posse close, and is comfortable in any place because of the security provided by his relationships. People sense that, and don't necessarily want to intrude.

I am the one sitting alone, with a coffee, a book, and a cigarette (because this is Paris, after all, or so Stephen's metaphor goes). Apparently this is not a bad thing. Apparently everyone in the café is staring at me, wanting to talk to me, but because I look so content to be by myself, they are intimidated by my quiet but powerful aura.

I thought this was interesting. It's true that I often like being alone, even in public spaces. (And here I must mention this beautiful poem/video: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k7X7sZzSXYs) But sometimes being alone does make me feel insecure, which in turn makes me even more quiet. Silence is mysterious and alluring, yes, but my silence also seems to make me unapproachable. If I cannot be approached, I cannot meet all sorts of interesting people. I will not be able to share stories with you about certain experiences because I just don't have them. Because I am, too often, alone.

Sorry so personal.
Next time my post will be more interesting, I promise!

insouciance

New York City sucks the life out of you. It's a place teeming with millions of interesting and driven people, but it is also, often, a lonely and heartless place. Everyone's in it for himself. As much as I love New York, as much as it might be impossible for me to live elsewhere for a long time and be completely happy, I still believe it is important to escape the constant movement that is the city. It's important to get away for a while, reconnect with the world and with yourself, and re-appreciate the chaos of the city upon return.

Enter Lake Placid: an ideal location for such an escape. A couple of weeks ago, I packed my weekender bag with flannel shirts and bathing suits and took the train upstate. I was to be spending the weekend with my friend Caroline, who had neglected to inform me that her home was actually on an island in the middle of the lake. You can imagine my confusion when we pulled up to the marina instead of up a driveway.

That first night was beautiful; one of the clearest I've ever seen. My trip happened to coincide with the yearly Perseid's meteor shower...so you can imagine the crick in my neck the next morning from my inability to look away from the Milky Way and the hundreds of stars falling and shooting across the sky. As Van Gogh famously said, "I know nothing with any certainty, but the sight of stars makes me dream."

The trip was a complete success, judged by the fact that I literally could not stop smiling the entire time I was there. I climbed a 4,000 foot mountain. I jumped into the lake. I relaxed in the front of a boat with ruddy-cheeked, preppy college boys. I road-tripped to Vermont, singing really bad songs at the top of my lungs, my hair being whipped violently by the cool breeze. I saw Grace Potter & The Nocturnals in concert, and got a bar of chocolate autographed by Grace the following morning, following a breakfast of blueberry pancakes with authentic Vermont maple syrup. I soaked up more than my fair share of beautiful views. I took a lot of photographs. I slept well. I laughed a lot.

I would love to spend two or three weeks there every summer.

rosebud;!;!;!;!;

(hidden sims player from deviantART)

This post is going to solidify my reputation as an all-out nerd, but so be it. I have accepted the fact that I am, deep down, a dweeb at heart. (Side note: are there specific nuances to the different types of nerd? Namely: nerd, dweeb, dork, geek, etc.)

Anyway, lately I have been seeing the world through the eyes of a Sim. What's that, you say? You don't know what a Sim is? What, you didn't waste away childhood afternoons in front of the computer building houses for and manipulating the lives of pixellated people?

Pixellated people, indeed. Perhaps that is all we are... but that is a topic for another (existential) blog post. What I want to write about today, specifically, is relationships.

In the computer game, you can see how well two Sims get along through a simple graphic: if there are lots of green bars, the Sims are pretty tight. If not, well, good luck trying to make your Sim happy. (At least, this is how I remember it. I haven't played that game in years. I swear.) Anyway, many times in the past few weeks I have felt as though the amount of green bars in my life has been growing exponentially. Sitting on my bed between three other girls, watching old movies and eating Chinese takeout, for example. Or at the hostess stand, talking to one of the waiters and solidifying a friendship.

Speaking of the hostess stand, sometimes I watch people seated at tables, and try to discern how many green bars in that relationship. Creepy? Perhaps. Sociological experiment? Most definitely.

My nerdiness just shot through the roof.

shave and a haircut, six bits

(frogandcrowns.tumblr.com)

I got my hair cut today. Just a trim and some layers, no big deal. Nothing crazy. What was crazy, however, was the barbershop (salon?) itself. Astor Place Hair.

The entire place is underground. I've walked past it millions of times, always curious but never daring to go in. I'd heard good things: that it's one of the cheapest haircuts in New York, that everyone there has a lot of character, etc. After examining my split ends and deciding enough was enough, I finally mustered up the courage to go down those stairs into the unknown.

What a world! It's huge! A labyrinth of mirrors and vanity cabinets. Each stylist (and there's probably at least thirty or forty of them) has personalized his or her own station. Today I got my hair cut by Rosa, whose area was painted a bright flamingo pink. Next to us was Dominick, who must only cut guys' hair, as his entire area was plastered with magazine cutouts of Justin Bieber, Zac Efron, Leonardo DiCaprio, and other male celebs with iconic hairstyles. That or Dominick has some serious crushes on these youngsters.

As I sat in the chair, a curtain of hair obstructing my view of all the action, I listened to the sounds of the business surrounding me. Dominick, your typical Brooklyn born-and-raised Italian guy, cracking jokes with whoever was getting buzzed in his chair. The Doobie Brothers warbling in the background. Sounds of blowdryers, female laughter, spray bottles. I was filled with a random burst of joy at how human this all was.

Seriously, though, can you imagine robots cutting hair in the future? (Maybe such a thing already exists, I don't know). I, for one, think that would be a disaster. Humans can listen and adjust. And say there was a technical glitch... Besides, there's something oddly comforting in this anonymous closeness.

Those were the thoughts running through my head, which of course dissipated as soon as Rosa gave a harder-than-necessary yank that brought tears to my eyes. No tip for you! I thought to myself. But tip her I did. And back again I'll go.