Still Got It

From the NYT Style section:

Ms. Kahng said, “An old buyer from Neiman Marcus that I used to work with, who’s now retired, recently e-mailed me, ‘You’re still the coolest kid on the block’, and she’s right, I’ve still got it.”

Where can I get me some of that?

There's a strange dichotomy within my person. There's a part of me that decides and does what I want with disregard for propriety or of disapproving looks (admittedly, to the point of insensitivity at times), my internal moral compass my only guidance. (If you were wondering, yes, I get lost often.) And then, usually after whatever deed is done, I look over my shoulder and ask, "That's okay, right?" And then...

"That's reasonable, isn't it?"

"Is that normal?"

"Normal," I believe, is the worst word to ever be devised. 

I admire people with self-assuredness, a cool certainty of themselves. (Note: Not bravado.) What do they know that allows them to say, "She's right, I've still got it"? How do they drown out the rest of the world inhabited by [insert numerical digit followed by many zeros] people more talented, more able, luckier even? An Everest, thanks to my crippling fear of failure.

With each year under my belt, that confident, irreverent person steps with a little more spring, but contrary to logic, that only seems to heighten my insecurities. Is that normal?

Maybe that's just one of the cons of being 23. Pros: no wrinkles. Yet. Cons: self-doubt.

(image and quote via NYT, designs by Gemma Kahng)

Halloween Ho-Down

I was never a huge fan of Halloween (besides the obvious excuse to stuff my face with fun-sized Kit Kat and Crunch bars. Which I can't do anyways because I just got a root canal today. If I ever needed to use a hashtag, #Thisismylife.) because it never seemed worth all that effort just to make myself look like a ho. It's not really my aesthetic -- I think I missed that trend.
But I was wrong:

You can look fabulous on Halloween.

Staryh

People often ask if you feel older on birthdays, and as those years add up and friends get married, we rhetorically ask each other, "Don't you feel old?" And to those I answer no and no. Sure, the numbers always look higher each time, but it never fits right (am I the only one that feels like my brain is four years behind, older and none the wiser?); and all weddings seem to do is emphasize how not old I am. In all sobriety and no means of morbidity, nothing makes me feel older than funerals.

For those of you who are confused, I went home (San Francisco) last week. And trust me, I'm just as confused as you are, which is probably why I told barely anyone where I went and why. (Frankly, most people probably didn't know I was gone. Welcome to the self-absorption of working life.) What can be said in thoughtless conversations with interval friends?
"Hi, how have you been?"
"Oh, actually my aunt died yesterday from something that had to do with a stroke and the leukemia she found out about two weeks ago and I found out two days ago. I'm going to California tomorrow to attend her funeral."
I don't mean to be cavalier about it, but I don't think (don't think) I realized I was talking about a dead body. And not a dead body, a dead person. And not a dead person, a dead aunt. A dead sister, mother, grandmother. My aunt. Dead.
It wasn't until the wake that it sunk (maybe that's why they call it that -- a wake): she's not going to be there anymore.
"Were you close to her?" is the inevitable question. Does it matter? She was there for as long as I existed, but she wasn't a part of my day-to-day life.
And now, she isn't. Won't be. Now, her powdered remains lie there in the open casket with glued lips. All I think is, open caskets are stupid. (I know what they symbolize, but symbolism isn't immediate in the minds of those in bereavement.) My grandpa and my dad's sister also had open caskets. The made-up cadavers look strange and foreign, a mockery of our loved ones, a sad imitation of the living, the real person. Like a sick joke. Like they're simply hiding in the closed part of the casket, waiting to spring out at you, laughing. Surprise! It's the laughs you miss the most and remember the longest. So laugh a lot.

When we arrived at the burial site, my family noticed she was being buried right next to my grandfather. We took time to say a prayer after the service, me, my brother, my parents, the pastor; and afterward, I stayed behind with my dad for a minute.
"Dad, I miss Grandpa." And I did. I think it was the first time since his passing that I really felt that ache: the I-haven't-seen-him-in-a-year-now kind of missing, and slowly, the I'm-not-going-to-see-him-here-again kind of missing. Does that make me inhuman? Or more so? I cried at my aunt's funeral in surprise, for my mom and her sisters, for my cousin and uncle. I love her and my family will never be what it was without her, but certain kinds of mourning turns out to take its bitter time.

I've never felt older because death has never felt closer, or more visible. Twenty-two is not old by any measurement of life or death, but I no longer have delusions of this body's immortality. I know it is inevitable, unpredictable, and its clammy claws take with no consideration of our plans. I see it and it exists.
When we passed by my grandfather's stone, my parents and their close friends stood around me and pointed to their plots down the row: "Look, this is where I'm going to be buried!" Yes, in exclamation. I can't say I've accepted it to that extent, but my recognition of the Styx is the marker: I'm not a little girl anymore. Twenty-two is not eternal. Twenty-two is twenty-two.
Everything feels a little more trivial and bigger at the same time -- the paradox of growing up.

They all said it was a beautiful funeral and that they'd never seen so many attendees before. Maybe they were being appropriate, but there were nearly as many people standing, spilling outside of the chapel doors as there were sitting in the pews, a total of 300-something people. To have loved that much is all I could pray to do until I'm called Home.


Who knew I could be so Russian?

I __ New York

I got robbed today. Oh, "robbed" makes it sound so much worse than it is. I got pick-pocketed. I had to kill some time while waiting for my cousin to get off work, went to a Starbucks and got robbed. Praise the Lord I didn't bring my camera or any other valuables with me. They only took my wallet, and I hope they had fun with that because I had a dollar to my name and I cancelled all my cards the moment I found out it was gone (which I confirmed weren't used).

Well, I can definitely say it was an experience. I've never been inside a police station before. I always thought those Brooklyn police scenes/gags were complete cliches, but it turns out they're for real.

Thanks New York. Hello to you, too.

(photo via pinterest)

The luckiest kinds of people

Norman and I got in a... scuffle today. And by the way I handled it, I think I've got a ways to go, but I also think I've come a long (looooong) way.

I won't disclose the details of the fight because it's irrelevant, but the fact is we had our first disagreement in a while. And we sat down and talked about it. And I said how I felt and he said how he felt. And then I apologized. All of this occurred after I gave him the cold shoulder for a few hours, but nevermind that. I felt very adult.

It showed me how much I've learned from just life without even realizing it. Can I let you guys in on something (based on my extensive dating experience, which sadly at 22, I can actually say)? It's never worth it. It's just not. Whatever you're telling yourself you deserve or how he/she wronged you, and while you're in the middle of your self-important indignant internal tirade, let me stop you. You. Do. Not. Want. To. Go. There. Most fights come out of our self-centered tunnel vision -- when all we can think about is ourselves, the madness is unending because who wouldn't want to fight for their idea of a perfect world?

This obviously has more than a few exceptions:
+ This isn't for those times when it's something real serious, like, let's say... domestic violence. If that ish goes down, you need to talk to someone and take some action ASAP.
+ It is for those times he leaves the toilet seat up when you asked him not to, or when he doesn't say hello in the exact way you saw that playing out in your head, or basically, whenever he can't read your mind. Everyone has neuroses. Just let it go.
+ This is for those relationships with the security of love; when you know these fights, these whatevers don't matter because in the end, you know the love is there. The fights are miniscule compared to the love. (This applies to family, friends, any kind of relationship. And I imagine that's what marriage is like, too, although you couldn't take my word for it.)

It's the end of the day, the turbulence has subsided, and all I can do is look at Norman and think, "We are the luckiest of people."

(photo via pinterest)