Homeless Chic

My sense of style has often been described as 'homeless chic.' I'm actually pretty sure I coined that term. It usually refers to 'one who wears clothes that are comfortable, and often over-sized, but attempts to make them look semi normal by adding neon accessories.' But today I may have created a whole new meaning to the term 'homeless chic.'

So I was walking home from work at an exceptionally late hour when all of a sudden, one of the straps on my sandals snapped. Instead of panicking I kind of just stood in the middle of the street, a mile away from home, and started laughing. Obviously this had to happen to me.

And what exactly are you supposed to do when you are in the middle of the street left without a shoe? You casually take the other shoe off, you continue walking and then you call a friend so you don't look like a complete homeless person walking barefoot through the glass-filled streets of Brooklyn. Because at last if you are on the phone you can laugh at yourself, and then maybe those witnessing your wardrobe malfunction will laugh too instead of making fun of the crazy lady walking barefoot.

It was only when I got a few concerned stares that I started pretending to limp, as if I had removed my shoes because of a blister at the bottom of my foot. But on I trudged. Through the weird looks, over the rocks and glass, occasionally pretending to limp, with my shoes in hand all the way home.

And yes, I could have called a cab and avoided this all together, but I wasn't sure the cab driver would be down to letting a barefoot, homeless looking girl into his cab.

My fashion sense from now on will probably be more along the lines of 'homeless-not-so-chic.'

Procrastination's in My Blood

So my brother's wedding is in 10 days and I have neither a flight nor a dress.

This is the story of my life.

I have always been a procrastinator. But not just the regular type of procrastinator who waits til the last minute-I wait til the very last second. This was me in Elementary School. This was me in High School. This was me in College. This is me always.

Breakfasts were made flying out the door on my way to school. Homework was always done during the class before it was due. Finals were studied for at the last possible moment (when I still had time to memorize the information and then forget it right after it was regurgitated.) This is, and always has been, fun for me. I'm always calm as a dolphin, as if I have all the time in the world to swim around and sunbathe, and then I become a hot mess an hour before the deadline. It's a game to me. An adrenaline-rushing, heart-racing, exciting game.

But sometimes, I think that maybe I should change this so called "bad habit," and maybe start planning in advance. The only issue with doing that, is that I'll still end up with the last minute prep and finalization. And then I'll be stressed from the time I start planning until the due date a few weeks later. And plus, I'm pretty sure I create better work when I'm rushed. So forget that idea.

And also, my horoscope says I'm a procrastinator and I'm not about to try changing my astrological chart.

Somewhere in this chart it mentions my procrastinating nature.

The Summer Heat Just Got Better

New York City is awesome in the Summer. There's all these hipster outdoorsy events going on, people actually sit outside and talk to one another, I actually get to meet my neighbors who have been hibernating all Winter.. it's great. 

Except for the million-degree weather with some added rain and humidity. It's like being in a sauna, without the spa aspect or the relaxation.

The only good thing that has come from the Summer heat is this video: 

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a6tKJvWWDP4

Necessary Naptime

So you know how you sometimes leave a party with the excuse that you "need to take your nap?" And then the people at the party get all skeptical and think you just came up with the worst possible lie to leave the party? And then when you try to explain that you are actually planning on going home to nap, they aren't sure if you are a weirdo who needs daily naps or if you are just really good at lying?

Except this time, I'm actually telling the truth.

See, when I was in grade school I hated naps. I was the worst napper. Like, I was that one kid who couldn't stop talking or thinking or bothering the other kids. And since I was so stubborn and incredibly adorable, I always got out of having to nap. (Clearly, I was teachers' pet.) So when all the other bratty and obedient kids were forced to nap, I was allowed to read in the corner, just as long as I promised not to wake the other kids. I think now I'm making up for all my missed sleep from my childhood.

Or maybe I'm Benjamin Buttons and I'm aging backwards...who knows.

But looking back now, I'm embarrassed of my bad napping behavior. I don't understand how there was ever a time when I didn't appreciate them. How there was ever a point in my life where I refused to nap. If there was one thing I could tell the 4-year-old me, it would be to appreciate the sacred nap time. Even on those dumb uncomfortable blue cots. Even when you just want to beat up the other kids or stick things in their ears while they try to sleep. Even when you want quality time to suck up to the teacher. Because there is nothing greater than a good nap. And the sooner you learn that information, the sooner you'll become a less sleep-deprived, more stimulated person with more time and more energy to bother your friends.

You're welcome.

I Think This Makes Me An Official New Yorker

I'm not one of those adventurous New Yorkers that are constantly going to museums, shows and concerts. I'm more like one of those naive New Yorkers that is so overwhelmed by the museums, shows and concerts going on, that I never end up going to anything.

There are a few exceptions to this statement:

Exception A: I find out about an event 8 months in advance, and then wait impatiently for 8 months for that event to happen.

Exception B: One of my "adventurous New Yorker-type" friends invites me along to one of those "adventurous New Yorker" events.

Yesterday was an example of "Exception B."

Ever since I watched the philharmonic symphony in August Rush, I have been dying to go to a philharmonic concert in the park. Like it was one of the select few things on my Bucket-List. And though similar events are constantly happening in this town, I obviously don't find out about them until 3 weeks later.

But just my luck, yesterday, an "adventurous New York-type" friend of mine informed me that there was a New York Philharmonic concert that had already begun in Prospect Park. And knowing that I would already be an hour late, I frantically jumped in a cab and literally ran from the cab through the park to get there.

And it was ah-mazing.

Like imagine being in a park with thousands of other people, fireflies lighting up everywhere (and occasionally attacking your face,) and dead-silence besides for the 50-piece orchestra playing the most relaxing lullaby you could have taken a nap in the dirt you were sitting in. Well...
I was there. I was one of those silent audience members getting attacked by the fireflies and in awe of the musicians on stage playing musical instruments I never knew existed. (Google what a contrabassoon is. Those things are great.)

Listen when I tell you that this is something you need to see. It's one of the greater events that New York City has to offer. And though I don't have much to compare it to, you're going to need to just trust me on this one.

I Should Probably Start Exercising

Old people are to be admired. Also, people who exercise. But old people who exercise is like a next level of respect.

I'm only 22 and can barely find the energy or time to do any sort of physical movement. I'd rather stay at work or babysit for strangers than have to do manual labor. But it's not only that I don't WANT to exercise, it's also that I just CAN'T exercise. I tried running once, and the second I forgot I was on the treadmill, I fell off. True story. Those things require concentration.

But getting back to old people who exercise... I really don't get it. They are like superhuman. It doesn't make any sense to me how someone 50 years my senior can go for a 5 mile run in 90 degree weather. Or any weather. When I'm 70, I will most likely be playing bingo in a nursing home. The most movement I will be getting will be from those chair exercises and maybe a little bit of synchronized swimming.

Yesterday I met my latest hero. He must have been in his 70's and I had seen him earlier jogging through Prospect Park. We were at a crosswalk together and he started saying something to me about how I should photograph the sun peaking out from behind the clouds. I tried explaining that I was no photographer and my phone's camera just wasn't good enough, but he kept persisting. (Note: don't try arguing with an old man who clearly has more energy than you.) So I did it. And though you can barely see it, he kept mumbling about "How glorious! Just glorious!" it was.

And as I went off on my way, I turned around and found him like this:

This orange tank-top, sweatband-wearing, man is my inspiration to start exercising more. It probably won't ever happen, but he did leave me with a moment of inspiration and a huge smile on my face. How can you look at that adorable man and not smile?

The Curious Case of the Orange Chicken Tattoo

Tattoos are commitments that I just can not make. Partially because they're frowned upon in Judaism, partially because I'm ridiculously indecisive and would spend 5 years trying to come to terms with my choice before making one, and partially because my mom would kill me.

So when I somehow ended up at an alcohol-less, ghetto State Fair in New Jersey a few days ago, the "Henna Tattoo" booth seamed incredibly appealing. I could never come up with a design for a permanent tattoo, but I thought I wouldn't have any problem agreeing on one that would only last for 3 weeks (this was a wrong assumption.) To go with the butterfly or not (just kidding. I know better than that.) Finally, I agreed on the Chinese word for "happiness" on my left wrist because words like "trustworthy" and "honesty" just didn't suit me. The actual henna part only took a few minutes but then I had to wait impatiently for 2-hours for the dumb thing to dry.

Forty-five minutes later, while frazzled exiting one of the kiddie rides, I forgot about the thing and smudged half of the tattoo. Now I was hungry AND annoyed that I would have a smudged situation stuck on my arm for 3 weeks! So I went back to the sketchy henna booth and drove the man crazy to fix the thing to the best of his ability. Knowing myself all too well, I knew I'd manage to ruin it again before it was ever given a chance to dry. One hour and 3 smudges later, my arm now says, "orange chicken," (which must be only a few smudges off from "happiness.")

I should probably stick to the lick-on tattoos in the future cuz those things don't require dry-time or commitments.

Throwback Thursday to an Hour Ago

So then there was the time where my coworker tried drugging me. Twenty minutes ago.

This blog post is actually being written while I'm half passed out on the floor of my office.

All I ever wanted was an Advil for my headache, but my coworker gave me 2 tiny white pills which she promised, 'worked way better.'

I have trust issues because of people like her.

She seemed trustworthy enough, and I was pretty sure she wouldn't want to kill me, but no. Twenty minutes after popping those little harmless things, my head started spinning, my arms went weak and I got super nauseous. I passed out on the bathroom floor for a good amount of time and the lady never even came looking for me. I could've been a missing person for a few days before she'd even realize that I was gone. (Note to self: only hire people who don't want to kill me.)

I really try to be a good person. I swear. I don't go around drugging good people. Because it's wrong and I was pretty sure this was one of those golden rules. Like an unspoken-because-I-was-pretty-sure-it-was-common-freakin-sense type of rules.

But instead of being on the beach having a relaxing July 4th BBQ, I'm on the verge of a midlife crisis, having some sort of allergic reaction and chilling in the ER waiting room. But hey, at least I figured out how to get out of having to work on the 4th of July...

I'm Still Not Dead

Panic attack: (verb) when you think you are going to die and you start hyperventilating and shaking and sometimes your hands get all prickly and the paramedics need to be called.

So far, I've had 3 major panic attacks (minor ones happen on the daily.) The first time I ever experienced one, I was in the back row of a 15-passenger van, going 80mph on the highway, when a car stopped short in front of us. I saw my 16-years of life flash before my eyes and I was pretty sure I saw the light. Crying, hyperventilating and freaking out followed shortly after.

The second time didn't happen for about another year or so. I was sitting on the porch of my dorm, reading a really great Nicolas Sparks book (don't judge me,) the sun was setting and I couldn't have been more in my happy place. Until I looked down and saw a man standing in my backyard who had been staring through the windows. He looked up right at me and then ran for his life. I freaked. We always knew we had a Peeping Tom, but this was the first time I saw him with my very own eyes. A police report and short panic attack later, I was alright.

But the most severe panic attack I've ever had happened a few years later, when I got stuck in a stampede in Jerusalem at the Jerusalem Day Parade. I was immobilized on the stairs going from the Western Wall up to the Old City, smushed into a few thousand people who were robbing me of my well-deserved oxygen. I gasped for air, started hyperventilating, some kids magically got me to the top of the steps, people were pouring water on me, then someone called the paramedics.. It was great fun.

Either I've become a much calmer person in the past few years, or I've somehow managed to avoid overcrowded, overly dangerous, and overly reckless situations. I'd call that Progress-Without-Prozac.

A Summer Day

Park benches are great places to make friends. They're also great places to get mugged and kidnapped (especially when you are alone and it's 2am.) But luckily, I didn't get mugged OR kidnapped while I sat on a bench on Eastern Parkway last night. I did, however, make a new friend.

I was listening to music, while staring at the pedestrians, and avoiding eye contact with the sketchy folk, when a stranger approached and asked if he could tell me a poem. It was called "Summer Day" and had nothing to  with the Summer..or a day..or a day in the Summer. I think it was more about looking at yourself from the outside->in as opposed to from the inside->out. I always thought it should be the reverse, but he used lots of reasons to confuse me and think that I was told to think the wrong thing my whole life. I was pretty sure that when you look from the inside->out that you were finding the truth inside a person, as opposed to taking them for how they look on the outside. But apparently he was talking more about your outlook on life and less about external looks. So then I just got more confused.

Two hours later I figured out he was saying that someone can look happy on the outside but actually be broken inside and that if they go from the outside->in they can internalize their external happiness. Still with me? Cuz I'm pretty sure I just lost myself while trying to explain that. But either way, he also taught me about seeing the art and beauty in the world around me. Though his main focus was the beauty in cars, calling the sound of the engine "a symphony," he was also referring to the way the tree trunk curved, the way the light shone through the branches, the people walking along the parkway. Emphasizing that the world is full of art and beauty and you just need to be aware of it to recognize it in everything.

But then he asked for my number and then things got weird cuz nobody will recognize the beauty in rejection.

I should probably start looking for friends elsewhere..

The Day My Life Became Public

I'm not sure why anyone would want to know all the juicy details of my life, but for the few people in my fanclub-this is for you. 

I think I have a problem where I feel the need to document my life. I started journaling 4 years ago cuz I thought I would want to remember my last year of highschool (I was wrong. No one wants to remember that.) And then I moved to Israel for a year and was scared I would forget what I ate for dinner every night. And then I moved to NY. And at that point I just couldn't stop documenting every field trip, interesting conversation, and awkward encounter that I had every. single. day. Don't get me wrong, it's cool being able to look back and read how weird I was a year ago, or what I thought about people when I first met them, or how terrible my past 4 birthdays have been, but it was starting to get annoying. I was always terrified that if I forgot to document one day that that day wouldn't be remembered and if it wasn't remembered then it was a wasted day and if it was a wasted day then my life was over. And anytime I told new people that they would be in the journal they would usually avoid me. Which is maybe why I made so many new friends since I stopped.

But now I'm BACKKK! So I guess there goes my social scene... Except blogs aren't exactly the venue for detailing every phone convo and meal I've ever had so I'm going to have to narrow it down to the random stories of my life. The stories that involve strangers on the train confessing to me how they recently ate a flower. Or the time where a homeless man asked politely if he could bite me. These are things that happen to me on the daily. But unfortunately strangers only find me to be approachable and trustworthy when I'm alone so my friends don't always believe that these things really happen. But even though I would lie to them, I wouldn't lie to you (except for the occasional over-exaggeration which is bound to happen.) 

So don't go getting overly enthusiastic about witnessing the rollercoaster called my life. Cuz it's more like one of those wooden rides that are all bumpy, super uncomfortable and you think you are gonna die. Don't say I didn't warn you.