Letters to Our Younger Selves

From (my other blog) Blog-By-Bike:

Ellyn Spragins and I first connected when she commented on a blog post in which I had included a copy of a letter to my younger self that I had written in 2008. It was inspired by a contest in Marie Claire magazine that was based on Ellyn's books. I never actually entered the contest, but two years later, my letter led to a personal invitation from Ellyn to host one of the inaugural "Letters to My Younger Self" Parties. After I agreed, she sent the invitations, party kit, a free copy of her latest book to reference at the party, which had a personalized inscription from Ellyn to me, and swag for the gift bags (which included products from Neutrogena, Trish McEvoy and Suze Orman). Virtually all I had to do was be a host. And since I organized a potluck picnic, I spent less than $100 on pens, gift bags, champagne, orange juice and disposable cups, plates and eating utensils).

In a note to the party hosts on March 6, 2010, Ellyn mentioned that there would be nearly 50 LTMYS Parties taking place across the United States during the week of April 30-May 2 - an initiative that she is developing into a product associated with her books. Among us, she noted, were dear family members, treasured friends, neighbors, readers, attendees and organizers of her speeches and Letters to My Younger Self Seminars - women spanning age ranges from their twenties to their sixties.

And so it came to be that seven of my 20- and 30-something girlfriends gathered in Central Park on Sunday, May 2, for our own LTMYS Party - a picnic brunch with discreetly-contained mimosas (hey, Mayor Bloomberg said it was ok) and delicious snacks (most notably, lemon-artichoke pesto and sliced baguettes from Zabars). We shared our potluck snacks, drank premium orange juice spiked with cheap champagne (except me since my bicycle training rides are getting longer), enjoyed small talk and laughter, and then listened while three friends read aloud from Ellyn's book - letters by Diane Von Furstenberg, Bobbie Brown and Barbara Walters. Finally, under the cool shade of a large tree at the north end of Sheep Meadow, we began our own letters. Except me again. I just continued eating since I had already written a letter to my younger self and posted it on my blog ... hence the reason I am holding a laptop in our group photo.

 

Adrienne

Bianca

Casandra

Keisha

Kelly

Liz

Mayra

And me ...

 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, 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. 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].

UPDATES:

• Tory Johnson's May 5th interview with Ellyn Spragins on ABC (You might see someone else you know - albeit briefly!)
• Ellyn's blog post: Letters To My Younger Self Parties!
• More photos from the other inaugural LTMYS Parties are available on Ellyn's website.

Celebrating My 10,958th

From (my other blog) Blog-By-Bike:

I received the following email today from City Wendy:
Hi Katie, Happy, happy belated birthday! I saw on twitter that you're starting your third decade and I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you're actually in your fourth decade! But don't worry -- it only gets better!! Hope you're doing well, Wendy

"By golly, you're right," I replied - because that's the kind of corny lingo I like to throw into conversations with friends. And because I'm an obsessive-compulsive, semi-perfectionist, I'll be revising any erroneous "third decade" references in previous blog posts. Standby for said corrections.

I closed out my third decade with an intimate evening among girlfriends at Brasserie 8 1/2 on Sunday, January 17 - my last night in my 20s. I had received a 50/50 offer from the Patina Restaurant Group, which you can also (currently) obtain by clicking here or here. The birthday gift certificate entitles the bearer to spend $50 and get up to $50 (alcohol excluded, of course) at a variety of Patina Group restaurants (some location exclusions apply). One hundred dollars-worth of food for $50? Yes, please. I made reservations for a party of six in Brasserie 8 1/2's lounge area and we ordered $100-worth of table shares from their Bar & Lounge Menu. At $25 for any combination of three table share items, we enjoyed a pretty nice spread. The Mac & Cheese and Goat Cheese Croquettes were strong favorites.

On Monday, January 18 - the Martin Luther King, Jr. Day Observance - more widely-known as my birthday, I treated myself to sleep-in until 11:30am, went to the gym with my roommate Bianca, and then dragged her to Brooklyn for my second trip to R&A Cycles, where - with the assistance of an Al - I may have narrowed down my bicycle selection for a final purchase! After leaving the bicycle shop, with much of my burden of indecision lifted, we hiked (literally) to Grimaldi's, where my pre-determined birthday eating route was foiled by the two-hour line outside of the famous pizzeria. We settled for Water Street Restaurant & Lounge and were pleased with the overall selection, though I did continue to pout through the appetizer course about not having my favorite pizza. The day was redeemed, however, when a stop next door at Jacques Torres and Bianca's birthday-date-drop to the sales clerk, resulted in five free chocolates.

Throughout the course of my day, I also vowed that I would celebrate my birthday in days, moving forward and moderately inspired by something a recently-partially-paralyzed Orson Hodge said on last Sunday's episode of Desperate Housewives:
"Please roll me over! Please help me off the toilet! Please! Please! Please! That's the life I'm facing now; having to ask people for help, for everything. Do you know how hard that is? Every morning I wake up at five; you get up at 6:30. For an hour and a half, I lie there, staring at the bedroom door, fantasizing about how lovely it would be - how excruciatingly lovely it would be - to get up and make myself a cup of tea one last time. No 'please'. Just hot water and tea."

Later, I learned that I am not the first to embrace this philosophy of formally celebrating my birth and my existence by the day. It made it a lot easier to wake up at 5:40am for my weekday six o'clock gym session this morning. To get up and yawn through the fatigue and get going ... because I can.

The highlight of my birthday - while I regret that the highlight had to be significantly monetary in nature - was several donations from family and a close family friend - the latter being one who is practically family. Given the rate that I have been burning my metaphoric candle (a.k.a. my body) at both ends, their financial contributions toward my cycling tour were received with immeasurable gratitude and immense relief. I spent three-and-a-half days out of the office last week [job #1], trying to recover from a severe cold. And - given the fact that I had grossly overestimated how much I would make cocktail serving in the poor state of the economy [job #2] - I've been stressing over my need to scale down my evenings at the lounge to one night per week. Between two jobs, I am considerably behind in finalizing my bicycle purchase and heavily committing to the physical training and conditioning for my transcontinental ride.

So the best birthday gifts of all came with zeros this year ... or rather, on my 10,958th day - but I also know that those zeros were motivated by love.

How Do You Deal With a Mooch in NYC?

... Hopefully, better than I am.

The Scenario
The Mooch moved to New York City from Arizona in the last week of December in 2008. The Mooch shares a full-size bed with my roommate, who has been a close friend of hers since high school. The Mooch does not allow my roommate's own dog sit on or sleep in my roommate's own bed in the apartment for which The Mooch does NOT share equal financial responsibility. The Mooch's best friend lives in Harlem, but - regarding location - our Hell's Kitchen apartment is more convenient for The Mooch. The Mooch still lives with us (note the date of this blog post).

The Error
The direct fault I carry in this situation was believing that the best friend of The Mooch - and mutual friend of ours - was completely out of line for initially wanting to charge The Mooch $600/month to share the mutual friend's $1200-studio in Harlem. I wrongfully thought that the mutual friend was trying to take advantage of The Mooch's unstable relocation situation and wanted to profit from having The Mooch stay with her. In all actuality, the mutual friend was fairly requesting upfront that The Mooch assume equal financial responsibility for the space they would have shared. She was well within her rights - as both a New Yorker and as a friend.

However, my roommate and I - initially and foolishly finding it harsh to charge The Mooch immediately upon her arrival in the city (even though millions of other NYC transplants begin paying outrageous amounts for a roof over their heads the moment they change their zip code) - offered to let The Mooch stay in our Midtown apartment under the following conditions:
1) She could stay with us as long as she needed.
2) She could sleep in my roommate's bed (with my roommate) regularly; she and her boyfriend could sleep on my couch whenever he wanted to stay over; she and her boyfriend could use my room whenever I was out of town as long as they washed the sheets before I returned.
3) She should start contributing financially as soon as she could.

Number 3 was where we went wrong. The Mooch moved in the last week of December in 2008. By May 2009, she had still been unable to secure full-time employment, yet refused to consider waitressing, retail or other gigs not befitting "a recent college graduate." By June 2009, she had been living with us rent-free for five months.

Things I Now Know Since The Mooch Moved in Six Months Ago
1) After one month - or even just two weeks of staying in our $2500-month, 600-square foot, two-bedroom apartment in Midtown - The Mooch was no longer a guest; she was living with us.
2) Once she began forwarding her mail and listing our address on West 51st Street as her own - The Mooch was no longer a guest; she was living with us.
3) Once I began overhearing her tell friends on the phone, "I'm back at my apartment now," - The Mooch was no longer a guest; she was living with us.
4) Once she began asking me and my roommate if her out-of-town friends could stay at our apartment during their NYC visit - The Mooch was no longer a guest; she was living with us.
5) Once The Mooch stopped allowing my roommate's own dog into my roommate's own bed - The Mooch was no longer a guest; she was living with us.
6) I should not have assumed that The Mooch would have a personal sense of self-accountability for the space she shared with us.
7) I should not have assumed that this said self-accountability would compel The Mooch to feel responsible for contributing to the rent within 1-2 months (maybe even three, tops).
8) I should have been clear on my expectations instead of assuming that The Mooch had the same sense of personal responsibility that I have (e.g. when I slept on an air mattress for three months in the living room of my best friend's $1000-South Bronx, two-bedroom apartment, I contributed $200/month toward their rent, bringing their equal portions to $400/month each, and I took it upon myself to keep toilet paper, paper towels and other "communal items" fully stocked over the three months I stayed there).
9) The Mooch once tried to pretend that she didn't know we were out of trash bags, even though someone had emptied the trash can half way to make more room instead of buying more trash bags (and my roommate told me that she had not touched the trash). The Mooch also often acted like she didn't have to buy more toilet paper because she bought the "last round". She'd rather substitute travel tissue paper, napkins and paper towels while waiting for me or my roommate to get the next round of TP, which always made me want to scream, "Dude! You live here rent free! We shouldn't be taking turns buying the toilet paper; you should always buy it!" But I didn't.
10) My roommate and I are enabling The Mooch to have no sense of urgency to find permanent, full-time employment, to have no need to pick up a second part-time job after finally obtaining a full-time job with a low salary in late-May, and to take a week of unpaid leave from said low-salary employment to go on vacation with her boyfriend to Aruba in June. Rather than help her develop into a proud, independent New Yorker, we allow her to spend her money frivolously instead of paying a fair portion of the rent. Meanwhile my roommate and I continue to make careful decisions and sacrifices in order to sustain our lives in New York City. We are enabling The Mooch to do things that most middle- and lower-income people cannot do when they first relocate to New York City.
11) The Mooch moved in with my roommate and I just six months after we began our $2500-month lease on West 51st Street. Just like the mutual friend in Harlem was within her rights to expect rent immediately from The Mooch upon her relocation from Arizona, we would have been within our rights to ask her to split our $3000-broker fee three ways and divide the monthly rent fairly between us. If we had known that The Mooch was going to end up staying over half a year (not to mention the $5000-security deposit and first and last month's rent that my roommate and I paid up front), we would have expected an equal contribution.
12) I was wrong for denigrating the mutual friend for wanting to charge The Mooch half the rent on her $1200-Harlem studio.
13) I am a coward for blogging about this instead of telling The Mooch how I really feel.

Things The Mooch Does Not Know That We Know
1) The Mooch, who relocated from Arizona, is using my roommate and I to live closer to her boyfriend, who lives with his parents in Long Island. She doesn't want to contribute financially to our current living situation because she wants to save money while waiting for him to be ready to move into an apartment with her. So she is using us to be closer to him and foster their relationship until he is ready for cohabitation.
2) When The Mooch goes shopping with another mutual friend, that mutual friend reports back that The Mooch throws away her receipts, shopping bags and boxes and hides her new purchases in a large purse or tote bag because she doesn't want my roommate and I to know she has been shopping.
3) After searching craigslist job postings for about 20 minutes a day, she walked leisurely around the city throughout most of the spring months, with Starbucks coffee in hand, accompanied by the same mutual friend mentioned in #2 - instead of visiting more temp agencies, going door to door with her resume, and looking for jobs (however, she knows that we know not to even ask her to consider the food service industry even though we live in the heart of Hell's Kitchen and mere steps from the plethora of restaurants on Ninth Avenue).
4) The Mooch bought her boyfriend a $350-camera for his recent birthday, but led us to believe that she could only afford to bake him a cake.
5) The Mooch had just learned of her boyfriend's disloyal indiscretions a few weeks prior to his birthday - thus proving that she'd rather buy her cheating boyfriend a present than pay rent to her more-than-generous friends.
6) We were willing to do more for The Mooch than her own family was willing (case in point: her own brother and his new wife live on the Upper East Side and would not have allowed her to crash with them for half a year, rent-free).
7) The Mooch doesn't want to live in New York City. She wants to be a merry, little housewife, and her current boyfriend is the best - and maybe only - shot she'll ever have at achieving her marital, baby-making dreams.*
8) People who really want to succeed in New York City are willing to wait tables or fold T-shirts in a GAP or do whatever it takes to be self-sufficient. She is not one of those people. She shamelessly continues to take advantage of a generous living situation despite the fact that I am making it clear that she has worn out her welcome.

To be fair, The Mooch is relatively easy to live with. She is clean, she didn't often leave her stuff all over the apartment (though I often tidy up after her), and she is generally friendly. However, I initially became irritated when my roommate expressed her frustration to me regarding The Mooch's response to a possible receptionist position at the engineering firm where my roommate is an executive assistant: "I didn't move to New York City to be a receptionist." And I further lost my patience with our living arrangement when we asked The Mooch to begin paying $300/month on June 1 and she replied that she would rather pay $200.

To continue fairly noting the occurrence of events, The Mooch did end up taking the receptionist position at the end of May 2009, but not without some strong encouragement from my roommate. And The Mooch did begin paying $300/month on June 1 after I made it clear that it was not negotiable. But to be completely blunt, I don't know how The Mooch failed her NY teacher's licensing exams this month when she has supposedly been studying for the last six months - sans the responsibilities and long hours associated with full-time, or even part-time, employment. Maybe she should have spent less time walking leisurely around the city with Starbucks coffee.

I don't know what to do even though I know what I need to do. But even though she has it in her heart to completely take advantage of our generosity - and potentially permanently tarnish her close friendship with my roommate - I don't have the heart to tell her that I think she's a puerile, manipulative, indolent sloth - to put it lightly.

Help!

Dear Abby ... [sigh]

*No offense to current baby-makers; I totally want to be a baby-maker one day, but I refuse to use my current so-called friends in order to achieve my eventual, long-term dream of family life. Or step on my friends for any other reason, for that matter.

In the Wake of Tough Love

Partied with our girl Natasha and her friend Abiola at the "Tough Love" Season Finale Charity Soiree last night at The 40/40 Club. I'm sure there are photos online somewhere.

In the meantime, check out Natasha's new Shop NYC Tour blog, where she dishes about her company, ShopNYC Tours. Whether guiding tourists or locals, shopping vintage or high fashion or visiting the East Village or Meatpacking, you'll hear about the best shopping NYC has to offer.

For more information about New York City shopping tours, visit www.shop-nyctours.com.

Other irrelevant reports of the day: My boss sat next to James Worthy on a flight from JFK to LAX today. If you are not an avid basketball fan ... you may need Wikipedia or a basketball-savvy boyfriend to find out.

A Year Ago Today:
Brunching and Walking on a Sunday Afternoon
City Walk #19 - Upper West Side 4: Church and Gown
Phone Photo Ops - City Walk #19
Two Years Ago Today: No post

Shameless Plug

I was at a TastingNYC event at Taj tonight with Natasha (M. - not to be confused with my roommate Natasha S.), chatting about her "real" life without the "Tough Love" cameras while our friend Stacey flirted with a handsome guy named Larry over $6-wine specials. Natasha is no longer working with the Sex and the City tour group since she began her own tour company ShopNYC Tours.

Natasha has created a series of comprehensive shopping tours catered to your retail needs and preferences with convenient door-to-door mobile transportation, eliminating the stresses associated with available parking, slaloming crowded sidewalks, or lugging bags through subway turnstiles. At an affordable price (especially relative to the costs of parking and taxicabs in New York), she really does create a memorable VIP shopping experience in some of Manhattan's best-kept retail secrets and hidden gems.

If you are ever in NYC, you should go shopping with her! Tell her I sent you.

ShopNYCTours.com (Use code TUFLUV for 10% off any shopping tour!)

A Year Ago Today: "Things I Love" Thursdays - Random Acts of New Yorker Kindness
Two Years Ago Today: Connecting in Chantilly & Beyond

The Best Things in Life are on The Dollar Menu

My boyfriend's best friend plays for an NBA team out west, and on a recent trip east, his live-in girlfriend made the journey to New York City to see him play in Madison Square Garden. It wasn't your usual first trip (ever) to New York. It involved all of the perks of dating a multimillion-dollar athlete that make you want to hate her - but you can't even be jealous because you are giddily watching the fairytale actually happen to someone who deserves it. A girl from his hometown, who never made it her goal in life to date a professional athlete, and who - despite her dramatically transformed lifestyle - manages to somehow remain untainted, unabsorbed, unoccupied by the hype.

A season ticket holder at their home arena has become close friends with us over the past few years and emailed me prior to her trip: And she told me that [name eradicated] would be taking her shopping on 5th Avenue, and she's asking me...What's 5th Avenue?!! Haha! Won't she have a blast!

In addition to Fifth Avenue shopping, her first trip to New York City included a few Midtown sights, gourmet meals, club seats at Madison Square Garden, and a room key to the W Hotel in Times Square. Club seats she shared with me, I might add! And because her boyfriend had to fly back west immediately after the game and her return flight wasn't until the next day, she shared her room at the W with me, too, and we made it a girls' night. With anything we could possibly desire at the press of the W's Whatever/Wherever button, we really lived it up ... with cotton pajamas and McDonald's parfaits! The floor-to-ceiling-window view over Times Square was merely incidental (wink).

A Year Ago Today: The Perfect City
Two Years Ago Today:
Colleague Convo - Through Swayze's Tree
Commute-Associated Hazards

"Things I Love" Thursdays - Movie Premieres

It may be just a coincidental pattern, but some of the best recollections of pivotal moments in my life have fallen on Thursdays. Maybe it's true what they say about the power of positive thinking. In any case, today's Thing-I-Love Thursday is "movie premieres."

Who doesn't love movie premieres? Whether you are the quintessential New Yorker, born and raised, who simultaneously loves and hates everything that makes this city what it is -- or the trite and contrived wanna-be, who - in an effort to feel like less of an outsider - does not respect their role as a transplant New Yorker -- either way, it's cool as hell to turn a corner in the streets of Manhattan and roll up on an A-list celebrity event (no matter how long you've lived here as noted in Exhibit A or Exhibit B). But how cool would it be if you were ever actually invited?

I found out on Tuesday morning when my best friend called me on my cell phone. I slipped out of my cubicle and into my boss's empty office to take the call.

"Guess who's coming to tomorrow night's premiere?" she squealed. With a small - yet substantial role - in Tyler Perry's latest film, she was in New York, crashing at my apartment and meeting with her agent, publicist and stylists for Wednesday night's red carpet event at the AMC Loews on the Upper West Side. Not to mention that a BET camera crew would be following her through her premiere day preparations. When she walks out of an apartment door in Hell's Kitchen and introduces herself, I am proud to say that the apartment door would be mine. (The previous sentence is meant to be read using Chandler-from-"Friends" inflection.)

Looking out over my boss's high-rise view of Bryant Park, I blurted out viscerally, "Denzel Washington!"

"Nope," she replied. Michelle Obama. Nope. Oprah? Nope. Angela Bassett? Nope. Will Smith? Nope. Diddy? Nope. I went through my personal list of top Black actors and entrepreneurs. Impatient, she began to drop hints.

"She's a secretary."

"... Of State?" I said. "Hillary Clinton?"

"No!" she finally exclaimed. "You!"

"Me?!?!?!" I could barely contain my excitement, jumping up and down and struggling to keep from screaming in my boss's office. However, there was one issue that I had to address before I let the exhilaration consume me. I momentarily stopped bouncing around the office and said matter-of-factly: "But, Tokii ... I'm not a secretary. I'm an executive assistant."

With less than 24 hours to the premiere, I left my office immediately after work and went hunting for a dress, which I found quickly and easily at a store in Columbus Circle. I wanted to find something classy, but not overdone. Something that looked like I was meant to be there, but didn't look like I was trying too hard. Something that said, I'm so proud of my best friend and put careful time and thought into honoring this invitation, but without drawing unnecessary attention. How does one dress for a movie premiere? That's already a tough question for the people who actually have to fear widespread post-event wardrobe criticism. It's an even tougher question for someone who was just invited solely because their friend's agent was able to get an extra ticket. I went with a low-cut, sleeveless black trench dress that seemed appropriate for a guest of an actor and was also appropriate for my wallet - especially after I applied the $100 American Express gift card that my boss had given me recently.

When I arrived at the theater, I met my best friend's agent at the side entrance and we found a front-row spot near the end of the red carpet, adjacent the E! and BET camera crews. The stars arrived, one by one, pausing expertly with their best angles projected toward multiple shutters. I waited eagerly, tiny digital camera at the ready, for when I would see her appear on the red carpet, and only slightly aware that I was lightly trembling and intermittently forgetting to breathe. As the seconds ticked away, I tried to mentally process what was happening immediately in front of me. And to enjoy the moment. Because, from what I've perceived of an industry like Hollywood, you have to indulge in each blessing you receive. Actors - and the people who know and love them - can just never be sure when their next blessing will come around. One moment you might be the next up-and-coming sensation, another moment you might wine-and-dine at the very top of the A-List, the next - the tabloids are publishing your most unattractive photos and reveling in your demise.

And as I stood gazing down the red carpet, watching the shutters flash and the reporters thrust their microphones into the faces of Tyler Perry, Derek Luke, Keshia Knight Pulliam, Sofia Vergara, Mary J. Blige, and Ray J. to name(drop) a few, I thought about how much work has gone into these few strolling red carpet moments. And I don't just mean the rolling out of the carpet and setting up of the lights. As often happens whenever I get exciting news regarding my best friend's acting career, I could not stop the mental reel of flashbacks over the last ten years - filled with shining moments and false hopes, extreme highs and incredible disappointments, a rollar coaster of emotions, physical strife and the risks of the unknown, all which leave you simultaneously anticipating the next thrill and dreading the next fall. I'm not going to go into the clichés of Tokii's starving actor story, but the clichés for actors - or anyone with a dream - are the mere truths of entire lives - most of which goes unseen, unnoticed, unacknowledged, unrewarded. The camera catches the glamour of the Hollywood red carpet, but not many outsiders really comprehend the volumes of proverbial blood, sweat and tears that go into a few snapshots and sound bites. I certainly don't have a fundamental grasp of it all - at least not more than peripherally.

And then, there she was. My best friend. Smiling for the wide-angle lenses and chatting comfortably with reporters. As I strained to get a shot of her on my own tiny Canon digital camera, a bodyguard poked a little fun at me: "Why are you taking that picture from so far away?"

"Leave her alone," a woman wearing a headset and carrying a clipboard said over his shoulder, "She's with the talent."

In characteristically-corny-Katie, the headset-and-clipboard-woman's brief statement went on repeat in my head. She's with the talent. If I were a peacock, I would have been slowly pacing along the end of the red carpet with a huge, open plume of feathers. If pride were helium, my head might have exploded.

"Why don't you go out on the red carpet and get a closer shot of her?" the bodyguard whispered to me.

"No way!" I hissed back. "I can't do that."

"Sure, you can," he insisted. "Hurry before you miss all the good shots."

I hesitated, too timid to set a foot on the red velvet in front of me. The simultaneous anticipation and fear of the unknown washed over me, much the way it did when I was riding up I-81 to begin my new life in New York City over three years ago. Much the way it did when I went apartment and job hunting to open the next chapter of my life. The risk of embarrassment at being shooed away as an outsider on this coveted Hollywood landscape loomed. But the idea of the personal shots I could get of my best friend being interviewed and photographed sparked some courage. I leaned toward him, "Will you go with me?"

He laughed, "Sure! Let's go."

So I did.


"Things I Love" Thursdays are inspired by "I Love New York" (BNY, February 14, 2007).
A Year Ago Today:
Official Quotes of Our NBA All-Star 2008
NBA All-Star 2008
Two Years Ago Today:
More Reasons to Love New York

Food, Fun & Life in the Big Apple

Awesome Things About this Week*:

A good friend, and fellow anonymous NYC blogger, gave me a pair of sixth row tickets to Tuesday's Nets game, which I gave to my roommate and the girl sleeping on our couch. A proud and indefinite inhabitant of our Hell's Kitchen apartment since December 29, she's like our own Half Baked "Guy on the Couch" - without the plume of smoke. Since relocating from Phoenix, she's been looking for employment in the city, and though I'd love to use my blog to foster networking opportunities for her, I live in morbid fear of creepy cyber stalkers. However, if any of my NYC blogger friends - with whom I've developed legitmate relationships - have any leads, please email them to my personal email account. She has a B.A. in Elementary Education and is considering any teaching opportunities and nanny positions.

I went to see Wicked with my aunt and cousin, visiting from Upstate New York and Syracuse respectively. Add it to your Broadway must-sees. We also ate at one of my favorite Italian spots Roberto Passon and tried a sushi spot across from the Gershwin Theatre called Bluechili.

A quarter-of-a-million dollar house sat on my couch - in the form of a 5-carat diamond engagement ring (phone photo op below).

DrunkBrunch won a one-hour open bar at the Village Pour House on the Upper West Side.

My best friend was crashing at our apartment while she was in the city to consult with her agent, publicist, wardrobe stylist and hair and make-up artist regarding next week's red carpet premiere of Madea Goes to Jail, in which she plays in her first major onscreen role!

*Note: Results not typical of most weeks as a resident of New York City.

A Year Ago Today: "Things I Love" Thursdays - This Week in General
Two Years Ago Today: You Know It's Brrrrr

The Official-Unofficial Inauguration Party

Making responsible choices - like not flying back to D.C. yesterday after work on the 7:55pm JetBlue flight for a post-inauguration gala party hosted by Jeffery Wright, to which my best friend was invited, and fly back today - SUCK.

Our plan was for me to return to New York this morning on a 6 o'clock flight out of Dulles. Just in time for me to drag myself into the office in yesterday's little black dress. The only obstacle that stood in our way was car service to the airport directly from the party at 4am. Car service companies were either completely booked, charging $200+ from Georgetown to the surrounding airports or requiring three-hour minimum reservations. And on-call taxi companies were expecting to run on two-hour-plus delays. All options that diminished the welcome surprise of a fairly inexpensive, last-minute, round trip airfare.

Since I had already afforded myself the entire three-day weekend for a last-second trip to D.C. and enjoyed the adrenaline rush of spontaneity on my race to JFK a few days earlier, my best friend and I agreed that a mature, 29-year old, with a middle-class income and upper-class rent, would opt not to return to D.C. less than 24 hours after leaving. I reminded myself to be grateful for the recent inaugural opportunities of which I had been able to take advantage and decided not to pout.

While alleviating the final wisps of disappointment with a bottle of Two Buck Chuck, my roommate and I discussed our New York City Inauguration options: pricey socialite, celebrity and charity balls, neighborhood bar presidential specials, our living room ... And that's when we - and our empty bottles of Two Buck Chuck - devised a most excellent plan. We would have an Official-Unofficial Inauguration Ball in our Hell's Kitchen apartment. We would dress up in evening gowns. We would pop cheap champagne. We'd serve light hor'devours from Food Emporium. We'd watch Barack and Michelle dance their first dance as First Man and First Woman from our own four-floor walk-up. It was brilliant. Never mind the weeks of PR surrounding Obama's Neighborhood Ball, where the use of interactive technology including text messaging and webcasting, would link together attendees at other neighborhood balls across the country. Our idea was incredible. We invited Neighbor Dave. He happened to have a tux. It was like kismet.

Our plan was to dance and drink in our apartment until we were brave enough to venture into the bar downstairs in our formal evening attire. Instead we danced and drank until we fell asleep.

The country awoke this morning in a world where a Black family is making the White House a home. And I woke up remembering that I'm not 19 anymore ... but it sure is a great year to be 29.

Photos to be posted.

A Year Ago Today: The London Post
Two Years Ago Today: Juilliard Sunday Football

Other Inaugural Recollections

The energy in D.C. was electrifying. There is no other way to describe it. I have heard it compared to the positive and uplifting vibe that John F. Kennedy brought to the nation's capitol when he was the President-Elect of the United States. Having just turned 29 on January 18, I cannot recall the emotions of watching JFK being sworn into office ... since I did not yet exist, but I feel a new empathy for that time and the mentality fueled by a country's hope for a historic change.

The personal highlight was joining my best friend in some of her first baby steps onto the Hollywood social scene, but the bigger picture was entirely consumed by narcissistic pleasures. The weekend was made all the more memorable by the droves of Obama supporters swarming about D.C. There was a steady hum that made the hair on the back of your neck stand up. There was a collective realization that we were witnessing the preparation for something extraordinary, a simultaneous moment in time that would have a distinct and simultaneously united view from every angle. Though I regretted not being able to stay through Tuesday for the Inauguration, I was grateful that I got to sense the anticipation and experience the atmosphere first hand.

At an awards brunch on Sunday, I heard Kerri Washington and Hill Harper give incredible politcal activism award acceptance speeches, each poignantly recounting their campaign journeys or their personal interaction with Obama. Washington's message was one of unity, reminding supporters that he is equally an interracial symbol of the evolving face of America as well as a role model for those of color, who are now finding the courage to consider the possibilities. Harper told a beautiful and endearingly witty story reliving the semesters he shared with Obama at Harvard Law School.

After an interesting first night that led from the chaos of car keys (permanently) lost by the valet to oddly-formed new friendships and various jaunts around the capitol to witness the sights, we rounded out the three-day MLK weekend by celebrating my 29th birthday yesterday before today's afternoon flight back to NYC. We had dinner at Marvin and hopped over to an Eric Roberson concert at The Black Cat. Afterward, we went out for drinks with my secret service buddy (off duty from his assignment to Joe Biden) and his fellow agents at J. Paul's in Georgetown. Throughout the course of the evening, my secret service buddy mentioned his admiration for my spontaneity with regard to my last minute trip on one of the most hectic and historic weekends in Washington D.C.'s history.

"You're doing something that very few people really do," he yelled over the bar chatter in J. Paul's. "And you know what it's called?"

He leaned into my ear, "It's called living."

I could not have been given a better compliment on my birthday.

Impromptu In Review

My best friend had called me in New York at 10am to see if I could join her for a few entertainment industry events in Washington D.C. surrounding the Presidential Inauguration of Barack Obama. She joked that as an H-List celebrity, she does not often receive much advanced notice for events, and since her husband could not attend at the last minute, she hoped I would join her for the three-day MLK Weekend and pre-inauguration festivities. I was on a plane out of JFK by 3:30 in the afternoon.

The focus and highlight of the weekend was watching my best friend find her place amidst Hollywood minglers. After ten years of watching her perform at WCU, The Juilliard School and in the small but gratifying array of professional stage, TV and film credits to her name, it was incredibly surreal and exciting to join her in this weekend's perks of her budding success and act like I attend stuff like this all the time without also appearing trite and contrived.

If my best friend ever becomes an A-List celebrity, events like these may likely become commonplace routines in her life, which will ultimately lack the electrifying amateur excitement of rookie Hollywood minglers. I can only hope that her talent and love for acting breeds a career that makes her a famous A-Lister - not because of socialite association or shock-valued scandal - but because the skill in her craft touches the spirit, moves the soul and inspires the creativity of art imitating life. Until then, her "H-List" status will ensure that industry events, to which she may be invited - even if her RSVP is not A-List priority - will continue to make us giggle like school girls at the end of the night.

A Year Ago Today: No post
Two Years Ago Today: Becoming 27 in New York City

Not Your Typical Rush Hour

The irony of Twitter per twitter.com/JKrums ...

jkrums: Leaving the city, had a great day. Trying to beat the traffic. Wish me luck! about 1 hour ago from Twittelator

jkrums: http://twitpic.com/135xa - There's a plane in the Hudson. I'm on the ferry going to pick up the people. Crazy. about 1 hour ago from TwitPic

And coincidentally, JKrum's Twitter update, which I followed on Twitter, prompted an interview on MSNBC and a post on another reputable news source: Gawker.com.

I wonder if he helped haul Monique's boss out of U.S. Airways Flight #1549 bound for Charlotte, which experienced a crash landing in the Hudson River just off the shore from my apartment in Hell's Kitchen.

Sometimes the world becomes so small when you're just trying to beat rush hour traffic. And kudos to the pilot for skillfully avoiding my 42nd Street office building and my West 50's abode on his descent.

Thurs, 5:12pm EST Update: And a Facebook friend just uploaded the same photo in his profile. Instant globalization through technology at its best. I bet JKrum had no idea that he would be on MSNBC this afternoon thanks to a TwitPic or that his name would be googled more than "Kim Kardashian's ass" by the end of the workday. Actually I know that for a fact because his updates on Twitter don't indicate that he wondered about either of these things this morning. But I suppose the bigger picture here (no pun intended) is that I bet none of those passengers thought they'd be standing on the wing of a sinking plane in the middle of the Hudson River. And I'll bet my 401(k) and employee stock that they had no idea they'd crash land within a hop, skip and a few breast strokes from my* Midtown apartment.

Thurs, 5:38pm EST Update: The media has labeled the cause of the crash a bird strike. Is this a final attempt by the Bush Administration to embed war-on-terror propaganda in news headlines?

Thurs, 5:54pm EST Update: One of my coworkers just forwarded me an email that was sent by her cousin with JKrum's TwitPic attached and the following note: Coworker is on the ferry on the Hudson right now… took a camera phone pic.

If JKrum had been an anonymous blogger (or twitter-er), I'd now know where he works ... but based on his Twitter updates, Facebook link and his willingness to accept interviews, he's not worried about remaining anonymous or encouraging virtual stalkers. And he's lucky I'm not crazy cause his profile pic is h-o-t. Maybe Janis Krum will become my next news-breaking celebrity crush. Move over, Chris Cuomo. But I'll suppress the urge to add him on Facebook.

Fri, 9:30am EST Update: I overheard another coworker mention that one of her close friends was on the flight bound for Charlotte.

Sat, 11am EST Update: Reporters have been contacting my parents in North Carolina regarding the whereabouts of their neighbor, who was one of the flight attendants on Flight 1549.

Mon, 10:30am EST Update: Monique sent an article written about her boss, who mentions having held the front cabin door open for a flight attendant named Sheila (my parents' next door neighbor in NC) as she worked to assist passengers escape from the sinking airline.

*BNY, author of "Becoming A New Yorker", a blog whose personal explorations and astonding revelations of daily NYC transplant-life receive an astounding 14 page views per day (information courtesy of SiteMeter)

A Year Ago Today: No post
Two Years Ago Today: No post

Miracle on 34th Street

I was not permitted to blog about the great news until all pertinent parties had been informed. Now that the cat is officially out of the bag, I am celebrating in the blogosphere.

On Thursday, November 20, heretofore known as "HeSheIt" Day, I was standing on the southwest corner of 34th and Seventh with Tokii after dinner and a basketball game in Madison Square Garden (her husband is an assistant coach for a top NCAA team playing in the 2K Sports Classic benefiting Coaches vs Cancer). Yawning through farewell hugs, I was bidding her good night when she paused and took my hand. Placing it on her belly, she said, "But first, meet your god child."

Suddenly wide awake, squealing and jumping up and down under the neon lights of Midtown, the curious stares actually blurred around us. I could not just go home after news like that. After regaining my composure, we went to get coffee and talk about the he/she/it forming inside of my best friend ... and more importantly, what an amazing God Mother I am going to be - the years ahead of cards and presents for Birthdays, Christmases, Graduations and HeSheIt Days.

She might not believe it - so I didn't tell her - but when I was standing in line for my ticket at the team will call and she waved from beyond the barricade to get my attention, I experienced nanoseconds in which I thought, "Wow. She is glowing." Yet within those mere seconds I assumed that either (1) the TV studio sure does take good care of their actors' skin and hair or (2) she is really happy to see her best friend. Looking back now, I want to believe that I had sensed something was different about her.

Over coffee in the lobby of a nearby hotel, we discussed how she might surprise her husband with the joyous news, how her family and our friends would react, and what challenges lay ahead in juggling her unplanned pregnancy with a significant role on a national television show. Her husband called periodically as the night grew later and his evening obligations to the team were winding down, and we giggled excitedly about the fact that he would soon be a father. I did not get home until after 2am and still had to pack for a weekend trip to DC for an Andrea Bocelli concert at the Washington National Opera. When I woke up a few hours later to get ready for work, it was the funniest thing ... the sky really was bluer.

A Year Ago Today: Back to My Life
Two Years Ago Today: When the Past Comes Back

My Main Cast

It took me almost a year to find the close circle of friends that I now have in the city. Last July-September, I began hanging out regularly with a few woman in Manhattan. Because of our diverse ethnic backgrounds, we once jokingly called ourselves "The United Colors of Benetton" and personalized a Disney fairies image that now hangs in some of our offices. The name for our clique never really stuck - not that we've ever tried to label ourselves as if we were some sort of girl band - but the group has gradually updated itself since the initial Cast of Characters post to encompass a beautiful group of women that I am proud to call friends.

Hallmark should make a card that reads, There are 8 million people in New York City, and we found each other. I'd buy one for all of them.

In alphabetical order:
Debasha - the fashion corporate merchandise planner
Iris - the fashion designer / personal shopper extraordinare
Jackie - the cocktail waitress who receives $100 tips from Jay-Z for counting his cash
Mayra, the international manufacturing, research and multimedia supervisor
Natasha M. (Tasha or T) - the film and TV voiceover/actress and the best "Sex and the City" Tour Guide ever
Natasha S. (Natasha) - the finance executive and fabulous roommate dubbed by the Former SNL Actor: "A White Girl Who Swallowed a Black Girl" (check her out from behind and you'll see what he meant)
Ra - the shoe designer and footwear guru

Other main characters (around and about NYC):
Bobbi (Tokii) - the best friend from college, whose acting career takes her in and out of the city
Annisha - the publishing marketer
Candice - the flight attendant
Cassie - the Connecticut-based nanny, soon-to-be-fulltime-New Yorker
Gina - the fashion merchandiser who just moved to LA

A Year Ago Today: September Sunrise
No Title for Last Night
August's Sunset
Two Years Ago Today: VMAs, Mass Celebrity Sighting and Almost TGIF

The "Reality" Next Door

In New York, you're more likely to see aspiring assistants running down your street on an episode of "I Want to Work for Diddy".

A Year Ago Today: No post
Two Years Ago Today: Phone Photo Ops - My Best Friend's Wedding

Creating Coincidences

I don't know if it's coincidence that major personal events often take place around June 7 or August 3 or if it's Rickey's way of helping me not dwell on anniversaries. The part of me that aches to believe in the impossible wants to embrace the latter, but the part of me that clings to logic reminds me that - five years later - I am still vainly searching for some sort of connection with him.

It's like when my mom - a devout Catholic - found me a few days after Rickey's death sitting at my brother's computer in their Asheville home, crying and googling psychics who claimed to communicate with the dead.

"Oh, Katie," she said as she touched my shoulder, "I know you want to believe in things like that right now, but those people are taking advantage of those who are hurting like you are."

I knew she was right, but it made me angry that she said that. I wanted someone to tell me that he wasn't gone forever. That there was still some way to reach out, to communicate, to right our wrongs, to say all the things I should have said. Maybe that's why I can't help but count coincidences.

September 3, 2003. A month after he died, I received the job offer for my first post-collegiate job.

August 3, 2004. Nothing happened. I called in sick to work and kept my bedroom door shut. I fully expected to spend the day crying. Instead I was numb. I screened phone calls and watched TV.

August 3, 2005. Terrence and I were driving overnight from Sacramento to Las Vegas. We had been camped out at Kevin's new house trying to catch overbooked flights to Atlanta. We drove overnight to the Las Vegas airport in order to catch an available flight and drive to Cullowhee in time for his college graduation. Long story.

August 3, 2006. Due to circumstances beyond my control, my scheduled August 1 "Move to NYC" date got pushed to August 2nd. The overnight journey in a rented stow-and-go minivan - packed to the brim with every possession I hadn't sold, donated or thrown away in North Carolina - had me riding over the George Washington Bridge in the early morning of August 3, blinking into the sunrise and not believing I had finally arrived. It was the hottest week in New York City's history. It was already 90 degrees and I was about to begin moving into the living room of my best friend's fourth floor walk-up in the South Bronx.

June 7, 2007. I was helping Tokii prepare to move from the South Bronx to New Jersey and into her first apartment with her fiancé.

August 3, 2007. I was in the middle of last minute bridesmaid duties for Tokii's August 10th wedding.

June 7, 2008. I was so busy closing the lease on my new apartment and preparing to move this week that June 7 crept up on me. I realized it was Rickey's birthday shortly after midnight as I was unpacking boxes in my new bedroom. He would have been 32 today.

I tear up over Rickey at random, unexpected times. When I see something, hear something or smell something that reminds me of him. But oddly enough, on most anniversaries, my emotions are dull. My eyes are dry.

I'm not grasping at as many straws as I used to when I was trying to keep my head above the emotional flood that gushed into my life after he died, but every now and then I notice a coincidence. And I reach up, grab a tiny straw and hold it tightly.

Unforgettable Day Weekend

Terrence left on Saturday morning to spend a few days with his family in Atlanta before joining friends in Ohio to play on Kevin's Gus Macker team in Zanesville. But there was no time for me to be sad following the end of his two-week visit because I had Saturday afternoon coffee and shopping in Soho, Saturday night dinner plans at Wild Ginger in the West Village, Sunday afternoon brunch at Roberto Passon in Hell's Kitchen, and a Memorial Day Weekend harbor cruise Sunday evening with various combinations of my best girlfriends.

Dinner on Saturday with all the usuals was relatively tame, but attributable to all-you-can-drink mimosas, bellinis, bloody marys and screwdrivers at Sunday brunch, there now exists photo documentation of me holding my dress over my head amongst some young Naval sailors in Times Square. I would love to depict myself as truly outrageous and free-spirited, but for the benefit of accurate memorial recordkeeping, I have to add that we began our Sunday morning sunbathing in Central Park and I was wearing a string bikini under my dress. So it wasn't as bold as it may seem, but with or without the panties, either version is a shameless salute to Fleet Week.

To celebrate Iris' birthday, we rounded out Memorial Day Weekend with a harbor cruise around Manhattan, a hook-up courtesy of a good friend who was DJ'ing on a yacht. Later, we were joined by Ra, Debasha and two of Iris' old roommates at a comped table at Club Home with one of our favorite promoters.

On a Hudson River party cruise, featured below from left to right:
Natasha (Natasha S., a newbie to NYC), Jackie (a new friend of Cassie's), Iris, me

Weekend on Wisteria Lane

"What is this weird gushy feeling I get whenever I see our friends' babies?" I asked Tokii over a Saturday brunch of pecan pancakes, french toast, hash brown souffle and scrambled eggs with cheese at a Cracker Barrel outside of New Haven (brunch location per Tokii's request; you can take the girl out of the South, but you can't take the South out of the girl).

"That would be called your biological clock," she replied between bites of sausage.

"I don't know why I start to feel like I want one of these when I see them," I said, nodding toward the miniature human in the highchair at the end of our table. "Can't I hit a snooze button?"

Friday evening, Debasha and I had arrived in Connecticut via the Metro-North to see Tokii perform in "The Bluest Eye", in which she was terrific as Claudia, just as The New York Times had said she was. Cassie and her best friend joined us for brunch, and in between hilariously inappropriate for family-style restaurants conversation, we were all oohing and aahing over her best friend's adorable baby boy.

"Slow your roll, girl!" Cassie's 23-year old best friend laughed.

"Slow my roll?" I shot back. "I'm 28."

She was surprised. I supposed her genuine shock at my age was a good thing. But I found myself wondering if my life choices were leading me down a path to being the unmarried, childless auntie of all of my friends' kids.

Cassie took Debasha and me on a tour of Yale University since Tokii had matinee and evening performances at the Long Wharf Theatre and was preparing for family members to arrive from North Carolina. So we transitioned from Tokii's temporary New Haven apartment on Friday night to a Saturday night in Cassie's third-floor space of the family she works for. She is the nanny of an Icelandic family of three adorable boys. I often joke that I would never hire a hot nanny, but I realized immediately that this wife should have little to worry about since she is a typical Scandinavian beauty.

New Haven is a picturesque town with tree-lined streets, white picket fences, old New England homes and adorable storefronts and cafes. Around every corner, I felt myself admiring the beauty, the space and the family-oriented landscape. And with every manicured yard, baby carriage and camera phone photo op, I felt either the urge to go watch Desperate Housewives or respond to my biological clock. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

We had a fun girls' evening on the town, where I learned in New Haven - of all places - that I love Cuban food, and ultimately ended the night only slightly earlier than usual with Cassie's DVD box set of "Sex and the City". The next morning we were awakened before 9 o'clock by the shrieks, bangs and crashes of three giggly little boys.

"Yes, it is this loud every morning," Cassie groaned from under her pillow as somewhere on a floor below us there was a giant thud and a shrill scream followed by laughter.

I rolled over and found the snooze button on my biological clock.

Dear Younger Self

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, Vodka sodas, 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 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'll 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. 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. Because you can.

Love Always,
Your 28-Year Old Self

Working in digital advertising, I generally know that most publisher sweepstakes are motivated by sponsorship opportunities, advertising partnerships and increasing website pageviews. However, finding myself inspired by Marie Claire's "Letters to Your Younger Self" Sweepstakes, I recently combined thoughts I've expressed in my blog over the past year and a half in a letter to my younger self.

The first draft greatly exceeded the 500-word maximum, and I worked diligently to condense it per their rules. With a tendency to be verbose, writing within a maximum constraint has typically been harder for me than reaching a minimum, especially when I'm motivated by a topic. Perhaps I'll post the unrevised draft another time.

Unfortunately, due to my recent health condition, I forgot about the sweepstakes this week and only realized this morning that entries were due by 11:59pm yesterday. Bummer. On a personal level - since I did take this letter to my younger self quite seriously - it's more appropriate anyway that it appear here in my blog, where I can read it whenever I want to reminisce on my journey of becoming a New Yorker - and ultimately of becoming me.

From "Marie Claire invites you to Win a New York City Adventure":
This contest is inspired by Ellyn Spargins' WHAT I KNOW NOW series of books featuring famous women who share their personal letters. To get tips for how to write a letter your younger self, visit www.letterstomyyoungerself.com.

THE THREE MOST INSPIRING LETTER ENTRANTS WILL WIN [Assuming that my letter would have been good enough to win anyway]:
- A two-night trip to New York City [I already live here]
- An exciting photo shoot - a picture from each winner's photo session will be featured alongw ith their letter in an upcoming issue [It might have blown my blogger anonymity; not that enough people even read my blog to determine a connection]
- Lunch with Ellyn Spargins and a Marie Claire editor [That would have been pretty cool]
- Gift bag complete with a pair of YOU by CrocsTM shoes [28-year old women should not be wearing Crocs; strike 2 if you decorate yours with charms]