trying to be a part of it

So, I am in New York. Or perhaps more appropriately: I am in New York, so?

It's not that I'm having a horrible time here, it's just that it is not what I expected. All I hear from everyone around me (friends, family, strangers) is how wonderful it is in New York City. How everyone loves it. How it is the only city in the world.

As I was telling my friend S last night at dinner, I'm not in love yet. At this point in my relationship with this sparkling city, I am unsure about our future together. I'll go out on a second date, maybe give it a kiss Codington, but I am not in love. I arrived here almost one week ago, and since then I've had mixed feelings. Sometimes I answer the phone when NY calls, sometimes I want to screen. The rain hasn't helped. Last night almost felt right, but only for a moment. Only when I looked up at the light as I was crossing Park to get the subway at 33rd. For that small moment I felt like I belonged.

I'm not sure how long it will take to adjust. How long before I am the girl reading a book on the subway, not even looking at the map? How much longer before I am the well-dressed woman carrying a Bergdorf Goodman bag? I doubt I will ever be her, but it's nice to dream.

When I arrived in my dorm room, the walls were empty, except for a handwritten sign that reads 'I love you.' It seemed a peace offering from the city itself. So I will give NYC another shot. I will get dressed up and make small talk over drinks in the hopes that I will someday return the feelings.

Spring Cleaning

Coming back to DC from New York this past weekend was a breath of fresh air. The streets of the district were crowded with trees and leaves, rather than people, tulips rather than puddles. And that made me realize: it is undeniably Spring.

Spring is the time for metaphorical renewal, and all those sorts of symbolic events, but it's also the time for the tangible. It's time for shaved legs and painted toenails. It's time to let my hair air dry and wear a skirt. It's time for the reappearance of shoulders. It's time for the coconut scent of sunblock barely rubbed in, and the coconut scent of Malibu liberally poured into sweating glasses of juice. It's time to take a book outside and walk to Adams Morgan instead of Metro. It's time to open the windows and turn off the AC. Switch from the heavy comforter to a light blanket. Drive through the suburbs with the windows down and sun roof open. Rent bikes. Make iced tea and fruit salad. Eat hot dogs smothered in ketchup and dripping ice cream cones.

It's also time to graduate, and suddenly, it really feels like it's time.

Masquerading.

I was born with black hair. I don't mean that fuzz that newborns usually have, but black, comb-able hair. And then it fell out. What grew in was a shock: blonde. Nordic, white, blonde hair. And it's been that way all my life. I am no yellow California blonde, I am Irish, never see the sunlight blonde.

I recently died my hair brown. The first time it came out auburn, but I died it even darker. The box says hazelnut. I met up with a friend that night who refers to dying blonde hair brown as 'pulling an Ashlee' (as in Ashlee Simpson). This friend dyed her last year, and has loved it. I worried about her reaction. The first thing she said: "Apparently, blondes even do brunette better."

As a blonde, I felt big. I was obvious, buxom, Bardot and constantly proving my intelligence. As a brunette I am a secret. I am mysterious and powerful and worth a second, even a third, look. I am coy and cool and soft words that flow off the tongue rather than stumble out. And I am really enjoying myself.

It was worth it.

Last night, after an incredibly long day, some friends and I went out to Apex to celebrate the emancipation (more on that some other time). It may have not been my best plan, since I'd been up since 8 am, gone to the gym, walked 2 miles to and from work, and then worked at Coney (an ice cream store) for four hours before heading out to dance like nobody's business. And yet, I did. That's just how the emancipation works.

Also, I was hoping to find a cute girl to make out with, but no such luck. More on that later as well. It was mostly guys, which makes sense, since it's primarily a guy's club , but it was fantastic nonetheless. Wonderful remixes of Kelly, Deborah Cox (that song will never die) and the requisite Madonna. We made friends because guys kept asking if we were lesbians or if it was someone's birthday. We said neither, and then they asked if we ever made out. Apparently straight guys are not alone in wanting girls to make out with each other.

And now, by body aches in places I didn't know existed. I'm being bad and skipping class, but there's no way I can get out of interning and working tonight. Oh well, it was definitely worth it.

Own It

I was watching a rerun of Top Chef the other night, and one of the contestants brought her plate out to the table, explaining that she had hoped it would come out differently. One of the judges remarked that when you bring out a plate, you have to be completely behind it, whether it's what you intended or not.

And that brings me to this post. I don't want to live my life the way that chef cooked. I don't want to get to the end of my life, and present my past and say, "Well, I hoped it would come out differently." I am deeply flawed, tragically even, we all are. But I want to own every flaw, every mistake, every action and every regret. I want to own every minute of my life.

The past is prologue, and I don't want to be caught up in it. Eventually, we have to let go of the things that have happened to us. We have to let go and move on, or it owns us, instead of us owning it. The past is just what happened to us before this moment, and this moment is the only one we can live in. That's what I'm trying to do, I guess. I won't be perfect at it, but I'm going to try.

Don't be jealous...

I'm seeing the Killers tonight in Maryland, and I'm almost more excited for the other bands playing: Keane, Louis XIV & Regina Spektor & Maximo Park. I don't know much about the other bands besides Keane, but I've been hearing buzz about them for months. TSM wrote an article about Louis XIV when they played DC a few months ago, so obviously I've been intrigued.

I'm not planning on taking any pictures, but if there's anything worth saying about the concert I'll update about it.

a horse and buggy in Philadelphia

a horse and buggy in Philadelphia,
originally uploaded by Elitist Snob.

I spent the weekend in Philadelphia, visitng friends and spending time with the fam. One of the things I've always loved about Philly is that, decrepid and filthy though it may be in places, it still maintains the atmosphere of an old city. Philadelphia used to be the capital of the United States. And while DC may be better suited architechurally for the task, what city could be better for the capital of the country than the City of Brotherly Love?

Maybe I'm biased.