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Living in New York means (unless you are very rich) living small. Sure, there are exceptions — but in general, apartments are small, overpriced, and basically never include a washer/dryer in the unit. (Side note: If you are one of the people who does have a washer/dryer in your apartment, please never speak to me again.)
For most of my life, I never considered myself to be someone with a huge imagination. Sure, I've always been creative to some extent. And, yes, I have a general inclination towards daydreaming, and a love for story-telling that stretches from Little Women to Black Mirror to that one particularly great season of Real Housewives Of New Jersey where Theresa flips the table (*chefs kiss*). Still, though, for a long time, if you would have asked me to describe myself, imaginative is not a word that would have come out of my mouth.
Truthfully, I can almost gauge how I'm doing mentally and emotionally by how much time I spend on my nightly routine. If I'm cutting out steps and ignoring the skin care rituals I've come to love, something is almost always off with me. Usually this means I'm feeling anxious, down, or distracted. Forcing myself to get back into the routine ultimately helps me focus on myself, feel good, and take time to pamper myself a little. We all need that.
For as long as I can remember, I've been thinking about food.
These thoughts have ranged from your standard, "My God, is there anything better than a warm bread basket?" (no, obviously not) to more complicated notions, like the never-ending belief that an extra indulgent weekend of eating needed to result in diving into a diet on Monday — a constant game of addition and subtraction in my head. A ceaseless series of "if, then" negotiations in my brain regarding what I ate, and how much I ate, and how I would respond to all of those choices after.
After almost 25 years on earth, and probably more than 25 failed New Year's (and mid-year's and by-my-birthday) resolutions, I've come to the conclusion that while I love a good resolution, resolutions, at least in the classic sense, do not love me. I've made small ones, big ones, in-between ones, ones that I call something other than a resolution but are really just a resolution after all. You name it, and I've probably tried it. And then failed miserably.
If I had a dime for every minute I've spent searching for things on Amazon that I don't need, I would probably still spend those dimes on things on Amazon that I don't need.
When I was growing up, I never dreaded the summer ending. I never panicked about going back to school. I was obsessed with the idea of a built-in fresh start.
I always started my year with lists of how I was going to commit to being "better" — a concept that, at ages 12 - 18, was often limited to how other people perceived me. As I got older, the type of things I wanted to change or approve upon, of course, changed, but my desire to find a reason to be better and to begin again never went away. Time passed, I graduated high school, then college — but I never stopped looking for a reason to start over, even as it started to sink in that I was at an age where those built-in jumping off points weren't there anymore. I gradually accepted that I had to make those points for myself. And then, in November 2017, my friend died. And I realized that, when you're an adult, it's not that the starting over milestones don't exist, it's that they're just easier to ignore. T
Most of my followers know I read a lot of crime books, thrillers, and mysteries. But this wasn't always the case, actually. A few years ago I realized that forcing myself to like books that were a certain kind of genre — full of a certain level of writing, or a specific type of elevated language — was a waste of my time. Reading is one of the greatest, most simple pleasures in life. It can lift you, pull you, drag you out of whatever anxiety, pain, worry you're going through at the moment. Few things can do that in this world so instantly. No matter what you like to read, the act of reading itself, and the escape it offers is flat-out joyful. When you let go of any expectation of what you're supposed to be reading, it's even better.
I used to live alone in a studio apartment. And not a big, sprawling warehouse type studio from movies, where I'm just always roaming around in a giant button-down shirt and painting large canvases for no reason. No. If I had to describe it, it was like a one bedroom apartment had been Honey, I Shrunk The Kids-style zapped into a very miniature version of itself. And then zapped again. It was probably 300 square feet. But for me, it worked.
Although I'm 24 and have lived in New York for over two years now, I still have a Florida Driver's License with a photo from 2009. I was 16 then, and my hobbies included things like writing poetry at Starbucks while waiting for my mom to come pick me up and complaining that I would die alone. I had side-swept bangs, didn't know how to use makeup, and was 6 feet tall — as I have been since I was about 14. I didn't like being tall. I hated it.
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