Step It Up

Most people are allergic to pollen, peanuts, or fish. I, on the other hand, am allergic to the gym. Sure, I love a good workout, an adrenaline rush, and the burnt calories -- but I just don't like to confine myself in a dreary room full of machinery and guittos. I'd much rather prefer to get my workout from the great natural outdoors, dancing in the studio, and running after the train. Aside from front row views of the NY skyline, my commute to work also provides much needed exercise. It all starts in the morning with a brisk walk to the train station, which often quickly turns into running (in heels), as I hear the train signal pounding in my ear like a drill sergeant. Fast forward to 45 minutes later, and I’m confronted by a mile high escalator, so I naturally take advantage of the benefits technology has to offer and give my legs a rest, and idly wait for the escalator to valet park my feet to the top.

Last week, however, this very technology failed me and my fellow commuters. I was forced to succumb to our archaic ways and climb the 90 flights of stairs, which I had so graciously avoided for the past two months. I’m a healthy 25-year old though, so surely I could do this, I thought. “I was wrong” would be an understatement. About mid-way through my ascent, I contemplated taking a break, but quickly vetoed that idea when I saw a gray haired aging man climbing past me. And that’s when it hit me: not only am I grossly out-of-shape, but also that life is a lot like an escalator.

I hear it constantly echoing in the stories I hear and tell: moving on. Last week a friend had a run-in with his ex, which reprised some of his old wounds. I recently learned of an old flame’s newly “taken” status, which was taken surprisingly well by me, considering how hurt I had been when our “fire” had been extinguished. But these incidents fall pale in comparison to my widowed aunt, who has been trying to piece her life together ever since my uncle passed away earlier this year. In the past 10 months, she has sold off his clinic but kept his memories tightly secured; she has changed cities and moved into a new place, but hasn’t been able to call it home; she has learned to accept he’s gone, but is having difficulty relinquishing her dependencies.

When we find happiness, we become steadfast in our ways – unwilling to acknowledge destiny’s contingency plans. In doing so, what we forget is that life goes on, with or without us. Had I shamelessly taken a break that day during my hike up Mount Escalator, I would’ve seen people maneuver around me. Just like a (functioning) escalator, life goes on as people continue to step on and off of it. The key is to simply keep it moving, because ultimately the only one left standing still… is you.

Confessions of a Liar

"You lie!"

It's the latest catch phrase of the season, but the one thing that never seems to go out of style. We learn it from an early age and perfect the art with time and practice. The reasons are infinite, but the truth is one. And that simple truth is this: when the truth hurts more than the lie... lie.

I guess I'm now due for a confession. I'm lonely - and not in the literal, anti-social, or horny kind of way. There's a void inside of me, and I try to fill it with humor, with friends, with work, with school, with trips. But like a tumor, the more you ignore it, the more apparent it becomes. People are afraid to confront their sadness because it's seen as a sign of weakness. What people forget is that strength is actually drawn from moments of sorrow.

Yesterday's tears and tomorrow's laughs won't matter, because we live in the moment. My Finance class recently taught me the concept of PV: everything is worth its present value. And at this very moment, this is how I feel. It's not a plea for help, nor is it a cue for Cher to yell "snap out of it!" It's just the ugly truth.

Numbers

Last month while traveling in Paris with my cousin from India, she randomly asked my friend the big taboo question: “how old are you?” I tried to tell my cousin – who was clearly naïve and unaware of the American social stigma behind that simple question – “you don’t ask that.” But my friend answered anyway, a bit hesitantly and a bit unabashedly: “forty.”

But admittedly, even as I was giving my cousin a disapproving look for asking such a question, I wondered why it was such a no-no in the first place. Perhaps it has something to do with the stark reality behind numbers. Age, weight, salary, number of sexual partners… it’s all so bare bones. Numbers lack stories… and emotions… and dramatic climaxes to those aforementioned stories. Forty. That was all she said. It didn’t even nearly explain the joys and tears she had experienced in those four decades, because numbers don’t tell stories.

Last week I was asked another dreaded question, “Where do you see yourself five years from now?” Had this been a question on Who Wants To Be a Millionaire, I would’ve surely used a lifeline to answer it – perhaps polled the audience, because their guess would have been as good as mine. I answered it as candidly as I could and said, “I don’t know.” Had someone (and I’m sure someone did) asked me this question four years ago, would I have painted the life I’m living now? Most probably not. Four years ago, my dreams, morals, and perceptions were different. Four years ago, I entered the corporate world bright eyed and bushy tailed, eager to apply my B.S. degree in Marketing to the company formerly known as Merrill Lynch. Four years ago, I was dating a guy I once imagined spending the rest of my life with. But that was four years ago.

Much like its prefix, numbers are numb – they lack feelings and sensation. They’re like candles without its flame on a birthday cake – you can count them but can’t feel their warmth until they’re lit.

Plan B

I recently saw an ad for an emergency contraceptive pill, Plan B, whose tagline read “because the unexpected happens.” Nice work pharmaceuticals – here is a simple solution to fix your “oops” from the night before. How convenient, I thought; if only all of life’s unwanted problems could be so easily resolved. I plan events for a living so it’s my job to be prepared with a contingency plan. What if the flight’s delayed? What if the A/V doesn’t work? What if the package gets lost? What will I have to resort to?

Life is full of the unexpected, with its mixed doses of pleasant and horrid surprises. But we plan anyway. We plan in the hopes that we can live our lives on our terms. We dream in the hopes of seeing them come to life. We plan, we dream, we hope… until destiny gets in the way. Just as a single night of passion can change the lives of two people, a single disease can shake the lives of countless.

After months of fighting a downhill battle, my uncle’s body eventually caved in to cancer. Neither doctors nor prayers could cure him, and so he slipped away from here to there. It served as a wake up call, and reminded me that when it comes to losing someone to a greater power, there is no plan B because it’s all part of a bigger plan. As we tiptoe around these cracks in plans, we’re so caught up looking down, that we forget to just live and let things be.