Project Plus One

Lately my 3.5 year old niece has started going through the girly phase, where she rummages my room as if she were at a sample sale in NYC. She meticulously looks through my closet for hats, shoes, belts and purses, jewelry boxes for necklaces, bracelets, rings, and the dresser for head bands and makeup. Then she proceeds to put all of it on… at once. But that’s just the beginning. She then walks around the house as if the kitchen and living room were her own private runway. In a way, she almost looks like a younger, cuter, untainted (dare I say, virgin) version of Madonna from the 80’s. Well, the reason why I bring this is up is because I was looking for my chapstick, which I knew went missing after my niece’s latest fashion show. I emptied out all of the purses she stuffs with my stuff, and looked in all her hiding spots but to no avail. For a moment, I even grew frustrated and thought, “Geez, why is she in such a rush to play grown up, anyway?” And then it hit me, as it usually does in times of mild frustration: was I guilty of the same thing? Perhaps. Ok, make that definitely.

Lately I’ve begun questioning my marital status – not as to what it is (because that is abundantly clear), but as to how I can quickly change it. It wasn’t my Mom’s nagging that prompted this pursuit of a ‘plus one,’ rather, it was that subliminal group of people we refer to as our peers. In the age of Facebook when declaring your love via the ‘relationship status’ field is the epitome of all-things-official, I’m reminded with each update, photo, and newsfeed that there’s someone missing in my life. Now don’t get me wrong – I’m not saying I want to be in a relationship for the sake of “keeping up with the Jonese” (or is it the Kardashians, now?). Nor do I want it for the mere sake of wearing a diamond on my finger, ensuring plans for Valentine’s Day, or even professing my love to my nearest and dearest 493 “friends” on Facebook.

No, what I really want is to be able to come home and curl up on the couch with a book (or a remote, or a glass of wine), and share the peaks and pits of my day with “him” as we debate over pizza delivery or Chinese takeout. Now I realize that lately my blog has turned into somewhat of an extended uncut version of a personals ad, but that’s the thing about me, you see… when I become fixated on something, I tend to talk about the topic A LOT (remember Cosmopolitan?). Unlike my niece, this isn’t a phase I’m going through where today I’m “Team Married With Children” and tomorrow I’ll be rooting for “Team Living Single.”

Call it what you will – the biological clock, peer pressure, or the fear of dying an old maid with ten cats – but I’ve reached a point in my life where a committed relationship feels like natural progression rather than an item on my bucket list. I know what many of you must be thinking: “you can’t look for it because it will happen when you least expect it.” Yes, I’ve heard that and countless other clichés but like most things in life, if you want something to happen, you usually have to work at it. If you were unemployed, you wouldn’t sit idly in the hopes of a job magically landing in your lap. If you were looking for an apartment, you wouldn’t patiently wait to get evicted or a realtor to come knocking on your door. So is my situation any different? My heart has a vacancy and I’m looking for applicants (serious inquiries only).

I know one day I’ll look back and laugh at all this, but you never quite realize how silly you look until you get older. Now, if only Aunt Avani could knock some sense into Single Avani.

All I Want for Christmas...

Dear Santa,

Long time no see – hope all is well up there. To be perfectly honest, I stopped believing in you many years ago. In fact, I’m not even sure if I ever truly believed in you growing up, since Christmas at home was treated as more of a financial crisis than a cause for celebration. In any case, apologies for not writing sooner, and more so, for writing to you in a public forum. (Besides, you don’t really expect me to mail you a letter to the North Pole, do you?)

Earlier today, as I was helping my nephew write a letter to you (by the way, he wants a video game and a car), I thought why not send you a note myself as well? I’ve been a good girl – ok fine, except for that incident in Paris this year – but mostly, I’ve been good. And since I’m a bit too old for dolls and toys (well, most toys) I wanted to ask you for something I can’t find in stores. This Christmas, I want to meet a guy. Allow me to elaborate: a guy that’s strong yet vulnerable, (really) funny yet profound, knowledgeable yet blissfully ignorant, confident yet modest, modern yet traditional, cute yet oblivious, ambitious yet rational, established yet humble, outgoing yet comfortable in his solitude, and simply genuine. Oh, and someone 5’10” or above preferably. Of course, chemistry goes without saying but I’ll say it anyway so we’re perfectly clear. No chemistry is a no-go. I’m sure Mrs. Claus is nodding her head in unison right now – I mean, ultimately, who doesn’t want these qualities in their significant other?

So do me a favor, will ya? As you’re ho-ho-ho’ing your way across the sky and squeezing your way down people’s chimneys, keep an eye out for my gift. And you can skip the bow and wrapping paper – after all, all that matters is what’s on the inside.

Sincerely,
Searching in the Wrong Aisle

Homecoming

From the day I interviewed for my current company, I had made one thing clear: the job must require me to travel, preferably internationally. A year and seven days later, I crossed the Atlantic. Sure, everyone loves to travel – no surprises there. In fact, if I had a dollar for every time I read that on someone’s Facebook or dating profile, let’s just say I wouldn’t need to interview for a job. Whether people’s reason for wanting to travel is to explore new cities, try new cuisines, immerse themselves in new cultures, or simply get away from the mundane, we all share one reason in common: for the sheer experience.

“Experience” is one of those all encompassing words that says something yet means nothing at all. It’s hard to describe the joy I felt when I ate french fries for dinner at 1am after a night of drinking with coworkers that live by the liquid diet. (Those Brits mean business). You wouldn’t believe it if I told you I stole “proprietary goods” from a restaurant in Zurich because my manager dared me to (ahem, see photo). And I couldn’t begin to explain the irony of being back in Paris, roaming the very streets I traveled last year as a tourist. I can try but my words wouldn’t do justice to my feelings.

Fast forward to two weeks later, and I’m back to where my journey began: the airport. As I was waiting in the US Customs line, with my laptop bag crushing my right shoulder, and my carry-on bag the left side, I looked down and realized that it was my passport that carried the most weight of all. I started looking through all of the stamps I had amassed in my passport over the years (there aren’t too many so it was a quick browse). I stared at each one intently as if any moment, the stamps would transform into a photo montage and begin parading through the pages. But all I saw was ink on paper that validated my presence in some place at some time. Strange concept, I thought, these stamps… we get them on our birth certificate to tell the world: I have arrived. We get them on our marriage certificate to tell the world: we are legally binded. Do we really need ink to leave a mark in this world?

Just as I thought I was onto something profound, my thoughts were interrupted by one of the Customs officer prompting “Next!” After the usual round of obligatory questions, he handed me back my passport, and I suddenly noticed an unassuming sign that read, “Welcome to the United States.” It was probably the same sign I saw as an eight year old when I first moved to America, but ignored it because, 1) I didn’t understand English at the time, and 2) nothing about the airport — or “Amereeka” as I called it back then — felt welcoming. Little did I know then about the proverbial saying, “home is where the heart is,” but twelve countries and eighteen stamps later, I understand it all too well. Despite my yearning to travel, I’ve realized that sometimes the best part of going somewhere is coming home.

Forever Young

Those of you who keep tabs on me via Facebook might have recently seen that I read “Green Eggs & Ham” by Dr. Seuss to my MBA class, as part of an assignment. For those of you that don’t, well, now you know. It was for a class called “Creativity in Business Decision Making” but week after week, as I watched other students present on their respectively chosen books and articles, I wondered if we were even in the same class. While they were busy presenting intricate charts and complex theories on topics like “the neuroscience of genius,” I was sitting in front of the classroom with a Dr. Seuss hat on my head. I kid you not.

My message to the class was simple: embrace the kid in you because the seeds of creativity are planted at a young age. Do you remember the first time you were given crayons? (The correct answer is “no”). But let’s for a second, imagine what we did with them: tried to eat them, bang on anything around you with them, hid them somewhere for safekeeping, or maybe you eyed the wall with them. It wasn’t until we were given coloring books with neatly drawn designs and characters were we taught of its “proper” use. You see where I’m going with this, don’t you?

Aside from the proverbial, “draw (way) outside the lines” lesson, there are many other things we abandon as we grow up. I’ve been fortunate enough to witness my niece and nephew grow up over the past six years, and in the midst of being their aunt/babysitter/play date/chauffer, I’ve actually learned a thing or two from them.

So I present to you, an adult’s guide to being a kid again:

• The magic of these three little words: “I like you.” One evening I was helping my niece put her shoes on and she suddenly – and quite randomly – said, “I like you Fee” (Fee, being my nickname for my niece and nephew). Talk about instant gratification. One of the most endearing qualities about kids is their raw honesty. They haven’t mastered the art of diplomacy, nor do they care about hurting your feelings. Yes, there are times we’ll need to fib and sugarcoat, but don’t suppress the good stuff. A smile is the easiest thing you can give to someone. 
• Almost anyone that has had to handle an “unruly” or an upset child, knows that distraction is the key to pacification. For example, a perfectly valid response to a kid whining about wanting candy or to “play” with your iPad/iPhone/iWhatever is, “Oh, look outside – what is that??” For an instant, they put their unreasonable request on pause to gaze outside in search of that something. The same rule applies to us as adults: if you’re mending a broken heart or even just steaming over a bad day, go out and take your mind off of it.  
• Every Friday when I come home (on time), I’m greeted by my two little ones with a big “Aahhhh Fee’s home! You’re home early!” And during that moment, I forget about the meetings I had, the projects due, or even that Saturday night hot date. During that moment, I’m there, and all theirs. Learn to be present.  
• The other day, my nephew accidently kicked his beach ball outside the house and onto the street. Being fully aware that he is not allowed to cross the street on his own, he looked at the ball with trepidation and feared for its safety. What if a car ran over it? What if it kept rolling out of sight? What if another kid took it? I recognized the look on his face – it was the same “oh no!” look I had on my face last week when I realized I had an overdue paper for the aforementioned class. The level of complexity of our worries undoubtedly grows over time, but sometimes it really isn’t all that bad, so relax :-)
• No matter what, at the end of it all, kids always want to go back to their Mommy. I recently took them to a carnival and was convinced I had been elevated to cooler-than-Mommy status, but on the way back home, they insisted to be dropped off home. I guess there is something soothing about a mother’s love, but as we get older, we need it less. That doesn’t mean you should show it any less – so give her a hug, or even just a call.  
• One of the most fascinating (and sometimes, annoying) things about kids is their ability to remember the most minute detail and side conversations. They remember your promise to take them to Chuck-E-Cheese, how they broke the lamp in your room, and how you have a Blackberry Curve – not the Pearl. As we age into this era of information overload, with constant meeting reminders and newsfeeds, don’t forget the little things.

Whether as a mother, an aunt, a mentor, or a teacher, we teach kids the difference between right and wrong, the in’s and out’s, and venture to fill their world with knowledge. What we fail to see is how much there is to be learned from them as well. Go to the park, catch fireflies, and throw a tantrum, because "forever young is in your mind."

My two fave "teachers"

Laws of Attraction

A few weeks ago, I was reminded of why I hate driving: I got a ticket for a moving violation. My crime? Code 4-1444: failure to stop or yield. Apparently the crime rate in NJ has plummeted enough that cops can spare time to catch the true diving menaces to the society. All sarcasm aside, I was (still am) pretty upset about it because I really can do without points on my license, hiked insurance rates, or a trip to the courthouse. No good ever comes from it.

Then something happened the following weekend, and I realized that maybe I really am guilty of failing to stop or yield. That Saturday night, I ran into an old friend that’s newly single and comes packed with enough drama to feed NBC studios. After skipping past small talk, we caught up over drinks and acknowledged the rising palpable sexual tension between us. As often is the case, when chemistry enters the room, logic usually flies out the window. Despite his attempts, I practiced good judgment and ended the night with a platonic kiss on the cheek. Had I not, I knew no good would have came of it.

After scouring the dating scene for nearly a (gasp) decade, I’ve finally (finally) learned to stop myself from pursuing the guys carrying red flags – you know, those rooting for their home country of Douchebag. I may not be the prototype driver, but when it comes to maneuvering around my heart, no one else knows the way better than I do. Admittedly, I have been reckless with my heart in the past by giving it to the wrong guys, but I’ve already paid the fine for that.

Just when I thought I was ready to buckle up and settle down, I’ve realized that I’m not quite there yet. I thought I was done kissing frogs in the pursuit of my happily ever after, but I need to ask time to pause and slow down… for just a bit more. I’ve learned not to rush into things because obviously no good ever comes from it.

Reality TV

After watching a Sex and the City marathon on TBS for the past four hours (yes, on a Saturday night), I’ve become inclined to pay homage to the show that inspired yours truly to begin tapping away on the laptop three years ago. The movie sequel, which is just around the corner, teases us with its glimpses of the fabulous fashionable foursome and their Moroccan escapades. Oh how far they’ve come – from douchebags to diaper bags, from the Big Apple to Mr. Big, from columns to books… And the crazy part of it all is that it’s all fictional, yet we’ve come to personify them as if they’ve been growing up right alongside with us.

It got me thinking about how my very own fabulous not-as-fashionable foursome (myself included) has grown up so much this year alone. For starters, one of my best friends is getting married this summer. Married. It’s one of those words that remains dormant in hibernation until you reach the age of, in my case, 26. Despite being one of the bridesmaids, a part of me feels like I’m watching just another episode on TBS, where eventually I’ll turn off the TV and return back to reality. Except this time, this is reality. When we met back in 6th grade, we were both fresh off the boat, oblivious to marriage, makeup, and master’s degrees. That was the season premiere of our friendship.

The plot recently thickened when a second of the foursome accepted a job offer in Atlanta. Granted she would only be a 2.5 hour flight and a phone call away, knowing that she will no longer be in arm’s length, unnerved me a bit. Up until now, I had been watching others get married and relocate both out-of-state and beyond, but I continued living in this world where my friends were just friends without titles or state borders. Now it’s the “married friend,” and “the one in Atlanta,” and “the hot single one,” and well, then there’s me, "the crazy one."

I just got the memo that somewhere between naïve and circa now, we became adults. When we were younger, I remember we had our lives all mapped out with our dream jobs and dreamy men. As our dreams started turning into realities, we threw out the maps but kept our compass, because no matter where life takes us, I hope it brings us closer together.

Baz Luhrmann - Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)

Achy Breaky Heart

The other morning, after I made a heart shaped pancake for my nephew, I sliced it into pieces for him, and he said the most beautiful unexpected thing: "my heart is broken." I awed at his innocence, and wondered how one day he'll actually understand the figurative meaning behind his words. But until that day comes, I'll simply ask him, "Would you like syrup on that?"

I still vividly remember my first heartbreak: I was in second grade in India and had a crush on my teacher (what can I say, I always had a thing for older guys). As in most private Catholic schools here, teachers there were also allowed to discipline their students. Apparently I had interrupted the teacher by talking to one of my peers during class, so he walked over and sternly said, “Avani, give me your hand.” For a split second I thought, “Shouldn’t he be asking my Dad for my hand?” But that fairytale ended as soon as the ruler smacked my palm and sent a wave up my arm.

And so began the evolution of my heartbreaks. I know I’ve written about heartbreaks at ad nauseam but it’s one of those a forever young topics that’s always the new black, gives songwriters an endless source of material (see exhibit A and B), and gives Jennifer Aniston a reason to keep acting. So naturally I’ll talk about it... perhaps I’ll even sing about it at a karaoke bar one of these weekends. Ironically enough, I’m writing this blog at a point in time when I don’t particularly feel heartbroken. Nope, no Prozac for this gal.

I think it’s time we acknowledge heartbreaks the way we celebrate unions, and give the “have-nots” the attention they deserve. What about the broken engagements and the failed marriages? What about those who aren’t destined to put on a veil or a tux and renounce their sexual freedom? Are they not entitled to the same rah-rah, gift registry, and video montages? After all, where is “up-side” in a break “up”?

So here’s a toast to all the insomniac nights, the Kleenex boxes, and empty bottles of wine. I commend those who have suffered and surfaced, because eventually you learn to stop wallowing in your disappointment, and build the courage to stick your hand out for someone who will actually hold it.

Class Dismissed

I never liked school buses much. At first, it used to be because I’d always end up running after them in the morning; now it’s because I’m always trying to avoid them during the morning traffic. But underneath that tacky bright yellow color, lies something I dislike even more: the place where the tacky bright yellow colored bus takes you: the classroom. It’s the home of the Pythagorean theorem, a melting pot for the tyrants and the heroes, and a playground for bullies.

The recent bullycide incident at South Hadley High School really struck me. I don’t know why but it just did. I had my share of drama during high school, but never quite like the type suffered by Phoebe Prince. After tolerating three long agonizing months of harassment, ridicule and abuse, Phoebe finally took a stand by taking her own life. Despite the fact I don’t have kids, this scares me. Maybe it’s because I have a niece and nephew that are the closest things as to having my own, and it makes me fear for their lives. Tragedies are supposed to be left inside the history books I thought, so how did this happen? How did a place that promises growth, development, and education become a site for vigil, terror and ignorance?

Regardless of whether Phoebe’s pleas for help were suffocated or unnoticed, they are now buried along with her. Often times the bullied die as the victim, but sometimes as the criminal – as in the case of the Columbine and Virginia Tech shootings. I never fully grasped the magnitude of a shooting until I held a real gun for the first time ever two weeks ago. I wasn’t at a shooting range, nor was I in a life defying situation – I was simply given an opportunity to learn how to practice so I naturally took it. As I held the gun, I felt the weight of the metal and the power it possessed. I loaded it, aimed, and pulled the trigger. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Considering how hesitant I was shooting at my ad hoc target, I couldn’t even fathom imagining how millions of lives are taken by this metallic venom. It’s ironic isn’t it… countless ways to die but only one way to give birth.

Giving birth may not be in my near future, however, graduating from grad school hopefully is. As if torturing myself with useless math and chemical formulas, and dates of century old battles for 10+ years wasn’t enough, I went back for more. Except this time around, things are a little different. Projector screens hover over blackboards, laptops sit in place of notebooks, financial aid has been replaced by tuition reimbursement, and passing notes is now an ancient practice thanks to texting. But what has changed the least is perhaps the student herself. I entered undergrad like many of my fellow classmates: undecided. And although I graduated with a degree in Marketing, a part of me still feels undecided… about everything.

Who’s going to be signing my paychecks 5 years from now? A global bank? An editor of a magazine? The unemployment agency? Am I going to be doing diaper duty, or be seen at a cougars’ speed dating event? Will my blog cease to exist by then, or will it have surpassed a million readers (hey, it can happen!)? When WILL I have it “all figured out” anyway? That’s a loaded question, but unlike that handheld gun, I’m willing to hold on to it until I answer it. After all, I didn’t have a say in my birth, nor will I have one in my death – the least I can do is fill in the blanks in between.

Listless (not that kind)

The other night when I was packing for the aforementioned trip, I went through my usual mental check list of things to pack. Straightening iron – check. Chargers – check. Unnecessary amount of pairs of shoes – check. As much as I rely on lists to help keep me organized, I wondered during my flight how many lists actually ran my life. There was the list of things to pack, things to do at work, questions to ask during the trip, school assignments to catch up on… and in the midst of these piles of lists, I feared that my life was becoming just one big bulleted item.

There’s a show on MTV called the “Buried Life” which follows 4 guys cross-country in their quest to accomplish the 100 things they want to do before they die. Brilliant concept and a much more respectable way to earn fame compared to their MTV counterparts, Tila Tequilla and Snooki. For example, one of the items on their list was to play basketball with President Obama. (And here I thought I was ambitious for wanting to meet with the editor-in-chief of Cosmopolitan).

So given perseverance and persistence, it may be possible to achieve the seemingly impossible. Coincidentally enough, as I was kicking around the idea for this blog, I came across a timely article on CNN about lists women create for the “perfect man”. Here’s yet another seemingly impossible task: finding Mr. Perfect. I’m sure we’ve all have had a similar list of essential ingredients we require in “him,” but I’m glad to report that I chucked my list a long time ago – not because it was unreasonably long or even unreasonable, but because I stopped checking it. Sure, I’d like to find an honest, tall, cute, smart, funny, rich Indian man but given my track record, I’m lucky if the guy possesses even 3 out of those 7 qualifiers. I’ve fallen for a whole gamut of guys – from the hot model who couldn’t form a single grammatically correct sentence in English, to the 50 year old eternal bachelor (and I’m not talking about George Clooney).

Rather than check off a grocery list of height, salary, and degree requirements, my pre-requisites are a bit different. I’m looking for a feeling, not a type. I want the butterflies, the spark, the longing, the joy, the simplicity… and maybe these things won’t come packaged in an honest, tall, cute, smart, funny, rich Indian man. So forget the list because sometimes the only thing you need to check is your reservations at the door.

Flying Solo

When the COO randomly called me into his office on Friday afternoon, I walked in with my pen and notebook in hand, completely unaware of the request he was about to make. I was greeted by him and two young children drawing on his whiteboard. My first thought was, “I wonder if he needs a babysitter,” but he quickly interrupted it by asking, “So, you like to travel, right?”

It suffices to say I left his office feeling giddy and pleasantly surprised. But when I got back to my desk, I wondered who I could bring along with me on this trip, as per his suggestion. As I mentally scrolled through my list of friends, I ruled out most and considered a couple of them as potential candidates. While they scored high marks in compatibility, I knew I was looking for something more… something more intimate. Forget Valentine’s Day, this is the moment when I actually felt the desire for a boyfriend.

There, I said it. I’m sure if my Mom ever read this, she’d be glad to know that yes, I am indeed “looking” – albeit not actively, but nonetheless, I am. I guess in a way that contradicts the notion of marriage I’ve been challenging for quite some time now. Is it really necessary? Do people understand the difference between a wedding and a marriage? Why do so many of them end up in divorces? What if he ends up being a Tiger Woods? I came up with more questions than answers, and decided that maybe marriage isn’t for me. (I really hope my Mom isn’t reading this now).

Sure, I’ve had these reservations before too – but let’s face it: I’m a 26 year old woman. That’s roughly equivalent to 36 in Indian years, hence I am way past my prime for what’s considered to be an “appropriate” marriageable age. But regardless of whether you’re brown, female or old, we’ve all been conditioned to seek that someone to join us for the ride. Despite having already traveled thousands of miles, I've learned that the longest distance is really between two people. Ultimately all we're looking for is someone that makes you want to go the extra mile.

Someone whose company helps move security lines at the airport a tad bit quicker, and makes the aisle seat a bit more tolerable. Someone that stays on your mind and makes you feel right at home, even when you’re oceans away. Someone that makes you say “Honey, pack your bags, we're going to... ”

Pray vs. Prey

A friend-turned-entrepreneur who recently started an energy venture, inquired with me about a potential job opportunity as a sales executive. I reminded him that although I eat, breathe, and live marketing, it’s not nearly the same as selling. “Trust me – you can do it,” was his simple argument. So I contemplated wiping the dust off of my good old Sales Management textbook, but decided against it as soon as a saying from a former sales colleague came to mind: “We sell dreams… everything else is monkeys and typewriters.”

OK – so maybe the art of selling isn’t as scientific and methodical as it’s made out to be. Maybe it all just boils down to our ancestral days of hunters and farmers. The question was, which one am I? Luckily, the answer came easily when I took one look at the game plan I had set out for achieving one of my new year’s resolutions (see #2 below).

Allow me to digress for a paragraph (or two) before I continue further: “Once bitten, twice shy” never made it to my list of personal mottos, because quite frankly, I’m really not that shy (or careful). One thing I’ve learned about myself in the past three years is that when I know what I want, I go after it. And by “want,” I don’t mean a limited edition of a Kate Spade handbag. No no. I’m talking about the kind of want that’s all consuming, overpowering, and so-close-you-could-touch-it-with-3D-glasses. Historically, I’ve only felt this way when it came to a couple of men in my so-called love life. I didn’t have the patience for games, and I certainly wasn’t shy in expressing my feelings. Call me aggressive or stupid, but it worked… while it lasted. So this year, I’ve applied the transitive property to focus my energy on a “that” rather than a “him.” That being Cosmopolitan, of course.

If you are one of the 20 odd people I’ve spoken to in the past month, then by now you are probably sick of hearing me talk about Cosmo. You have probably also realized:
- I am pretty damn creative
- I’m very resourceful
- I really am enthused about this
If I didn’t care for the guy to make the first move, then why in the world was I waiting for fate to come knocking on my door? It’s not as if God was going to hand-deliver my prayers to the editor-in-chief’s office – “Yo Kate, I got a special delivery here for you.” That’s when I decided to turn my praying into preying.

This brings me back to my original point: I am a hunter. I finally stopped pressing the snooze button on my procrastination clock. Everyone’s a dreamer, but if you keep your eyes closed forever, you’ll never see your dreams come to life. So wake up and pounce.

Ode to Oh-Ten

I kicked off 2010 like millions of others around the globe: with good company, pyrotechnic fireworks, and a seemingly attainable list of resolutions. It’s been said that sharing your new year’s resolutions publicly helps you solidify your commitment to them. (I suppose that’s the reason why marriage vows are recited in front of priests and hundreds of guests). Well, hear ye hear ye, readers of OfKnee’s blog, I declare thy resolutions:

- Thou shall not peek into the past (especially for an unnecessarily prolonged period of time)
- Become a part of Cosmopolitan magazine
- Register 100 people as Bone Marrow Donors

From the nebulous to the concrete, and in no specific order, these three are it. The progress thus far: I’m 1/5 towards the way of reaching my goal of enlisting people through bone marrow drives. I have a package ready to be shipped to Hearst Corporation’s office this week. But as for the one remaining elusive resolution on the list, let’s just say, I haven’t made a dent. I blame pictures and diaries/blogs for harboring these memories, because they’re like one way streets – there’s really no way out.

While shifting through some of the clutter in my room, I came across my old journals and couldn’t help but open them up. I ran my fingers through the pages as if written in Braille, felt each word come alive, and traveled back in time to that one way street. I had written about things I had forgotten feeling – like the regret of not spending more time with my Grandfather after he passed away. Or like the anxious arrival of a beloved from a trip that left me restless. Or like the frustration at my Dad for losing the roll of pictures from my prom night (yes, this was during the pre-digital age). I couldn't possibly encapsulate 26 years of tears, jokes, and mistakes into a neatly binded notebook... but who needs that when the author is standing before my very eyes?

So why do we do it? Why do we rummage through old albums, save ticket stubs, and attempt to capture fleeting moments that can’t be relived? For the same reason we’re not born with eyes in the back of our heads, and with our feet facing backwards. So here’s to a year of marching forward without looking back. Here's to turning to a blank page, because there is so much yet to be written.