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.

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.

Square Peg, Round Hole

Ever see a pair of shoes you just had to have? The kind that you instantly fall in love with, and start imagining the possibilities, the outfits, the heads turning? I found one such pair, but the story ends in much despair.

Having size 7½ wide feet may not sound like such a terrible thing, but no matter what anyone says, finding shoes that fit is no easy task. Never did I realize this more than two weeks ago when I went scouring for the perfect pair to go with my perfect dress for a party that evening. The shoes were either too tight, too big, too expensive, too high, too dark, or too something. After 30 blocks, 5 stores, and 3 hours later, I finally came across a pair that I liked. One small problem though – the shoes were just a tad bit too big. Surprise surprise. But as time and my patience were running out, I snagged a pair of in-soles to go with the shoes and called it a day.

As I’ve been trying to sift through the debris left from my broken heart, I suddenly realized why this one hurts so much. I kept insisting to buy a pair of shoes he wasn’t even selling. But we tried each other on anyway, and we just didn’t fit. I figured I’d be able to squeeze my way into his heart the way I did into my pair or Bandalino’s.

Maybe there’s something to be learned from the story of Cinderella – a guy who wore his heart on his sleeves, fell in love with a girl with a missing shoe off her feet. There will come a day when someone will sweep you off your feet. Shoes optional.

Death of a Salesman

We're born with two ears and one mouth so we can listen more and talk less. Apparently I didn't get that memo because I rarely listen. I should've listened to my instinct when it told me not to stray down heartbreak boulevard. I should've listened when my friends told me to snap out of it. I should've listened before his "I don't know" turned into "I like you." Because my ears didn't do their job, now my eyes have to pay the price. Our bodies are wired in such a way that when you get hurt in one place, it actually aches in another.

Our bodies aren't built to keep secrets; whatever is going on inside is bound to slip out one way or another. You bruise black and blue when you bang your knee. You bleed when you cut yourself. You puke when you punish your liver. You cum when you're satisfied. And when your heart breaks, your tears play that coveted role of messenger. Message received.

After a full year of heartbreak sobriety, I guess the streak is broken once again. In the midst of her sage advice, my Mom actually said something interesting: "your life truly begins when you think it's over." I guess I can buy into that. I fought for so long that I finally just wanted to give up completely... quit being hurt and quit living. Once you accept your loss, you suddenly begin to lose a lot more... your sleep, your appetite, your sanity, your desire to do... anything.

I cried myself to sleep, only to wake up to more of the same. Last night was long and cold, but not lonely. I was stuck in bed with my own thoughts that kept replaying what was said and done over the past month. Each vivid thought is like picking up a piece of my shattered beliefs and dreams, with its jagged edges cutting me into two pieces: what if and what is. As much as I want to be removed from these thoughts, I can't help but drown in them, because therein lies my anger, my sorrow, and my regrets.

I check the time every so often, hoping it would magically fly by and I would be far far away from this moment and this agony. But time -- much like my tears -- no matter how much I try to hold them back, is something you can't control. And I wonder, even when time does pass, will things be that much better? When I broke up with my ex two years ago, I told myself things will get better in time. Well, they did... my wounds healed, my memories of him vanished, I resurfaced and was free to fall in love again. And boy, fall I did. But now I'm back at it -- fighting with time because it has dragged me back to that dungeon again.

Times like these, my mom always reminds me of two types of people: those who have it worse than you, and those who wish to make it worse for you. Like my Aunt, that my Mom just spent the past three months with, is facing far greater hardship than I can ever fathom. Her resolve and beliefs are being tested every minute of every day as she tries to care for her ailing husband. "That's true sadness and that's worth crying for," my Mom reemphasized. "What you're going through is unfortunate but inevitable, because you're destined to be with someone else." I guess some day I will find someone who'll make me realize why it never worked with anyone else. But I'm not holding my breath, because sooner or later, my nose will give out and I'll burst my mouth open for a breath of fresh air.