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.

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.