Thirty one.

I am 31 today. So much has happened in the last year, for which I am very thankful. In some ways I look back and I cannot believe how much has changed. I read what I wrote last year and I think so far, I've done what I said I was going to do. I hope I have. This time last year I wanted to make choices based on hope, not fear. Making the choice to go to Columbia and move to NY was definitely not made out of fear - I wanted to move back to NC - now that would have been my fear talking. And though I miss Carolina every single day, sometimes to the point of tears, I'm glad, in the end, that I made the choice to come to NY. Last year I said that I wanted my thirties to be about abundance and not restriction - and I think that's an ongoing process. I want to take up space and be heard, not just sit there and go with the crowd and be a pretty face. I want to DO something. Hopefully I will.

This time last year I could have never have imagined I would be here now. I didn't think I'd get in to Columbia - it was a total reach. I wasn't sure what my life path was, and whether I was truly good at anything. When I got into Columbia, even after several times of me deciding not to go, I somehow made it here....and am finding out that maybe, just maybe, I can do this.

I was kind of sad the other day, because last year was the best birthday I've ever had. I was in Chapel Hill, I spent the night doing quintessentially Chapel Hill things - dinner at Top of the Hill, cupcakes at Sugarland and drinks at Spanky's. I was with friends I loved and was very happy. This year.....yes, while I am happy to be at Columbia, sometimes it is honestly very hard to be happy in NY. Sometimes the sadness is so overwhelming that it steals my speech; I can't even construct the words to hold a conversation. But my friend from undergrad A came to NY from Chicago, and we went to go see Avenue Q with her brothers - amazing show - and then we went to dinner at Zen Palate and had a drink at a NOLA-themed bar/lounge. It was a good night. Today we're going for brunch and then exploring Central Park...and maybe I will go to my favorite indie bookstore in the city, McNally Jackson. I wanted to work there but never got a reply email. Sad face.

At 31, maybe it's a bit late to finally figure out what you want to do with your life. I'd be lying if I said I didn't envy my friends with stable jobs, who have a mortgage and are settled into family life. I do wish I could be like them, going on vacations and not stressing over every little bill or rent payment or student loan. But I'll get there. And honestly, although I am STILL in school and am swamped with work and sometimes wonder if it really is or will be worth it......there's a part of me that knows that I'm doing what I love, what I've always loved and yet never really ran with it. I'm reading and writing. A ton. My success isn't how I always pictured it would be. But maybe it's enough that I'm doing something I truly love - how many people can really say that?

Not enough people, in my opinion.

the end is in sight.....

In less than two weeks my first semester of art school will be done, and three semesters of coursework will remain. I'm not sure I've ever been so busy in my life. Now, reading 3 books a week seems normal. I've accepted being constantly tired, my eyes overworked from reading for hours. Coffee has replaced much of the blood in my veins, and yet it never seems to be enough. I had an interview for a fellowship this morning (not the major one that covers all your costs - didn't even make the interview round for that one). It's a research fellowship, which actually fits with my interests/abilities better, I think. Crossing my fingers. Workshop has greatly improved since the first one. Now I'm actually getting really great feedback from the professor and my peers. The changes they suggest are sometimes obvious ones, and other times totally brilliant ones that I never would have thought of. But that's what 11 new pairs of eyes on your writing gives you, I guess. I'm definitely more confident in my writing, which I feel has grown stronger.

It's been interesting, this journey from medical-oriented study to art school. I'm not sure I see myself as creative or as an artist yet, and I always feel like I'm "pretending" to be an artist when I say I go to art school or the School of the Arts. I haven't yet totally embraced that aspect of myself into my identity. I've managed to incorporate my medical knowledge/research into personal essays and plan on taking Narrative Medicine classes, so I think it's turned out to be a good match. Sometimes I still have that rush of overwhelming fear and panic - what the hell was I thinking, actually believing I could be a writer and make a living out of this - but I try to push that away with being in the here and now. I just have to believe it will work out in the end, that doing something I love - have loved forever - will be enough of a safety net to keep me afloat.

Limited time only.

What would you do if you were told you had weeks to live? We've all thought about this at one point or another in our lives - "If I had 6 months to live," "If I had a month to live..." But what happens if you find yourself in a situation where you are faced with exactly that? My aunt will be going home on hospice sometime this week, after living with ovarian cancer for two years. Her oncologist said she has weeks. I keep thinking about hearing those words, and how scary it must be, late at night, lost in your own thoughts knowing your time is limited. Granted, all of us have limited time here, but to be told a quantifiable number is beyond comprehension. Because realistically, she is weak. On a feeding tube. Sick. Forget all those things you'd think you'd do - go here and there, eat this and that - what if you can't do that in the time you have left?

We like to talk about a "good death," or "dying with dignity." And I'm all for that. I am all for palliative medicine and not using extreme measures at the end of life that are only going to cause pain and suffering. I am all for dying at home, with loved ones by your side, being lucid enough to be able to tell everyone how you feel. But really, when you think about it, when it comes, it is really good? Is there such a thing as a good death? I don't know. Maybe it's something personal for each person, and only you can be the judge of what is "good."

And as schmaltzy as it sounds, why wait until you hear that from a doctor? By that point, there are good odds you might not be able to do all those things on your "Bucket List." One of the many reasons I chose to follow my passion and write is because I realized that life is short. Why waste the time I have on earth doing something I'm not crazy about? I think lots of people put things off until they "have time," or "when the time is right," or whatever. And planning and responsibility is a good thing - but some people, myself included - tend to get so busy in the planning and worrying and waiting that we miss our chance.

Last year on my birthday, I vowed that my thirties would be about abundance, about making choices based in love and hope instead of fear. So far, it has been a struggle, but the choices I have made from those places have paid off exponentially. I don't want to turn 40 and say "I wish I'd done that." G-d forbid I get sick and am told I have limited time, I don't want to lay in the hospital and fiercely wish I'd done certain things.

Thanksgiving is coming up, and lots of people take the time to think about what they're thankful for. An "attitude of gratitude," if you will. Because when you are filled with gratitude, it's hard to feel anything like emptiness or sadness. This Thanksgiving, I am thankful for my entire family, my new friends in NY, supportive people, my health and my life.

What more is there?

Online Dating Tales, part 2.

Ah yes. What has come to be a rite of passage for my generation: the lovely world of online dating. Or searching for dates. After a conversation with my friend Alex tonight, I decided to hop online to the site I'm on and peruse some options. All week long there's been this deafening clanging in the apartment, and I finally realized that it was just my biological clock. So. I put in some advanced search criteria: male, Jewish, ages 27-37, doesn't smoke/drugs, rarely drinks and has at least gone to graduate school. There were a few really good ones that I emailed one from Tel Aviv who seemed smart and funny, and another who got his PhD at MIT and listed books I liked and was pretty funny in his responses. But then....then, there were those special ones.

Like the one wearing a hat with deer antlers, made out of aluminum foil. Or the one wearing a clown hat and nose. Or the shirtless one wearing a tie, whose screen name was "iwantsexmeow." Or the lawyer whose profile picture was a picture of him, arguing in court. (douchebag much?). Then there was one who admitted he used to be a sex addict. Another one spelled "licorice" as "liquorish," and one who listed Lolita as his fave book - guys, even if it IS your fave book, DON'T list it. Then...this one takes the cake. For the part that says "I spend a lot of time thinking about", he wrote, "What do boogers smell like? I mean, they're in your nose all the time, but why can't we smell them?" YEAH. And these were some of the results I got with the *advanced* search.

Is it so much to ask for an educated, intelligent, somewhat mature, nonsmoker guy who is well read and has good playlists on his iPod? Is it so much to ask for a guy who wants kids sooner rather than later, who hates crowded bars and likes wasting hours in bookstores? Or a guy who will bring me flowers for no good reason? (Although my dad may have spoiled me in that respect - my future guy has a lot to live up to!). Where is the guy who wants to move back to Chapel Hill with me, the guy who likes his independence and knows I need mine, too? The one who likes watching college basketball, who can shit-talk with me about teams?

Many women my age are finding it hard to meet a good guy. And until you've been here, you have no idea how slim the pickings are. You'd be shocked as to how many smoke pot still, or drink frequently (too frequently for my tastes). It's rough out there.

Baby Mine.

I went to the New York Public Library today, since there's one 2 blocks from my apt, to get a library card. They opened at 10, and since I had to sell back some books to the indie bookstore, I got there early. I walked around the 'hood, got a soda....and was still 10 minutes early. So I waited outside the library, which normally would be fine.

Except Tuesdays are storytime. And, like everything else child-related in Manhattan, it's competitive as hell. Apparently you need tickets to go to storytime, and it's first come first serve. So here I am, in the middle of all these strollers - Bugaboos, Maclarens, Quinny Buzz, B.O.Bs (yes, it's sad I know all the stroller brands) - hoping my ankles don't get clipped during the mass rush to the circulation desk. But as I was standing there amongst all the babies, nannies and mothers (no dads in the crowd, I noticed), I felt a little pang of lacking. Lacking in the sense that these mothers are probably around my age, but their lives are completely different. And granted, maybe the fact that I would rip my hair out if I were a stay-at-home mom says something about where I am in life right now, but the thought caught me off-guard. In high school, 30 seems so "old". I'm sure I thought I'd be married with kids by THIRTY. But now, it seems kind of young, to me. I feel like I have so much time to live still ahead of me. In fact, a friend of mine in her late 40s had a baby over the weekend and sent me the picture of her newborn daughter today. But in that moment, I missed Trey, my heart kind of ached for a baby, and I thought, yes, I've been fairly sucessful in academia and am getting a wonderful degree and following my dreams for the first real time ever and it's scary as hell but thrilling at the same time and I'm letting wonder wash over me daily......but they still have the baby. And I'm not sure what to make of that thought. Maybe it's the biological clock on which I keep hitting snooze. Maybe it was just all that nice baby cuteness surrounding me (although the ear-splitting screaming, not so much). I mean, don't get me wrong - I can throw down with the best of them when it comes to childcare. Boppys, tummy time, Exersaucers, Gyminis, Bumbos, Sleep Sacks, Bugaboos, Maclarens, butt paste, Ferber Method, sibling rivalry, good diaper bags, Pack n Plays -- been there, done it all. I've been around so much of that that I already know which styles I'd want for my own kid. Which pacis are good, which bottles cause less gas, good swaddling techniques and how to comfortably carry a kid in a Baby Bjorn? Yup, know all that too. Stayed up much of the night to lay my hand on a baby's chest to make sure he's still breathing, or just to watch him sleep because he's the most peaceful, beautiful thing you've ever seen? Yup, done that. Know that there's got to be a G-d somewhere because the newborn in front of you is healthy and perfect and it's amazing how human life works? Uh-huh. Had a baby/toddler fall asleep on you or in your arms and just sat there for a while, enjoying their warm weight on you and their hand resting on your arm? Yup. See G-d in the smile of a baby or hear it in his toddler laughter? Definitely. Had a toddler spit food in your face while trying to feed his twin sisters? Er, yes. Stayed up all night with said twin sisters because they keep waking up throughout the night at separate times? Oh yeah. I've also had a baby have explosive diarrhea and have to strip him down in the mall bathroom, only to find out there were no baby wipes in the baby bag, and have baby crap all down the front of me (THANKS, BRAD!). So I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that parenting is not easy, glamorous or always fun. But I'm good at it. And I love it. And maybe that's the loss I felt this morning.

But it's something to look forward to.

real life:NY

The readjustment to being back in NY hasn't been the easiest. Every time I'm walking down the sidewalk and another person is walking in the opposite direction, or walking their dog, I always glance up at their face, hopeful that we'll say hi to each other, acknowledging the other's existence. But it never, ever happens. Ever. In NC, this would be considered rude. In Southern Village, even children would say hi if they passed you on the trails or in the neighborhood. I miss that. Such a thin, seemingly insignificant thread, but it ties us to one another. And sometimes, when you're barely hanging on, a tug on the thread reminds you that hope exists, that connection is still there.

In NY, they'd probably take scissors and cut you loose.

Things have definitely more stressful. Applying for two types of fellowships and for spots to get into an amazing class, reading book after book after book (this week I have Nabokov and Styron...uplifting, huh?), and papers looming on the horizon. And, of course, writing Something Brilliant for workshop and critiquing classmates' work. I love the books, for the most part, but I've been distracted and my productivity hasn't been as much as I'd like. I found a professor I've connected with; she's in fiction, though -- and I get the feeling that the genres don't really mix that much, despite what they say here. I know departments are very territorial, which is disconcerting. I'm still trying to figure out where me and my writing fit in, where my niche is. I'm stressed about finances, stressed about classes, missing Carolina and hoping I get that summer internship at Algonquin. There just never seems to be enough time to do everything I need to.

November already....

So. It's November. Last weekend I went back to Chapel Hill, and it was wonderful. I didn't want to come back. The people were nicer, the atmosphere was nicer......it felt like home. I felt like I had "my people" there. But here I am, back in the city. And it's not as bad as before. I've found a great sushi place that's pretty affordable, and my friend M and I go at least once a week. Last night after workshop, M, J and I went for dinner there. I'm never disappointed with the food. I've settled in a bit more to my 'hood, and have a basic routine. The cost of things still gets me, especially because I haven't been able to write any articles for over a month and a half now. No articles = no money coming in. Which was NOT part of the plan. But in some weird way, things have evened out, because I am swamped with schoolwork, fellowship applications, etc. So the time I would have written articles is now devoted to schoolwork.

It's going to be a long stretch to the end of the semester. Tons of reading, papers, etc. I basically have no life, I have so much work. But I do love it. When else am I going to have nothing else to do but read and write? When else am I going to be around such talented peers and instructors?

blah.

Wow. I can't believe October is more than halfway over. The semester is definitely in full swing. We're all a bit overwhelmed with reading (this week I had 4 books to read.....I still have one book to read for Thursday). It's intense, I have to say. And as our professor mentioned tonight (and he's an editor at a major publishing house here in the city), the program has certain expectations of you once you're done.....like going downtown to a publishing house and publishing your damn book. And the program attracts a certain kind of ambition. (or masochism, the two might be interchangeable in this instance). But although the pressure is building, I have to say I do love this environment. I am the type of person who, when I'm busy, I take on MORE things because having a lot to do gives me structure, it lays out expectations and I have clear directions on where to go, what to do and what needs to be produced. I'm applying to be on the editorial staff/reading board of Columbia's lit mag, and Friday is an info session on becoming an Undergraduate Writing Fellow, which is when grad students teach parttime and take classes parttime, so it takes you an extra year to finish the program, but your tuition and health insurance are paid for, and you get a nice little stipend. I think 22k. Of course, EVERYONE wants this. So that will be some competition. Everyone is so smart and talented here, so it will be a tough situation.

Living in NY is getting better, I have to say. Do I love it as much as I did when I was younger? Nope, not at all. But do I hate it with the fervor I had a month or two ago? No. I admit, having restaurants and places open 24/7 is nice, and the falafel here can't be beat.....except in Israel. And Zadie Smith is coming to Columbia Thursday, which I am SUPER excited about. (I have to get a book of hers for her to sign). I am looking forward to going to Chapel Hill next week, though. I need that, I need to get back to familiar people, familiar places.....a slower pace for a few days. A friendlier atmosphere.

Something unexpected IS happening though. I'm finally realizing that I'm an adult. I know, I'm 30, I should have realized this ages ago, right? But I often feel like I look 15 and feel like I'm still that awkward high school girl. Except I'm not. And being here, among 22, 23, 24 year olds, I realize that I really am an adult. This week's New York magazine had an article about the new generation of young adults......and I'm not in it. I am the verrrrrry tail end of Generation X. I have more in common with them then the generation after me. It was very, very odd to read this and feel so disconnected. And this morning, brushing my teeth, I realized that the white and silver hairs on my head have exponentially multiplied. As in, my bangs and the hair around my face definitely show a shock of white. That was sobering. As was last week, after going out with some classmates and having a few drinks, and waking up the next morning, feeling like complete shit. 5, 10 years ago, four beers would have been a WARM-UP. Now, it's enough to cause a massive hangover and wish I never drank at all. The whole thing is just really......odd. I mean, I've been paying bills and rent for years, so it's not like I was living at home and being babied....but this feels different, somehow.

ramblings.

Today I am missing Chapel Hill and North Carolina so much it takes the breath from my lungs. The longing comes on so fierce that it actually stuns me for a second. Maybe because we've reached that point in the semester where the momentum from the beginning is starting to wane, and we need to just keep pushing til the end. The intensity of this program is no joke. I can see why I was told that many people don't work during the program. Which leads me to another stressor.....the website I typically write for is undergoing some changes, and I haven't been able to write anything for 3 weeks - it was originally supposed to be 3-4 days. I've emailed people about nanny jobs and have been looking online for other writing jobs, but no luck, especially part-time or freelance. Ideally, I'd like freelance, to work around my schedule and work. The bookstore near me isn't hiring, and they're actually not so friendly, so I'm not sure I'd be happy there. So, yeah. Combine not working with NY cost of living and paying bills/loans, and you've got some homesickness for NC.

fear and loathing in NY.

"I am not afraid. I was born to do this." I recently saw this quote on a bracelet and I loved it. It was said by Joan of Arc. The more I thought about it, though, I wondered whether the two had to be mutually exclusive -- not being afraid, and doing what you were born to do. My thinking is that even if you're meant to do something, you can still be scared shitless. Following your heart and dreams and destiny is scary. It's normal to be afraid. Personally, I think if you're not even the tiniest bit afraid, you don't have much invested in whatever you're doing.

School is going well. Very, very busy. My eyeballs are about to fall out of my head, we have so much reading all the time. But when else in my life am I going to HAVE to read 3-4 books a week? When will I ever have this time again? I won't. So I'm enjoying it now. Sometimes I'll be like, shouldn't I be doing something else instead of sitting here, reading? Nope, I have to read! Very thankful for this. I think about this every time I go on campus - how close I came to not coming here, how many times I turned them down....but it was meant to be. And aside from not loving NYC and the nerves about coming here, I don't regret it. The professors are amazing, they really love what they do and care about us and our success, and though the students are competitive, they're nice, overall. I would definitely recommend Columbia to people thinking about the MFA......is there debt? Most definitely. All of my friends here are on federal loans, but that's most people at this school. And you never know what fellowships or aid can open up.

I never really think of writing as an "art", but it is, obviously - it's housed in the School of the Arts. It's odd, being an art school student. Very different than the sciences. The license to pursue creativity in every way is new to me. I've found that I need to approach books and stuff with a different mindset than I had for psych and public health. It's hard to get back into that after NOT doing it for so long. And I don't know how it is for fiction or poetry folks, but for us nonfictioners, we're constantly being told to delve deep into our stories, say things that haven't been said, to write where there's heat.....sometimes it feels a little like group therapy. Which I guess I should have expected a little bit. I mean, a bunch of writers? I don't know what will happen in the winter, when seasonal affective disorder kicks in and we all become tortured, depressed artists.

Living in NY? Expensive. Sometimes I still get sticker shock over the most basic things. I have to remind myself that not only am I back up North, but I'm in one of the most expensive cities in the country. I miss Chapel Hill every day. I miss the people, I miss the landscape, I miss my work, I miss it all. I'm beginning to fall into a routine and developing the habits I had as a New Yorker before, but there's something different, something a little softer and nicer about me this time around. I do still miss the everyday human connections. Sometimes I find them here, when a thug-looking kid gives an elderly person their seat on the subway, or when someone holds the door for me. I try to wish cashiers a nice day when I buy things. Kindness means so much more to me now.