Are you there, blog? It's me, Callie

It's been about 9 months since I updated this blog, and, while I haven't been tending to a bun in the oven, I like to think that I've been growing a new ME (and definitely eating enough for two, regardless). Since the middle of last year, I've been harboring some pretty serious demons in terms of my self confidence and general outlook on the world and my place in it. I needed this time to fall on my face, writhe around in the mud, and eventually dust myself off and try again (try again). 

While I've been silent, I haven't been doing anything productive, like pursuing the self-improvement challenges I gave myself when I first moved to the city. This is because, well... the challenge becomes getting yourself out of bed every morning. The bright lights are no longer mesmerizing, they're headache inducing. And you can't kick the headache because you're too broke for the caffeinated relief of a $5 cup of coffee.  Still, you somehow manage to afford that $20 grade B maple syrup at Whole Foods for a juice cleanse (that you're not going to finish). Also, this might be partially responsible for the aforementioned headache. Literally and figuratively. 

"So Callie", you say, "you haven't been challenging yourself, you haven't been spending your money wisely... what exactly have you been doing for the past 9 months??" 

I've been busy holding myself back, that's what I've been doing. And, like most things I attempt, I'm great at it!

Last May, I started catering to make some extra money. The first thing I can remember about the whole process is, at my waiter training, the captain repeating over and over: 

"Bring your own food to work so that you don't get fat".

As someone who has always, always, always been worried about being FAT, I took this to heart. Heck, as your regular top-tier over-achiever, I took it to head, too, and I let it make me crazy. On the job, I would sit alone and eat my pre-made salads etc., while everyone else would go down the line for left overs at dinner break. It was all fine, for a while, until the stress and the misery of working as a cater waiter got to me. I would use all my willpower to stay away from dinner, but by the end of the night, I would go crazy eating desserts as we broke down the event. They felt like a reward for toughing it out and damn it, I deserved them. But, by the time I made it home each evening, the gravity of what I'd done would hit and the panic set in. I was going to get FAT. 

To compensate for my out-of-control dessert shoveling, I decided to make my already restricted vegetarian diet more extreme: I'd go gluten free and vegan. Take that, weight problem. 

Except, that's not really how it works, is it? 

Whether or not I was actually gaining weight, in my head I was on my way to obesity. I'm not exaggerating. I was tormented day in and day out about the way my body looked and I felt so, so helpless to do anything about it. I couldn't control my self-loathing and I couldn't control my eating-- the restrict and binge cycle was too much to handle. I started being really dumb. Really, really dumb. 

I can't even bring myself to write just exactly how stupid I began to act, because, after witnessing the damage food issues can do via the struggle of a close childhood friend, I should have known better. I do know better. But I didn't act like it.

I went away for the summer. The issues with my body image and my demented relationship with food spiraled out of control. I finally had to take a serious look at myself (a good 10 lbs+ heavier despite all of my "best" efforts) and cut the crap. I needed to try something else. I stopped the vegan and gluten free nonsense, which I wasn't really doing anyway, because those restrictions just messed with my head. I got a personal trainer and, for the next 6 months I explored my hate-hate relationship with exercise. 

While enlisting the help of a trainer was a valiant effort on my part, it wasn't the solution I was ready for. My issues ran much too deep for there to be any success with our workouts. My trainer was young, cute, and probably too nice to me, which made me completely mortified every time we charted my weight and body fat. I felt the same way I did when I went through my chubby/awkward phase as a kid: like everyone stared at me as I exercised, because watching fat people struggling to perform physical tasks is like a car wreck-- you can't look away from the uncomfortable horror. Needless to say, I was relieved when the membership was up this month. I feel guilty for admitting that because I really did have some great workouts, and I felt empowered when I was able to do one half-assed tricep dip on my own (yeah I said it, you scared, bro?). But the reality is that I felt hopeless and worthless because I didn't make any changes to my body. And I was unable to make any changes on the surface level because my problems weren't living on the surface level. They started deep in my head, where they were rotting and festering, doing their best to kill off all the things I actually liked about myself. 

After a pretty traumatic break-in to my apartment, I completely lost it. The way I began treating myself hit an all-time-low and I knew that I needed to go and deal with my baggage once and for all. So, about a month ago, I started to talk to a therapist about everything that has been keeping me down. 

I have a lot of seemingly silly things to deal with, although they feel very serious to me. Once you let an irrational and unimportant thought take hold of you, the idea magically becomes the most rational and important tenet you've ever held dear, and it feels impossible to live and think any other way. No matter what anyone else tells you. And the thoughts breed and mutate until you're all kinds of crazy. 

In our last session, my therapist said to me: 

"I'm not sure if this is the right thing to say as your therapist, but you are very pretty".

And I was so uncomfortable with that assertion that I began to cry. 

How stupid is that? 

The phrase "The truth? You can't handle the truth!" is spot-on. I tell myself that I can't handle the truth because, what if it's a lie? But what I really can't handle, even more than that, is the fact that this matters so much to me. So much that I pour my blood, sweat, and tears into silly vanity rather than applying all that hard work and energy into chasing my dreams. When I take a step back and observe from the perspectives of my loved ones, it all looks pretty damn absurd. Doesn't it? 

While, clearly, I still have a long way to go, I feel like I have some of my sanity back. I catch myself being satisfied with who I am again. Sometimes I even like the curve from my waist to my hips when I glance in the mirror after a shower. 

This preoccupation with the way that I look has kept me from going on auditions ("why bother, you're too fat to cast anyway") and has poisoned other areas of my life ("don't waste your time learning a new song on the guitar, you can't sing anyway"), essentially whittling me down to nothing more than a depressed narcissistic nightmare. 

WELL...

Ain't nobody got time for that. We only get one chance at this, right? Is it really worth it to put your life, your dreams, your goals, your happiness on hold for something so meaningless and lame? 

Just in case you paused there and pondered the question, I will remind you of the answer: NO, IT IS NOT WORTH IT. 

I am lucky to have an amazing network of friends who have encouraged me, and fought with me and for me throughout this mire that I've been dragging myself through. It is because of them I've found the strength to own up to my weaknesses and to admit to them, despite being terrified how they'll reflect on me in the eyes of others. I made the choice to be mean to myself, now I'm making the choice to be nice. 

So this is my admission that I have fallen. And this is my assertion that I am starting anew. Joyful Callie is coming back with a vengeance. Get excited. 

There and Back Again: A Modern Hobbit's Tale

Last Monday morning I said farewell to my home in NYC and hello to: adventure. For the next two months, I will be bouncing from Cambridge, Massachussetts to Madison, Ohio, and to Martha's Vineyard, before finally returning to my cozy little apartment in Harlem.

I decided to enroll in the Stanislavsky Summer School, a five-week-long acting intensive in Harvard Square. I will be taking classes six days a week in acting, movement, scene study, and Russian theatre history (!) under the tutelage of the master teachers from the world-renowned Moscow Art Theatre. Or so the website says.

As all my close friends and family know, I'm terrified that this program is a scam. Perhaps it's a cultural difference that I need to deal with, but I am pretty "Type A" and need details, and the Russians give details to no one. I mean, literally, I called a few days ago because I had no idea where I was supposed to go once I arrived in Boston, and the thick-accented woman in admissions told me "its on the website" and hung up. So I scoured the website and came up with a street address hidden in one of the pages, but found no building name, no check in information, etc.

My fears were not eased when my cab dropped me off at the address today and it was, in fact, a parking lot.

After wandering around campus with my (what felt like) 500 lbs. of luggage, I finally managed to figure out where I was supposed to go and was introduced to my lush, tropical-feeling dorm room. And by tropical, I meant hot, steamy, and likely full of bugs (as per the giant hole in my window screen).

A true Russian tragedy.

I'll skip the boring details of my settling in, mostly because I'm tired and don't want to type them. 

On Tuesday, the whole lot of us set off for our first meeting where we were introduced to our professors and their translators, since some of them speak entirely in Russian (save fun phrases here and there, like: "stretch like a beeg beeg cat" "seet like leetle bird" or "you should feel pain everywhere; do it or I will shoot you"... seriously).

We meet 6 days a week from 9a-7:10p with a lunch break mid-day. Our movement class is killer, but I really like it and have been pleasantly surprised by my flexibility and strength. I can totally do a back bend-- who knew? Also, I'm almost able to push myself up into plank from the ground, and I'm determined to nail it before the 5 weeks are over. 

Acting has been pretty basic, which I expected. It never hurts to go back to square-one for a tune up, though, so I'm enjoying it. We started with silent "etudes" and learned about the atmosphere of a devised piece, before moving on to embody animals. A few of us did boxing kangaroos on the second attempt, which was a lot of fun. Next up is becoming an object... I have no clue what I'm doing, suggestions welcome.

The first rule of Kangaroo Fight Club is: you don't talk about Kangaroo Fight Club

The whole group has bonded over stealing plates and silverware from the cafeteria, since our tiny communal kitchen was completely barren when we arrived, except for ONE pot and ONE kettle. Rule of thumb has been: expect the opposite of what you've been told. They said we'd have a fully-stocked kitchen... not so much. The gym is only open from 9a-8p and costs $25... lies. Etc. etc. I'm getting used to going with the flow these days. Type B, here I come.

On Saturday night a bunch of us decided to go dancing at a 'club' in Cambridge. No less than three of my drinks were slapped out of my hands, but everything was ok because of the throw-back 90s-00s songs the DJ had on shuffle on his iPad. Also, we convinced two of the translators to come out with us, and they got down shamelessly, which I thoroughly enjoyed. Most of us made it out of the night unscathed.

Foreshadowing?

Now, as I set out on week two, I find myself exhausted but happy. I apologize for this half-hearted drive-by blog update. Honestly, I sat down to write this out of guilt haha. Missing everyone at home, hope you're staying cool.

до свидания... (do svidaniya)

Hummus Among Us

It's been a while. Things are happening. My life is up in the air, as always. I guess I had better get used to that. Here's a quick recap of the major events in the last few months:

• I moved (again)! Third apartment's the charm, right? Exactly right. I love my space, I love my roommates, I couldn't be happier.
• I had my first performance in NYC! It was unpaid, tickets were painfully over-priced, but you could see real Broadway theatres from the theatre we performed in! The experience was akin to drinking diet Sam's Club Cola-- the sugar-free version of the knock-off value brand, but hey, there's still something in your cup (so no complaining!)
• In my rejection letter from the American Repertory Theatre/ Moscow Art Theatre School Institute for Advanced Theatre Training at Harvard University (say that three times fast, I dare you), I learned that, out of the 400 auditionees, I was one of the 50 actors who were recommended for summer study in Cambridge with the Moscow Art Theatre. I'm still working out a few things, however, but there's potential for me to expand my skills with one of the most renowned theatre schools in the world. Yahoo!

Now onto the real reason for my post: another culinary disaster has occurred in my kitchen. It harkens back to the days of rock-solid Irish Soda Bread when I was a mere amateur at the stove. It all begins back in December, while I was unpacking my things at my previous apartment...

In the hurry to get settled in my new space, I spastically tossed-- yes, tossed-- the lid of my precious food processor across the room. It hit the wall and the most important part, the small safety wing that locks the bowl into place and allows the blades to spin, snapped off. Ever the crafty maven, I tacky-glued that sucker back on and it was as good as new.

Fast forward to my move towards the end of March, where the piece detached again and was completely destroyed in the process. I decided to bite the bullet and order a new lid, despite the $12 shipping (!!!), and threw away the old lid and the bowl. Because that made sense. ONLY IT DIDN'T. Upon receiving the new lid in the mail, I realized that I am a moron and threw away the perfectly good bowl, rendering my Cuisinart stand, blade, and shiny new lid utterly useless. I'd be damned if I was going to pay for $12 shipping again. 

So when I finally found tahini in Whole Foods after a 10 month search (it's with the peanut butter, who knew), I had to buy it and try my hand at whipping up one of my favorite foods: hummus. Nazlı makes perhaps the best hummus I have ever had, so I followed her recipe from her blog, Good Food for Good Soul. Since we have a blender at my current apartment, I boldly pressed forward and adapted to life without a food processor. 

It was a disaster.

First of all, the blender is just not suited to grind up all those chickpeas. Secondly, I am way too short to see into the blender while standing on the ground. So, for an hour, I sat on the counter alternating pulsing and taking the lid off to stir. Finally, it occurred to me to add more liquid to speed the process, which it did, but thoroughly watered down my concoction in the meantime. Hummus was everywhere. Hummus is still everywhere. And I had to listen to my roommate Heidi's cruel "Hey you know what would be easier? If you used a food processor" jokes all the while. 

Good times.

I put some pepper in it to try and add some flavor, but really things are beyond hope at this point. Looks like it's store-bought Sabra for me until my cheap ass raises shipping funds. All donations to the cause are greatly appreciated. Yes, I accept credit cards, thanks for asking!

Ding-dong Ditch

One of my college professors once posed the question, "What is the one topic that you cannot make a joke about?" The class provided answers like, "the Holocaust", "abortion", "rape", yet there was always someone who had an example wisecrack at hand. I'm sure you know of, and have cringed or laughed at some of these jokes. Maybe because you were uncomfortable, maybe because you actually found them funny, maybe because everyone around you was laughing and you didn't know what to think.

If you know me, you know that I love to laugh and I'm rarely serious. Heck, my last post was about something that had me laughing during a time in my life where I find it difficult to make contact with my joyful side. I had an experience today, though, that did not make me crack a smile, not even once. However, it appears that other people found some humor in it. Maybe because they were uncomfortable, maybe because they actually found it funny, maybe because they've never really had to worry about this in their own lives and they didn't know what to think.

I talked to my mother on the phone this morning and she told me to keep my eye out for a surprise package that she over-nighted in the mail. I kind of gave her a hard time about it. We had missed the delivery yesterday and no one in the apartment knew who was supposed to sign for it. If we missed delivery again, someone was going to have to haul ass to the Bronx to pick it up. We do not go to the Bronx. Anyway, mom told me that she sent along my favorite candy and a card as a little pick-me-up to help with the stress I've been under. I thanked her, apologized for being a brat, and waited for my Sarris Jellybeans to arrive.

Around 11:15a there was a ring at the door, and I buzzed the courier in to my building. My roommate's dog went ballistic at the knock, and so I had to shout over him to talk to the delivery man. I mentioned my aggravation with the barking, and we made a little small talk. He told me not to let my roommate hear how annoyed I was with the dog, and I let slip that she was at work. The air of the conversation changed.

"Are you Callie?" He asked, checking the package. I confirmed and accepted my white envelope. Then, not missing a beat, he said my last name and asked if it was French. At that instant I remembered the last time this particular man had delivered a package to me.

That first time, he had also asked about my last name, and if it was my husband's name. Who asks that? The experience the first time had weirded me out and I even called my mom to tell her how skeeved I was. Living in NYC, there are a lot of little skeevie things that tend to happen and I don't really make a habit of filling my parents in on them, mostly because I don't want to wake up to them packing my life into a U-Haul and driving me home in parental terror. I've got mace, my friends and I drop-pin, it's not a big deal and you learn to be a little wiser, okay?

So, taken aback, I responded, "No, its German". Making no move to leave and continue his deliveries, he queried, "Oh, is your husband German?". Questions about my 'husband' once, odd. Questions about my 'husband' twice, and that's a cause for concern. This man knows that I am currently alone in my apartment, and he has asked for the second time if a man is ever around. Imagine how that would make you feel.

In a stammering idiotic I-don't-know-what, I said "Yeah he's German too. He's away on business right now."

Yeah I know I'm a moron. I'm slapping myself in the face now for even speaking those words. But I didn't know what to say or do and I was really feeling uncomfortable and they happened. His response? To reference his stylus and ask me for my phone number. When I started with the area code, he made a face, which stopped me in my tracks.

When has a FedEx courier ever asked you for your phone number? Especially after you've already identified yourself and signed for your package. So I called him out, and told him I'd never needed to provide that before. He chuckled and said, "Well your husband is away for work so I figured I'd give you a call." I laughed it off and made to close the door and he didn't push it. He did not need my phone number at all (which was confirmed by the depot's senior manager later tonight).

So to recap: this man- short, olive skinned, in his 50s, profiled me. He asked if I was alone, was there a man close to me, how could he contact me. Are you laughing? Because I couldn't.

There are some pretty absurd things that happen to me. I can chuckle at some pretty crappy experiences, but this one doesn't get included in that category. No witty quips ran through my head when I thought about it. What was on my mind? How scared I would be if he showed up at my apartment one night. Or in the next 10 minutes. How much I didn't want him to force his way into my apartment, or take me out of it, because I was alone and he could probably take me down. As a woman, I have to think that way. Because it happens and it happens a lot. I've watched enough SVU and programs on Oxygen to know that this man was acting like a predator.

I was actually so upset and worried that I went to Facebook and made a short post about what happened. I figured, hey, if something really does happen, they'll know where to start looking. I called my mom again. She, among others, urged me to call and make a complaint, which I did.

The way the system works, I literally was on the phone all day. From my first call at 11:36a to my last one received at 6:04p. I jumped through the company's hoops-- the first person I talked to didn't report it properly and connected me with the site in the Bronx, where I was informed the manager was 'out' and would call later. After a few hours, I had to call back to see what was going on. Customer service had no record of my complaint, so I had to say it again. I was then transferred. I had to say it again. We called the site manager, again. He was in a meeting, would call back in 10 minutes. Thirty minutes later I was back on with customer service, asking why he didn't call. When he finally got in touch, he informed me that they would "handle it internally" and my request that he no longer deliver to me "could be made, but that didn't mean anything would actually happen". I wasn't satisfied with that answer. This guy, who I had been totally creeped out by was going to know that I filed a complaint about him and he knows where I live and could potentially be at my door again. And I don't even know his name, in the case that this would go further. So it was back on the phone with customer service. Hours later, I finally was connected with the senior manager of the site who informed me that my request would be granted, which is the best I could hope for.

My whole day was caught up in this one event. I had to repeat the details over and over and wait around for hours just for verbal confirmation that he couldn't deliver to me any more. That doesn't erase the fact that he knows where I live, but it's something. Now could you imagine the process if something worse had happened? How many times would I have to share those details? With how many different people? And how terrifying it truly is that this is a reality for some. I didn't feel safe because of some probing and inappropriate questions. What if he'd gone farther?

Have you laughed yet?

Someone has.

My Facebook status received a lot of suggestions and observations from my friends. It was interesting to note, though, that humor was found in the situation by some of my male pals. Some who I consider to know me very well and personally, all who I have no moral issues with and quite like. I'm not mad at them, necessarily, but I am surprised that their initial reactions were light. Not one of the women who commented said anything in that vein. We know the reality, we've been taught that we are targets since we were little and we are reminded every day. You don't let it get you down, you stay smart about it, and that's how you move on with your life.

But...

... some people 'lol'.

So, to you who have all made it to the end of this lengthy post from my soap-box, what is the one thing you cannot make a joke about? Because one of your friends potentially being sexually violated and murdered made the cut. 

NOkCupid

Ok everyone, this is basically just filler since I've been increasingly absent. Life has been pretty insane and I'm not quite ready to relate it all to you. However, someone once said that 'laughter is the best medicine', so why don't we give that a shot? In my opinion, finding people who are crazier than you are is really the best medicine, but, to each his own.

Out of boredom and some deep-seated need to be reckless I reactivated my OkCupid account. For the second time, I found the thing to be rather uncomfortable and strange, and ended up deactivating as soon as I could. But not before I received some of these gems from my adoring admirers.

1. Re: My alleged likeness to Shannen Doherty. Maybe hold off on the superficial insults regarding female beauty, mirror-selfie guy. At least until the second or third message.

2. I'd be offended, but he's kind of spot on here. 

3. Ew. Let's make that 38% enemies. 

And that was the end of that. Hang in there, people. Winter is almost over.

Before I go, an update for those DYING to know what happened to my date with the open container: he lives! And he visited my profile an hour after I reactivated (duh, no one can resist this).

Glad you made it through the storm, buddy and I appreciate you not abducting me. Also- thanks for not calling, ass.

So this is my new life? I'll take it.

Today was something else. Here, at the end of it, I am sitting cross-legged in my bed, head spinning in awe of where I am. The best part is that I get to keep going tomorrow.

I spent the bulk of my day the way everyone should: with my best friend. 

Around noon, I lugged my brand new acoustic Washburn guitar and my sad Staples brand 1-subject notebook full of monologues to Nazlı's apartment. After a month of dragging our feet, the two of us had finally given up our silly and unfounded fears of working in front of each other and were ready to get down to business. To break the ice (so to speak), we made a little music. Nothing out of this world, I'm sure, but I pity those who haven't had the chance to perform a sick acoustic rap version of Justin Bieber's 'Boyfriend'. 

You know you wish you were there. 

And afterwards, I got to experience the joy I haven't felt for a long, long time. Instead of falling victim to the terror that accompanies performing a character in front of your best friend, I stood up and let myself be in the moment. And it was so much fun. The bigger reward? I got to watch her do the same. I don't know how, but somewhere along the way I did something right to be surrounded by such amazing talented people, and this girl is absolutely no exception. I left her apartment with spirits high.

Later tonight, I headed (way) downtown to babysit one of my favorite kids, a precocious 8 year old girl, who is seriously the most creative child I have ever had the pleasure to hang out with. The past few times I've watched her, we've written plays and sang showtunes and danced around like only 8 year old girls can. Tonight: Just Dance 4 was on the menu. Yes, I did get 4 stars the first time I danced 'Call Me Maybe', AND she told me she thought I was "really cool". That's a direct quote. We ate some chocolate, read a few books, and off to bed she went. At that point, I was congratulating myself on having an amazing day. Little did I know, it was only going to get better. 

When her parents came home, they surprised me with a gift bag from the event they had just attended. This event just happened to be the NYC premiere of HBO's GIRLS, Season 2. That's right, I said it. I scored swag from one of my favorite shows, and it is awesome. Here, for your viewing pleasure, is my bag and all of its wondrous goodies.

Going clockwise from 'midnight':

-Two custom chocolates from The Baking Bean

-A Birchbox carepackage (2 leave-in conditioner samples by L'Oreal, a Tili bag, 'Mary-Lou Manizer' highlighting eyeshadow from The Balm, and a sample of 'eau flirt' perfume by Harvey Prince)

-Assorted GIRLS gummies

-Love & Toast all-natural lip gloss in 'Prep School' (74)

-GIRLS nailpolish in 'Marnie' by Deborah Lippmann

-'Jessa' nailpolish appliqués by Incoco

- 'Exquisite Oil' replenishing hair serum by MATRIX

-Cinnamon Lip Balm by Sprout, a Brooklyn-based cosmetic company

-Eyeshadow by Urban Decay in 'Midnight Cowboy'

-'Read My Lips' tea, courtesy of DAVIDsTEA (one of my favorites!!!)... consisting of black tea, peppermint, dark chocolate, sprinkles, and pink peppercorns.

-'Coral Beach' blush + bronzer by Cargo

-An Aerie carepackage, complete with 10 samples of their perfume 'Hidden Love', and a $50 off any purchase card

Excuse my french, but holy shit. This rocked my world. I love GIRLS. I love beauty products. And I love free things. I'm going to call this one a triple-threat.

And on top of that, I got paid. 

Unable to believe my good fortune, I stumbled (sleepily) to the train station, where I hopped on the A and was soon met with another bit of good fortune. Somewhere around the UWS, at 1:30am, a cellist and a bassoon player pulled out their instruments and began to play 'Stand By Me', to which a slightly disgruntled passenger irreverently rapped along, creating something both ridiculous and beautiful. As we continued to ride uptown and passengers departed our car, we learned that none of the musicians actually knew each other. What we had all witnessed was a pure, improvised, wonderful collaboration between three strangers on a subway train. 

The whole time I couldn't stop thinking: I live here. I am a part of this. And I am so at peace with where I have ended up and where it can take me. This one day has been so full of wonder-- from the great big gift of collaborating with my best friend, to the unexpected perks of my job-- and I can't sleep because of it. 

It's like I'm a kid too anxious for Christmas... except my Christmas is my life. 

Risky Business

Most people don't set a lot of stock in "New Year's Resolutions", and I'm the kind of person who tends to fizzle out half way through challenges of this sort (see: this and this if you have any doubts about me). This year, however, I resolved to take more risks, and carried this mantra through all twelve months of 2012.

The idea of taking more risks evolved from my boredom with my play-it-safe personality. I see myself as a person who lives in a state of constant fear, and, while my fear doesn't always cripple me, it mostly leaves me with a white-bread type of existence. Bland. Boring. Blah.

At the beginning of this year, I knew that I had a lot of big things ahead-- with college graduation and whatever comes after being the most gigantic of all. This alone scared me beyond belief. After thinking on and worrying about the unknown in my impending future, I came to the realization that playing it safe wasn't an option if I really wanted what I 'want' out of life. You can't make an omelet without breaking some eggs, you know? And so, take more risks was born.

Now, for your viewing pleasure, I will profile 5 of the most poignant risks I embarked on. Some are huge, some are small. But all of them scared the hell out of me, so that has to count for something.

5. The OK!Cupid Date
Not one of my brightest endeavors, but I think we can all agree that it was pretty damn risky. It all started when my NYU friends and I sat down for dinner together (complete with the best pumpkin risotto you've ever tasted, by the way). We were reveling over one's onslaught of dates over the past week when she admitted that she'd made a profile on the dating site, OKCupid, at the urging of a friend. Now, the rest of us operated under the assumption that only weird young people or old people in general had to use the internet to get a date. Crude, I know, but you were making these generalizations too, and you know it.

We were a little shocked and intrigued that our friend, who is totally normal and a catch, was picking up men who weren't murdering her on the web. And she seemed to be having some success at it. So I, being the only other single lady of the group, told her I'd do it too. Partly because who doesn't like a good date, but mostly because creeping on other peoples' dating profiles is wildly entertaining.
I made a profile and within a matter of minutes the views and messages started coming in. The way OKCupid works is that you type up some profile responses (What are you looking for, what movies do you like...) and answer some questions (Are women obligated to shave their legs? How do you feel about S&M?) and the site calculates a love match percentage, friend percentage, and enemy percentage between you and other users in your area. After getting some really titillating messages (i.e., 'hey', 'nice freckles', 'what r u wearing 4 hlwn grl?'), one hit my inbox that made me laugh out loud.
I won't bore you with the details, but, long story short, I decided to respond and we hit it off. Eventually the conversation lead to whereabout in NYC we lived. And we lived in the same neighborhood. In the same apartment complex, to be exact.

Truly, this was weird and exciting at the same time, and I was feeling pretty risky. So I accepted his suggestion that we meet in an hour and take a stroll around our complex. At 9pm. In the dark. In NYC. Alone. Hey, I already said it was not one of my brightest endeavors. Also, it gets a little worse.
However, I did call Nazlı (who at this point probably wanted to have me committed) and informed her that, if I didn't call her in an hour, I was dead and to call the police. A solid plan, as plans go.

So I left the safety of my home and headed to 'the fountain' to meet Greg. He brought wine in coffee tumblers for us to share as we took our walk. Literally the only demand my mother has ever made of me is: never drink from an open container, and what do I do?

I drink it and repeatedly ask him if he's going to murder me, that's what.

Despite all of the horrible ways this could have gone, I made it out OK and we actually had a pretty good time. I was excited that someone had the same sense of humor I did and a similar drive to make it happen in this city. We parted and agreed to see each other again.

Then the hurricane happened and I never heard from him again.
My friends maintain that he probably didn't make it out alive, but I sincerely hope, Greg, that you're just a typical guy who never called.

4. Letting Go
This year I learned that it is perfectly alright to sever ties with someone you once considered a close friend. This was not a particularly fun experience, but taking the risk of giving up on someone who meant a lot to me has actually paid off in the end. Growing is the way-of-all-things, and growing apart happens.

In my experience, one of my best friends and I stopped seeing eye to eye in a major way. I'm not entirely sure how we progressed to the mess we ended in, but I know that I found myself feeling harassed by someone that was taking, taking, taking what I'd given, and who was giving nothing but hurt in return. I'm sure she felt hurt by me, too, but attempting to find out what exactly I'd done became time consuming and fruitless and exhausting. I found myself lacking the fighting spirit to navigate through all the name-calling and pull it back together.

This was terrifying. She had been one of my closest friends for years and was an integral part of two of my dearest friend groups. I was wary of putting those groups at risk and making things 'weird' for everyone, and I was also really scared that somehow I would end up alone. But things came to a head and I finally had to say enough, and let it go. I had to stop answering baited text messages. I had to stop worrying about the effects this was going to have on other people. Because, really, it was having the biggest effect on me, and my life, and my happiness.

So I cut the cord. And it was painful. It still makes me sad, in a way. However, it empowered me to surround myself with people who lift me up, rather than bring me down. My other friendships were strengthened, and I really feel as though I'm in a better place.

3. Reaching Out
In high school, I had a wondrous broken-hearted-teenage-love saga that has pretty much shaped all of my romantic relationships up to this point. It was a secret crush, that turned into a friendship, that almost turned into a ?, that left me hanging for a solid part of my teenage years. Looking back, it all feels strangely similar to this:

One thing is for sure: being left hanging screws you up way more than rejection does. I have serious trust issues (don't we all) and I think the root of it lies in the horror of possibly being taken for a ride again. So how do you fix that in yourself? If you're me, the first step is to gather your wits and reach out to your friend/the ex-object of your affections who you've been estranged from for four years.
While home for the holidays, we met and caught up over a few drinks. I was nervous going into it, but genuinely curious as to what ever became of him. Despite all those years of my love-worn journaling, we actually had managed to form a close friendship, so it was important to find out if he was doing OK.
And, turns out, he is. It was so easy jumping back into our rapport. My anxieties went right out the window and I really enjoyed slipping back into our rhythm. He's still a match for my sass, and that's saying a lot, people.
So reaching out, while terrifying at first, had a big payoff for me. The ease and normalcy of it all reminded me that I am nowhere near the confused little girl I was in high school, and it gave me the chance to let go of those silly insecurities that I had been holding on to with a vice-like grip. Taking a risk to put myself back into a place where I had previously been so vulnerable took a lot of courage, and ultimately changed me for the better.

2. Driving
I have always been convinced that my death will be the result of a freak motor-vehicle accident. It's completely morbid, I know, but that's all part of my charm. So it's safe to say that I can get slightly high-strung while,
a.) in the passenger seat of anyone else's car (it's a control thing), and
b.) driving somewhere new and/or dangerous.
And by high-strung, I mean like an antelope running from a pack of predators, high-strung.

Surprisingly, I did really well when the time came to drive the bustling streets of New York City. In a 14' moving truck.

I had to move from my first apartment on November 29th and decided to rent a U-Haul and round up some friends, in order to save a few bucks. Well, since the truck was in my name, I had to drive the monstrosity from the depot to my apartment across town. And then parallel park. Luckily for me, I had Nazlı and another friend in the cab with me to give words of encouragement and record the experience for posterity.

The Terror on 23rd Street

Making that drive and doing it in a mostly composed manner was a great victory for me. Risk taken, fear conquered! 

And onto the biggest risk I think I have ever taken... 

1. Leaving NYU
In October of this year, I hit a wall. While attempting to deal with the fact that I was completely and utterly miserable in my program, I finally took a step back and admitted that Speech-Language Pathology is not for me.

I am, and always have been, an actor, and that is the direction in which I need to take my life.

This decision was not taken lightly. I've had to come to terms with the perils of the lifestyle I am choosing. I've had to face my fear of disappointing the people who love me. I've had to swallow the lump in my throat and fight the anxiety that comes with saying "I am dropping out of school".

Doesn't that just have the worst connotation? It still makes me cringe, but dropping out is exactly what I'm doing and I won't take it back. I have serious pride/perfectionism issues, and pushed myself to finish out my semester, however torturous these past months have been. I don't think many people could do that and succeed.

So here I am. Another struggling actor in New York City. I have a plan, as usual, but now I have to learn that you can only plan so much. The rest is an unknown, a ?, a risk. I am so excited to finally embrace who I am and what I love. I'm no longer dipping a toe in the water, I'm doing a cannonball and laughing all the way.

This year is quickly coming to a close. I took risks. I changed. I had some really stellar and strange and enlightening and crushing experiences. But the point of all that is: I'm still here and I've grown up and I'm striving to live my dream. What a payoff.

Looking ahead...

2013: Allow yourself to be vulnerable.

... What are you doing?