The Hypocrisy of A 20-Something Life and Why The Grass Is Always Greener On The Other Side

Seattle apparently has not seen rain in 30 days. Don't cry for Seattle, because New York has decided to steal the title of Rain City. It wouldn't be wise to leave the house without an umbrella, and some of us are contemplating pharmaceutical assistance in getting through these gray days.

Today was all gray sunshine - alternately rain/cloudy and sunny, and one of my favorite kinds of days. Being the fool that I am and feeling that it was perfect sitting-in-a-coffee-shop-kind-of-day, I ventured out just as the clouds gathered to sit in and write. I was under the false impression that I had an umbrella tucked somewhere in my fashionably oversized handbag. I was also wearing flip-flops and a silk shirt. Luckily, the Hungarian Coffee Shop is only a few blocks away, and I arrived heroically drenched and cutely helpless. I now know for sure that I don't actually like getting caught in the rain and that I don't think I actually like pina coladas either.

The gray has been doing wonders for my creativity and contemplation. I also decided it was high-time I took charge of my roaring 20's and set out to accomplish something other than the usual socializing, studying, or cleaning. What inspired me so? I've been struggling to achieve a balance between my social butterfly and loner ways. It seems that I am always surrounded by people and often when I am, I'm struggling to escape somehow to my UWS cave so I can walk around in mismatched pajamas, sip ruby red grapefruit juice, and catch up on my reality TV. And yet, when I'm by myself, I can only take it for a maximum of 1 hour before wanting to commit myself to a mental institution. The grass is indeed always greener on the other side.

The rain and some poor planning have canned the day's more interesting possibilities and so I sit here with a latte by my side to discuss Christine Hassler's "10 Tips for Twenty Something Transformation" from The Huffington Post. The piece confirmed that my just-past-quarter-life-crisis is here to stay for at least another 4 years until I turn 30. Teenagehood was well-documented and understood, college was the best of times and the worst of times, and people will practically let you get away with murder during those years. But what happens when you're a 20-something? There are so many balances to strike, and we receive so many mixed messages about how to go about doing so. Slightly embittered by these realities, I offer my take on these 10, well-meaning tips:

1. Be present - Stop obsessing about the future and focus on now? There is no such thing. All anyone wants to know about are your plans for the future. When you are a 20-something, everyone assumes you have exciting and profound things in store for yourself. If we are to do that, then don't we have to think about the future? Life is what happens when you're not looking and planning, supposedly, but where I'm coming from, if you stop planning you might as well fall of the face of earth. Additionally, family will simultaneously tell you that you've had your fun and need to think about your future mate and the future of your reproductive system, and that you are also too young not to enjoy yourself. Not being absent isn't so difficult, but being present can be an arduous task.

2. Stop comparing - This is like one of those computer error messages that neither you nor the IT guy can understand. Female 20-somethings are especially hard-wired to ignore it. Anyone who gives this advice has likely been luckily enough not to suffer from the comparison syndrome and probably isn't in the position to advise a 20-something.

3. Stop caring about what other people think - Ditto.

4. Tune in - Paying attention to our intuition and gut feelings translates into following your heart, which many of us learned early on is a trick answer and not the way to go. I for one see signs everywhere, and so my instincts are not always very reliable. We've also been groomed not to trust ourselves, only to learn from the results of testing ourselves. I don't know if I have an antenna to really tune in, or how to fix it if it is broken.

5. Don't wait for permission, approval, or validation - Agreed that at some point in your life, you have to stop looking to others for the green light and go with whatever your gut, brain, and heart have concluded. This tip, however, simply ignores the array of social influences we're slammed by everyday, family being the most notorious one. You're lucky if your family really is crazy and its in your best interest to ignore them. Not so much if they're actually alright people and you have a decent relationship with them and sometimes, they actually know what they're are talking about. Then, you're kind of obligated to listen to them and subconsciously seek their permission, approval, or validation. Also, again, for female 20-somethings, validation is big - don't underestimate it.

6. Make choices - Today's twenty-something has an upscale problem: an abundance of choices which often leads to making no choice at all. If decision making is a weak skill, find ways to build your decision making muscle. Resist the urge to call your friends and parents when faced with a decision. Make little choices each day on your own, without consulting anyone else (unless of course your choice directly affects another or others) - I'll admit that I have a hard time with this one, but it just takes practice. I have chronic indecisiveness, but after some choices turned out okay, the rest have gotten a little easier. There are definitely way too many options in today's world, and some of my friends and I have discussed the pressure to make the right one - simply because the world is at our feet and we should be able to. We can be so afraid of making the wrong decision, and there is so much information that the decision-making process has practically become a hobby for some. But it's alright, because to be a great 20-something you also need to follow #7:

7. Make mistakes - I'm pretty good at this one, and I'm not petrified of making more. However, I would like to reduce the number, or at least the amount that is statistically significant. I do believe that everyone absolutely must leave their comfort zone at some point, and I'm quickly approaching that moment myself. Time to push again, and I can't wait.

8. Do things alone and 9. Build your tribe - And here are those diametrically opposed pieces of advice and the conundrum of the greener grass. Today was supposed to be one of my many exercises in Being Alone. I realized though, that like regular social planning, Being Alone requires some effort as well. If I hadn't woken up at 12:30 pm, for instance, I might have actually been able to make it to The Cloisters or the Hayden Planetarium at the Museum of Natural History. If I had plans that actually involved other people, I probably would have been a little more on top of my game. I did, however, have lunch by myself at a wonderful little crepe shop on Columbus Avenue, to which I feel like returning for dinner. And I can, because I'm by myself and there isn't anyone else around to care.

A little anecdote here. During my college years, one of my good friends, A, was also one of the most co-dependent people alive on this planet. A was one of those closet loners, like myself. On the surface he was kind of the guy to know, and a sort of social glue. But the truth is, all A needed was himself and one other person to tag along and validate his life observations. That was usually me. This relationship suited the middle child in me just fine. My resistance was often futile and superficial, and I was more than happy to let someone take charge and throw an element of surprise into my day. Post-college, I thought there might be something unhealthy about this friendship, but when A moved away and it changed, I longed for it again.

I have been this way most of my life, to a fault. I'm selectively selfish on my own, but that usually comes with becoming upset about something else. It's usually not an organic selfishness. I'm sort of like Julia Roberts in the Runaway Bride, and I don't like Julia Roberts or any of her movies (for the most part). She was sort of a chameleon who changed according to the man she was with (which is not exactly my problem, but you get the idea). That scene where she is trying to figure out how she likes her eggs really got to me. I still don't really know how I like my eggs, but I've been thinking about if for years. This might explain a lot.

But I digress. So, I'm supposed to build a tribe, a network of those beyond my family and immediate friends. Networking is soo overrated. Especially since I'm also supposed to be on a diet and not be eating out so much, whether alone or with others. But my tribe, my network, the social foundation that wil make or break my future existence! What about my exercise in learning to love myself and enjoying the world alone? Which is better, or healthier? Buckwheat crepes or an industrially-produced, under-500 calorie meal from Fresh Direct while I keep up with the Kardashians? And dude, what of my non-existent plus-one? Despite his non-existence, everyone is really worried about him. But I need that Fresh Direct, home alone, along with a tribe and network, to snag him. Yet, I'll never be happy unless I'm happy by myself first.

If all of the above seem as hypocritical and generally messed up to you as they do to me, I propose Tip #9B - Build an island. Then become one. And don't move.

10. Be of service - Right on, seriously. About the only thing I feel like doing lately is helping someone in need, a complete stranger who could care less about my portion-sizes and reproductive system, and who would just appreciate some company and a smile. This is why I am far more curious about those I don't know than those I do. I certainly need to give back more - it seems to be the only relief from the self-absorbedness that is being a 20-something.

I rush off now to balance my Alone day with dinner and a companion because hey, I didn't have a pastry with my latte, and at least running between green and greener lawns is good exercise.

En Route to the Waldorf, En Route to Life

A car glides to a stop across the street and I’m not sure if it’s my ride. The right blinker - blinks. Am I about to be harassed by a jolly old creep of a man in a livery car, or is that San I spot behind the wheel? I pretend to be on my cellphone to ignore imaginary driver trying to pick me up. Now I spot a hand waving in front of the wheel, and blinker flashes again. I run to the passenger side and pop myself in. I wonder if my doorman is questioning my whereabouts on this drizzly Monday night – its 10 pm, and does he know where his residents are? The watchful eyes of our dorm security never seemed to have left me, and I'm always slightly sheepish in front of my doormen when late hours are involved.

Did I imagine I got into a car with San or is it really a cab driver? Because before I know it we are careening down Central Park West and the girl is cutting off cabs left and right. There’s no traffic and the Upper East Side looks sad and empty. We’re on our way to the Waldorf-Astoria to meet our dear friend T before she begins a career in the foreign service and is shipped off to Nowhere Near Us. San will be driving back to New Jersey after this short stint as cabdriver, so I offer her a cookie and she offers up some new desi tunes. Our big gripes are the potholes, parking, and a pitiful attempt to muster up enough energy for a warm and sweet goodbye.

The whole scenario is not very becoming of us. We park in front of St. Bart’s church and I am confused – I thought St. Bart’s was a whole other kind of paradise. We trudge towards entrance in our non-Waldorf attire when it hits us –

Last we checked, we were 13. This is clearly no longer the case, at least in the way the case has presented itself to us.

We have no idea what we are doing in front of the Waldorf-Astoria at just past 10 pm (since San, aka, cabbie, utilized those driving skills to the max) on a random Monday night. The digital picture frame we bought for T is like a hot potato in our hands, and we want our homes and our beds. San has been making daily treks between 2 states and an island, and I have full-blown insomnia. How is that we’ve barely gotten through one day only to contemplate how we’re going to get through the next? When, why, and how did we fast forward so quickly, and does it have anything to do with the fact that San drives like a Pakistani cabdriver instead of a Pakistani business student?

But then a European tourist takes one last photo of all of us together in NYC. He’s kind and rather particular, and takes a few shots before getting it right (he thinks) – so that the “candles are in the frame.”

We crack up – no, we giggle. Last we checked, we were indeed 13. But maybe we can afford to ignore the years in between because there we were, three great friends still giggling together over nothing and everything - check.

The Importance of Being Earnest...And Unavailable

The Universe has been sending me mixed signals, even when it's done by the numbers - literally.

In sharp contrast to the suggestion the that I'm not emitting the right so-called-Vibes towards the opposite sex and thus quickening the speed at which I shack up and reproduce, my recent Numerology report accurately diagnosed some of my gravest personality ailments.

Don't ask why I have a Numerology report. I told myself yesterday that cramming for my finance exam at the last minute wasn't going to help, so I decided to attempt another type of financial analysis on Numerology.com. Truth be told, I'm sort of kooky, earthy, and new-age like that. But mostly, I wondered if I was missing something about myself, and those awesome little Google ads that show up in your Gmail are like giving a mouse a cookie.

I was suspicious about the meaning of my Life Path and Expression Number (8 and 4, respectively) but my Soul Urge number (6) was like, whoa. Finally, someone (Thanks, Mr. Blair Gorman of Numerology.com) seemed to understand that it's not that I don't have good vibes to send - in fact, they are all fantastic and too many of them are out there! In all my earnestness towards life, I have no mystery or sex appeal and am unacceptably, undesirably, and horrifically all too - available:

Your soul urge is to nurture and take care of others. You love people and believe the greatest expression of your inner divinity is through teaching and guidance. Many of you are very maternal or paternal at an early age and are often regulated, by default to the role of advisor or therapist in your social life. Unfortunately your willingness to take on other people's burdens threatens your romantic relationships. This is because you are often perceived as a friend or a helper rather than as an object of desire. The result is that many sixes end up with broken hearts simply because others simply could not recognize their empathy as being an expression of love and desire. Part of your challenge in life is to learn how to make yourself more sexually attractive to others. Often this means learning the brutal rules of the game of love, which in courtship often mean practicing a certain kinds of power plays and being mysterious. The mistake that you often make is letting yourself be too available to the person you are trying to attract. As the object of desire realizes that you are willing to be there for them no matter what, they take it for granted that you will settle for less. It is often a six who will spend a year comforting someone they are attracted to in the hopes the person will recognize their good heart, only to be dismayed when they are thanked for all their kind support and the person moves onto a romance with someone else. Your candidness and forthright manner is also a drawback romantically as others are turned off by your dogmatic approach. As you tend to discuss everything about yourself with a member of the opposite sex, there is little mysterious or sexy about you. Spilling your guts does not help you professionally either, as it encourages others to steal your ideals. Part of your inner struggle might be fighting your urge to connect so intimately with every single person you meet. One way to combat this is to make an effort to be a little more stand offish and play your cards close to your chest, especially when it comes to romance. As you are a very sensitive and compassionate person you tend to take things very personally. When others let you down you have a tendency to retreat from society and nurse your wounds. Often when a six decides to play the victim in a relationship he or she is met with very little sympathy or help. This is ironic as sixes are so eager to help others and comfort them when they are down and out. The cosmos presents you with this type of situation so that you are forced to heal yourself with the same type of focus and devotion that you use to heal others. If you feel yourself succumbing to a tendency to isolate yourself or find yourself succumbing to addiction or depression your best course of action is to forget about yourself entirely and go out and make an effort to help someone less fortunate than you. This teaches you to be helpful to people you are not attracted to as sixes have a way of only making themselves useful to individuals that they find attractive or desire. The very highest calling of your soul urge number is to renounce sex and relationships altogether and devote your life to a religious or spiritual practice.

If you want to know a second truth, this fits in nicely with my vision of helping those less fortunate than I in Africa or India in my 40s and eventually adopting the one poor child who just spoke to me like none other. While my life revolves around people and a the-more-the-merrier attitudes towards them, I've always secretly wondered if I might not reach my true potential if I did exactly that.

If you want to know a third truth, it's that I consider myself highly spiritually evolved (something else confirmed by Mr. Gorman) and thus miserably suited for living a conventional if comfortable life. Yeah, I'm so over it all that I can barely get through it. So mature that I can't dumb myself down to the level necessary to bear it. Too idealistic. Too romantic. Too trusting. Too everything. And now on top of everything else, too available.

I get it - I really do. But the point missed here is this - I'm only candid, forthright, and dogmatic when I've been given some sort of greenlight to be so, and when someone is responsive to this "dogmatic approach." So how can this make me too available? I want to think about it more, but it's a vicious cycle and makes my brain hurt, so I'll move on to a more interesting aspect of my Soul Urge.

Truth #4 - I'm certainly rather maternal and have really just always wanted to take care of people. That wasn't meant to be funny. In fact, it is why I tried to pursue medicine - twice. I've come to terms with the fact that there may be other ways I can follow that calling, if we want to call it that. And it's also true that the reason I find myself making it through at times is knowing that there are people far worse off than I, and rather than mull over myself, I should put my high evolution of spirit and mind towards helping them instead. I don't know if I can ever denounce all that I have, but I can certainly appreciate it to the max and at some point move on.

In sum, it appears that I'm too maternal, spiritual, earnest, and available for my own heart or reproductive system to handle. And so, for a little experiment of a while at least, I'll have to place some importance on being unavailable as well. I can be all too good at that, too, I have a feeling - let's see if it is possible to strike a balance. If not, Africa, here I come.

What A Trip Around The Sun

Goes a song about birthdays and how overrated they are.

This birthday video (kindly sent to me by my 4th cousin, twice removed) congratulated me on completing another trip around the sun today and reminded me that I made it alive. I gave this some thought and agreed that indeed, I didn't die this year and it was quite a tumultuous and interesting trip around the sun for the 26th time.

At this time last year, I was constantly fighting with a boy on the phone, lived at home, had a temporary job, and was sitting in Organic Chemistry lecture AND workshop until 10 pm while the class celebrated someone else's birthday because I hadn't told anyone it was mine, too. Can you say miserable?

Today, I'm soaking up the rays coming through the wide windows in a nice office with a job that throws me quite a few bones and allows me to blog every now and then. I love my UWS studio apartment and am thrilled to have it all to myself. I'm in an amazing graduate program and finished the last class of my first semester last night. I've come to terms with my face and praise my own hair. Can we agree that life is pretty darn good?

Of course, in the Indian tradition, I have completed 26 years and am on my 27th - so from this day onwards, my family will tell everyone I'm 27 and need to get hitched right away. But I can deal. I have nice hair, and bad Indian music sounds great bouncing off the high ceilings of my studio.

Kodak Moment, Biodata In The Making

I wore a blue sari to a wedding reception and had 2 biodata photos taken.

My aunt (one of many) said that it is rare to have a biodata/Kodak moment. So I violently shook my head a few times, then grinned sheepishly, then smiled for the camera. My uncle is already planning a pre-wedding event, the venue for which is his ginormous back lawn.

I don't know if I am insulted that this was one of the few times they were so eager to take my picture and pimp me out or flattered that I managed to impress them.

3 glasses of wine later, I was eyeing the best man (also my cousin's best friend) and contemplating following him around. My other cousin (jeez, why are there so many?) offered to help me out and walk around aimlessly. In the end, we both just ended up getting more wine and dancing with our various uncles since all the young men were having too much fun dancing by themselves.

A pseudo-cousin challenged me to go one month without complaining about all this interest in my love life, potential marriage, and childbearing abilities. In the same breath, he asked why I was single since I am apparently so great.

I think I'm about to vomit and commit myself somewhere but I really have to make it through the next 3 weeks without losing it. Help.

Matchmaker, Matchmaker, Find Me a Match Online

Either the entire universe is trying to tell me something, or it's just gone crazy.

I received this in my inbox the other day:

Dear Friends,

I'm pleased to announce the launch of a matchmaking site for people of Indian origin in the U.S. as well as in India. The site is called NYdidi.com; the didi is me and, well, you know what NY is. NYdidi speaks to the Indian population by combining tradition with the modern, allowing the old India to meet the new reality.

If you know someone who is single, will you forward this email to them? The site is still in the BETA testing stage. We would like to extend a one year membership as a thank you to friends who join as founding members. We need their feedback.

So just head to www.NYdidi.com, take a personality test, sign-up, have fun and let me know what you think through our "Contact Us" page. I think you'll appreciate the warm, secure and fun site I've created.*

*Welcome to NYdidi! *
*I wish you a life filled with love and laughter*,

Register <http://nydidi.com/user/register> at NYdidi.com

I haven't even gotten to my online dating fiascos!!! Stop, NYDidi! You're moving way too fast for me. How can I address such an Indian-specific site with such a cooky name when my readers don't even know about my even more bizarre experiences yet?

Let me preface this by saying that I fully intend to "beta-test" NYDidi.com, although I've just about had it with beta-testing (doing some of my own and work-related and it was not easy). I think Didi has good intentions and some interesting ideas (like a small "party" held last week to get people started with the process), and obviously she wants to update the traditional Indian matchmaking process. But there are a few things I wondered about.

First, using your own name in an matchmaking service doesn't seem so wise. Especially when your name in Hindi means "sister." I'm not sure how appealing logging into "NYSister" to find a date/soulmate will be.

Second, I question the description of this site as a "matchmaking" service. Only bored and nosy relatives will create profiles for their respective, apparently dying-of-loneliness loved ones. Not to mention that those of us who were either born here or spent their childhoods/vast majority of their lives here are not so open to this kind of matchmaking. "Online dating" would attract a greater population.

Third, what does "allowing the old India to meet the new reality" mean? I'm not so sure how this speaks to someone like me. I'm neither old India, nor do I need it to meet a new reality, since my reality is the only one I know and I don't consider it to be new. Immature interpretation? Sure. But I'm sure it will make sense to some of you as well.

Will beta-test and return with more insight. In the meantime, I'll also detail some harrowing and not-so-harrowing experiences from Match.com. Stay tuned.

Gummy Bears & Growing Up

Time and distance are funny things. Last week I visied a good friend of mine in Texas, one I haven't seen since we graduated college a few years ago.

Shivers. Chills. A few years ago.

Ah, you say, that's the story of life. I say this, too. But then I sort of have to blink and shake myself and remember that for almost a few years, I used to see this person virtually every other hour. Weird.

Last Sunday, another friend of mine got engaged.

Shivers. Chills. Congrats! Engaged. I still can't shake the image of him eating coca-cola gummy bears (also a fond childhood favorite of mine) and pouring green apple vodka in just about everything he could find.

One of my chickies just bought a $28.00 mascara. Chills, but mostly congrats! This is the same girl who once "borrowed" my eyeliner and used it for three years straight because she didn't want to buy another one.

And another chickie actually, finally, gratefully, started drinking.

I don't know if I'm starting to feel old too early or what, but these odd waves of nostalgia have begun to hit me in a rather uncharacteristically emotional manner. Not fun.

In a way, it's a riot. Some things from the past really make me giggle and shake my head. But most of all, I'm actually quite thrilled that none of us are exactly the same anymore, although once in a while, I still enjoy my gummy bears.

Diagnosis: Who's The Happiest Of Them All?

According to the New York Times, unhappy people watch the most TV. No joke. Read about it here. It is the one activity that people engage in which has a negative relationship with happiness.

So I calculated the number of hours my father absorbs CNN via osmosis everyday and my grandmother is entranced by Zee TV. The dianosis - chronic unhappiness, just about the most you can imagine.

No surprise, some would say, but I find this very interesting. If I really think about it, I'm sure my dad wishes he had a son like Anderson Cooper or Sanjay Gupta, and my grandmother wants to be as victimized as Saloni Surname-less. TV feeds their fantasies and spurs a vicious cycle.

Mummsy, on the other hand, despite her saint-like qualities and bearing of all our burdens, comes out the real winner here. Her TV time amounts to maybe about 0.5 hours a week. This makes her the happiest (and fairest - truly) of them all. Go, mom. I guess waking up at the crack of dawn, squeezing in a week's worth of work in a day, being manically dedicated to family and work, and chronic exhaustion has done her some good. Who knew?

I was going to suggest my family get DVR, but now I'm afraid it could worsen their condition and throw them into deep depression. I might have to cut off my relationship, too.

Why are good things so, so very bad?

The Coffee Guy, I, & $1.00

So it happened. The Coffee Guy and I reached the climax of our relationship.

We fought.

Over $1.00.

I gave him the extra when he stuffed a huge eclair-like accompaniment to my decaf coffee. He said, "No, no sweetie, only $1.00." I said, "No, no, it can't always be $1.00, please take it." He said, "No, no..." and so forth.

I started to walk away when he actually stuck his arm out the window and insisted I take the dollar. Me kept walking. I felt kind of foolish, but satisfied.

I don't know how much longer we can last like this. At some point, he'll be the only Coffee Guy I can frequent and he'll be obligated to give me free goodies no matter what. Dangerous...

And yet, not so...he's too cute! I heart street coffee and the nice dudes who sell it.

12-Year-Old Food Genius & The Boy Who Could Have Been

12-Year-Old's a Food Critic, and the Chef Loves It

Where was this kid when I was 12? I was waiting for a proposal to be best friends with my future husband. He could've been it.

This kid is all that most people must hate about NYC - an Upper West Sider who gets his own $25 to get dinner while the parents are out, and ends up sampling prosciutto and cheese at the hippest new Italian restaurant in the neighborhood. What a life.

This falls into my Only In New York category. I'm jealous, and I want to be him when I grow up.

Insert Drama [Here]; Press Esc To Quit

I have performed both commands rather successfully of late.

Don't be fooled by stories of LOL'ing to Jon Stewart and listening to bad Hindi music. I mean, that's the case about 90% of the time. The other 10%, there is some gradually unfolding soap opera/freak show in my life. Often, they unfold too slowly or are too internalized to bother discussing, but other times they are explosions of food bombs in my face and I don't know what just happened.

This past week? 2 food bombs. Not fun. Sounds like I should start scripting for The Hills. I know I'm being vague but I'm fielding questions from my sister and cousin, both of whom actually read this and request follow-ups.

But to balance it out, I also quietly and gracefully exited from another potentially sticky situation, and received a positive response for doing so. I just pressed the button and it was done! It was so gratifying - finally, something grown-up! Some maturity! Some mutual understanding! If departures can be that amicable, I should orchestrate them more often to retain some faith in the world.

Not to say that a little drama (and then some) isn't kind of fun every now and then. Actually, it's a lot of fun. It simultaneously makes me want to cry, wring my hands in the air, and giggle.

Life is too short not to try all 3 at once.

The Coffee Guy & I

As I drag my feet towards class 3 evenings a week after work, two thoughts usually cross my mind - 1) Thank goodness I'm enjoying what I'm doing 2) Why isn't it Friday yet?

But of late, my Coffee Guy has sweetened up not only my coffee but my evenings. Coffee Guy is one of many trusty New York street vendors who can get you anything from a hot dog to a scone in less than 2 seconds. But mine is special.

For starters, he is mad cute. Yeah, you read right - mad cute. He has a charming Middle-Eastern accent that does not remind you of an old Indian man who does business in Dubai. If he were a doctor, your parents would want you to bring him home. If Mira Nair bought coffee from him, she would want to cast him in a movie. He is not devastatingly handsome in the least, just very cute and sweet. I'm sure some older Coffee Guy's daughter is in love with him. I want to know his name, but that may take the relationship to a whole other level it does not need to be at.

He also calls me sweetie. I don't mind this. Half of the male population in New York will call you sweetie just for being female and standing within 2 feet of them - the fact that you are swiping your Metrocard or buying coffee is not taken into consideration. It's the way he says it that is so endearing. It is very relaxed and nonchalant, not sleazy. He's not trying to make you feel special by calling you sweetie. It would be gross if he tried to make you feel special. So the fact that he's not even trying makes it all the more appealing.

I admit that I may have unintentionally thrown myself into some sub-special but unique category with a sprightly "Eid Mubarak!" a few months ago. I'm a dork. It was Eid, I have some friends who celebrate, and as Coffee Guy blared his Arabic pop music that day, I couldn't help but wish him. Risky, considering he may not have been a practising Muslim (I learned my lesson when I wished the same to a friend in class only to learn that she is in fact, not one). But his face lit up and it was worth it.

Now, every so often, he gives me back the extra quarter I paid for the medium coffee or gives me a free donut. Last night it was a raisin scone. I felt terrible. I smiled and said "No thank you", but he insisted and I thought it was sort of wrong not to take something from someone who so clearly could profit from keeping it but really wants you to have a bite before you hit class. Or wants to buy your love with food. Hey, no one has ever tried that one before...!

No, I'm not having an affair with Coffee Guy. But I really, really, really appreciate him. The only way I can think of thanking him is ordering more things and overpaying, but I know he'll try to give me the money back. It's worse than friends fighting over the dinner bill.

I'm sure Coffee Guy will make some woman very happy some day. Until then, I'll try to support his Arabic radio habit as much as possible and hope that he doesn't gift me 10 lbs worth of donuts and scones.

Status Update

That Facebook world I was talking about? Here it is, in living color and a dash of British humor:

I Almost Missed a Flight On Account of Chipotle Sauce

Yes, only me. After a whirlwind trip to Austin, Texas this past weekend, I almost ruined it on account of chipotle sauce. While I hadn't seen one of my closest friends from college since we graduated, and visiting a red state in this day and age seemed akin to visiting a museum in a galaxy far, far away, my real quest was hot sauce. Sorry, Diddy.

Of course, I didn't really have the chance to indulge in this new way of preoccuyping myself when I'm bored with life, until, of course, the 30 minutes before our return flight.

I was supposed to go to the bathroom. Then I stopped to buy a magazine. Since I already had Marie Claire and Lucky, it was a tough call between Elle and Bazaar. Then I spotted some bottles of hot sauce. Mission accomplished! But no. It wasn't the right kind. They were all of the tobasco variety and I wanted something more hearty. I moved on.

On my way back to my waiting friend, J, I found another magazine I wanted. This time it was between Newsweek and The New Yorker. Obama, or no Obama? Hmm....There was also a new addition to the Texan food souvenirs - chipotle sauce. Also present - a helluva long line. But I waited. And waited.

By this time, I had one missed call and 2 text messages from J. When I finally met up with him, he was waiting outside an airport cafe with all of our bags and looking slightly perplexed. We had about 15 minutes until our flight. We just made it. Whew.

Except now, I don't think J, or anyone else, will ever let me go to the bathroom by myself.

The Sweet Hereafter That Has Yet To Begin

Alpha Cousin reminds me that I have not shared the intimate details of my life in 7 days. Don't even ask what has been going on in this little brain of mine since then. It is almost too gory and palpable for a blog. All I have to say is that on the eve of 1-month-until-I'm-4-years-closer-to-30, I can't help but feel that I'm still 16 somewhere inside, and that she is trying to bust loose.

Life at 16 was sweet for a reason. Now, for better and for worse (but largely for the better), it can be categorized into ways it never could back then. Life at age-at-which-I'm-almost-4-years-closer-to-30 is sweeter for sure, but in a Sour Patch Kid kind of way. Here's why:

My Big Old UWS Studio

Bowled over by living in one. It's so big I get tired moving from bed to bathroom to closet to coffee table to dresser and finally out the door in the morning. There has been a temporary lapse in my Martha Stewart ways. I revel in watching 3 TV shows at once and keep hair tools on the coffee table. I drink almost everything in a wine glass. I play Hindi music VERY loudly and often put the most awesomely bad songs on repeat. Sometimes I even sing along. Okay, I usually sing along. I actually Laugh Out Loud (aka, LOL) when John Stewart tickles my funny bone and I know the doorman can hear me swoon. I dig into un-plated food with abandon knowing that I will be the only one returning to the container and re-ingesting my own germs. I stay up unreasonably late like a 5-yr old waiting for the big secret party she's never invited to and must be in bed by - except it never comes. I also vacuum, a chore I have not performed since I was...16.

My Path To Finding "Somebody Special :)"

Yeah, with the smiley face, according to another dear cousin who is far older than me (yes, that's right, you're far, far older...) and recently wished me luck in my "path to finding somebody special :)." Huh? Clearly my family is a gold mine of blog topics lately. Gag me with the dirty spoon still sitting in my sink.

If anyone I know has followed such a path, please enlighten me. Oh, right. None of you did. Oops.

But then, of course, awesomely bad Hindi song comes on and I'm singing along, LOL'ing to John Stewart, and swooning. Weird thoughts start swirling around in my head and before you know it, I've vented to about 4 different friends and 2 different relatives and 1 coworker and 1 somewhat of an absolute stranger about the state of dating and love for the average 25-yr old female in this day and age. It is an exhausting performance and preoccupation.

The Google/Facebook World

I claim to be a traditionalist about communication. I only use my cell phone when necessary and avoid Facebook, AIM, etc., like the plague.

Yeah, right. With Gmail and its amazing buddy/chat capabilities (video! Google talk! regular chat! AIM chat! endless possiblities...) available to me all day long, this is primarly how I communicate lately. It is inescapable and much more a part of my life than I would like to admit. The context has changed - I no longer see my friends 24/7, literally. Now, I can kind of need it to navigate distances and awkward situations.

People poke me on FB and it's kind of a fun reminder that we all do little during the day and are generally insomniacs. Some even give me public gifts. I admit to doing some stalking on it as well - we all know that is what it was meant for.

Late at night, I v-chat with my chickies who managed to make those previously red states go blue when they moved. I like seeing their cute faces and how they give me virtual tours of their new pads. In the mornings, I update peeps on how my night went if I had been out. We are our own news feeds.

But online communication and use of these snazzy social networks can get kind of fuzzy and you start smacking your head for all sorts of online social taboos, rejections, or misreads. You want to use it, and you don't. You want to rely on it for some things, not for others, but can't avoid either. I've spent many an hour biting my nails, twirling my hair, and throwing myself into anxious tizzies surmising what the latest action or non-action meant. It was so much simpler when it was just email and instant message back when I was...16.

Not to mention that I have this blog. Jeez. But at least this is just me spewing and avoiding the tortuous interaction I would surely put you through.

My Posse...

Or lack thereof. Going on 4 years out of college, there is only some semblance of a "scene" left. No more traveling with your posse - it dwindled to foursomes, trios, then pairs (but not always the pair you were looking for). Then random combinations of all of the above which changed frequently and unexpectedly. People moved, either physically or onto new phases in life. It happens.

And it's not all bad. I crave my freedom and space, reveling in my own phase, the feeling of being unattached, going to/leaving a party at your whim, staying in, going out, screening your calls and knowing no one will actually come find you. I also have to give myself props. I'm exponentially more comfortable going out on my own and meeting up with new people to meet new people. It's liberating and gratifying. It's my new thing.

And so in my post-16 trauma that should have occurred 9 years ago, I remind myself that most is not lost and how many great things are about to begin.

As they say, c u l8r.

Grandmothers & Election Day

I know it's lame that the national obsession with Obama's upbringing and his grandmother made me write this. Well, it's not really the sole reason. I love my paternal granny very much and think about her often, although she refuses to acknowledge it. Unless you're with her 24/7, take her shopping, and get her a cell phone, she's not happy with you.

But Election Day made me realize something that I often forget about her - she's a U.S. citizen. And adamantly so. She keeps track of her social security money to the cent and can describe her citizenship interview in vivid detail. She even gets offended when people think she doesn't know English. There is little she can do, however, to actually exercise her rights as a citizen. She is 86 years old and splits her time between NY and India.

This morning, my coworker described taking her own grandmother at 6 am to vote. Her grandmother said only Obama could've gotten her do it, and that his grandmother left just 1 day before the election to be his angel today. I wanted to bawl.

I know it would mean a lot to my own grandmother if she could wobble her way to a poll site and cast a ballot. Hopefully, Zee TV won't trump civic duty. She's a steely lady who has come a long way from Arrah, India. Every vote does count, and she shouldn't let this opportunity go. Plus, it would give her something to talk about other than cell phones and fictional television characters.

So this is my Plan For the Day. Make sure Dadi votes. Make sure your grandparent(s) does too, if she/he can. It is clearly past the voter registration deadline, but apparently, she may be able to complete a paper ballot as long as she has proof of residence. Knowing her, she'll bring a suitcase of official documentation just in case and argue with the volunteers in perfect English.

Gotta love grandmothers. And the right to vote. And Obama. And his grandmother. And this country if it gets its act together.

On Education & Flower-Drawing

Let's talk about why I will never send my children to school in India if I ever choose to work there (a possibility given the field I'm in and the direction I hope to take). But let's not address the usual issues one might find of concern - let's instead finally reveal the traumas of my time as a 1st grader at The Woodlands School in Patna, Bihar, in 1990.

Boy, does my family have stories about this one. It is one of the few times in my life where I was so inexplicably unreasonable and unable to adapt. I'm practically a chameleon and always have been - throw me anywhere and I'm pretty much able to adjust to things. In fact, I prefer that kind of existence. I like shifting - it suits my nature. The Woodlands School did not.

I was a real nerd even in kindergarten. I know everyone loves school at that age, but I REALLY loved it. I loved my friends, my teachers, my art projects, my picture-day outfits, my cafeteria, my locker, you name it. I didn't take issue with anything. The only real tragedy was that I was such a weakling, and was often absent due to sickness. School inspired me to become a story book writer/illustrator when I grew up. School was safe and school was home.

When the family moved to India for a year for my father's sabbatical, my adventurous side got the best of me. I was a precocious child. I knew that an Indian school was not going to be the same as my perfect, privileged little kingdom of public education on Long Island, but the thought of moving away for a year to another country gave me this awesome prickly feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Myself and my younger sister (the poor thing had only experienced nursery school so far and didn't know any better) were placed in a simple public school for less than 1 year. I was in the first "standard" (grade), and she in whatever comes before that. I don't know what went through our young minds at that time, but I do remember every detail vividly once it all began.

I could deal with the benches and rows of little brown children in starched white shirts, pleated red skirts/shorts, and patent-leather shoes. I could deal with calling the teacher "Ma'am" or "Miss." I didn't mind that there was no cafeteria and that I didn't know the principal. I got used to sitting in place and watching a rotation of subject teachers come and go instead of moving around ourselves. I even learned to love the cool pencil boxes and especially sharp, steel sharpeners.

What I didn't understand:
- Expecting to know the times table up until 12 when I could barely add
- Why we were given coloring books to color as "art" instead of being given time to create our own
- Where we were supposed to eat lunch

Most of all, I didn't understand the people and I was spoiled by the after-school special that was my social scene back home. In New York, when the new kid from Israel, Ofair, had first arrived, he was properly introduced to the class and we took turns introducing ourselves. Sure, Ofair was a little odd but we were expected to be nice to him and make him feel a part of the class. In turn, Ofair offered to us his harmless and slightly whimsical personality.

In India, I was met by blank stares and giggles from boys who thought my nails were too long. The teachers made no effort to integrate me into the class. Maybe it was because I was Indian, too. But while I didn't expect anyone to make me feel "special" like American teachers did, I certainly didn't expect them to make me fit into the mold of this bland, sad group of repressed 1st graders. While the atmosphere wasn't warm or uninviting, it wasn't exactly welcoming either. I didn't know how to fit in and what to offer.

Every morning for what seemed like an eternity, I had a mental breakdown. I awoke with tears in my eyes and refused to go to school. I took forever in the bathroom, held onto doorways, tried to sweet-talk my driver into turning back home, and could not choke up any words when necessary once there. After some time, my parents, baffled by this sudden change in attitude towards school, finally pulled me out and got me a tutor.

Yeah, so I was an Indian-school-first-standard drop-out. Never again. I know there were good schools in India (maybe not Patna though...) back then, and there are more now. My niece attends a very modern, somewhat new-age, earthy private school in New Delhi but that's just not me.

American education supposedly sucks, but I was lucky to have attended one of the best school districts in the country. Nothing comes close to some of the experiences you have as a regular ol' public school kid here - to the diversity you take for granted, to the individuality that is encouraged, to the appreciation of childhood, to the early dreams and goals we are told we can achieve. Nowhere could I stand before an easel, palette and brush in one hand and pages of a handwritten plot in the other, at the age of 6 so confidently and envision myself as the next great best-selling story book author/illustrator. Nowhere else could I have such a fluid intellectual curiosity and profound enthusiasm for education. It almost makes me cry how much I can appreciate my schooling with so few regrets.

Some cousins of mine attend a posh private school in India. When they moved back to India from, of all places, Minnesota, the younger one expressed frustration with her new school. She told me that they were asked to draw flowers in her art class. When she drew one, her teacher "corrected" her design. Luckily, my cousin is a spunky one and asked why she couldn't draw any kind of flower since there are so many kinds. Her question apparently went unanswered and she came to me upset by the apparent lack of democracy in flower-drawing.

I know this is not representative of all Indian schools, and possibly not many at all these days. I also remind myself constantly how priviliged I was such at such a tender age, and that few people are lucky enough to have had the same experiences. I just hope to give my own kids tablets of blank pages to draw in and construct some dreams. And that will be right here, where I was able to do so.

How Long I've Been A Democrat

If it appears to you that I am very liberal and a staunch Democrat, that's okay with me. It occurred to me last night that I can recall my very first reaction to a presidential election, and thus, how long I may have been one. It dates back to - kindergarten.

I feel compelled to address this because by some telepathic coincidence, this morning's Today show featured a segment on educating young children about the election and politics. I was proud to see that 20 years ago, Mrs. Cohen, my dear kindergarten teacher, was way ahead of the game.

Back in 1988, Mrs. Cohen requested that we bring in a picture of our presidential pick. I actually thought long and hard about this, but realized that my developing brain was powerless in understanding what issues were at hand and on what basis such a decision could be considered. I looked through newspapers but since I couldn't understand most of the words, I focused on the pictures.

To my young little eyes, the answer lay in Michael Dukakis. He was young and fresh-faced compared to Bush, and was sort of handsome. Plus, I liked the sound of Dukakis. I thought it was different and profound, while Bush invoked canned bean commercials.

The next day, I marched up to the dry-erase board and sticky-tacked my image of Dukakis in the appropriate column. Sound choice or not, I had unknowingly declared my party affiliation for years to come (and crushingly chose the loser of the election).

In honor of my superficial baby steps as a U.S. Citizen, here is an equally superficial (but powerful) ode to Mr. Obama - man, that guy knows how to take a picture. If I were kindergartner right now, these would seal the deal for me.

Pictures: © Callie Shell / Aurora for Time & The Huffington Post

M.O.B. Mentality - My Managerial & Organizational Behavior

At some point this morning, I realized I was staring at the screen and not moving. Just staring. Not registering anything before my eyes. Hypnotized by the bright glare of the screen and coasting along into nothingness.

I should add that the heat was turned off on our floor this morning due to construction. I shivered in place and recoiled into myself to conserve energy.

I won't lie and say and that I don't lapse into such a state of unproductivity occasionally. That fact, combined with my Managerial & Organizational Behavior (M.O.B) course, has forced me to adopt a M.O.B mentality and consider the following:

What kind of worker am I? What work environments/conditions do I thrive in? Am I a better manager or leader?

Is anyone paying attention to whether or not I turn into one? Am I?

Am I potentially an accidental success? Will someone randomly pull out the rug from under me and leave me wondering where I went wrong?

Is there any room for this kind of deep introspection in an academic, health/medical research environment that rests entirely on the whims of the National Institutes of Health?

I've come to consider myself to be a worker bee with a cavalier streak that no one could do anything about if they even noticed it.

I work because I like to work. I chose to work in this field because I want to make a contribution to public health and global justice. I work because I'm comfortable with a certain kind of lifestyle. But I also work because a job is a job, and I wonder if I will ever be able to stop viewing "work" as such and feel engaged in a career.

Why, you may ask. If you tally my blog hours, you might notice that I'm just a tad, a tad bit lonely during the workday. I work largely by myself on a research study whose Principal Investigator thankfully respects individual work styles and is insanely busy. This is a wonderful thing - but also a bit of solitary experience. After much thought, it struck me how much of my work in public health and non-profit sector has been this way.

How this will affect me professionally, I don't know. But it does make me wonder about the things I may have missed out on. That said, I can't say I regret having the opportunity to fulfill work responsibilities, read The Huffington Post & New York Times everyday, do homework during lunch, visit the drugstore in the afternoon (if necessary that is...), leave early for class, and get to work in 10 minutes the next morning.

It's likely that it won't, unless someone directly inquires about my organizational behavior and cavalier worker bee ways. Until then, I've taken it upon myself to focus on a new personal evolution, one with concrete goals and an enthusiasm it's taken me a long while to develop.

Thanks, Professor.

A Suitable Boy/The Ideal Man, Part Deux

Friend who helped me formulate A Suitable Boy/The Ideal Man has further defined what speciman of a man may be right for me.

Apparently, what I need is a liberal, studious, half-Jewish, half-black man from NY who likes Bollywood movies.

Start looking.