New York, I (Finally) Love You

New York City. Everything that needs to be said about this wild, disgusting, and enchanting island has been said, screamed even... ten times over. This eight by two strip of land nestled between the polluted Hudson and the murky East River has been the centerpiece of Broadway magic brought to life, the subject of poems aplenty and the backdrop for so many movies that folks who have never moseyed along Central Park West or outsiders who don't know the difference between Houston, Texas and Houston, the dividing line between Noho and Soho, feel a close, albeit faux, kinship with the city that never sleeps. But I would like to add one more thought bubble to the Manhattan skyline... New York, I (finally) love you.

On the brink of our sixth anniversary together, it has occurred to me in a slow, sneaky way that I no longer just live in New York City, but that New York City is my home. Now this may come as a shock to any loyal readers--family and friends who have received my blog link in a personal e-mail--because for the better part of the last half decade I have been plotting my return to The Sunshine State. Any time it seemed too hard to live a life completely dependent on public transportation or in arctic-type temperatures, I would happily remind myself that this was just a little detour in my life... something everyone in his or her early twenties should experience. However, next week I turn twenty-eight and here I stay, firmly paying an exorbitant amount of rent on the island of Manhattan. 

So what is keeping me here, you ask... Why would I forsake a savings account for a 250-square-foot studio apartment that is a generous walk to the nearest subway and without the most basic of appliances? Because after you live this life of crazy, where do you go next? Other cities feel small and quiet and real-life quiet places, while intriguing for a visit, seem like the middle of nowhere--a place made for others, but not for me. I wouldn't go as far as to say that the honking horns and hoards of homeless bring me a sort of inner peace, but there's no denying that living amid the constant hustle and bustle brings an energy to life that would be hard to leave behind. 

Maybe it's the sudden onset of springtime after a harsh winter or perhaps it's the fact that I was drunk most of the weekend, but whatever the reason, right now, in this moment I'm a huge I-heart-NY-shirt-wearing fan. I can't tell you what is going to unfold tomorrow, but I can tell you that whatever happens to me in the days and weeks to come, gets to take place here, in the center of the universe... where my little life detour just keeps on going.  

Party of One

The novel is dying, paper magazines are rapidly becoming relics and the two-way vocal conversation is nearly non-exisistent among Generation Z. So what have we done? We've taken to blogging, tableting and texting. Words and thoughts are being truncated into quick countdowns, illustrated lists and top ten tallies. Prose, paragraphs and poems are things of yesteryear, because to be frank, ain't nobody got time for that. Attention spans are short, and because I was recently told that being on trend is important, I have decided to shut up, sit down, and create a simple list. I dub the following:

The Top Five Reasons Why I Am Still Single by Traci L Rosenthal

Reason #1 - Who is a better roommate for me than me? The answer is absolutely no one. The TV is always turned to the show I want to watch at just the right volume. Dinner is incredibly hassle-free, because, you guessed it, I'm always in the mood for what is ordered (sorry, mom, I mean cooked). Lights go out when I'm tired, and the alarm goes off when I need to wake up. If I get a little lonely, I step out of my apartment for five minutes and, because I live in New York City, I probably encounter more personalities than an average American does during an entire day running around their town. Dating someone means opening up the possibility of a life-long roommate, bedmate and bathroommate. I'm just a little hesitant, seeing as how I'm the best roommate I've ever had.

Reason #2 - I have no date-appropriate clothing. Now this might seem like an easy fix. You're thinking, Girl, get yourself some shiny new jeans and a brand spankin' new pair of ass-kicking boots. Or maybe you're not, since it's highly unlikely that your starring in a bad country western themed sit-com. However, even when I enter a store to purchase these specific items, I always leave with the same undateworthy pieces—an oversized sweater and grandpa cardigan. No one wants to take a gal out on the town for mojitos in that getup. But comfort...

Reason #3 - Deep inside there is a raging feminist who rears her ugly head whenever gender ideals are challenged... and boys don't like that. I'll use this past Thanksgiving feast as an example. After the bird was devoured and the green bean casserole dish had been nearly licked clean, it was time for the most unpleasant part of the evening—table clearing and dish washing. As if on cue, all the men migrated in a post-turkey coma to the living room to watch football, while the women speedily cleared place settings and set to work on the greasy, dirty and numerous dishes. The male population didn't even bring their dishes to the sink. I was fuming. Why was no one saying anything? I felt like burning my bra right then and there. Which, of course would have been so awkward seeing as how it was Thanksgiving and all the men were somehow related to me. My mom then informed me that I should pick my battles. I think this would be one of them.

Reason #4 - I fiercely ignore the Scott Gordon rule. In my family, the Scott Gordon rule simply means that you must always try to look un-homeless when exiting the comfort of your own abode. For men this means you should run a comb through your hair and perhaps throw on a belt to complete an outfit. For women it means look presentable—it wouldn't kill you to dab on a little lip gloss and change out of your winter slippers. Most times, when staying in the neighborhood, I opt to ignore the lip rouge and keep on the house shoes, thus not exactly putting my best foot forward. This is a bad habit. "He" could be absolutely anywhere at any time or so I am told. The man of my dreams could be and probably would be in the line behind me at Subway. Or maybe he will help me with the scanner thing at the drug store. First impressions are everything, and I don't give much reason for someone to ask for a second.

Reason #5 - Apparently, I'm not trying very hard. As the only lady left without a dating profile lurking somewhere in cyber space, I'm told time and time again that I'm not really trying that hard. Living life and being present is just not good enough anymore. I must swipe and tap my way to love. Maybe it's time I download some dating assistance. But then again... who is a better roommate than me?

Serious Peter Pan Syndrome

I'm beginning to think I'm that girl. The one you look at when you're a sophomore in college and with a turned up nose and say to your equally young friends "why she is in this bar," or "see her over there, she looks a little too old to be sitting in the student section," or the dreaded "shouldn't she be married by now?" If you peaked in high school--and you know who you are--or got away with a little bit more claiming that the best years of your life were experienced on a college campus surrounded by 40,000 other people dressed in the same gameday colors as you then you are that person too. You talk about back when way too much and you'd give anything to reverse the creaky hands of time. Well welcome to the club, you're destined for a lot of reliving the glory years when you were thinner, happier and oh so much more fun. Looking at photos brings an actual tear to your quickly wrinkling eye, and I'm here to tell you it's not going away.

Now, if you are a well-adjusted 20-something who is excited to be working and earning money or who has found that special someone with whom you will start a family, I commend you. You're on the track that you are supposed to be on...society says so. But, if you are a little behind and would rather head to that post-grad bar in Murray Hill, I won't tell, in fact, get me a vodka soda because I'm right behind you. Just last weekend, I was at said early 20s bar and having a blissfully ignorant time. Then, as someone always does lately, it was abruptly brought to my attention that "we were too old for this place." How did I not notice this? Was I that drunk? No. Was it because I didn't have my glasses on? Talk about aging myself, but no. Is it because in my mind I am still that newly graduated person who talks about college like it was yesterday? Perhaps. OK, yes definitely. How does that old adage go... you're as young as you feel... I had no idea that the bar we were in had an age limit, and I certainly wasn't aware that the age limit was all of 27. Guys, we have a lot more living to do, let's not start kicking ourselves out of establishments just because we saw three 24-year-old dudes taking a jager shot. Pretty soon we'll be self-banned from everywhere except museums and doctor offices, and I like one just about as much as I like the other.

To be honest, for once, sometimes this age can be so scary that I feel like moving right back into my parent's house. Things were simpler and cheaper for that matter. I know they would welcome me with open arms, which is probably half the reason I still consider it as a viable option. This age is scary because the chasm between you and those you were once on the same path as widens seemingly every single day. I'm on the stuck side waving, albeit happily, as my other friends move away, accept bling for their ring finger, purchase houses, and welcome babies into this life. Meanwhile, I'm waking up most days wishing it was 2006.

This phenomenon could be happening for many reasons. But most likely it is because I am my father's daughter. My father, who to this day, talks about the fours year prior to earning a degree as the best four years of his life. Never once has he mentioned that marrying my mom or having me and my sister were also pretty happy times, because I know in his heart nothing will ever hold a candle to the time between '76 and '80 when things were just right. And so I am here to prove that in this case the beer bottle doesn't fall far from the keg, which is ironic because you couldn't pay my dad or I to drink a frothy beer, but I think you get the fratastic picture. We both want to go back and there might be nothing in the future that changes that.

Just this week one of my co-workers asked me if I graduated last year. When I asked him the reason for the flattering question, he bluntly replied that I "like talk about college all the time, and it's weird." After assuming that this man had a terrible university experience... you know the kind... too cool to get involved, forced graduation to happen in three years so he could start real-life {shudder}, I concluded that he was the devil in freshly pressed khakis and politely answered, nope I just really had a great time back then. We turned back to our separate computers and despite feeling a touch judged and sad for that person, I felt alright with him thinking I was a freshman in the school of life.

Maybe something someday will replace the chills I get when I think of that tiny town in Northern Florida, or when I remember how new everything felt the first year I lived in the big city. But then again maybe not, and I apologize to all of my moved-on friends and future co-workers for the reminiscing that will never end.

Sensible Shoes and Caviar Dreams

My feet hurt. Now, of course this can be caused by factors aplenty, but generally when my feet hurt it's because I was partaking in some type of event where I didn't feel totally comfortable. I was participating in the ever-fun shenanigan commonly referred to as "fake it 'til you make it." When my feet ache it is a direct connection to my participation in something I would have liked to answer "no" to when given the RSVP. But alas, I am twenty-six, I want to seize the day, I don't want to miss an opportunity, and god dammit I want to YOLO! So while I contemplate if braving the snow to head to East End Avenue where I can afford a foot massage is a good idea, let's get into it...

Waking up the next day and dreading the second when my tootsies touch the turf might have been caused by a pair of shoes that looked pretty in the storefront, but in reality were the feet form of the Ms. Trunchbull's chokie. I knew it the second I swiped for them, but chose to ignore the signs. Then I was invited/forced to go to an event in which I would get/dread a chance to wear my feet jewelry, thus being hoisted a few inches from the ground placing all my (ample) weight on my tip toes for the entirety of the night. I'm not sure if men really understand the torture of the high heel. Imagine this - you spend an entire night standing on your TIP TOES. You are expected to walk, dance, and sit down gracefully while completely ignoring the fact that the other half of your foot is just out of commission. Feel like whining about how that tie is constricting your breathing now? ...Hold on, just lowering myself from my soap box - it's a real pain in these heels... Anyway, I tried to have fun, I tried to smile and dance and engage in conversation, but my mind was utterly infatuated with the almost-palpable sweet relief of plucking off my shoes at the end of the night. Nine times out of ten, if I am forbidden from wearing flats (the foot's BFF4E), it is an indication that I didn't want to be at that party anyway. Not solely (shout out to that word play) because of the preferred footwear, but because fancy parties and proper conversation topics are things I like to avoid.

Very rarely the soreness might stem from over-exertion. I find myself in an exercise kick that has lasted almost a month - a true athletic feat (points for double puns) - and my dogs are just barking. Take a break they beg, sit on your rump with your feet up they plead, but because it is inevitable that this obsession will soon end I choose to ignore this advice. My feet are hurting from working out, and if you know me, you know this is a classic "fake it 'til you make it" tried-and-true Traci pattern.  Hardcore anything ain't really my scene and clearly my feet are there to remind me of that.

So why do I FITIMI? (Everything else is put into cute little acronyms these days, so I'm starting my own)...Let's be real with each other, friends, my couch is probably one of my favorite places on this green earth and no shoes are required. So why do I leave it? Why do I put myself in situations where small talk and foot pain seem to be the norm? Because, and this is going to be sad to admit, a lot of life is doing something you don't want to do. Of course, sometimes it turns out better than you could have ever imagined. We've all heard the stories of the guy or girl who would have rather hung him/herself from the rafters than go to his or her co-worker's 40th anniversary party. But low-and-behold he/she ends up meeting the love of his/her life there. Bells ring, hearts are a-flutter, and two babies pop out before the 45th anniversary party is even in the planning stages. Sure, that happens. However, I'm not sure if you've caught on to this yet, but I am a realist. All I'm leaving with from that party is a stomach ache from the passed hors d'eouvres and, you guessed it, high-heel-caused swelling in the balls of my feet.

But you can't miss the party. And you can't tell Jim and his lovely wife Frieda that you will not be attending. How will you face him on Monday when you need to borrow a stapler? It's just easier to plaster on that smile and go. I've faced this dilemma a lot since entering my mid twenties, and have yet to master the art of saying no. On the flip side, my small talk skills are not to be messed with and my knowledge about other people's dogs is bordering on expert status. Apparently dogs have personalities and each owner or "parent" wants to discuss it with as many strangers as they can find.

After I am invited to something my first instinct is to come up with an excuse of why I will be unable to attend. However, that's no way to live life. The couch will be there, but the dinner/exercise class/work party where you know no one will be just a missed opportunity. Sometimes it's worth the foot pain just to gain an experience or meet someone new. Because in the end, new is really what it's all about. People uproot themselves from their jobs, their cities, their relationships, their apartments all the time to chase that feeling of new and exciting. And, at first there is a hell of a lot of FITYMI (thought I wasn't going to hit you with that again, you're crazy). But over time, the job might become a career, you might have a love affair with your chosen city, the relationship you ended led to something even better, and that apartment slowly filled with trinkets and memories that make you feel at home. I need to remember not to immediately turn to the negative. After all, in the past five years I've done three out of four of those things, and let me tell ya, life certainly could be worse.

Maybe this morning I will chose to do something I've never done before. Perhaps in the end I will be rewarded for my eagerness to put myself out there and do it with a genuine smile. I will embrace faking it, for perhaps when I do make it, I'll make it big. And if all goes well a true adventure could arise, changing my life forever, for the better...

Hmmm, if life-changing adventure is in the cards for today I better sport my most sensible footwear.

I'm Always Home. I'm Uncool.

Something happens when you're 26. Or, at least something happened to me during my twenty-sixth year. It wasn't revolutionary or heart-stopping, and it certainly didn't require a flurry of invitations to be calligraphied and sent out country-wide announcing the news. There was no "ah-ha" moment where I broke from my suffocating cocoon to emerge as a new and profound creature. No, it was nothing so dramatic, it was a subtle notion that took time to fully evolve in my slow-cooker-style brain. But when the timer finally went off and the idea had marinated just long enough - wait, now I'm starving - it made me smile and for once actually think that these twenties ain't so terrible. Stand by, for I'm sure next week there will be a whole new boiling pot of hate ready to bubble over and my twenties will reclaim it's rightful mantra of "take me back to 16 when my world was my driver's license and my parents unknowingly funded my weed supply - thanks mom and dad!" But, I digress and today will admit that being a twenty-something has it's occasional upswing.

So, what is this upswing you ask? Why am I off my high-horse of hate? It's because the sweet relief of realizing how cool it is to be uncool has recently washed over me. How freeing it is to openly enjoy something you are interested in, however dorky, nerdy, dweeby, or... wait for it - my least favorite word to appear in Webster's masterpiece - lame it may be. The feeling of "hey guys, this is what is it and if you don't like what you see, you better move on" is now firmly planted in my thought process, and there it shall stay.

It's not as if tomorrow I will going strutting across avenues and along alleyways being outwardly and attention-gettingly different - in fact, that would go against what I'm saying. The idea I'm getting across is basically an after-school special staple... Be yourself, it's actually kind of fun. You love to read poetry? Hit up those stanzas as often as possible. You have a secret desire to become groupie numero uno while trailing Hootie and the Blowfish up and down the East Coast? Rent that RV, burn some mid-90's mix tapes and get on with your bad self. If you care that Yeezy's tour is pulling up to the neighboring arena and you attempt to hide your Daruis Rucker vintage T then you just aren't ready to fully embrace the uncool. Your time will eventually come, but until then learn the new lyrics to "Bound 2" because you're going to need them while trying to impress whoever it is you're trying to impress.

Now here is the funny part - it turns out I've been uncool for years, well my whole life really, if you can believe it - which I'm sure you can seeing as how I blog in my free time and good grammar is something I look for even in the dirtiest of text messages. All I have to do is keep doing what I've always done - take weekly trips to the public library, get giddy at a truly excellent pun, hip-hop dance the entire time I'm preparing for an evening out - but it is now that I will no longer try to hide these pastimes under a barrage of false interests. Attention world: I, Traci Lauren Rosenthal, do not care that bell bottoms are no longer an "in" trend. I for one think they will always be groovy.

As the aging process continues to chug along, sometimes at an alarming rate, I have high hopes for this newfound realization. I imagine at 36, 46 and 56 this idea will blossom into the greatest thing about growing older. Caring what other people think will become a thing of the past. The always unpopular emotion of getting excited will become embraced. And those bullies who believe otherwise will one day wake up and realize that they have spent their entire lives sporting a too-trendy facade. High school is long gone, mean girls are just angry women now and all those cute guys who made you feel less than for choosing to hang at your best friend's house over drinking at the senior's party are probably still holding up that cool-guy shield. Their arms must be getting tired.

So in the spirit of embracing the uncool I would like to bring forth a dialog that occurs in my favorite movie. This movie is Almost Famous. It is no longer hip, but as an aspiring "writer," (I use the term extremely loosely) who is completely envious of the reporters and journalists that get to experience the magic behind the music, this film will always speak to me. The era is perfect, the characters are like long-lost friends, and I will unabashedly cry during the "Tiny Dancer" scene every single time it is on the screen. The following discussion was my first hint that being uncool was not only acceptable, but personally preferred:

Lester Bangs: They make you feel cool. And hey. I met you. You are not cool. 
William Miller: I know. Even when I thought I was, I knew I wasn't. 
Lester Bangs: That's because we're uncool. And while women will always be a problem for us, most of the great art in the world is about that very same problem. Good-looking people don't have any spine. Their art never lasts. They get the girls, but we're smarter. 
William Miller: I can really see that now... I'm glad you were home. 
Lester Bangs: I'm always home. I'm uncool. 
William Miller: Me too! 
Lester Bangs: The only true currency in this bankrupt world is what we share with someone else when we're uncool. 

And thus I share this post with you. If staying home, being true to yourself, and having a spine is the essence of uncool, then bring it on. I'm 26 and want to be the absolute uncoolest.

Haters Gonna Hate

Ah the word "hate." Those four little letters are just filled to the brim with emotion. They stir up images of red faces and clenched fists and an almost comical portrayal of someone stomping around in a tantrum. To many that word is bad and off-limits and is put in a no-go-zone portion of the vocabulary. However, sometimes all of the connotative adjectives and politically correct terms in the world can not pack the punch that saying the word "hate" can. And lately, that teeny tiny little single-syllable sound has been escaping my lips a lot. And I don't necessarily hate it. See what I did there.

As always, let me explain. Currently, I am NOT living the dream. Although waking up with no work and nowhere to be sounds like a cloud nine situation to most, I consider it my own personal hell in a hand basket. Today marks day 50ish of my unemployment run, and let me tell you right now, the morale is low. Like Death Valley depths we're talking here. So naturally, when things get tough and the white people problems set in, I turn to hate. And no one is safe. 

If you would like to migrate over to my hate column, please feel free to commit one of the following acts of tactlessness. And we're off:

In the past two months, if I have congratulated you on something work-related -- ie. a big promotion, a new position, a well-received presentation I was lying about being happy for you. If you think this is harsh, just you wait. You'll really find me appalling before you finish reading. I'm not mad that you have achieved something great in your professional career, I just hate you for it. When I am re-employed and waking up each morning with a purpose again, I promise to be happy for you and your ever-growing resume, but as of right now can it, would ya? I've sent out 70 applications, gone on six interviews and have, thus far, received a 100% rejection rate. So think twice about describing your brand-spankin' new corner office with actual views of the Empire State Building. Even if you think you are getting away with your bragging due to your shy, modest tone, just know that the h-word is flashing neon and zooming around in my mind while I sit there sharing a close-lipped smirk. In conclusion, I hate you.

Please, if you like where your nose is placed on your face (as if I would actually ever hit anyone, no one is more all-talk than I am), I suggest you do not bring up the subject of the dollar bill. I get it, we are all in our mid-twenties and struggling in our own right. To some this means that Ramen graces your plate every night and to others this means you better return those $400 shoes before that credit card bill floats into your inbox. As I've said all along the third decade is weird and wild - one minute you are living life on the Upper East Side and the next your scared to buy a new coat for fear of ending up back in Florida with roommates who go by the name mom and dad. So when you tell me that you really need to cut back on your expenditures, but you just got back from a two-week sun-and-sand dream vacation it will make me hate you. Of course I will be nodding eagerly in agreement, but on the inside I'm devising a plan that will cause a lot of pain on your part. If I tell you that lately my diet has consisted of canned tuna and cheap crackers, I'd be lying. There aren't cheap enough crackers in the world. 

This next one is a bit tricky because it's a fine line between love and hate. So let me approach this delicately... If you try to help me I will either end up loving you or hating you and that fact is unavoidable. The amount of people that have been willing to pass along a resume, contact a long-lost acquaintance, and share inside information with me has been overwhelming. I never knew I had so many yentas on my side. However, if you are extending a helping hand, but do not have any clue about my past experiences or my industry in general, I hate you. Like I said, it's a tricky concept. Do not send me an opportunity where the first line reads: business degree a must, accounting experience preferred and to be honest you will be sitting on excel crunching numbers until your eyes bleed. I stopped taking math junior year in high school, yes, high school, so show some respect to the right half of my brain and don't try to help me. Just occasionally ask me how the search is going, and I will keep from creating a voo-doo doll in your honor. 

There are many other, far more passioned reasons to hate, of course. I hate people for being ignorant and for not accepting those that are different. I hate bullies. I hate parents who are terrible to their children. I hate abusers. And, rightfully so, I hate tourists who lean their entire bodies on the poles in the subway. That pole is for EVERYONE! These people deserve what I believe to be karmically coming their way. Religion isn't my thing, but The Golden Rule sure is. 

So while many of you surely believe that this terrible, miserable hate inside me will manifest itself into a bitter and angry person on the outside, please know that you are probably right. And when I get my shit back together again, I promise to slowly siphon off the hate and replace it with just regular dislike and discontent. 

But until then, hater gonna hate. And there's not a damn thing you can do about it. Unless, of course, that thing is to get me full-time job with a comprehensive benefits package. 

Anything Goes, The Unmusical

As I settle into the third month of my twenty-sixth year a few things have become glaringly obvious. First and foremost is the inescapable truth that I need to start making better use of my free time, because quite frankly I have a ton of it. Clearing out my DVR and walking 3 blocks down York Avenue to grab some much-needed toilet paper just isn't cutting it anymore. I am in desperate need of a few hobbies and suggestions are welcome. Thus far my list consists of the following time-taker-uppers: Embark on writing my very first enchanting and best-selling novel, commit two nights a week to becoming a Serena-style tennis player, and sign-up for that second photography class that will undoubtedly lead to a Pulitzer. Far-reaching? Maybe. But damn if these aren't inspiring me to get off the couch and succeed.

A second, and rather shocking fact that has become quite clear now that I, along with most of my friends, are in the second half of our twenties is that working out has become a priority. Now, before you all point your slender fingers this way, I will be the first to admit that my workout habits of late are nothing short of abysmal. So let's focus on others for a hot second... What I have picked up lately is that friends that never once entered a gym and made every excuse to stay away from physical activity are now champions of spin and running 5K races every other weekend. I guess this is the age where both men and women realize that their body is a temple, and not one just to visit on Friday nights to sneak a peek at David Goldstein. Hey-yo.

But the thing that has been on my mind for some time now is the realization that while we meander through decades three and four the truth is that anything goes. It is such a weird and socially flexible time that while some of your closest friends are popping pre-natal vitamins and searching online for the best running stroller, the other half might be popping mollys pre-dance party and searching online for their next great lay. And at twenty-six both are acceptable, some of it illegal, yes, but age-wise it is acceptable.

While it is not exactly comforting to be on the side of club drugs and Internet trolling, I must say that there is no need to freak out just yet. This grace period, that I have arbitrarily established between the ages of twenty-six and roughly thirty-five puts me right at the beginning of what I would now like to call "anything goes." Now, if nine years pass and I find myself still stuck in these same "anything goes" habits I have one of two options. The first, and most appealing, being to extend the grace period as I see fit. I made it up, I certainly have the right to extend it. The second option, of which I am much more reluctant to explore is the possibility of entering the sisterhood. And not the good sisterhood where you get to wear Greek letters and congregate in a gigantic mansion, no. The one where you are forced into a vow of celibacy and given black and white muu-muus to wear day in and day out. In an effort to avoid the habit, I'm returning to only one option, the extendable grace period.

Nothing like a good nun tangent to throw one off course. What I'm really trying to get across here is the strangeness and vast lifestyle differences that occur during this time in one's life. I have student friends who stay home during the week to prepare for their next exam. I have newly wealthy working friends who have been making monthly mortgage payments, and on time to boot. I have friends who still don't know their limits and go just as hard at a Tuesday happy hour as they do for their best friend's bachelorette party in Vegas. And all of this is OK. It's a time in life when we are way past the teenage pregnancy scares, but far enough from the ringing alarm of our ticking biological clock to feel comfortable. Some have picked up and moved half-way around the world because they had nothing holding them back, while others are driving smiling, sticky kids off to pre-school. Anything goes.

So how do I feel about where I am? Well, the truth is that there is very little I can do to push things along to the car pool stage in life. And in MY humble opinion I'd rather be pulling back then pushing toward dirty diapers and early nights. Maybe that is why I stay in New York City... a city where the single walk around in droves and are OK with it. A city where your apartment is so absolutely tiny that the thought of housing another human being, no matter how small, is an impossibility. This place makes a single twenty-something feel like they are right where they should be. Sure, it's a scapegoat, but it's also just right for some. I'm fairly confident that as long as I stay within the comforts of this crazy island I will not be escorted to Sunday brunch by a gang of strollers.

Now, the funny thing about this age is that priorities can shift in a split second. And while we are safely in the anything-goes grace period this is allowed. I can't promise that after meeting my best friend's future babies I fall so head over heels with the idea of nurturing a mini-me that I swear off alcohol-infused nights forever. But, as I have learned the hard way, never say never.

For now I'm going to work on those hobbies. And because I am in the sweet, sweet bubble-wrapped safe space of "anything goes," I reserve the right to go out until 5am on a Friday and stumble home with a broken shoe and the beginnings of an epic hangover, just to wake up the next morning to attend a co-worker's pink and blue baby shower adorned with diaper cakes and binkys as far as the eye can see. I mean I'm twenty-six, anything goes, right?