Get smart

The moral of this story is: grow up, get smart. Learn how to pay professional service providers to help you out. They are there for a reason.

This move has physically broken me down. I already have a weak back, and the packing, and up and down stairs, and pushing boxes around my apartment has done me in. Even yoga has become difficult. I find myself popping Advil and wishing I had a very strong friend who would offer to help me out. While complaining about this to my wise grandmother, she gently asked: aren't there people you can pay to do this kind of work for you?

Oh, right...

Within minutes I was scouring Yelp for a recommendation, then on the phone with Rob of "Rob The Mover" fame. He offered an amazingly reasonable quote for "a guy with a truck" and was able to provide service exactly when I wanted to make the move. This morning, bright and early, the phenomenal Barry showed up at my door, all friendly and smiling. Without a word of complaint, he proceeded to carry my 15 or so (perfectly organized and neatly labeled, of course) boxes down the three flights of stairs and into his awaiting truck. I hung around inside my air-conditioned apartment, waiting and feeling rather useless.

Did I mention that today was one of the hottest, most humid days of the summer? Barry was completely unfazed.

He then drove me to Manhattan Mini Storage, chatting about his family along the way (he has a wife and two babies) and being as happy and friendly as anyone could be in Manhattan. He patiently waited (and even walked me through the fine print) while I filled out the paperwork for my storage unit, then took on all the dirty work of loading up and pushing the dolly. My new hero then climbed a rickety old ladder, and one by one neatly arranged my 500+ pounds of belongings in the third-story locker. He took the padlock from my hands, skillfully locked it up and handed me back the key.

Did I mention that I didn't lift a finger?



Oh, Barry then drove me back home - which definitely was not part of the contract. I was so completely and thoroughly impressed with this service, and would highly recommend Rob The Mover to anyone and everyone moving themselves and/or their belongings around this crazy city.

Barry seriously rocked. And I finally got smart. Pay someone to help you. Duh.

It's never too late

You know by now, based on my last post, that my life is about to change drastically. Then how strange it is that just now, at this very moment, as I am tearing off sheets of newspaper and packing away my favorite coffee mugs, the following full-page ad in an old NYTimes catches my eye:

It's never too late, or in my case too early,
to be whoever you want to be.
There's no time limit.
Stop whenever you want.
You can change or stay the same.
There are no rules to this thing.
We can make the best or the worst of it.
I hope you make the best of it.
I hope you see things that startle you.
I hope you feel things you never felt before.
I hope you meet people with a different point of view.
I hope you live a life you're proud of.
If you find that you're not,
I hope you have the courage to start all over again.

--Eric Roth, from the screenplay of "The Curious Case of Benjamin Button"

I Should

I hate the word "should". It really is a dumb, useless word.

If I listened carefully to the loud Chorus of Shoulds around me, it would sound something like this:

I am a 35-year-old woman. I should be married. I should have children. I should be a home owner. I should have a substantial savings account. I should live in the suburbs and drive a minivan and be helping my kids with homework tonight after their soccer practice. I should be utilizing my expensive education toward a successful career that I return to now that my kids are in school. I should be settled. My life should be all figured out by now.

Here is the reality:

I am 35 years old. I am single. I am not dating anyone seriously. I have no kids (that I am aware of). I rent an apartment in Manhattan. I spend ridiculous amounts of money to live in this city, and therefore have a quickly-diminishing savings account. I am slowly paying off my expensive education but not really using my degrees... yet. I never want to drive a minivan or live in the suburbs. In fact I want to live in about 10 different places during this lifetime. I want to travel everywhere and anywhere. The word "settled" as we traditionally use it doesn't sit well with me. I have been in the same apartment for a mere 5 years, and I am already bored and feeling stagnate.

So I decided to do something about it. I will be moving out of this apartment, my home, in just two weeks. I will sell most of my furniture, store the bulk of my possessions, and carry with me as little as possible. I have no idea where I am going next, what I will be doing, where I will be living, or sleeping, or staying.

I should be freaked out and scared and nervous about this drastic change. I should be planning out all the logistics and carefully thinking through this next step. After all, I am 35 years old. I should be more responsible. And this move is coming up fast: less than 2 weeks away.

The reality is: I am free as a bird. I am not accountable to anyone but myself. I have all the support I need, both inside and outside of myself. I trust in the universe to provide everything I need to maintain a life of joy and adventure.

I am uprooting and setting myself free. I should feel both excited and at ease about the upcoming change. And I do.

On war and peace

Yoga master Lisa Matkin opened class last week speaking of the relationship between fear and separation. She asked us to start noticing whenever we felt afraid, particularly in the presence of another person. Lisa believes that this fear is a reflection of separation: feeling separate from that other person, feeling disconnected. Which of course is completely disjointed with yoga, the essence of which is union: union of mind, body and breath. Union of self and other.

So Lisa asked us to start by noticing whenever (and how surprisingly often!) we feel fearful. And she encouraged us to try and sense the union, the sameness, the connection between “us” and “them”... which by default would lead to acceptance, feelings of peace, and a natural diminishing of fear.

All this got me thinking about war, and how easy it is for most of us to look away and claim no involvement in a war that rages between two peoples far removed from the rest of us. War between Israel and Palestine. War between Russia and Chechnya. Between The West and Islam. Many of us have nothing to do with these conflicts, right? Why should we feel involved with them, or responsible for their existence?

OK then, what about the war between you and your husband/wife? You and your neighbor? You and your boss? How do you really feel about that stranger who seems to be so unlike you, maybe because they have a different religion or different skin color, or because they have less or more money than you do? Do these supposed differences make you feel scared or afraid or even just insecure around that other person? Do you have any thoughts of racism, or elitism, or just mild irritation toward another? Is it possible that you are at war, even if only through your thoughts, with any other human being?

And how about the war inside – that war that rages between you and yourself?

I ask this, because I have come to understand that this is where and how the big wars starts: small, with you. With me. And if this is true, which I wholly believe it to be, it carries with it a whole lot of implication… and responsibility. Because it just may be that every time there is a person (or situation) we feel separate from, different from, fearful or hatred or anger or annoyance toward, this is an expression of war. A small one, yes, but this is where it all starts. And it may seem insignificant to you, but when multiplied by the near 6 billion people on our planet, it starts to become unbearable. Next thing you know, we are at war. We are killing one another.

Imagine what the planet would look like if no one ever saw the other as an enemy, as someone to fear or distrust? What if we were all able to see in the other a true connection to ourselves? If we never felt separate or different from any other? Can you imagine what that would look like? (Are you hearing the John Lennon song?)

if we really do want world peace, which I think most of us do, shouldn’t we start by making peace with the guy who is talking loudly on his cell phone in the theater? Or the friend who flaked on dinner last night? Or that kid on the subway who looks just a little scary? Shouldn’t we clean up our own thoughts and relationships before we can start cleaning up the mess on Earth?

Look inside yourself. Who or what are you at war with? Can you recognize it? Can you make peace with it? Can you forgive, accept and feel grateful for the lesson learned?

I am not there yet, but I like to believe I’m a work in progress.

Mountain Views

Maybe I was a bit harsh in my earlier post about Vegas. In addition to the phenomenal people-watching, I must admit there are some pretty great restaurants here, and lots of amazing sushi. Sushi Samba (and its Chu-Cucumber Saketini) hasn't disappointed for two nights in a row now.

And, I was fairly impressed tonight when I finally drew the shades - by remote control, of course - in my room and took in the view. This picture doesn't quite do justice, but the mountainous landscape surrounding this cultural abyss is quite stunning, and surprisingly serene.

Proof positive that every place has its own uniqueness, its own value. Sometimes, we just need to draw back the shades to see it.

Vegas Sucks

Work has landed me in a pit. Las Vegas to be precise: The Tacky Capital of the World. I simply can’t stand it here. On the plane ride over, packed as always with barely-dressed, big-boobed vacationers and drunk-before-the-plane-departs bachelor party crowds, I told myself to keep an open mind. Maybe this time around, Vegas would reveal to me some of its mysterious allure that draws millions to its Strip every year.

48 hours down and I can pretty much confirm that my long-standing opinion holds true. Vegas sucks.

I will never understand why people spend (and gamble away) precious dollars and time to come here when there are a million other - better - destinations out there. This morning I saw a young couple wrapped up together, gazing out at the fake canal that winds through the fake piazza in the fake exterior of the Venetian Hotel. Isn't this just beautiful? she asked him. She was serious. And I am thinking, if you want to see Italy, why not just go to Italy? Flights are cheap these days... wouldn't it be more interesting and romantic to just go see the real thing? It probably works out to be about the same in cost, when all is said and done.

Am I nuts? Can someone explain to me what it is about this place?

Maybe it's the people-watching, for which Vegas is hands-down the best spot on the planet. An Idiot's Guide to Dressing Like a Hooker could be written from here. In fact, casinos should build in viewing booths for people to sit and watch the freak parade cruise through the halls. I for one would pay for a seat!!

Baggage Claim and Other Tales

Being able to see airport baggage handlers do their job has to be THE most frustrating thing about air travel. Can anyone empathize?

I step off the plane at San Jose del Cabo airport and into the baggage claim terminal, a crazed New Yorker all in a tizzy to get going and get to the business of relaxing. The walls that separate inside from out are made of glass, which means I can watch the bags come off the plane and make their way to the conveyor belt. And there it is. My bag. Buried deep under about 50 other bags on the third of 3 piled-high luggage carts. I am relieved it wasn't lost in transit, but dismayed when I see what's going on out there. It seems one lone baggage handler is responsible for sorting through that pile of mess. Under a blazing afternoon sun, I can almost smell the sweat pouring into his eyes as he works, slowly sorting through hundreds of overstuffed suitcases. One by one, each bag is gently, deliberately, almost lovingly placed on the belt and sent off to meet its master. Two colleagues sit idly nearby, and just watch.

Are you kidding me? This could take all day! It takes everything in me not to climb onto that conveyor belt, crawl through that little window, grab my suitcase and go. Instead, I take a deep breath and recall that meditation experience I had just days ago. How quickly these lessons fade from our memory.

Along these lines, I have created some of my own New Rules for Air Travel:

1. Getting stuck in a middle seat does not entitle you to take up both armrests with your oddly-large elbows. Don't make your neighbors suffer because you do. Next time, go online and request an aisle or window seat like the rest of us.

2. If the flight attendant asks you to shut off your phone and stop talking, shut it off and stop talking. The rest of us want to take off. Your call cannot be that important. And if it is, you should have thought of that before you scheduled this flight.

3. If you are brave enough to use the airplane toilet, please lock the door. It's not difficult: just slide that little thingy all the way until it clicks and the light comes on. Outside, the door will read "occupied", and I won't walk in on you while you are doing your thing. It's really getting old.

4. Please don't ask the flight attendant to list out all the beverage options when he/she finally comes around. I am thirsty and you are taking too long to decide. You had plenty of time to peruse your choices in the in-flight magazine. Soda, juice, coffee, water... why is this so hard?

5. Regarding baggage claim: if you are a family of three or more, there is absolutely no reason you plus mom plus dad plus grandma plus your 10 kids plus your crated dog need to all wait by the conveyor belt for your luggage. Seriously folks, step back. Make room for others. And pull that luggage cart out of the way while you are at it. Try sending a willing representative from your own Brady Bunch to collect the bags instead. (Dad is usually a good one).

6. If the wall between outside and the baggage claim terminal is made of glass, please, draw the shades. This is one impatient traveler who doesn't want to know why it takes an hour for her bag to finally come around.

7. Savvy travelers: send me your own rules via comments below. I know you have some!