When tragedy strikes, it’s natural to let oneself go. The moments that used to be filled with narcissistic activities are replaced with sorrow, self-reflection, and re-evaluation of life itself. There is hardly time for trivial pastimes such as staring at oneself in the mirror or blogging… not that I have been known to do either…

And thus, I find myself here, half a year later, struggling with all sorts of things  (writer’s block included) but possessing a new outlook—young&fabulous deconstructed and reconstructed, young&fabulous 2.0 if you will. As someone recently told me: I now have lots of perspective, more than I had bargained for, but now I have it.

And so today’s musing is on open-mindedness. Sometimes, we are forced to have an open mind. When our circumstances are less than ideal, when our worst nightmares are realized, we must open our minds to our new and often horrifying realities. But in experiencing this forced mind stretching, I have found that having this mindset can be an asset. I now define open-mindedness as experiencing something without expectations or judgments on how one should experience it.

What I’ve learned is that we need to focus on every experience, every feeling, for what it is. Instead of comparing any given moment to how it would have been in other circumstances or to how we think it should be, we need to experience it for what it is.

As silly (and unbelievable) as this sounds, a few weeks ago, I told a friend that I don’t like fried desserts. To me, fried food should be salty, not sweet.  A recent trip to New Orleans, however, made me reconsider. As I just learned, beignets done right are next level. And there goes another sweeping statement, disappearing from my lexicon like the powdered sugar atop the deep fried goodness I just tasted. Once I put aside preconceived notions about how something should taste and quit comparing it to how other foods taste, I was able to experience it with new eyes taste buds.

On a more serious note, I constantly wish that my dad could be here with me experiencing every milestone big and small, from trying a new cheese to laughing at the latest Judd Apatow film to seeing me graduate from college. To my dad, there was no experience too small to merit a Shehecheyanu (blessing for special occasions and new experiences). Unfortunately, it isn’t possible for him to be here for each of these new moments. Instead, what I’ve found is that it’s imperative to focus on every single one of these milestones in their own lights, as they are. I am not trying to compare these moments to how they could have been if he was there but I’m just to  experience them for what they are. And what these moments actually feel like, free of comparison or judgment, is usually better than I would expect.

Moreover, it’s important to be open-minded in the way we experience emotions. When feeling sad, it’s useless to wonder why I don’t feel happier or to try to compare my sadness to what others are feeling. Chances are that other people are 1.) pretending to be happier than they actually are, 2.) experiencing happiness and sadness so differently than how I experience things that it is moot to compare, or 3.) mutant zombies. In this light, it’s clear that judging what I feel and trying to measure it against what other people may or may not feel is a silly activity—much sillier than staring at myself in the mirror and blogging COMBINED! Who knew?!

So, what have I learned? Funny you should ask because I was just about to reiterate: it’s important to be open-minded and experience everything—from wines to movies to serious losses—as they are, without judgments on how we think they should be. And in doing so we make profound realizations; we learn that there’s new joy to be found and that fried dough is delicious.

Germaine Greer hit the nail on the head when she stated that, “You’re only young once but you can be immature forever.”  I’ve met countless octogenarians who have the sass, vivacity, and humor of a teenager. I don’t think that age should dictate one’s every move, (especially not regarding one’s sense of humor, appropriate or otherwise). I do, however, think that there are some things which are just straight up inappropriate to do after a certain age. So, here’s a list of 10 things to do (if you wanted to do them) before it’s too late.

1. staying in hostels- Don’t be that guy, (the one collecting scraps of bars of soap in a small metal box under your pillow), who is sharing a room full of bunk-beds with drunken teenagers. At least from my dad’s college years, this is the quintessential hostel experience: the old man’s soap scraps are still emblazoned in his mind.  Don’t be that guy trying to relive your Eurotrip.

2. wearing brightly colored eyeliner- A year ago, I realized that there is no time like the present for me to flaunt a mini skirt. In a few short years, this will be just inappropriate; the same applies for bikinis and form fitting clothes, too.  But have you ever noticed older women wearing brightly colored eyeliner?!? Something seems a bit unsettling about it.

3. overusing and abusing the f*** word, especially as an adjective- I have the same problem with this as I do with the usage of most words. By a certain point in life, (usually after about tenth grade), it is no longer cool to use profanity in public and overusing any word shows a lack of creativity or intellectual capacity.

4. knowing the lyrics to Justin Bieber songs- something seems downright wrong about knowing (or at least admitting to know) the lyrics of a love song written by a teeny-bopper for his equally young crush.  Perhaps love is a universal theme but I think that when seeking advice on the matter there are other more reliable experts.

5. matching outfits with friends- It’s just weird.  Your mom didn’t dress you and your 3 year old little brother in matching T-shirts at age 29, you are a grown adult.

6. keeping up with one’s high school’s sports teams- Perhaps during high school it’s cool to care about these things but at some point, I promise it is cooler to not care.

7. attending music festivals- When you’re sixteen and want to feel the pulsing bass of your favorite band and be part of a crowd of other sixteen year olds clad in similar Urban Outfitters attire, that’s cool. But you don’t want to be the oldest person there, awkwardly trying to fit in with people who are young enough to be your children- unless they are your children and you are chaperoning them in which case I pity you.

8. participating in reality TV competitions – As sad as it sound, the odds are not in your favor if you are past a certain age. Rather than focusing on your talents or merits, viewers are wondering if you have a family, a career, and/or friends. Especially in the shows which require contestants to move into a house full of strangers, age differences matter.  Similar idea noted in point number 1.

9. wearing costumes to movie premiers- When you’re 45, chances are that you resemble neither Harry nor Hermoine, so give it up.

10. bragging about your hangover- Drinking embarrassing amounts isn’t cool—it’s embarrassing. You’re old enough to know better.

It’s not that I am recommending or condoning any of the items on this list but rather if you’re going to do them, you might as well get them out of your system now. Do them before it’s too weird and you’re not only, as Greer put it, eternally “immature” but also eternally creepy.

Perhaps it’s a California thing and that’s why this Oklahoma girl doesn’t understand it, but lately, I’ve learned that I am not fluent in the rhetoric of chill.  I perpetually hear people describe someone as “chill,” “hella chill,” or, my (least) favorite: “a mad chiller.”  A few bros recently tried to explain it to me, claiming that chill doesn’t imply passivity, but rather a relaxed attitude.

Saying that someone is “chill” or “hella chill” implies what exactly?  That (s)he goes with the flow, relaxes, and gets along well with others?  Alright, I’ll buy that.  There’s no denying that those are all indubitably positive traits, but they’re not exactly number one on my list of “looking-fors.”  To me, being a “chiller” is kind of like having good handwriting; while it can be a useful attribute if I am looking for a scribe to record my group’s manifesto, it isn’t a make-or-break quality.  I’m not actively seeking chillers in my life.

Having a chiller in the mix is probably not a bad thing.  I’m not trying say that everyone should convert to my extremist practice, the motto of which is “neurotic is the new chill.”  While the world might be a more productive (and obviously caffeinated) place if everyone was buzzing around with neurotic energy and to-do lists, it wouldn’t be balanced.  IMHO, there need to be at least some crazies and some chillers.

Greg Hicks and Rick Foster, two personality and positive psychology scholars, have developed the clever personality archetype system in which four different animals represent four different personality types.  As far as I understood, their four types can be described as:

Fox- opportunistic, clever, creative
Beaver- organized, planner
Dolphin- idealistic, social, focuses on human connection/ emotion
Owl- rational thinker, logical

By looking at my to-the-minute day-planner or labeled pantry, one can easily glean that I am, unfortunately named, a beaver.  And from what I deduce, chillers might fall in the dolphin category.  But I’m still not convinced that “chiller” is a personality type; perhaps it is more of a quality.  Maybe any of these animal types can be “hella chill” in different situations.  Although I’d be hard pressed to find a beaver who can “chill so hard.”  After enough “chillin’,” the beaver would probably be ready to scratch (perhaps using sharp beaver teeth?!?) “chill” off of her to-do list, and move on to the next task at hand.

1.) …you have enough time to respond to a text message.

2.) …you have enough time to unroll your pant leg when you get off your bike.  No, the rolled pant leg doesn’t look sporty or outdoorsy and no, the frantic in-a-rush look isn’t cute.

3.) …you have enough time to put down the toilet lid—if you can pick it up, you can put it back down.

4.) …you have enough time to blow your nose and stop sniffling.

5.) …you have enough time to buckle your seatbelt.

6.) …you have enough time to hold open the door for the next person. You will both get in there in time.

7.) …you have enough time to tie your shoes.

8.) …you have enough time to wash your hands after using the restroom.  If you don’t wash your hands, everyone else in the public restroom is judging you.

9.) …you have enough time to smileat a stranger. Note: you probably don’t have enough time to wink at said stranger.  Even if you do have enough time, you shouldn’t—it’s creepy.

10.) …you have enough time to throw your gum away in the trashcan. And no, the floor or the underside of a table do not count as a trashcan.

at the Gnome’s Nook in Denver

In a world of touchscreens and traffic, it’s easy to misplace our imaginations. Why think creatively, when there are apps that do it for us?  Increasingly, I’ve noticed parents placating their child with an iPad or another piece of technology instead of actually interacting with aforementioned offspring.  That’s not to say that this is any different from giving the child a toy but there is something rather sterile about this interaction.  I have also noticed a trend of what I like to call strolling and scrolling– parents spending “quality” pushing their child’s stroller, while more intently focused on their cellphones.

 With my perplexity regarding this sort of parenting increasing, I have begun to think more about the importance of exercising imagination.  What inspired my newfound appreciation for imagination was a trip into a magical shop (or perhaps one might go so far as to call it a “shoppe”) called “The Gnome’s Nook.”  I was visiting a friend in Denver when we saw this small shop  whose windows were full of gnomes of all shapes and sizes.  I would like to say that my keen sense of smell for all things chocolate and gnome-related brought me there but unlike gnomes, I am not quite as attuned to my surroundings. (Fun Fact: gnomes’ sense of smell is 19 times stronger than that of humans).  Immediately, I knocked on the door, begging the owner to open thirty minutes early for an out-of-towner like myself who has a true passion for gnomes.

Once the proprietor realized that I was completely earnest in my love of gnomes, he gave us a tour of the place.  This small, two-story shop sells candy and all sorts of gnome decor and paraphernalia.  The owner had just opened the store a few weeks prior to our visit and explained his inspiration: to create a space in which imagination flourishes.  As a father, he worried about his children growing up in a world that doesn’t encourage this sort of imagination.  His future plans include a workshop in the space next-door, in which he will host crafting and culinary events– what an inspired and inspiring idea!

Especially as adults, we are constantly challenged to think analytically, critically, but rarely creatively.  Why should we stop using our imaginations and suspending disbelief just because we are old enough to know better? (In a similar vein, I am old enough to know better than to hope for a snow day in California, but that doesn’t mean that I have stopped sleeping with my PJs inside out for good measure).

Whether by watching a fantasy film or LARP-ing, or speaking in funny accents, or even just convincing oneself that gnomes exist, we can strengthen our imaginations.  Like all things worthwhile including but not limited to: patience, physical fitness, gratitude, musical talents, or woodcarving, practice makes perfect.  Unlike 21st century human parents who seem to be dropping the ball on the whole “parenting” thing, we should all emulate a more gnomeopathic way of raising children and improving the childish playfulness that we once possessed.   It’s time for a renaissance of the imagination and like a gnome venturing out into the enchanted forest, I don’t mind leading the way!

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Fun Facts about gnomes come from the 1976 NYT bestselling complete anthology on gnomes, entitled, “Gnomes,” written by Wil Huygen and illustrated by Rien Portvilet.

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the roots of the family tree, photograph taken by author for: http://journeytoamerica.org

The word pride is tricky, however, because it contains its fair share of negative connotations. Describing someone as “proud” in the Elizabeth and Darcy Pride and Prejudice way bears some sort of Austen-ian sting.  But there is another kind of pride, that which a grandparent feels towards his grandchildren, which is truly awe-inspiring.

On Thursday, after a long struggle with Alzheimer’s Disease, my paternal grandfather passed away.  When thinking about this reserved, easy-going man, I realized something.  Papa wasn’t just casual, calm, and quiet.  Everything he did was carefully calculated as part of a grander plan.  He had some sort of bird’s eye view or magical foresight into the future of his family.  Nothing he did was to satisfy his own needs; it was all part of something larger.  And as the family that he and my grandmother built grew, so did his pride.

When I try to remember his voice, the two phrases that I can hear in my head (because I heard him say them more frequently than anything else) are: “we’re awful proud of you,” and “is there anything we can do for you all?” Papa was always (one might argue disproportionately) proud of us, but he didn’t take that pride in either of the normal directions.  He didn’t a.) brag about his children and grandchildren and  their accomplishments nor did he b.) take any of our success to mean that we no longer needed his support.  Papa was always beaming with pride but he manifested it by verbally expressing his pride while offering up whatever he had left to give.  He was still uttering those two phrases until his last days.

The fact that I haven’t yet experienced this pride, however, provides me with encouragement and hope.  And no, mom, not encouragement in the “go-forth-and-spread-my-seed-and-prosper” kind of way that you fear given the tapestry that supposedly symbolizes fertility hanging above my bed, but rather in the “the-best-is-yet-to-come” kind of way.  That some sort of joy this radiant and meaningful exists and I am yet to experience it makes me feel the way that I imagine Dorothy would feel if she knew that she were about to experience life in color in the land of Oz.

Today at his funeral, I felt a grandchild’s pride when I saw the crowd that had gathered to remember my grandfather and when I heard the Rabbi’s beautiful words.  But this sense of pride, however, is only one facet of this complex and intriguing emotion.  My grandfather always made me proud, I am proud to be his granddaughter, but these are only two specific types of pride.  I’m not saying that experiencing emotions of this caliber is something limited to parents or grandparents, (or that I imminently want to become either a grandparent or parent), but this just proves that there exists a spectrum of flavorful emotions, waiting to be discovered and tasted.  I know that something magical is out there and even though life is short and we all must face our eventual mortality, the best is truly yet to come.

Over the course of a few weeks, I have undergone some serious lifestyle transformations.  This metamorphosis has not occurred out of some sort of New Year’s resolution (heaven forbid (please see my last post) but rather out of my environment or cocoon, to continue with the metamorphosis metaphor.  I’ll elaborate:

Due to an overpopulation of undergraduates enrolled in my university, my friend and I were placed in an apartment off campus, much to our delight.  While most other students complained about the lack of social life, the strictly enforced quiet-hour regulations, and the other inconveniences of off-campus living, I learned the two and a half words that change everything: walk-in pantry.  To me, this pantry is much more exciting than the other perks of this “undesirable housing” which include gym facilities, sauna, steam room, mini movie theater, swimming pools, walk-in closets, et. cetera.  But anyway, living among a slightly older crowd has made me feel like I have taken on an early retirement.  But in a good way.  (Note: one can add “in a good way” to the end of any sentence in order to soften an otherwise rude remark.  More on this and other similar forms of wordplay later).  Back to the point: this early retirement has gotten me thinking about growing up and how some of the lessons we learn as children were not necessarily applicable to the “real world,” while others couldn’t be more on target. Let’s bust some myths, shall we?

Myth # 1: Don’t play with your food.  As children we were all warned against playing with our food, but I am finding that it is quite often acceptable.  As “adults,” we learn that rules were meant to be broken.  This is one of those rules.  In my semi-retirement, I have learned that food is quite often the best plaything.  Lately, I have been cooking up a storm and have learned that just like I used to enjoy squishing vegetables through my fingers as a child, I can still do so as long as it is in the name of a culinary endeavor!

Myth #2: If you don’t have something nice to say don’t say anything at all.  Yes and no.  Sometimes the cold, hard truth is necessary.  But when the truth is TMTH (too much to handle), it is better to stay silent than to candy-coat a remark to make it seem like a compliment.  I have noticed that many people twist their words to seem nice when the truth or even silence would have been better.  Just like I enjoy playing with my food, I also take great enjoyment from playing with my words.

One of my personal favorite pasttimes involving wordplay requires a bit of dissection.  If ways of playing with the English language were like board games, this one is the “Operation” of the bunch.  I thoroughly enjoy picking apart comments and figuring out the coded meaning behind many so-called compliments.  A few favorites:

Wow! This is suuuuch a great photo of you; you look great in this picture… You are really photogenic.—what seems at first like a sweet and thoughtful compliment is really just a way of saying: you look much better in photographs then you do in real life.  I mean, not all of us can help it if the camera loves us!

Wow! This is such a great photo; you must have a really nice camera—This one implies that the quality of said photo is due solely to the camera, as opposed to the photographer herself.

Myth #3: Idle time is the devil’s playground.  Absolutely not.  As any happily retired person can attest, idle or “free” time allows for the cultivation of other pastimes.  When given a plethora of idle time, one often finds herself busier than ever!  But perhaps idle time is the devil’s playground but in a good way?!?

I must admit, I have made it sound like I have been spending the past few weeks doing nothing but people-watching and baking bread, which is not exactly accurate.  I have been doing the usual college-related activities that involve going to classes and meetings, but since these activities are what are expected of a person my age, I see no need to elaborate.  Reflection of the week:  growing up doesn’t mean learning new rules, but rather learning new ways of interpreting and breaking those rules.

I understand New Year’s resolutions in theory. They’re cute and indicate a dedication to self-betterment and a sense of optimism for longevity. But I find resolutions to be not only cliché, but also a bit discouraging. I’m not saying that I frown upon self-improvement, in fact au contraire. I love self-improvement projects but if I am going to choose a time to improve myself it is certainly not going to be January 1st. I mean, who wants to get in better shape at the same time as everyone else? If everyone were to start looking better at the same time, such mass improvement would undermine my own dramatic transformations; in other words it would steal my thunder. It’s much better to pick an obscure day to begin an exercise regime. August 24th for example, would be a prime time. Ironic Side Note: Many Americans resolve to lose weight, get in shape, be healthier, etc. but they get off to a great start with a night of over-indulgence—boozing, eating, and not sleeping enough. Bravo. (Not to say that I don’t plan to indulge but my definition of indulgence is a night in with family, friends, a black lacy dress, and a nice slice of homemade salted caramel chocolate ganache tart).

As for more significant resolutions like being a kinder person or spending more time with family, well honey, those should have been started a while ago. No need to wait around for a socially constructed “holiday” in order to become a decent human being.

I honestly cannot remember a single New Year’s Resolution that I have ever thought about past January 2nd. Not that I am not motivated or goal-driven but whenever I make a promise to myself to do something better, it comes about on my own time and on my own terms, therefore making it more meaningful.

So yes, I understand resolutions in theory. But then again I understand many things in theory such as bird-watching or fasting but that does not mean that I plan to understand them in practice.

I have now been back in the United States for a little over a week and I am in what I like to refer to as my “re-acclimation period.”  This excuse works like a charm to explain strange sleeping habits, mood swings, peculiar cravings, and overall reclusive behavior.  It’s a way more convenient and less painful excuse than being pregnant and I am going to use it to explain for a recent lag in blogging.

Anyway, now that I am mostly reacclimated to the challenging life of Christmas vacation, I am back in action and ready to continue last year’s tradition of trend spotting for the New Year.  Rather than making a full-fledged list of what is en vogue and what is passé, I have decided to hone in on one major trend that I hope makes its way across the Atlantic.

But before we get any further, let me preface this by saying that in Italy, trends are extreme.  If something is popular, such as a particular type of shoes, (almost) everyone buys (almost) the exact same shoes.  Not just similar styles but the same thing.  And trends are rampant! A couple of these that are currently trending in Italy are smoking and eastpack backpacks, both of which have already come and gone in America.

Anyway, the hottest trend for 2012 straight from the streets of ever fashion-forward Italian cities is the murse (the man purse).  Seriously, best invention ever.  Who says that men don’t have just as much stuff to carry around as women?  My dad always pesters my mom to carry his glasses, keys, etc. in her purse and my mom always pesters him for pestering her.  And it’s not that women biologically need to be carrying around so many odds and ends but with great purses come great responsibilities.  In other words, having a receptacle for one’s personal affects creates the desire (which evolves into a need) to carry such things.  I’m sure men could invent just as many “necessary” items to carry around as women do.  If good for nothing else, the murse would be good for male hygiene.  Men could carry floss, gum, Purell, tissues, and first aid kits on them just like their OCD female counterparts.

And let’s not forget about the striking visual elements of the murse.  Normally, when I spot a murse, I want to buy it for myself—the androgynous, small, leather satchels are often much cuter than female purses and have that business-person chic look that screams “I am an independent, self-sufficient person who is comfortable with my sexuality and I even have a good fashion sense!”  If I don’t want to date someone like that, I at least want to ask him where he bought his murse so that I can imitate the look.

So in conclusion, one thing I don’t want to reacclimate to is the American male’s refusal to don a murse.  It’s time for the boys to WOman up and rock the murse in 2012!

When envisioning my sojourn in Italy, my expectations were the usual cliché stock-photos of gelato, Renaissance art, and pasta . And, of course, I envisioned myself on the back of a motorino (or more specifically a red vespa) with a new Italian man-friend. Where did I get this ridiculous idea? Let’s deconstruct the dream, shall we?

Propoganda (also known as some of my favorite movies) planted the seed. Roman Holiday, The Lizzie McGuire Movie, and many other cinematographic masterpieces teach us that the most vital part of any Italian adventure is riding on the back of an Italian ragazzo’s motorino. But this just doesn’t work out in reality.

Problem 1.) Availability:

Tall, dark, and handsome- say what? The availability of eligible bachelors here is rather lacking. Most of my interactions with the opposite sex follow this pattern:

Guy on airplane sees that I am studying Italian: Studi l’Italiano? (you study Italian?)
Me, on airplane, trying to study Italian: Si. (yes.)
Guy on plane, mistaking this for an opportunity to flirt: Ti piaccioni i ragazzi italiani? (Do you like Italian guys?)
Me, still trying to study: No (no.)

(Epilogue: he then goes on to ask me why I don’t like Italian guys, to which I give an “I dunno” kind of answer. If I had a “do-over” I would answer, “Because they are like you.”

I offer this vignette not to begrudge all Italian men, but rather to emphasize that I’ve had rather slim pickings.

Problem 2.) Logistics:

I’m a classic Type A personality; I can’t help but to notice all of the hairline flaws in such a scenario: language barrier, safety (riding on a stranger’s motorino could be a bit risky), awkwardness (heads often clash quite literally in those clunky (but necessary) helmets), helmet hair, my clumsiness, the list continues. This seems to me less like an ideal date and more like a situation to avoid.

Problem 3.) Feminism:

If there were some good options, and if I didn’t think I would fall flat on my face, there is still one fundamental problem with the aforementioned dream: it turns out to be a feminist’s nightmare! Let’s be real here, if I am to go for a spin, I better be calling the shots.

I have now been on motorinos with 3 different drivers. All of them were women. Perhaps I wasn’t the driver calling the shots per se, but I was glad to see some women in charge!

Furthermore, I hope that by telling my story, I can replace the cliché dream of many a 12-year-old girl from: riding on the back of a cute Italian boy’s motorino… to: riding on the back of my new Italian mamma’s motorino… In the latter situation I’m still #livingthedream, just a different one.