When confronted with an uncomfortable situation involving a romantic prospect, I am not myself. I’m not even human. My confidence and pride threatened, my first instinct is to freeze, essentially play dead. I’m an opossum, falling over in the path of an attractive male. If I don’t exist…he can’t see me. Not many animals are less attractive than opossums.

Which is uglier? The possum, or my crude photo editing?

This affliction dates back to pubescence; I spent most of high school pretending my romantic interests didn’t exist. This is a tactic commonly used by teenaged girls. The thing is, usually they’re terrible at masking their feelings;  giggles, knowing glances, and twirling hair swiftly betray the true emotion. But little ol’ me with a natural proclivity for acting? I was so brilliant at acting like I never gave boys a second thought that they never gave me a second thought. Looking back, it’s no surprise I didn’t have a date for prom.

For the most part, I’ve grown out of this. But catch me off guard, give me no time to think, and I revert back to my primordial ooze teenaged self. Charm, wisdom, and grace replaced with a ratty-looking worm-tail as I lie in the road, frozen. This is exactly what happened when I went on a wild goose chase, searching New York for a man I had had a brief connection with. Not expecting to actually find him, I was agog when there he was in Strawberry Fields, the one and only place I had thought to look. A possum comes face to face with a wild goose? Of course she’s going to play dead, those birds are scary.

The minute I saw him, my heart stopped. So I immediately pretended he was the farthest thing from my mind. I scurried around Strawberry Fields, the feeling of an unsightly worm-tail dragging behind me. I tried to regain some of my wit, composure, human-sized brain- any antidote to my opossum affliction. I snapped some pictures with my camera, taking them for no other reason than to have something to do. After a handful of truly pitiful photos, I had a revelation. I did have something to do: I would blog about this. Oh yeah, I’m a blogger, not a marsupial! I’m creative, witty, and brave- not a passive opossum! My pictures improved and I started to feel more like myself, my phantom tail shrinking from behind me.

The scene at Strawberry Fields. The object of my attention is somewhere in this photo. If you can figure out which he is, I may declare you an even better detective than myself.

I stopped worrying about how to approach my wild goose and just started enjoying the moment. I’ve walked through Strawberry Fields countless time, never really thinking the man it honors.  How every day, thousands of people come together to lay flowers and think of his spirit captured in a single word. How every second, thousands are connected through his music. I decided to take in the scene and “imagine all the people living life in peace”. I sat down on a bench.

The “Imagine” memorial to John Lennon is covered daily in flowers, “Strawberry Fields Forever”.

 ”Hey!” the guy seated next to me exclaimed. I turned my head. “Oh! Hi!” I said, taking a moment to place him. “It’s you from…back with the listener guy.” “Yep.” He said, and smiled. Ok, so I didn’t need the moment to place him, he was my wild goose! I had purposefully sat down next to him, pretending not to notice him, figuring I’d eventually break the ice. But he beat me to it!

“You’re following us, aren’t you.” he said, clearly joking. I smiled, taking the question far more seriously than he meant me too, “Yeah, I guess I am.” I said thoughtfully. “I’m kidding.” He said quickly, “It’s just funny how you’ll run into the same people in this city.” “Yes, yes it is.” I replied. If he only knew…

The possum and the wild goose finally face to face. We sat on the park bench, getting to know each other a bit. Right off we had a lot in common. Our past- growing up in California as only children- and present- both artists, he is a painter in Brooklyn. Recently moved to New York, college educated, the ever-present good vibes, and calm, comforting presence. His mother sat on the other side of him for a few moments and I could tell she liked me. And was just tickled her son was potentially picking me up. When he pulled out his phone to take my number and it was a sad-looking flip phone. Much like my own. I’ve long said I am searching for a man who doesn’t consider his iPhone second only to his penis…

And yet, he’s not the guy for me. Why? Because he never used the number I myself plugged into his phone. He never called me. As simple as that. Wild geese fly away and you never see them again. Possums stop playing dead and carry on with living.

It’s a great story and nice to leave it at that. I think in the past, I’ve been to drawn to the romance of meeting someone, of having that great “how we met” story. I have a dozen entries to prove it. Now I want to try to meet someone in a purely pedestrian way- through friends. I’ve never done that before. So, who wants to set me up?

I plan to spending Memorial Day weekend doing some sailor scouting. That’s right ladies (and gentlemen). Fleet Week is here in New York City!

Ahoy, sailors! The red, white, and blue of my ensemble was totally unplanned: coincidence or subconscious?

Sailors are swarming the city. The boats arrived Wednesday, a day I was in Times Square seeing Potted Potter (cute, fun, worth the comp tickets I scored). Groups of men looking like they wander off the stage of Anything Goes drifted through the bright lights on all corners of Broadway. It was a surreal sight.

So far my interactions with the seamen have been limited. A “You boys are hard to get passed” as I tried to walk by a slow-moving (read: weren’t walking at typical Manhattanite speed) group of them on the side walk and a grin to the ridiculous line, “How you doing?” delivered by a naive baby-face. Perhaps my next post will have the title “How to Snag a Sailor”. We can only hope.

Next week my “Other NYCs” feature will continue, I have a New York sports fanatic and a bonafide Brooklynite on deck.  Until then, enjoy the weekend (that goes for those of you who don’t celebrate Memorial Day as well), hope we get some sun!

P.S. A big thank you to the 3 lovely ladies who commented on my “Four Years” post. I needed comments, yours meant a lot to me.

New York Cliché’s 4th blogiversary: a time for reflection and cake!
(click image for photo credit)

Well, time has told. Here I sit, four years later perhaps to the minute, in my little apartment in the heart of Manhattan. There are parallels- my room is in some state of packing, story arch is not the focus of this post, and the path of my life is still unsure- perhaps more so than ever. I could stop there, leave it at that, taking comfort in ambiguity. But I’m brave, I am. I’ve said it before, “I am brave”, but actions speak louder than words.

I feel expected to sugarcoat my life. Everyone else is, and it’s so easy to do. You can make everything look perfect on Facebook- like you’re always smiling, always busy doing amazing things with the best and most attractive friends, your relationship is perfect, and all your accomplishments are significant. This is the norm. I talk to my friends, have a drink and an actual conversation with them, and then I go online and feel sickened by how airbrushed our lives are. I feel like Holden Caulfield, I want to cry and call everyone a phony. I sit in Central Park, my doubts weighing heavy on me. I don’t want to reveal them to anyone, not even my best friend. And there’s an irony of Woody Allen proportions: I’m ashamed of my insecurities and ashamed I’m to scared to admit those insecurities to anyone. Everyone on my newsfeed is getting married or getting into grad school. What’s wrong with me? Why don’t I have it figured out?

Four years ago, I was so sure of what I wanted to do with my life. I was moving to New York, I was going to be an actor, and fuck anyone who said I couldn’t do it. Four years of living in NYC, I no longer have that confidence. I am unsure of my talent, and beyond that, unsure I have the relentless drive and perseverance that is even more important than raw talent. “What’s my motivation?” -the old actor cliché. “Where’s my motivation?” is my more current dilemma, one that can be paralyzing.

This picture of me, (c) Howard Kerrart, strangely captures my feelings about life right now. The last grasps of my childhood that seems further and further in the distance, perhaps leaving the “dark age” of my early 20′s, and what lies ahead? No one knows. With all the possibilities of symbolism, it’s a great picture, no?

As I typed that last paragraph, tears rolled down my checks. Part sadness, yes, but more so a release. It’s something I’ve needed to admit. Something I’ve needed to say. It’s vulnerability: my biggest fear, and we’ve all heard the best way to manage fear is to confront it.

Four years in NYC, two months from turning 26, and so much is unsure. I’m not sure I can give up on acting, yet. I’m not sure what else I want to do. I doubt whether I’ll ever fall in love. I’m not sure I’ll ever want kids. I’m not sure if I want to stay in New York City. I’m not sure where else I’d want to go.

Yet, in four years, I have figured somethings out for sure. I know for sure, when I am on stage and performing a character, I feel incredibly fulfilled and in-my-element. I know I’ve brought many people joy from my performances. For sure nothing makes me feel more accomplished than connecting with a person, watching their face light up with laughter because of something I did. For sure I am not happy working behind a desk. I know for sure I will never again date a 19 year-old. I know I am not giving up on love. I know for sure I have amazing friends in New York. I know I have people who would listen to my insecurities and fears, and be more than happy to help me anyway they can, if I wasn’t scared to ask. For sure that conversation would have me crying (I am unsure if I’m ready for that.) I know just typing all this is a step in the right direction.

One thing I know, without a doubt, is I am immensely proud of this blog. It is something I control 100%- the polar opposite of the acting world, in which I only control my performance, a comparatively small percentage of a whole piece. Sometimes, it is my creative solace. I am so grateful to each and everyone of you reading this, whether you’ve stuck with me for four years or four days, for being a part of my solace. Thank you. Happy Birthday, NewYorkCliche.com!

I’m looking toward the future. To figuring things out, getting motivated, having no need for airbrushing.

Another thing I know for sure? I love New York City. Thank you for four fantastic years.

May is the month when we want to be outside. All the time, please. When we must go inside to sleep, we keep our windows open and the sounds of the streets rock us city-dwellers to sleep. If I could spend this whole month wandering neighborhoods and parks, stopping only to drink at water fountains and to picnic on patches of grass, I would. Give me a day, any day in May, and I will make you feel like there’s no where else you’d rather be.

I moved to the city in May of 2008. Four years later, I find myself trying to capture some of that new to New York City magic. That accute feeling of I can’t believe I live here! The Big Apple is my home. Gone are the days when a walk through Central Park was an event, when a Broadway show was a breathtaking treat. Now it’s routine- I do those things every week. I fight against the jadedness I feel creeping in my bones. Give me exploration, give me excitement, give me that new New York. There are still, and always will be, countless things I haven’t done in this city. Like visiting the Brooklyn Botanical Garden. Come with me!

Trading the urban forest for real trees. See that one in the distance, with low hanging branches? I climbed it. If I’m 25 years old, and I still love climbing trees, there’s no way I’m truly jaded.

On a city street, if you stop to smell the roses, you will get mowed down by a “Move it, @&^%!” No one’s yelling at me in the BBG. If I stopped to smell every flower, I’d never leave! Fortunately, there are so many, the sent sometimes floats in the air- no stopping necessary.

Watching people who are the opposite of jaded- kids. These little tykes were looking at pennies under water. Looking down at the surface, I noticed all the colors of my surroundings mirrored in the reflections. I wished I was a painter. No one who’s truly jaded EVER wishes that.

If I have to go inside, let there be floor to ceiling windows! The conservatory of the BBG has a great bonsai collection.

There’s something magical about these miniature, essential sculpted trees. I always wanted one as a kid, and I still get some of that longing. That said, now I know I’d kill the thing in less time than it takes me to sound out the species name written on the placard.

Look at that. Bet you’re wishing I was a painter too. Film is good too, though!

Say you’re circumnavigating the lake- it sounds like a much bigger adventure.

Wishing that I could run over that brigde. Alas, it’s fenced off.

If you have to fence something, fence it off with tulips!

Swinging from the limb of a cherry tree even though it hurt my hands. Had I not been wearing a skirt, I just might have hung from it by my legs! Next time, next tree.

My lovely photographer and roommate. She’s not jaded. She knows how joyous it can be to run around a field just for the hell of it (ok, and for the photo ops).

Brooklyn Botanical Garden. I can’t wait to go back in another season! There’s lovely rose garden, where nothing is yet in bloom, but in June…I will have to literally stop to smell the roses.

Hope you are enjoying this month like I am, wherever you are!