Living Out Loud

Last week a guy I work with approached me on set and told me he’s been thinking of matching me up with his friend. “What’s your type?” he asked.

My mind went blank.

“I… huh. I’m not sure,” I faltered. “I don’t really have a type. I mean, everyone has a type but I’m, I dunno… chemistry driven? It’s a personality thing. Like, it’s… well… definitely someone creative. But not angst-y. And funny! But not funny like he’s insecure and needs attention. Wry. I like quiet guys... Introspective. But he can’t take himself too seriously. I have three brothers, you know? He has to make fun of me. But not in a mean way! Someone nice. Someone who’ll bring me flowers and then throw me in the pool. Does that make sense? But I mean, none of this is a deal breaker. I'm open to whatever. Someone who loves his mother - that's really what it comes down to, right?”

He blinked at me and pressed his headset to his ear. “They’re calling me to camera,” he fibbed as he jogged off.

I deserved that.

If I’m not comfortable identifying the partner I want then how on earth can I expect to meet him? And make no mistake, this is a comfort issue – I know exactly the kind of person I’m attracted to, I just can’t say it out loud because of the neurotic playlist that paralyzes me every time I’m put on the spot. “I don’t want to sound demanding. I don’t want to be the girl who’s too picky. Best to be vague, to be general, to not sound exclusive. What if I say his/ her friend isn’t my type and I hurt their feelings? Don’t be too specific. You are single, after all, and beggars can’t be choosers. And what is a ‘type’, anyway? Be grateful someone wants to set you up and thinks you’re worthy of their friend. Don’t be selfish.”

And on and on.

The scary thing is that this is not limited to my love life. The more I reflected on it the clearer it became that this same damaging monologue loops when someone asks me what I do for a living. “Don’t say acting – no one takes that seriously. Don’t say you’re a writer – it can come across as pretentious. Don’t say anything about comedy - people might think you’re high maintenance…” I’ve now invested nearly a decade of energy into judging all the good things I want for myself so it should come as no surprise that the net gain is disappointment and frustration. What a way to go through life! It’s completely absurd when you think about it. What kind of business class teaches, “The cornerstone of a flourishing company is total concealment of your goals so as not to come across as selfish”. When was the last time that Forbes evaluated the nation’s most accomplished women and determined, “The common denominator of their success is that they embrace any opportunity, whether or not it aligns with their interests, so that their colleagues don’t find them picky!”

Ludicrous. And it stops here. Today I ask for what I want.

I want an artistic guy who enjoys laughing and being barefoot to love me and play with my hair and go on road trips with me. I want to write scripts from my pajamas. I want to bring my dog to work. I want to make enough money to take my family on vacation. I want to make enough money to adopt children. I want to start singing again, for no other reason than pure enjoyment. I want a yard with a barbeque grill. Better yet, I want a farm with horses. I want to drink good wine. I want to solve a Rubik’s cube. I want to swim more and read more and play the piano more.  I want to clean less. I want to travel by boat whenever possible. I want to take a business meeting from court-side seats at the Lakers. I want to have my own non-profit. I want to play Patricia Clarkson’s daughter on a Jason Katims show. I want to write a book and turn it into an Emmy award winning Comedy Central series. I want to take ballet. I want to have a signature pie recipe.

There. I said it. I’m not gonna lie, it feels very unnatural and I’m fighting the urge to explain-away everything I just wrote but other than that it’s rather liberating. Try it! What do you want? 

Me, Me, It's All About ME!

Last night I did a writing exercise to discover my authentic voice and discovered that my authentic voice is a pretentious asshole.

The goal was to articulate the things/ experiences/ people that I gravitate toward in order to create an overall picture of who I am as a person. The result was a list that could make Stuff White People Like turn pale and in the light of day I’m completely ashamed. And how does my authentic voice handle personal shame? With ridicule, of course! Below are some highlights from the exercise, followed by my reactions.

Instructions: Think about things and experiences in your life* that are and are not “you”. Be specific. (*The exercise gave a list of prompts: Types of people, academic subjects, music, vacations, places to live, etc.)

My Original Answer for “Clothing”

Rompers, maxi dresses, jeans and tank tops, very little jewelry. Anything comfortable and unfussy yet feminine. I like to wear things that I can be silly in, move easily in, get my hands dirty in – nothing too precious. No bandage dresses!

My Day-After Response

How nice that you get to wear things you can be silly in while the rest of the world goes to work in a suit. By the way, they like it. Because they’re successful. You know what people who wear “unfussy things” do? They rent apartments in their late thirties. Also, the reason you wear very little jewelry is because YOU DON’T OWN ANY.

My Original Answer for “Types of Work”

Peace Corps, teaching, writing. Anything cerebral, artistic, socially conscious. I like work that encourages reflection and allows me to connect in a meaningful way with others, which I value above all else. No work that doesn’t allow creative thought or freedom of expression.

My Day-After Response

Allow me to freely express myself: Remember when you recently hit your head and had to pay out of pocket to go to the emergency room for a CAT Scan and you consequently suffered eight weeks of stress dreams while you waited for the hospital bills to arrive? Right. So imagine what would happen if you tripped in six-inch heels and could no longer meaningfully connect with a ligament in your knee. You know what you should value above all else? Your health. GET A REAL JOB.

My Original Answer for “Leisure Activities”

Road trips, spa time, hiking, reading, cooking, camping, live music, drinking wine with loved ones. Any activity that allows me to clear my mind, indulge, exercise my curiosity, laugh.

My Day-After Response

Oh shut up. You know you’re watching Netflix right now.

My Original Answer for “Vacations”

Europe, Greece, Costa Rica, Thailand, South Africa. Beaches, mountains, eco-tourism. Any place that would lend itself to exploration and fish-out-of-water experiences. No cruises, pre-packaged tours or all-inclusive resorts that take the spontaneity out of travel.

My Day-After Response

That’s funny; I could swear that the last major vacation you took was to an all-inclusive resort in the Dominican Republic. Uh huh. And you loved it. You even bought a piece of jewelry at the fake bazaar they staged on the resort grounds and you still wear it to this day because it reminds you of the LOVELY TIME YOU HAD. But by all means, be spontaneous and go run off to Thailand! Oh, that’s right – you can’t. Because your passport has been expired for five years. Because you can’t afford international travel. Guess your fish-out-of-water experiences will remain limited to trips downtown, like the time you paid for soy jerky at the Japanese market but left without it in your bag and got so frustrated trying to explain it to the cashier who spoke no English that you finally gave up and just ate the cost. Happy trails!

My Original Answer for “Types of Homes and Home Furnishings”

Craftsman bungalow; mid-century modern beach house; turn of the century farm house. Something stylish and with character but simple, airy, fostering quietude. Mid-century furniture with comfortable touches: Plush couch, feather pillows. Global flair. Prints, textiles, art. A home that is sophisticated but warm, that makes my guests feel loved, that tells a story about my life. No cookie-cutter McMansion in a housing development. No vertical blinds. No complete bedroom sets bought from a furniture store. Nothing impractical that can’t withstand wine being spilled on it.

My Day-After Response

First of all, you’re writing this from an IKEA couch, so get over yourself. Second, unless you are Robert Frost you do not have permission to use “quietude” in a sentence. I love that you don’t want anything cookie-cutter and yet what you’ve described could be torn from the pages of any given Anthropologie catalog. Also, you know what would best tell the story of your life? THE STORY OF YOUR LIFE. Maybe stop giving your writing away on Blogger and go get published, ya think?

Ugh. Don’t you just hate people like me?! The list goes on but I’ll spare you further ego-babble. Besides, I’ve gotta wrap this up. I have to go to yoga so I can center myself before walking my rescue dog to the farmers market to pick up organic free-trade coffee and slices of handmade lavender soap.*

Seriously, though, I can’t be the only person with an obnoxious dreamer living inside my head. We all have this weird duality, right? One side of the brain that idealizes itself and the other side that tears it down? Tell me I’m not crazy and that you experience it too… How does the snob inside of you see yourself?

*Ok no but really that’s my typical Sunday. How can something so delightful look so gross in print?!

YOLO

This Labor Day weekend I had plans to attend an outdoor screening, do a little prep work for an upcoming job, and go bar hopping in Venice Beach.  Some work, some play, close out the summer with a couple friends and a glass of rosé. Simple.

What I did instead was drop everything to party in Palm Springs for a night, come home, and then drop everything to party in Vegas.

3 days. 16.5 hours of traffic. 800 miles.

Because YOLO.

I don’t know where the YOLO obsession originated. It was engaged sometime around my last Vegas trip in July and when I think about it the first thing that comes to mind is my friend Anastasia (a 100lb blonde) throwing her arms around gangsta-rap style and bellowing, “You Only Live ONCE!” so I guess I have to credit her with planting the seed. And I suppose her craving for excitement struck a chord with me as I stared down my four-year anniversary of moving to LA and was feeling a little stagnant. I used to be a YOLO-er. My twenties were a veritable YOLO-coaster, so electric and full of experiences, whereas inventorying my thirties leaves me with depressingly little to brag about. Two breakups. Unstimulating work. Travel that largely revolves around holidays and reunions and other people’s fortune. I look at the last 7 years and see the spontaneity-loving adventure-junkie in me cooking dinner for one and fretting about retirement.

I needed to YOLO. So I did. And it was awesome.

We booked a room at the Ace Hotel in Palm Springs on a whim Thursday evening and were poolside with cocktails in hand less than 24 hours later.  We met a fantastic group in from New York City and enjoyed an unforgettable night drinking and laughing and bonding with people we’ll never see again. “That was too much fun!” I moaned on the drive home the next day. “We have to do this more!” Anastasia nodded. “YOLO,” she affirmed.

I got home at 5pm on Saturday and dropped my suitcase. I browsed the refrigerator and contemplated take-out options. I showered. No more than 30 minutes had transpired since I walked in the door from Palm Springs when I glanced at my phone and saw a text from Anastasia. “How seriously are we taking this YOLO thing?” it asked. She had a friend in Vegas with a suite at the Palms. He had room to spare. Did we want to come?

Of course we did. In no time, I made a reservation to board my dog, added to my already packed suitcase, bought champagne and Smart Waters and set my alarm for 7am. We drove from LA right up to the valet at the Cosmopolitan, put bikinis on in the restroom and marched straight for the pool to commence another whirlwind night of dancing and laughing and making memories.

It was magical. And not because of the drinking or the partying but because of the joy that comes from shedding expectations, engaging all your senses and living in the moment. The thrill was intoxicating and I spent the grueling 7.5 hour drive home brainstorming ways to harness that recklessness constructively in other areas of my life.

“I need to YOLO my career!” I announced.  “I’m going to take creative risks!” 

“I have to YOLO my friendships!” I insisted. “I’m going to edit myself less!”

“I want to YOLO Los Angeles!” I declared. “I’m going to get more involved in my city!”

The possibilities were endless: YOLO-ing our vacations, YOLO-ing our love lives, YOLO-ing our health. Just talking about it was invigorating, and I felt the dormant adventurer in me begin to rise up again.  So now my challenge is to nurture her by  taking that first step and putting this enthusiasm into action. Because as I experienced this weekend, YOLO begets YOLO. Once you break out of your comfort zone and flex some liberation, you can’t help but want to continue and the growth that follows is precious.

Join me if you dare…

YOLO!