The Art Of Algorithms

Alright, let's talk about this dating thing.

First and foremost, I completely and totally dislike the act of dating.  It's complicated, it's stressful, it's full of games and puzzles and misinterpreted texts and over-thought headaches, and I want it to die in a firey car crash.  Moving on.

I somehow see it necessary to date in order to try out a variety of different people and experiences.  How do you know what you want or what you like if you don't try a little bit of everything?  You don't just eat a piece of Swiss cheese without ever eating a piece of any other kind of cheese and think "Swiss cheese is my favorite cheese in the world" - because you couldn't possibly know that without trying all the other cheeses that are out there.  What a silly assumption, guy.  Also, while Swiss is delicious, it is not the best.  Keep that in mind next time you're at the cheese counter.

This all seems an odd conundrum to me, because I love meeting new people.  I love exploring new things, and finding new connections with people I maybe have everything in common with, and maybe have nothing in common with.  Perfect example: my roommate.  She and I could not be more different, and yet, I find her completely inspiring and intriguing (another topic all together, but you get the point).  She's incredible, and I may never have gotten to know her had I restricted myself to my little comfort bubble.  I pride myself on being able to be thrown into a situation or setting where I know no one, and walk out with at least one new acquaintance.  I grew up as a shy kid, but have since learned (and I think maybe even mastered) the art of socializing.  I have a big personality which can sometimes come off as intimidating, but I know who I am and am damn proud of it.  This confidence is supposed to come in handy, but seems to be slightly aggressive to those I end up on dates with.  What the hell, OK Cupid?  Get your computer statistical algorithms correct already and stop showing me the same 40 people.  I don't listen to top 40 radio stations, I don't want top 40 dating bros.

See, I thought that by moving to New York City (side bar: meeting a dude was in no way a motivational spark in that decision, as I moved here while dating someone), I would meet a million new, different, and exciting people.  I thought friends would just ooze out of the woodwork and I wouldn't know what to do with myself.  This?  Is a big, giant lie.  New York City is, by far, one of the toughest places to live - for a variety of reasons - one main factor being how insanely hard it is to meet people here, and I have a few theories as to why.  One, people move to the city to live this incredible life they dreamed of, and to focus on one thing: themselves.  People here can be really selfish into just themselves.  Now don't get me wrong, I get it - it's important to learn about yourself and "do you", as they say.  But at some point?  Let go of you, and move on to something else.  Like signing up for a social co-ed sport (best thing I've ever done, ps), go on a scavenger hunt, or try finding the best pizza joint in your hood.  Two, everyone here has some sort of guard up.  People are so worried about letting other people in that they tend to put up brick walls, only broken down by dynamite - and excuse me for not carrying around a match.  Three, there are over 8 million people in this city, and I always tend to run into the handful I already know.  The world is just not as big as it seems.  At this point, I'm rambling.

My point here?  I'm not sure anyone would classify "dating" as an extra curricular activity, or even an activity they enjoy spending time doing.  It's work.  It's like searching for a job while working a job.  It's time consuming, it's nauseating, it's filled with ups and downs, ins and outs, awkward goodbye hugs with the occasional fist bump (and in some instances, the "Hey, thanks for the great conversation...".  Really?), and at the end of a date (or a day filled with job searching)?  You sometimes want to kill yourself.  But you don't.  You go home, you go online, and you sift through the piles of online dating profiles that take up so much space on the internet, it would blow your mind grapes.  And you hope that one magical little profile will pop itself out of the millions (parallel: resumes) and be exactly what you want: tall, dark, handsome, and maybe even has a quality credit score and a decent one-bedroom somewhere in Manhattan.  Location is key.  Side bit of sound advice?  Date outside your zip code.

Do I wish we still lived in the world of hand written love letters, courtship, and long-distance-never-met-you-but-I-can't-live-my-life-without-you romances?  Who wouldn't.  Do I have the hopes for an organic meeting?  Absolutely.  Things tend to find you when you least expect them, and I fully intend on believing in that and the universe not screwing me over too badly.  So maybe it will magically happen.  And maybe it won't.  And maybe I'll grow a third arm.  It's a numbers game.  It's love in the time of algorithms, and it's a damn battlefield.  Somehow?  I'm still incredibly optimistic.  I'm still hoping for that magical little spark I really haven't felt since I was 19.  So as pessimistic and sardonic this post may seem?  I am oddly hopeful and not yet entirely jaded.  Somewhat jaded, but not completely.  

Coming up next: adventures in dating, the files of Hilary.  Stay tuned, loyal readers.  Every day is a new adventure here!

It's All So Magical

“Happiness depends more on the inward disposition of mind than on outward circumstances.” - Benjamin Franklin

I spent a majority of my life wanting, yearning, dreaming of living in  
New York City.  

When I was 3 years old, I saw The Rockettes on TV performing at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade.  When I was 4, my mom enrolled me in my first tap class so that I could, one day, become one of those professional long-legged chorus-line kickers.  When I was 5, my parents took me to my very first Broadway show (to be fair, I saw two that year, and I can't remember which one was first - Peter Pan or The Secret Garden - either way, lucky kid, right?).  I very clearly remember that while we were standing in line to get in to the theatre, a homeless man was walking up and down the mass begging for food.  I insisted we give him money, and my father gave me a $5 bill to hand to him, which I did, with the firm grasp of my mothers hand on mine.  I don't remember what we ate for dinner, I don't remember the train ride, and I don't remember much of the shows (except the flying and the garden set and the cast of The Secret Garden saying a teary eyed "farewell since it was their closing performance).  Yet I can still picture the cool breath in the air, the lights of Time Square, and being in awe of the enormity and magnitude that was this giant place, this cement playground, this city of lights.

When I was 6, my mom took me in to the city for a special Mommy-Daughter day.  This may have been around the time she was pregnant with my brother (as I distinctly remember purchasing a pregnant Barbie Doll, where you could take a baby out of her springy-plastic belly - so strange).  We went ice skating at Rockefeller Center, had hot chocolate and soup at the Plaza, then went and played in F.A.O. Schwartz (where knocked-up Barbie was obtained), the coolest toy store at the time.  I remember riding home with my mom on the train, opening some of my new toys, and feeling really lucky to have gotten to spend an entire day with just my mom.  It was one of my favorite days of all time.

When I was 16, my Dad got remarried and moved to New York City - 97th and Broadway, to be exact.  My only thoughts at the time?  How stinkin' cool!  Now, I'd be spending every other weekend in the greatest city in the world.  Every weekend became an adventure.  My Dad and Step mom would take us to museums, parks, restaurants with foods I had never tried, street fairs, shows, and flea markets.  We spent one summer searching for all the NYC Cows (check it out: cowparade), and found most of them.  It was a massive culture shock, and one of the best things to ever happen to me.  It was also when I decided that no matter what, New York was where I needed to be.

It took me until I was 24 to get there - it took college, money, strength, support of my wonderful friends and family, a new job, and finally building up my own courage to pack my life into a U-Haul, cram 8 friends (and one mini Caraline jumping on my mattress) into a minivan, and drive the 60.3 miles to my new home in Brooklyn.  It was probably one of the toughest, greatest things I have ever done, and my life will be forever changed because of it.

("So I crammed my life in a U-Haul, to find my part of it all")

There are moments, late at night (or morning 2am-ers, in this case) that thoughts start racing.  The air is still and calm, my breath slowly releasing in the cool winters night, the bass line blasting through the wall of the apartment next door - it is now that I am able to take a step back and realize:

 I'm here.
Sometimes I simply can't believe it.

I look at my life - at what it is now, and what it was before - and I can't always understand how it came to be - how I got here.  I have grown so much, transitioned so many times, and learned so many lessons, good and bad.  I know I am a constant work in progress, and I am only now becoming the adult I had always envisioned myself being.  I am finally focused on what I am and what I want to be - what I'm capable of - versus what I should be,what I always imagined I was supposed to be, or what people expected of me.  I now understand none of that matters.  Was matters is being me, for better or for worse.  And at the end of the day, I think it's important that I remember this point:

I am really proud of myself.  

I don't say this to toot my own horn.  I don't say this to pat myself on the back, or imply that I've done something no one else has ever done.  I say this to remind myself that I have come a really long way since that scared little 17 year old girl, frightened of leaving home for college, or the teenager, scared to ever speak up for herself or fight for herself, all the way down to the 8 year old, who didn't even want to walk to school alone.  I spent years dreaming of living in what I believed to be the big, scary, magical New York City.  Now that I live here, I can assure you: it is, in fact, magical.  As far as the big and scary part?  Well sure.  That's there too.  But it's a really fun adventure.

A Time Holder

At this very moment in time, no truer words have been spoken.

Many apologies for the lack of postings - things have been a little hectic over here on my end.  Fear not, loyal followers!  Things should be returning to normal soon.  Thanks for hanging on :)