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Living each day as my last.

I’m sitting here in a towel, just out of my amazing new bathtub, glass of red wine dwindling by my side, and Norah Jones has just begun to croon, “You humble me, Lord.” I didn’t anticipate such a dramatic finish to my experiment, but these things have a way of just working their way out, don’t they?

Are you confused?
Let me explain.

When I began this experiment of living each day as the last, I thought it would be a good way to get me back on track with my daily writing. But I also thought it would stretch me. And truly wondered what life would look like if I lived each day as the last. And so, as I began, I struggled to understand what the motivation was beneath each action. What was the connection between each thing? Indulgence? Being 27? Facing fears? But despite much thought, the very nature of the fiber connecting these ninety plus ventures eluded me.

Until the very end. Until the point that I allowed my index finger to flick down the scroller, paging through it all… three months of words, images, colours, emotions, tastes… All so different… fun, scary, exhilarating, ridiculous, normal, courageous, extraordinary, strange and silly things… each venture made me deeply happy to have done and experienced it. It was as simple as that. I had no regrets, each thing made me happy. Even more than happy. A deep sense of joy. And a big smile as I reread. The exact words came last night when I heard a talk about Philippians 4 and embracing life. Embracing life. This is it.

Amazing, really. I feel humbled (Norah is still singing, so perhaps that’s it) by all that is happening in my life. I’m just off of the phone with my Mom. My grandmother, who has been fighting cancer for four years, had a stroke this weekend and was put on a breathing tube. The doctor said she had hours to live and it would be a miracle for her to go on any further. My mom jumped in the car and drove like hell to make it from Florida to Connecticut (22 hours). She made it there, and my grandmother is now conscious. And communicating with my family. And they’re talking about her rehabilitation plan. Miraculous.

“So what next?” you ask.

I continue this embracing life thing, that’s what. Why not continue doing things like some of my favourite adventures of the past few months…. like:

16. Breaking the RULES and changing my STATUS

15. Saying the magic word: NO

14. All things holiday: THANKSGIVING, CHRISTMAS, REELING in the New Year, being a naughty SANTA

13. Being a ROCKSTAR

12. Weighing POTATOES

11. The naughty bits: WOOBS and KNICKERS

10. An unexpectedly incredible BIRTHDAY

9. OWNERSHIP

8. The FRANKNESS that made me feel so SPECIAL

7. Being CINDERELLA

6. The brutality of HONESTY

5. Being overwhelmed by AWE

4. MASQUERADE and date my MATE!

3. My STYLISTS!!!!

2. The magic of KINDNESS

1. JOY

trinity

28th December: Day 76 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

This is one of my very favourite places in the world. On the rare occasion that I’m in Connecticut on a Sunday, you’ll find me here. So there I was, feeling extraordinarily lucky to finally be sharing this with M… even if Ian wasn’t giving the talk. We were not disappointed though, not with Rwandan dancers performing, and even more, not with their leader’s story of having his family killed by his best friend in the genocide and his journey of radical forgiveness.

And of course, it was amazing as always to be surrounded by worship lead by Rob Mathes … who was just the musical director for the Obama pre-inaugural concert!!! (performing with Bono, Bruce Springsteen, Garth Brooks, Beyonce, Mary J. Blige, Sheryl Crow, Renee Fleming, Josh Groban, John Legend, Usher, Shakira, James Taylor, Stevie Wonder, John Mellencamp, Jennifer Nettles, Heather Headly, and others).

I love London, but I do wish I could teleport there for every Sunday morning!

princesses

27th December: Day 75 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Red wine + Bridget Jones (2) + one of my very best friends in the entire world, M + the playroom of a 15 year-old’s dreams = 26 year-olds in princess tiaras taking ridiculous pictures, stopping just short of dress up… why not!?  (if only we lived in the same city…and country to do this all of the time!!!)

reunion

26th December: Day 74 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

Ten year high school anniversary.  Living that day as the last.  It could seriously be a field day.

Just think: if it were really the last day, then I’d have an unlimited budget to lounge in the spa beforehand having every little knot, crease, wrinkle, and snag rubbed, filed, clipped, buffed, and painted over.  I’d be able to afford a fake best friend who’d spend the day with me telling me how fabulous I am and look whilst picking the perfect outfit and accessories.

And if it were really my last day, there would also be no consequences… which would make it incredibly tempting to down some bubbly and then down some more… onto the expensive dresses of some of the Stepford children I grew up with (yes, I did grow up in Stepford!)… It’d be a slippery slope with some serious perils in taking this approach… if I didn’t have such a distaste for whitebread preps, I might be tempted to put on the moves on whoever struck my fancy for the evening… though not until I had dangled the London-exciting-career status in front of the slackers who were way tc in our J. Crew magazine of a high school.

Seriously, though, I struggle to remember any people that I have any lasting vendettas against… or even any guys that I pined over that are still worth a thought… not to mention I really haven’t changed so much from high school aside from my new British intonation… and if it were my last day, I’d really do the thing that is still in line with my superintendent’s citizenship – aka congeniality – award from senior year… which means catching up with all of the people I really loved and seeing if maybe, hopefully, some of the fake snots had gained some perspective since leaving our hometown bubble and become real people… (ok, so maybe I’d accidently trip one or two, but I’d also apologise…)

Luckily, this year it was only 8 years… so instead, we had a little reunion with my closest friends with tea and truffles!

christmas

25th December: Day 73 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

I didn’t expect to receive so things this Christmas….  and didn’t expect that the biggest thing I’d come away with is the deep, deep sense of how amazingly blessed I am.   It feels like it would cheapen it to elaborate, but I also know from a non-religious perspective it may seem a bit “glory, glory, hallelujah,” gag me with a Popsicle stick to hear the b-word.  So let me put it in friendlier terms…  it was a bit like mourning a really, really big loss and all of a sudden, I am avalanched. Totally provided for. My vision is recovered and not only do I see things I didn’t see before, but I realise that things have been placed in my hands. Not the same things, but things that make me know that I am still very much loved. And like it will be okay…

Even better than okay was the Christmas dinner that completely spoiled my palate:

Chateaubriand with wine reduction and shallots
Tomatoes baked with Parmesan
Garlic mashed potatoes and gravy
Asparagus tips
Snow peas
Carrots

stylists

23rd December: Day 71 of doing one thing as if I was living that day as my last.

I dream of being ambushed, ridiculed and stripped down to my knickers. And redressed in some super trendy and incredibly flattering clothes. And then re-coiffed. And finally dusted, puffed and glossed.

But despite the fact that I have never been a guest of Stacey or Clinton’s What Not to Wear, I had met them both (Stacey at my event in October 2006 and Clinton in spinning class that spring), and they didn’t slip a $5,000 Visa in my pocket.

After coming in such close proximity to my fantasy, it seemed like an impossibility. Until I lost weight, gave away all of my big clothes was left with hardly anything to wear and was rescued by two amazing stylists, M & K!!

I was swept off to the Westchester Mall. First the style was selected:

Then my personal shoppers combed the store, picking up about twenty-five pieces and filling a dressing room for me.

Then they took their spots in two comfy armchairs, in front of a three-way mirror. It was the best dressing room I have ever seen to do such a makeover.

M & K didn’t tire – they kept going back to add more to my selection. And while I was too shy about it to jump around like a twelve year old, I was absolutely gushing inside to have such a fun chance to dress up in skinny clothes!!!

And so finally, we narrowed in on eight pieces!

Here are a few of the looks!

Thanks again M & K!!

wooden legs

It’s only 10:45, but already I think I can go out on a limb and award the most amusing email of the day.  My sis, K, just sent along the following questions from her friend’s early Christmas present of Would You Rather?

would you rather have a lot of permanent crust around your eyes or have permanent white drool crust around your mouth?

would you rather find out on your wedding night that your spouse has a wooden leg or that your spouse has herpes?

would you rather have a ripe pimple on the tip of your nose, concealed with make-up, be discovered when someone’s kiss accidentally pops it or have your hairpiece lift off with a sudden gust of wind?

would you rather have people keep asking you how long you’ve been pregnant when you’re not or asking “goodness, how long have you been ill?”, when you’re not?

Such enticing options… I would have to say: crust, wooden leg, hair piece and ill

And you?

sparkle

Let’s be clear: I have neither aspirations for the good things of domestic divadom, nor the life of cable knit wearing, tennis playing, luxury SUV driving, country club membership toting, picture perfect women of my hometown that quite literally spawned The Stepford Wives (no offense). Even still, my recent discovery of Soho’s CB2, the new and slightly more modern sibling of Crate & Barrel, was a thrill. I had just fifteen minutes before meeting up for dinner to peruse, completely absorbed, touching, rendering in my mind table settings for uber-fabulous dinner parties, picking new palettes, disengaging to go far away to my own creative world.

After a great week in Connecticut, resting up and lifting nothing heavier than a fork, it’s refreshing to be back in the city. I was reminded in CB2 of a recent email from my friend C. She said, “NY is unparalleled at this time of year for sparkle and shine.” In CB2 some sparkle – yes in a very literal sense – caught my eye:

C, has the power to get me to spill all of my scary artistic aspirations. I usually wish I could quickly inhale the words back into my mouth as soon as they have tumbled out. Yet C, an art director now living in Rome with her Italian fiancé, doesn’t bat even one of her beautiful long lashes. In fact, her two favorite words of encouragement are to fuck up – to stop thinking about all of the wasted paper, photos, words, strokes, scribbles, failed attempts.

So after a visit to Pearl, I have new material and I am determined to waste it! I have a hunch that like Van Gogh wrote his brother Theo, “the liberating breakthrough [comes] just by letting my pen go.” As a matter of fact, I’m not even sure I should bring my eraser along with my sketch book and pencils to The Met, as filling the pages with fuck ups just might be another way to reclaim some of that sparkle… (speaking of reclaiming sparkle, I witnessed a guy taping up lost engagement ring posters on 5th & 19th this afternoon…)

wicked

K, my former babysitting charge and adopted little sister is now a 14(!?) year old smartie who kicks all of the middle school boys’ butts, towers over me, and has just turned all green and witchy. She rocked her two performances and elicited tears from the small children with her cackles (parents and siblings later dragged them forward for damage control, saying, “See, she’s really just a girl!”)

I jumped in on make up and hair, as well as photography. Even better, I was the best adopted big sister ever when I got to do the hair of a certain unworthy fourteen year old boy. It must have been that fruity mousse we put into his hair because those bobby pins of mine kept slipping and poking his head. No worries though, no damage done since from what I have heard there aren’t any brains in that head…

things that go bump in the night

If you desire eight hours of continuous shut eye, I would definitely recommend you sleep in a haunted room. I’m not sure how much you will sleep, but if you do it correctly, your eyes will stay squeezed shut for hours on end.

I’m just peeling my eyes open from my first night in such a room and after realizing that I’m fine and none of my belongings have shifted, I can finally exhale after holding my breath since midnight.

To back up, I got myself into this little predicament because I’m staying in Connecticut for a bit with a lovely family that has danced in and out of my life for the last fifteen years. Upon arrival they had guests in their guest room. So they generously gave me reign of their third floor, enticing me with the mention of their gym also being located on this level. Ideal plan – especially when M told me about the ghost of the old woman who died in the house and now haunts the guest room, the real estate broker’s reticence about answering questions, the doors that continually are found open after being locked and closed, the strange presence at night and the fact that several guests, with no knowledge of the situation ask in the morning, “What the hell is going on with that room?” At which point I was ready to bolt for the door until M said, “Don’t worry, the third floor was built afterwards and she never goes up there.” Phew.

To be honest, ghost stories have always been merely scary stories to tell in the dark. There was that college break with MJ’s legendary ghost tales about William and Mary that prompted me to crawl into bed with my mom, but it has only been recently that I have put any weight into these supernatural stories…. it’s hard to argue when your friends have first hand sightings.

Fast forward to last night. K informs me that I am going to be switched into the now vacant guest room so they can use the gym at 4:45 am without waking me. And so the panic attack begins. There was clearly no way out of the room, so in the process of freaking the hell out, the debate became: to sleep with the light on or not? Light on: possibly see the ghost – or scare it away? Light off: allow the ghost to come?  and then: do I change in the room?  I don’t want the ghost to see me!

And so the best plan I could think of was to read until I was so tired that my eyelids could only be kept open by some heavy duty scotch – at which point I would turn off the light, close my eyes, hope for the best and refuse to open my eyes for the entirety of the night until the coast was clear in the morning. Kind of like the three year old who covers his eyes and because he doesn’t see you, you don’t exist!

It’s now morning and I’m very happy to report that the only sightings so far have been the little Hispanic men in cherry pickers appearing in my windows just shortly after waking as they trim the trees outside!