I know there’s no lunging involved in this particular instance.
I just have to document what happened tonight.
I write this wrapped in a hotel-issued pseudo-kimono in our effing tiny (aka, NYC-regulation sized) room in Tokyo, belly full of Ippudo ramen, head ringing with “Irashaemasaaaaaae!”‘s. My mommy is snoring, so I’ll try to keep this one short.
Some highlights, ka?
Overall, Bangkok was incredible, but not for the easily tired or easily confused. Vacationing in Asia puts you (and by you, I mean Google) to werk. You have to work for the hidden gems, crawl and hike for the non-campy goods. But it is sho’ nuff worth it, especially with a delightful co-pilot like my momz. I’ve made it a point to grill her thoroughly about her twentysomething days (& caught some on video!), and with that, this trip has become so much more than sightseein’. The bonding would make you vom.
It’s like that incredible blockbuster, “Crossroads” with Britney Spears, where her and two friends… Nevermind, I won’t do that to you, I’m so sorry.
Tokyo, take ya pants off, we’re here!
If you’re on Instagrizzle, continue to follow along @heyberna / #eatpraylunge!
Greetings! So, okay. Here’s what the hell is going on with me:
- Last Friday was my last day as Executive Assistant to the Editor-in-Chief of Seventeen magazine.
- I don’t technically start my new job – Teen Camp Director at the YMCA of Greater New York — until June.
- So I’m taking a few weeks off to reset. And by reset, I mean Eat, Play & Lunge my way through Bangkok, Tokyo, Honolulu – all with my mama; hate on, haters – & my hometown o’ San Francisco. (I don’t know, man; I lunge when I get excited. It’s my spirit gesture.)
Hence, my friends: #EatPlayLunge!
(For all you non-twentysomething-females, it’s a play on Eat Pray Love GET WITH IT GOD KAREN YOU’RE SO STUPID)
Turns out my travelin’ mama is really into taking naps, so I’m gonna try to updizzle when I have the chance (and the wifi). Ready?
Y’all, the locals we’ve encountered are so… namaste. In NYC, everyone wears their struggle right on their face; on the NYC subway, every car has its Crier, its Visibly Agitated, its Belligerent and Questionably Smelly. But ’twasn’t an irritable face to be found in Bangkok’s ridiculously-user-friendly skyrail. Everyone’s chill. Everyone’s polite. Everyone’s friggin’ behaved.
It was THE WORST. (No, it was friggin’ lovely.)
I feel insanely lucky, and also sweaty, overstimulated and meaningful-gazey. Stay tuned, chai ka?
(If you’re on Instagrizzle, follow me @heyberna & #eatplaylunge!)
Hi! It’s past my bedtime, I’m blogging because YOLO, and I have a question.
Is love the most important thing in the world because I think about it all the time,
or do I think about it all the time because it’s the most important thing in the world?
(IT’S ABOUT TO GET REAL THOUGHTCATALOG IN THIS JOINT)
I mean, not, like, boys, exclusively. Just the whole damn gamut of it, anything that makes your insides dance without needing (immediate) medical attention. No matter how much I try to Most-Well-Rounded myself, how aggressively I try to negotiate my brain into namaste, my mind drifts to that sticky, warm place. Never-ending tab at the Love… Lounge. It always dips into analyzing what’s lacking, what’s possible, what’s real, ~*~*wHaT i WaNt*~*~ — even if truly nothing new is happening in any of those sectors. My brain shakes the sometimes-empty can like maracas anyway, desperate to make some noise, feel something. I turn it off by writing something very blunt to myself. Honesty usually shuts me right up. Blame it on the plethora of couch confessions taking place at 5C these days, forealsies, but is there anything more important than lurve?
Humor me. It’s a Monday night and I’m feeling verrie Carrie.
Dude, straight up: My brain has morphed into this whole other creature that I think me-circa-2010 wouldn’t recognize. Back then, I was all career, all the time, and I never imagined myself in any other mindset. I was—I am—an expert networker and really effing good at it. My only concern was climbing higher, growing my mentor roster, trying to be everyone’s first person that comes to mind for every opportunity possible.
And now, I’ve let go of that and other things have taken over. My mental lineup has changed. I think about love all fecking day long, all kinds of love, every kind. I think about strangers, and how the shit relationships even happen; I think about how really, really effing weird humans are and sometimes I wonder if there’s a higher life form out there LOLing at how effing weird we are, to people we love and people we are afraid to know. I think about honesty. A lot. I think about the way my bones are growing, the morals I’m filling them with, and the ones that seem to just seep in on their own. I wonder what I won’t be able to change, if I’ll ever want to, if I’ll regret the way the cast is setting now. I think about the people and circumstances raising me here; I think about how lucky I am.
Here is a photo of me thinking.
And I think about how, for the first time since god knows when, I feel free from whatever bound me to be so career driven, so high on hollow achievement. I feel like I could live my life, big or small, without anxiety as to how I’m “leaving my legacy” or “making moves.” I broke up with a dream during these past two years (no we’re cool its fine we get drinks), and instead of chasing, the way I’ve always done, I think I’m standing still. Being quiet. Holding out my arms and stretching out my palms and seeing what passes through me, what slides into my fingerwebs, unprompted. I’ve never been this still in my life. This shh.
And that’s a weird mothereffing thing to do in this city.
But I think I’ve earned the ssh.
(This egregiously quarter-lifey vomit puddle brought to you by my last week at Seventeen,
and all of its accompanying feels.
… I know, right? I’ll explain soon, I phromise.)
In drenching myself in more women and girls than ever before in my life, I’ve learned that much of what we gripe about, from ages 12 to always (but particularly in our twenties), has to do with men. Er, whatever other half you seek.
How to find.
How to attract.
How to satisfy.
How to keep.
How to date, how to hook-up, when to text, what to wear.
And pursuing, most of all, the promise in finding completeness with that other being; the prospect of shading in those pockets of life you think only an S.O. can do.
But in a city like this, at an age like ours—I’ve never heard anyone acknowledge the loveliness of having soul-nourishing, mind-nurturing roommates.
This Fourth of July, I did this.
And lot of weird things happened while we did this that I think can be applied generously—using two fingers, a circular rubbing motion and adult supervision—to life.
Are you ready for me to turn this into one big nauseating twenty-something analogepiphany?!
(Analogy + epiphany = Deal with it)
OF COURSE YOU ARE. It’s why ya came!
On the left is my workwife; in the middle is her roommate; on the right, under the hair, me.
Ignore John’s titillating unamusement.
Did you guys hear that? The people? The comments?
It’s 1:17am, and nobody should be awake right now.
But a year ago today, I was, and I remember almost everything about it.