an english christmas

We're leaving for London in a few hours. In fact, I was just being yelled at to "stop blogging and go pack" by my more organized counterpart. But i'm excited, which means I'll pack with speed and grace. So he can suck it. I don't know why he seems more stressed than I am. I'm the one meeting the parents. ::cue foreboding music::

In fact, we've already sort-of met. We've Skyped on numerous occasions and his mom and I keep up a fairly good email volley. I feel like I know them, but in-person adds a whole new element. Well, lots of elements. Some good, some bad. For example, I'm one of those people who no matter how decent I'm looking in reality, webcams make me appear to have a chromosomal disorder. Hopefully they'll be relieved that their son isn't dating the missing link. But what if they think i'm weirdly tall? Or that I'm annoyingly American. I mean, we have a bad reputation for a reason. Or what if his mom forgets that I hate salmon and I have to excuse myself to the bathroom more times than seems normal, and then they think i have an eating disorder? That could happen.

I don't actually feel that insecure. Parents typically like me, but it did occur to me that there is a slight possibility that I could embarrass myself in some unforeseen way. Or that they'll think that his ex was nicer. ::shudder:: I'm pushing it out of my mind because I have to pack before M blows a gasket. I'll report back in a few weeks on how it all goes. Fingers crossed. Merry Christmas. Oh, and Diane, don't forget that I hate salmon.

the things i tell myself

 

(Like, "if I lost 15lbs, we could be twinsies.")

 

My apologies for the lack of posts (to the 15 of you who regularly read this anyway). I've taken to physical paper again because I hate to burden my readership with the woes of my twisted internal monologue. Melodramatic humor aside, it's really just that I like the feeling of a pen scratching across paper and the accompanying hand cramp because I hold my writing utensils like a pre-schooler. 

Anyway, I thought I'd share a project I've been working on. I've likely told most of you about it before, but for the sake of those outside my immediate sphere, I'm writing a book on the things we tell ourselves, aptly titled The Things I Tell Myself. It examines the truth of our internal monologues through the lens of a humored listener. Actually, I just wanted to see if the people around me were as screwed up as I am. Good news! They are. Also very funny.

My inspiration was a book called Was She Pretty? by Leanne Shapton. Hers is a series of clever vignettes documenting the "admiration and intimidation we have for our lovers' lovers". I hope mine ends up sounding that good. I loved her idea of coupling stark insights on human behavior with drawings that reveal what else is behind the curtain. TTITM will hold similar characteristics, but, like, in a totally different way. For one, Shapton is an incredibly talented artist who did all of her own illustrations. Since my own drawings look like the work of an actual pre-schooler, that clearly will not be the case. It will be a joint effort. I've commissioned my own very talented illustrator (people are easy to convince when you share a bed with them) to create accompaniments to the internal musings. So far he's done zero because he claims to be waiting for me to be entirely finished with the copy. Fair enough.  

So what do I want from you, you ask? More material. What do you say to yourself to justify bad behavior or keep your self-esteem in tact? Is there anything that you find yourself thinking that might cause other people to worry for your sanity? That's the good stuff. All comments welcome below.

what i wore

ELLE magazine has been running a fashion story contest called "Love, Loss and What I Wore" since September. The deadline is this Saturday. So in my usual procrastinating style, I just finished the draft. Here goes. 

I was about six-years old when I became an extra on Soul Train. Donning a different pair of my mom's high heels for every episode, I strut my stuff all over our living room until I was out of breath. That's what I meant when I said I was an "extra." I hope you weren't just wracking your brain for memories of the little white girl shaking it with the best of them. I was shaking it on the other side of the screen. 

My entire ensemble typically consisted of a sideways ponytail, red lipstick, my New Kids on the Block or Strawberry Shortcake nightgown and her shoes. My mom had a collection of high heels in every color, style and textile imaginable. Green crocodile, red patent leather, navy blue suede, tan calfskin, all on the tallest of pins. I can still picture them lined up in her closet, just begging to be worn--and flung across the room for my big finale. They were magnificent. And they personified my visions of the perfect woman--beautiful, cool and interesting. Her shoes were the Holy Grail of grown-up attire. I couldn't slip my tiny feet into them fast enough. 

Dancing in front of Soul Train wasn't about putting on a performance for anyone. Though obviously I called my family into the room to witness the shoe-flinging finale a time or two. I loved to dance, but my real enthusiasm stemmed from the joy of pretending I was her.  When I wobbled around in her shoes, I imagined being the cool girl whom everyone wanted to dance with. In my young eyes, two-toned stilettos and Obsession perfume went a long way in making that happen. 

One day I realized that my mom had thrown away her collection of long-since worn high heels. I couldn't believe it. Had she not anticipated that my feet would grow to exactly her size? Did she think I would turn my nose up at a vintage collection of footwear that carried her from disco nights into motherhood? How wrong she was. I would give anything for those shoes. One, it would save me a hell of a lot of money in my wardrobe budget. But more importantly, it would mean the world to finally walk in them as my own grown-up version of the woman I always wanted to be.

status anxiety and other foibles

The good news is that I lived through last week's illness. The bad news is that in all my lethargy I started feeling really down on myself for not accomplishing enough. I know I should cut myself a break for the past few days, considering I was dramatically laid out upon death's door. But even when I'm perfectly healthy, I shudder at the amount of time I waste between projects. Not that I technically need to be producing anything else, but I feel guilty when I don't write or do something for an entire day. What is that about? Why am i putting this pressure on myself?

I've been re-reading Alain de Botton's Status Anxiety and realizing that it's quite likely I'm suffering from this. The more I see other people accomplishing, the more pressure I feel to succeed. The logical part of my brain recognizes the futility. The other is busy using disparaging adjectives to describe my lackluster efforts. I think part of it is because I always imagined I'd have done something significant by 25. That number is completely arbitrary, but my younger self thought that age seemed far enough away to have time to make my mark. Well, 25 came and went, and I haven't done whatever it is I thought I was going to do that was going to set the world aflame. How incredibly disappointing. Of course I wouldn't be disappointed if I hadn't set myself up for such a letdown in the first place. Defining the "thing" might have helped, too. 

From the time I started school, I was driven. But being driven as a student is not the same thing as being driven in the real world. Adults forgo sleep and seem to have less time for amusing high jinks. I always suspected this was the case and hid within the walls of academia for as long as possible. But almost three years out of grad school, I've since encountered people with so much passion and determination in their various fields that they seem almost other-worldly--sometimes in a good way and sometimes not. I envy the drive, but i've always felt frightened by some of the fervor to make things happen for the sake of "being successful." This is what I want to avoid. No matter how much anxiety I feel over my own lack of flame-lighting accomplishments, I would hate to think that I'd sacrifice my happiness to measure up to some warped, pre-conceived notion of success that probably isn't even wholly mine in the first place. Of course, this is exactly what I'm doing. How tragic it is that we all seem to do just the things we try so hard to avoid. 

No more. It's time to redirect my attention. Even on my best days, I'm not curing cancer. I could feel pretty badly about that if I really wanted to, but what would be the point? It's just about as ridiculous as comparing my worth to the successes of anyone else. But can I stop? Maybe. In the meantime, if everyone else could just slow down and stop being so damn ambitious, that would really help my self-esteem.

a follicular sigh of relief

Anja Rubik (lady's got dynamite hair)

The day has arrived. I'm going back to blonde. Of course, I also woke up this morning with a possible case of H1N1. I hope I'm kidding, but I feel like death warmed over. I'm sure I look even worse thanks to my dark tresses, which have faded from "Eva Mendes" to "weather-girl-from-Ohio" in a month (obviously incredibly flattering).

Nothing will stop me. I don't care if I have to crawl to the appointment, I can't live another moment with brown hair. In fact, I suspect this illness is actually a direct result of the last 34 days lived inside a very boring-looking version of myself. I really don't know what I was thinking. All I can say in my defense is that sometimes you have to do things to know what doesn't work. I shall cross off "brunette" from the ol' list. 

To all of you who said it looked good, your lies and unconditional love were much appreciated.

catcallers

 

Daria Werbowy (note: my outfit looked nothing like this.)

The other day I threw on a pair of cut-offs, a loose tank and a cardigan to go run some errands. I paired them with chunky heels, but in no way was my ensemble beckoning for male attention. Yet as it seems, any amount of leg can send the message, "please, speak inappropriately to me. This is just what I was hoping for when I got dressed this morning." 

Consider this a PSA to the portion of the male population who catcall: women rarely find this anything but offensive.

First of all, it's embarrassing. You're making overtures at a busy intersection. Now everyone within a 20-meter radius has ears perked to see what all the fuss is about and you're using descriptors I'm not sure are even appropriate for a men's magazine. I've had less awkward interactions on a first date, and at least for that I didn't have a 15-person audience. All i wanted to do was go get some groceries. It's more than I bargained for at ten in the morning. 

Secondly, it's not charming or original. Men who try to pick up women in broad daylight, in an intersection, typically have two lines that they start with. Either A) "Hey baby, you look real good." or B) "Where you going looking like that?" Thank you. Now I feel like a streetwalker. What am I supposed to say to that? I'll start with a polite thank you and high hopes that it will stop there. It rarely does. The reason is because the men who start these kinds of conversations are the same ones who are impervious to the I'm-not-interested-thank-you-and-good-day tone of the response. Maybe the secret is not to respond at all. But then I feel badly, like I'm the one being rude to this nice man who just wants to brighten my day by telling me what a gift I am to the world. If only that were the case.

Here's what usually happens. I say thank you and it's perceived as The In. "If she said 'thank you' then she must want me to continue charming her with my monosyllabic overtures," is what I imagine the internal monologue sounds like of my new friend. Typically the exchange then becomes more aggressive. He wants to know where I'm going and if he can accompany me there. He starts walking closer. And when it becomes apparent that I'm really not interested, out comes Mr. Hyde. Where my suitor was once complimentary and jovial, sensing rejection, he becomes surly and a bit scary. This is usually when I tell him "I'm so sorry, I'm in such a hurry," and skip into a brisk stride.

Maybe this one is just me, but I find my most startling come-ons happen early in the day. I haven't even had any coffee, sir, and you want to share your fantasies with me in front of Safeway? I understand that men think about sex a lot, and the Internet has provided many a forum for instant gratification. but away from your computer screen you cannot interact with live human beings this way. It's completely disrespectful. 

Or am I missing something? Are there some women who actually enjoy this attention? Am I being too harsh? Should I just take it for what it is? A compliment, albeit a slightly alarming one. I don't know.  

My dad's take on the whole matter: "Oh honey, one day men won't notice you at all and it will probably make you sad. In the meantime, buy some mace." I guess he's right. Problem solved.

living with the awful truth that we are not as cool as we'd like other people to think we are*

Image via NYmag.com

I've been experiencing a bit of angst with Facebook lately. Not with the actual platform, but with all the banal and truly unnecessary updates of my fellow users. While thinking it might be rude to de-friend certain offenders, I've found that hiding their profiles limits my daily annoyance. Still I've gotten to the point where I've considered canceling my account entirely.

A big part of my distress lies in the impression I have that there are quite a few people taking on and broadcasting hobbies and interests for the sole purpose of garnering accolades. We live in a society where our tiniest achievements can be shared with the stroke of a key. Because of this, there seems to be a motivation to do more than ever, and a greater opportunity to be recognized by others. In gentler times, this overt attention-seeking might have been labeled bragging. But because we do it electronically, and not by carrier pigeon, it's not deemed as offensive. 

I disagree. Can you imagine if every time you wanted to tell people how well you did in a race, you had to attach it to a bird and send it off? It would be ridiculous. People would think you were a pretty self-centered cad for assuming we're interested in whatever message your bird is delivering fifteen times a day. (Feel free to use this metaphor as a litmus test for sharing your latest news)

All I'm urging is that everyone should just do what they want, because they actually want to do it, not because it makes you look cool or you're seeking validation for your endeavors, or because someone else already gave it the seal of approval. And maybe, just once, be quiet about it. If you're doing something because you love it, it will feel rewarding whether you're congratulated for it or not. So relax, and stop updating your Facebook status with fervent pleas for attention. 

*That's a band or an album name. I'm not sure. either way, I can't take credit for it, but it's one of my favorite statements.

lala land

I went to LA over the weekend with all kinds of preconceived notions based almost exclusively on the reality-show line up of the Bravo network. i've lived in California for almost two years, but I've purposely avoided the journey south for several reasons.

1) I have kind of a bad attitude. Alright, I don't really, but i do like to hate on easy targets--vegans, leisure wear by Juicy (and I'm sorry, but I can't bring myself to put the word Couture after Juicy), cougars. And since I'm fairly certain those are the three horseman of LA culture, I've always placed it squarely in the "meh" category of travel destinations.

2) Its nightlife frightens me. I like dressing up as much as the next girl, but I have visions of being forced into something by Herve Leger and then given a cocktail by a man in his late 40s and made to dance on a banquette. I'm sure that doesn't actually happen, but it's what I imagine. Why else would every party photo of LA feature an identical scene?

3) The thought of traveling everywhere in mind-numbing traffic doesn't sound that appealing. I lived in NYC for several years. I haven't owned a car since college. I like public transportation. Drivers bopping around to top 40 hits in their own little steel bubbles reminds me of something out of I, Robot. And you know how that turns out.

Nonetheless, I have a lovely friend who lives there who fits none of the stereotypes. Plus, I wanted to see if the majority of LA's female population was truly besotted with fake boobs/eyelashes/hair/nails/tans, and either "auditioning" or working as a stylist. So there I was. Although no one forced me into designer goods, almost exactly what I feared in reason-not-to-visit-LA #2 started to unfold one evening at the Chateau Marmont.

First of all, it was after midnight when we made our way there and we sat in quite a bit of traffic. Rush hour is one thing, rush hour to the bar is another. We hadn't been there for more than 20 minutes when a man in his late 40s (how did i know?!) sauntered up and said he would be buying our drinks. Well, that's nice, but we all know that free drinks never come without a price. It turned out that our new friend was "terribly successful." He lived in the neighborhood (being Hollywood). He made people very famous. These are all proclamations he's made while I put on my best "thanks for the drink, please back away from me before I put you in a headlock" face. He, however, was not getting the hint. In fact, he's starting to become very angry that I wasn't as impressed with him as he thought I should be. It became increasingly more amusing for me, and for the people around us. Eventually he skulked off, but not before declaring that he preferred to date younger women anyway (I'm 26!) and my boyfriend will never be as successful as he is. Really charming.

My friend and I had a few good chuckles over his Botox-ed face and hostile approach with women during our 45-min drive home. In the end, LA lived almost entirely up to expectations, which is not to say that I didn't have a fantastic time--I did--only that I found further evidence that a cliché is often a cliché because it's true.

mr. groverwatts

 

Everyone has one of those friends who seems capable of rocking just about everything they touch. Jireh is one of those people. When we worked together, he would sometimes arrive at the office in the morning bearing freshly baked cookies in combinations like white chocolate/macadamia nut/bing cherry, and they'd still be warm. Just as endearingly, he never brought an ordinary sandwich for lunch. Instead, he would transport all of the ingredients and build his masterpiece on site. I'm pretty sure he still does both of these things, as he was lamenting the loss of an avocado in his travels just this week. He chronicles his kitchen endeavors--that's how i know this (and i'm stalking him). 

And in addition to his culinary prowess, he's also a stellar photographer. From food porn to ladies with horse heads, his style is unmistakable. I'll let the photos speak for themselves.

 

 

 

 

 

 

To view more, check out The Grover Watts Photo Appreciation Society.

masculine sensibilities

Photo: Terry Richardson

Since moving into our new place, we've been getting the previous tenants' magazines. One would think they'd have them forwarded, but apparently not. So now we're the rather reluctant recipients of Fitness, Esquire and Details. I guess we're technically the target audience, but M's an English designer who couldn't care less about Q+A's with Matt Damon or "finding the perfect suit." As for me, I find myself consistently resentful of Fitness magazine's urgings that I seek out legumes I've never heard of and consume no more than one cocktail in an evening. No thanks. Neither of us was impressed by the sudden influx of reading material.

But as he turned his nose up at Details, I thought, "wait a minute, maybe if we trade publications here, we'll each find something we like." He can check out the toned ladies of Pilates and I can peer into the male psyche. Because he's wonderful, he wasn't interested in Fitness. Or maybe he thought it was a test. Either way, as I settled into Details, I immediately realized there was something missing from so many women's magazines--anything remotely funny.

Let's compare for a second the headlines from Details, to those from Fitness. Details: "63 Signs That You're a Giant Tool," "The Hip-Hop Star and His $30 Million Coke Binge," "Why It's Okay To Stare at Fat People." And Fitness: "Flatten Your Belly Fast," "Walk Off Every Bulge," "Snack the Smart Way." First of all, I just fell asleep compiling the second list. While one says to me, "Hey bud, the world is pretty ridiculous, here's some fodder for a laugh," the other says, "Hi. Yes you, with the un-slim thighs, let us show you the way to an eating disorder and an elliptical trainer."

One could argue that I'm simply comparing two unrelated representations of men's and women's magazines, but even when I took a look at my beloved Elle and Vogue, there's a similar disparity. Women's magazines tend to insinuate that the reader could do with a makeover and a fashion budget in the six-figures (that's not funny, it's depressing), while men's magazines are rife with far more varied, and often amusing, content that doesn't seem to suggest that the reader should change anything about himself--other than maybe upgrading his suit. 

I looked harder, perusing not only fashion magazines but more gender-neutral publications as well. The more reputable monthlies showcase literature, music and culture alongside fashion and lifestyle features, but in women's magazines there's simply none of the tongue-in-cheek writing that seems so ubiquitous in those intended primarily for men or a mixed audience. Why is that? Are women not as funny as men? Is it thought that we'll be offended more easily? Or that we won't "get it" or appreciate it? Or that we all really just want to know how to make our bottoms smaller? Please tell me that's not the case.  

Of course I'm not saying that I plan to trade in all of my subscriptions to fashion magazines for more masculine fare, I just wish there was more pizazz. We can handle it.

sybil

Photo: Corinne Day

(This post is not about Kate Moss. It's about my dad's love life.)

My dad is a pretty funny guy, and like me, he also seems to have a high tolerance for questionable behavior. But on occasion, one encounters someone so spectacularly insane that the story cannot be told without many pauses for bursts of laughter and clarification that what was said wasn't just being embellished for dramatic effect. The saga of the "really attractive, cannot-imagine-how-she-could-be-single woman" who he'd recently invited to a wedding, falls into this category.

It went like this. Dad meets (seemingly) lovely woman through a mutual friend. They go out and it goes really well. He has a wedding coming up in a month, and knowing that ladies like to be given ample time to strategize clothing options for significant events, he (perhaps prematurely, considering) asks her to be his date. She obliges, and it all pretty much goes downhill from here.

Shedding her facade of normalcy, she starts calling my dad to share increasingly worrisome details of her life. Two to three times a day, every day. This is after one date. He didn't answer. So, she left voicemails.

"...You know, I didn't get my period while i was anorexic."

"...Both of my parents used to sexually abuse me."

"Hey there scooterboot..." (Note: my dad is no one's "scooterboot." And more importantly, that's not even a real word.)
"I just got back from the doctor's. Turns out I have fluid on my pelvis."

"Today isn't going so well. My mom came into my room again last night. When will this end?!"(turns out that "mom came into my room again last night" was not further alleged sexual abuse, but merely 3am vacuuming, which she found very inappropriate)
"...still have the fluid on my pelvis..."

"Why aren't you calling me back, mister man?!" (I added "man" at the end of mister for emphasis, but she did call him "mister" on numerous occasions.) 

I think my dad did everyone a favor by not responding to any of these calls, but she was obviously not getting the hint. So he finally called her back and said that they should probably discuss the wedding (while silently plotting how he could get out of this without creating a fatal attraction scenario). Unsurprisingly, taking the rational high-road quickly led to the disintegration of all remaining shards of sanity. For one, apparently my dad should not have felt special, as she was leaving similar voicemails for "at least six other friends." Jesus. I don't know about you, but I try to spare my friends the details of my lady troubles, especially those who I've just begun dating. 

Long story short, he told her that he wouldn't be taking her to the wedding. To this she responded with eerie calmness that that was fine because if he couldn't be there for her, she was better off. That sounds like a direct threat to me. However he's assured me that, sensing her instability, he made sure that she didn't know where he lived. Like that's ever stopped a crazy woman. Anyway, we're hoping for the best. On the upside, it's making for some really entertaining impersonations.

 

my last hours as a blonde

I'm switching over to the dark side. I've been a blonde my entire life. Most recently, platinum, which is a complete nightmare in upkeep. I literally have my roots touched up every 6-8 weeks, and usually by week three, it's already in a state. So, I'm about to become a brunette.

I realize it's entirely superficial to be as concerned as I am about the outcome, but I fear that I might have some kind of identity crisis. I've looked in the mirror at varying degrees of blonde-headedness for the past 26 years. Suddenly trying to harness the alluring darkness of, say, Eva Mendes could be onerous. (too dramatic?) I just hope I don't look like a vampire.

Blonde seems the color of youth and insouciance. Dark hair is exotic and seductive. Two words I simply don't identify with. There are very few come hither stares in my repertoire. So hopefully this isn't a major misstep. But if it is, a few rounds of (harmless?) bleaching will put me back on the blonde team. As long as all my hair doesn't fall out in the process.

to the cougars

 

Ed Westwick and Helena Christensen, Photo: Terry Richardson

I don't like all the hype that cougars are getting. It's not the older-woman-dates-younger-man scenario that bothers me in the least. It's the way this thing is being carried out that makes it embarrassing for the entire female gender. "Forty is the new twenty." It's really not.

Women have been free to date younger men for quite some time. It may not have been mainstream in generations past, but there was no law prohibiting it. The lust over younger men just didn't become a thing until Demi Moore locked one down. Apparently that's when the over-forty set was sent a memo stating something along the lines of "if a woman whose beauty defies all laws of gravity and logic can marry a hot young stud, so can you." 
 

Suddenly women who would have never considered such a thing are donning platform heels, having Restylane injections and turning up at their sons' graduation parties wearing push-up bras. If i remember correctly, Mrs. Robinson was a rather mysterious and sophisticated older woman, not one who flitted around with her breasts on display, throwing her head back at all the young boys' jokes. This new generation of women on the prowl is a lot less subtle.
 

I liken it to watching squirrels trying to eat from a bird-feeder. Sure, they can climb up there and get the seeds, but it wasn't meant for them, so it's kind of messy and sad. I thought we lived in an era where it was strong, successful women who were celebrated. Since when did strong translate into going on a man-seeking rampage in questionable attire? There was a cougar convention in Palo Alto, for god's sake. It's gone too far. 

 

All of this said, young men are gorgeous, and should an older woman find herself in the apt hands of one, more power to you. All i'm saying is that there's a respectable way to do it. The following are a few points to keep it reeled in. 
 

1) Don't refer to yourself as a cougar.

2) Repeat this phrase: I am not Samantha from Sex and the City. She is a fictional character.

3) Do not attend parties where everyone else is so young that the other guests wonder who brought their mom along.

4) Furthermore, getting drunk and falling over is unattractive in your twenties. It's pathetic in your forties.

5) Do not feign interest in popular bands or sartorial trends for the sake of connecting with a younger audience. If a guy wanted to date a 25-year-old, he would date a 25-year-old.

6)  Do not make it your business to sleep with every young, foreign man who works at your office. Even if English is not his first language, you will get a reputation.

7) Unless you are actually a celebrity, resist the urge to imitate the style of your younger counterparts. I know it's unfair, but some things really are only acceptable in L.A. 

8) Taking seductive one-handed photos of yourself for any social networking site is not the act of a mature, confident woman. Don't do it.

9) Desperation is to men what fear is to dogs. Both react unkindly.
10) Please, act your age.

massive crush - alain de botton

Photograph by Christoffer Rudquist

I have a history of falling hard for brainy men completely out of my reach. My very first crush in life was Dan Rather. I couldn't get enough of him. I would literally cry when the news was over. I was three. Anyway, I think it's safe to blame nana for this one. Nan was a fiercely intelligent old gal who made it her business to ensure that i knew how to spell aurora borealis before pre-school. She really knew how to make a girl popular. 

She first introduced me to the "intellectual crush" when she expressed a (questionable, I think) fervor for Tim Russert. She unapologetically declared that she was "in love with his mind." If I learned anything in my young life, it was that you didn't question nana. This man was someone worthy of her attention. I took heed. He wasn't much on the eyes, but he was mesmerizing in debate. I kinda saw what she meant.

Fast forward to my post-college years. My own crush looms large. Dan Rather has since passed--bless him. Alain de Botton is the new man of my dreams. It started when I read his novel, On Love. In short, it's a chronicle of De Botton's first serious relationship and how it so dramatically, but unexceptionally, unraveled. It sounds trite. It's the exact opposite. Rife with philosophical underpinnings, historical references and comical illustrations, On Love made me wonder if perhaps I was in love with its author. Since then, I've systematically worked my way through his entire library of work, watched his TEDtalk an alarming number of times, and when he started following me on Twitter, (surely only because I referenced one of his books in a tweet) I thought maybe it was the start of something.

Then, while contracting with a design firm who collaborated on this year's TEDGlobal event, his personal email address landed in my inbox. What was I to do? Do I write to him and tell him how much I admire his work? Confess my love? Ask for career advice? I emailed my boyfriend to ask him if he would be upset if I threw myself at Alain de Botton via email. His response was, "Yeah go for it, but don't be lame." Well, that was that. I knew there was absolutely no way to do it without being lame. He got me.

I kept his contact info, but I still don't really know what to say. But Mr. De Botton, if you read this, email me. I'm yours.