It’s not like I never take them, and trust me, I’ve had my fair share of crazy nights – “(gasp) Daaamn, girl, who knew you were such a TANK.” I’ve come a long way from my middle school days of bracie face, unkempt hair, and a wardrobe complete with trending items from ‘The Children’s Place’ and ‘Kids R Us’. 7 years later, I’m strutting down the streets of Manhattan, living in an apartment on the Upper East Side (though in all honesty, 87th street isn’t as glorious as it sounds), attending the top fashion school in the nation (just to clarify – no, I am not a FMM girl). Who knew I would be one to have a club promoter (that is if a short, scrawny, and blond Jewish boy can be considered a legitimate promoter), would learn to throw back shots of patron with absolute ease, or develop the ability to manipulate that poor guy at the end of the bar into thinking he has a chance (it was so nice meeting you, thanks for the cab ride!). Ask anyone who knew me freshman year of high school, they would never believe this would be me several years into the future. Who knew, I guess I’m full of surprises.
It all began as a sort of introduction, initiation if you will, to becoming a part of the city that never sleeps. I didn’t have a high school sweet heart (3 months with a break in between does not count), the popular kids didn’t invite me to their parties (well, senior year was just an out of control train wreck), and ultimately there was nothing I felt I had control over. Except for getting out of my small hometown, moving to where dreams come true, and living the life of the fabulous.
Which is exactly what I did.
Except, it hasn’t turned out to be as glamorous as I’d hoped. There are hours that probably add up to days of my life that I don’t remember. I’ve spent New Year’s Eve in a hospital (I should, however, notify the NYPD that Mister Jose is hitting on emergency callers while their best friend’s head is bleeding). I’ve woken up on the subway in Harlem at five in the morning. I’ve had more to drink than an Irishman on St. Patrick’s Day. And finally word on the street is that having a date rape drug slipped into your drink isn’t too much fun either.
Thank goodness that has never happened to me.
So by taking risks, I don’t mean allowing the guy you’ve been eyeing all night to shove his hands down your pants; or dance a top the bar to David Banner instead of Ke$ha; or trying a mixed drink besides the water down cranberry vodkas you have every night. I mean, take different risks – spend some time in the daylight, maybe even alone.
Spending time on your own can be quite nerve-racking, you have to have a certain type of confidence in yourself. Alone doesn’t necessarily mean you’re lonely. Just try it sometime. Sit on a bench in Central Park or by the river and read that New York Times bestseller; or sip on a cappuccino at that quaint little café down the street; or visit art galleries on a Thursday and sip on champagne with new classmates; or call up an old friend and have brunch on the Upper West Side; or brave it solo and visit that exhibit you’ve been dying to lay your eyes on. You never know, you may meet a new someone that will make your heart skip a beat. Take a chance, life is full of surprises (I know, I know, so cliché).
I will end with this - take the ultimate risk: trust the possibilities a risk might bring you.