it's here.

I'm sitting at the dining table in my underwear eating a breakfast of orange juice, chocolate truffles, and toast with stale cheddar cheese. I have a callous on my big toe from my Masala Bhangra class and chipping red fingernails, which I had hastily completed during work yesterday, after stuffing three slices of birthday cake in my mouth. If I were living in Williamsburg, the current state of my hair would be exalted, but as I am in New Jersey listening to the orchestration of rush hour emotions, rattling New Jersey transit buses, and stalled emergency vehicles, my hair simply reflects my level of hygiene.

Oh, and I'm 23.

(Seriously.)

It has happened.

(My hip hurts.)

It will stay.

(I am going to an early bird special tonight, if you'd like to join?)

And I'm still alive, still here, and still inebriated with a pure, giddy happiness from last night. I've fallen into a delirium, and instead of seeing this as the end, I realize it's just the beginning of an infinity that is as exciting as it is daunting. There are no more aspirations contingent upon age, no more waiting, no more tapping my fingers as my life seems pending, but it all just is. It is now. It is here. We have arrived. It is 23 and beyond.

I rang in 23 last night at my favorite restaurant in my favorite section of the city with one of my favorite people. I woke up this morning to Veteran's Day greetings from people I care most about, and sang "Happy Birthday" to my sister to irritate her. My parents patiently listened to me rant about couscous like a coke addict. I feel loved just like any other grandma. I'm so happy that I'm afraid, and so instead of seizing the day (or even sleeping in like a normal, slightly hungover, 20-something who has the day off) I am frozen in my chair, unsure of how to claim my title.

Maybe it's just a matter of calling AARP.

my brush with fame

My only goal in life is to be famous. I don't care if I'm rich, fabulous, or powerful; I just want fame. I would even settle for notoriety. Last Sunday, I almost got some.

I was walking to Gabriela's, a Mexican restaurant on the Upper West Side, to meet my parents for my father's 51st birthday celebration. I was going to be early, so made a few stops at gourmet bakeries to have a feast in Central Park after the dinner. After I left Kyotofu, I waited at a stop light to cross the street to get into the subway. Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to face an old man with a red splotch on his peeling face, yellowing large teeth, and a warm grin. He tipped his fedora as he said, "Excuse me, are you British?"

I was wearing my army jacket with flagrant, liberal pins and a yellow dress. Nothing really screamed British, and I wasn't talking to myself so he couldn't have based his assumption on an accent (albeit nonexistent). I started blankly at him. After the light turned green, and then back again to red, I shook my head.

"Oh, so sorry, it's just that you look just like a friend of mine. I'm from Britain, you know."

(I knew.)

"I mean, what nationality are you?"

"Indian," I replied, as I watched another light turn green.

"Ah, so is my friend!" I was about to explain that all Indians who look like me who happen to be his friends are obviously his friends and not a specific sect of the British population, but since I lost my early edge and was now running late, I resorted to "okay."

He then continued to ask me questions about my life, my work, my place of residence. He asked me about the city, my favorite neighborhood, my favorite type of mac & cheese. After what finally seemed to have been a full fledged violation of the Geneva Conventions (thinking about mac & cheese possibilities is undoubtedly a form of torture), he paused to take breath. I started to inch away.

"Well, dear, I apologize. I don't have a business card on me!"

(I hadn't asked.)

"Hm, what can I use?" He continued to search through his pockets. "I'm on my way to the gym, I didn't think to take one. I would love to get coffee, though, and talk some more. Do you have a business card or a pen?"

"Um, no."

(I did.)

"Oh, but," he seemed absolutely aggravated, "I would really just love to talk. I'm an actor, you know."

I looked up, and finally met his eyes.

"I'm on Law and Order. That's how I got this red mark on my face; the gun got caught on my cheek." He was a Russian spy on the show; a side character, but nevertheless, viewed by millions of people across the country.

"Actually, I," and I took out my phone, allowing the implication to suffice for the incomplete sentence.

He looked thrilled. He quickly gave me his number. "My name is Gary Hope. I promise you, I'm not a serial killer.

(How convincing.)

You can check out my demo on youtube."

I smiled.

"You're beautiful. Just beautiful. Really looking forward to coffee."

I haven't called yet, but I am saving the number in case the rest of my life falls through. If all else fails, I'll always have Hope.

My Father, the most sincere man in the world.

I always have too many thoughts in my head. The reason I speak so quickly and so frenetically is because all my swimming thoughts comverge into a single, undiscernable amalgamation of anxieties, allusions, aspirations. My mother blames it on coffee. I blame it on Al Qaeda. Either way, something's gotta give.

So, to relieve myself of the burden of my own stream of consciousness, I send my mother senseless text messages and emails throughout the day, sometimes even when I am right next to her. She usually responds with a one word affirmation or dismissal, or sometimes a nondescript "wow," open to interpretation. It's a functional process, one that allows me to clear my head of the "ugh, why did I eat that cookie" and "I think my new favorite color is cerulean" thoughts. And she gets to hear from me several times a day [hour]--lucky woman, she is.

Anyways, last week, my mother was completely immersed in a certification for something technical-and-beyond-me, something my generation is supposed to understand but Rucha-still-uses-a-non-smart-phone-and-doesn't-care so I won't dwell on the details of her week. Essentially, she pulled consecutive all nighters and was in classes all week with the rest of her department. Everyone was to pass this test on Friday. I didn't want to distract my mother with my tempting gossip ("Ma, Bertha is wearing shorts to work"), so I diverted my attentions to other avenues of self-expression.

I emailed my father.

"Daddy, I have chole [chickpeas] burps. Also, I'm tired. Also, miss youuuuu. Ok bye."

My father, unlike my mother's habitual way of responding to what has become a trite monologue, responded in kind:

Re: chhole burps, Twist your stomach. Stand straight and swivel your trunk slowly left and right, with feet firmly planted on the ground. Next, rotate your stomach. Stand or sit, and place arms akimbo on hips. Push out your stomach, then using your ab muscles, with a slight assist from your hands, rotate your stomach in a circular motion on a horizontal plane (left, pull-in, right, push-out...). Chhole burps will be gone in 1-2 minutes.
The second one can be done seated, so you can avoid startled looks from colleagues. The first one is optional.
Best to do this abt 15 min after a heavy meal. 



My mother passed her test on Friday. And I got rid of my chole burps.