Am I playing it too safe?

Girl Holding On

Just celebrated a pretty significant birthday...the first, true leap into womanhood. And it was zero crazy-show. Zero neurotic hysterics. I looked my age in the face and said "oh, you again? for real?"

But it seems that an expiration date now applies to all those innocent things I used to have so much fun doing. Like wearing cheap frilly shoes from Payless. Over-romanticizing school-girl crushes and falling crazy-in-like with cute Australian guys at the office. Saying "like" too much...or "dur." And reading quick, easy chick-lit books written for 20-something girls but with the language level for 6th graders.

Yes, all of those things require some re-thinking....But maybe next year...

january, a new decade

snow, some T.I., malaysian take-out, strawberries + salt.

can't seem to stop 2011 from happening...but at least, i can savor some of the tangible niceties that make it all seem sunny/hopeful.

because the first of the little ones was supposed to come this year - we agreed on this years and years ago. and now it's the year, but it can't be...

because i want it to still be all about snow, some T.I., malaysian take-out, strawberries + salt...and not about onesies. not about the most adorable coos in the middle-of-the-night that make me burst into a fit of giggles and make me somehow forget that i haven't slept in months...

not yet.

Just started taking a 9-week black & white photography class in Union Square. Taught by a guy with the craziest dreadlocks who looks like he lives in hipster Williamsburg, but is actually from Connecticut. It's been all-consuming. I'm now viewing my life as a series of photographs...But the spontaneous photographs are so very few...And I'm finding that I'm constantly "tweaking" scenes of the Texan so that he's picture-perfect. Or trying to capture that starry-eyed look that he used to have when he sees me. That look that makes my breath hitch and catapults me into his lap every single time. I've looked and looked and shot close to a hundred shots, but this look isn't quite there any more. It's been replaced by something...

At 22 years old, recently graduated from college...I had a choice to make. Follow my fiercest, wildest dreams and move to New York City. Or choose love.

I chose New York. And me. I chose me.

And love came chasing after me all the way to New York from Houston. One thousand, seven hundred and ninety-three miles to be exact.

The Texan arrived in New York the same way I did. With a few suitcases. A smile. And a promise.

Riding a crowded B train into work this morning, I couldn't help but notice all the different New Yorkers around me. Everyone was minding their own business; either reading or listening to their ipods. Strangely, I felt a kinship with them. And thought, in what other city will I ever have the experience of riding alongside strangers in a subway, being exposed to the whole diverse lot of them, and feeling that we are all somehow connected? If I was any where else in the world, I'd perhaps be tailgating some lunatic, with pure road-rage and trying to beat morning traffic...

It's true. One of the main reasons I moved to New York is because I hate driving.

my love-hate relationship with New York continues...

home is where the heart is...

It's a brand new year.

My little sister just got married 9 days ago. My beloved Saints just won their first Superbowl. I just celebrated another birthday 3 days ago...

And Vietnamese New Year was yesterday.

I've refused to set goals for the past few years. But I've got to now...Because I can't live in in New York City anymore. Living here for the past six years made me realize that I will always be a Louisiana Girl.

Cajun Girl.

Girl from the Bayou.

Shame on me for thinking that I was better than Louisiana. For thinking that it will never give me what it is that I think will make me happy.

I've got to figure out how to make my way back home...

There are so many woman things that I renounce.

Baking chocolate chip cookies from scratch because Pillsbury's already done it for me.

Always leaving my hair down, because as much as I love that hair-whipping-in-the-wind feeling, I feel that it gets in the way of the wonderful panoramic view of the places, people, buildings I see all around me. (but, mostly, good-looking New York men.)

Wearing matching under garments. And lace? Please!

And finally, being cordial and lady-like all the time because I can't help having a tawdry mouth. (profanity keeps me sane in this city).

It's like I'm a man sometimes. I hate showing signs of weakness and will not even let The Texan see me cry at sad movies. I love steak and beer. I only wear cologne. I use Old Spice body wash. And when I buy a car, it's going to be a classic old American muscle car. Like a 1975 Mustang. And if I could get away with it, I'd wear ripped stonewashed skinny jeans with a classic white button down shirt and a gold Rolex everyday. And a high pony-tail, of course.

You see...This is still a man's world. But I'm getting good at their game, too.