Special Ed

When you grow up your whole life hearing that you're 'special,' from teachers, camp counselors and, most importantly, parents, you can't help but feel like a bit of a disappointment when you realize that for all of their encouragement and praise and projected aspirations, you certainly haven't done anything 'special' with your life lately. Not to say that you won't someday, but for now I'm feeling a bit behind the game. My wise, older sister scored better than me on our school-administered IQ test and as a result she was put in accelerated classes. The school called those kids 'gifted,' some of their peers called them 'nerds.' I was never in those classes but I never had to take extra reading or math lessons either. All in all, despite my mother's sentiment, I felt pretty average.

Since my loving, doting parents grew up in households that were neither particularly loving nor doting, they vowed to encourage and support their childrens' efforts wholeheartedly; unabashedly. As a result, I have pursued many different paths with their urging (and financial backing). Culinary school; an extended-stay vacation/psycholgical experiment in Rome; performing arts summer camps; dance lessons; voice lessons; modeling (did you know that there are a slew of books about Anne of Green Gables to teach Japanese readers English that have my face plastered on them? Next time you're in Tokyo you should take a look). But what do you do when there are a million things you're good at, but not one that your gifted at? If you're me, you beat yourself up about it and become so overwhelmed with the limitless possibilties that you turn off completely. Which is why, after being back in the NYC for the past month, I remain unemployed.

After a couple of months in North Carolina living at home, where I was about an inch away from becoming a full-on Southern Belle, I returned to the city we know and love with hope and energy. For after all, I have zero regrets about Rome and zero regrets about returning to NYC. I haven't missed Rome for a minute (save for the occasional buzz-inducing cappuccino, which now I get every weekend from Tarallucci e Vino). But it seems that I've fallen incredibly far behind my classmates in matters of maturity. I have always had friends in serious relationships and friends who are engaged, but suddenly it seemed to me that I was the Last Woman Standing. And all I wanted to do was sit. In the corner. And sulk.

Not only had my last two vestiges of singledom fallen deep, deep into the throes of first love, one of them is now pregnant. Unbelievable. And while I couldn't be happier for all of those around me, I can't help but be a bit selfish here. I have seen some men from my past lately and realized that things didn't work out for a reason. Sure, I could make concessions and stop my bitching, but the truth is that I like being single. Love it, in fact. 90% of the time I love that I can pick up, spend the morning at the Guggenheim, the afternoon shopping and treating myself to lunch at Takashimaya, and working out before dinner with my friends, which is exactly what I did this past Friday. I don't have to answer to anyone. No phone calls to check in, no worrying about someone else's schedule. And plenty of time to flirt, which everyone knows is like caffeine to me. I get off on meeting new people, among other things (Agent Provocateur lingerie and a really fantastic steak are up there, too). The problem is not that I am single...it's that everyone around me has gone and gotten themselves hitched.

Last Saturday Nina and I enjoyed the benefits of having a best friend in the fashion industry and went to see Danna's company, Rock & Republic's fashion show at Cipriani. It was loads of fun since we didn't have to wait in lines and had some b-list star sightings (including everyone's favorite greasy-bear Brandon Davis who was, dare I say it, quite attractive in person. Don't judge me). Carson Kressly, Carmen Electra, Russell Simmons (in ubiquitous rugby shirt and baseball cap), and a few others were recognizable. Far more or the flash-bulb-loving c-list stars were not. In any case, afterwards we went to the post-show party at Hiro and proceeded to the martini bar where we indulged our love of vodka and anything free. Needless to say, after a dinner of sushi 4 hours prior, our little bodies just didn't process the alcohol as quickly as we were pouring it into our bodies. Nina hightailed it out of the party before things got out of control (but not before we snuck through the back stairwell, past the kitchen for Matsuri, to enter the VIP area - I was suffering from a major case of liquid courage). I remained to catch a kick-ass performance by Lady Sovereign, who is officially my new girl crush, not least of all because the British rapper did a cover of the Sex Pistols' "pretty Vacant." What could be bad about that?

However, the music and Ketel One had gone to my head by the end of her set and, except an incident that involved me knocking over a 40-year-old woman while I danced on the tabletop, I saved myself major embarassment at the bar. I grabbed my coat, told Danna I was heading out for some air, and hopped in a cab. As Nina's boyfriend calls it, an Irish Goodbye. Sunday morning I awoke to find my clothes all over the room and my Margot Tennenbaum eye makeup all over my face. My body ached like it hadn't since my days as a sorority girl, but my psyche suffered the most damage. I was mortified and depressed and utterly felt like a loser.

The impending work week makes Sundays depressing enough for most people. Add to that the lethal combination of a hangover and everything seems hopeless. It all came to a head. I woke up Sunday craving a bagel and lox, a huge coffee, and a little TLC. I called some of my friends to see if anyone wanted brunch. Everyone was busy. I ordered in breakfast (on second thought, there was no way I could go in public). As I sat eating, tears started to fall into my grande soy latte. When did I get so far behind? How come everyone else is in the accelerated program, with their fabulous jobs at fashion companies and in PR and the music industry, and when did everyone leave me behind? I suppose a lot can change in 6 months. The carefree, lazy days of a sweltering August seem so far away now. The cold, severity of being a grown up has started to sink in. Now I need to figure out just what exactly am I doing wrong? I know I've got the brains, I know I've got the work ethic, I know i've got a dash of sex appeal. How is it that I'm still reading "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn" and everyone else is on to Shakespeare? Or, more likely, bridal magazines?

Thanks to a lengthy conversation with my best friend in Holland I stopped giving myself the third degree. I'm on a very different page of my life than most of my friends right now and that's fine. I will find a job. I will continue to date inappropriate men but hopefully will meet a nice, totally appropriate one in the next decade or so. I will not send any more unsolicited text messages. I will not drink like I am 22 years old. And maybe, just by being the only one of my friends who isn't in a relationship and who doesn't totally have her sh*t together, that makes me the special one.