No Regrets

     Living life with “no regrets” seems to be a privilege reserved only for people on reality shows or those with obituaries. It always feels odd to me to hear such a presumptuous statement claimed proudly, as if there’s something virtuous about being oblivious.

     If it’s past 10:00am, I have likely already accrued a cornucopia of regrets.

     “Why didn’t I get up earlier…”

     “I wish I had worn the other shirt…”

     “I should have walked the other way…”

     My collection of periodic episodes of self-disappointment knoweth no end. En masse, my list of regrets would not fit on a scroll long enough to reach the end of a city block. I could hold a press conference at the conclusion of every day detailing my shortcomings (which is largely what I imagine marriage to be), and still have to cut myself off.

     Regret, to me, is just as much a part of the machine as joy and sadness and hope and fear. It keeps the tension. I’m sure there is a healthy balance between examining one’s past and looking forward to the future, but I have experienced few moments of that perfect, soulful equilibrium. And I regret that.

Gumpy

     Every now and again I catch myself peering out the window, eyebrows furrowed ever so slightly, inspecting the world outside. I scan the perimeter of my view to ensure all has remained contained, accounting for developments both big and largely small. I am my grandfather, Gumpy, staring intently at the front lawn from his kitchen, master of all he surveys. Or, at the very least, a loyal scribe.

My Plan

Spend way too much money on a Diptyque candle and only burn it when I am working on the book.

Only drink coffee on the weekends.

Work out every weekday morning.

Read the New York Times when it actually comes on Friday, Saturday, and Sunday.

Get eight hours of sleep.

Finish the whole container of greens before it goes bad.

Or maybe I'll just settle for cleaning the floor.

Real Estate Bio

Daniel Van Note has always been driven by his passion for New York City. He’s lived up north in Maine and down south in North Carolina, but his heart was always focused on the greatest city in the world. Daniel’s dream after moving to NYC became centered on selling real estate, a career which capitalizes on his skills and allows him to live his passion while helping others find a special home. For him, there is nothing more rewarding than being a partner with his clients, and serving as an integral part of one of life’s most exiting journeys.

Daniel deeply enjoys getting to know his buyers and sellers and thoroughly analyzing how he can best guide them. “The New York City real estate market is continually changing and evolving, and my goal is to capitalize on the best options for each client’s needs by listening, researching, and jumping on opportunity in any neighborhood of interest.”

Daniel’s innate energy, enthusiasm, and zest for New York City living – from its vibrant street life to its diverse and sophisticated culture – is eagerly shared with his real estate clients, creating a positive home search or sale experience.

Daniel Van Note prefers to be called Dan but is hoping Daniel sounds more expensive. He cannot believe he paid $75 to have this bio written for him because he is already a good writer. He did not realize this fee was optional and that he could have, in fact, written his own bio. Dan deeply enjoys being at home alone, eating alone, going on runs alone, and going on trips alone. "I just love being alone." Dan's innate desire to have his own two bedroom apartment in the West Village is projected on every client he meets, and their inability to want the exact same thing baffles him. He will soon find that being a real estate agent does not mean that you are your own boss, but rather, that everyone else has somehow become your boss. He will leave this career almost as swiftly as he started, walking away with little more than stories and shame.

All Answer

We will.

The Time Until

     Sitting in my humid room, I could feel my pores sweating from my weekly pack mule-style haul to the laundromat. Glancing out the window, I noticed the sun glowing burt orange as it cut through dissipating storm clouds, its rays dancing on my bedroom wall. It was a rare moment of serenity amidst the hamster wheel of recent weeks. Gazing, I took a few more sips of water before peeling my thighs off my pleather office chair. There were just a few more things to do.

     "Do I have enough socks?"

     "Am I really bringing four pairs of shoes?"

     "They'll have a blow dryer, right?"

     "These travel bottles are so cute."

     While preparations can be wearing, they also offer a steering wheel for my anxiety, a checkbox to mark. And for me, the satisfaction of crossing things off a list is comparable only to multi-hour massages or romantic escapades in Bora Bora (I would imagine).

     After I fetched my load out of the dryer and sorted its contents, I stared victoriously at my neatly packed Samsonite.

     (The hard cases are much more durable and come with a TSA-approved zipper lock, in case you were wondering.)

     I pondered what was left to take care of, but could think of little more than remembering to pack my favorite comb in the morning. Taking a deep breath, I allowed myself to arrive:

     There is nothing more to do. Just let it all happen.

Plaid Shirt

     As I approached the crosswalk, I noticed him with two reusable Trader Joe's bags, one on his shoulder and one in his hand. His pants tapered perfectly to ankle-high street shoes, his plaid shirt partially tucked in. When he turned I saw a strong nose and fine beard, endearingly messy yet obviously maintained. He was about my age, but he had it together.

     I assumed he lived in the neighborhood, because his bags were full. He also seemed groomed and blessed with a general sense of peace, a strong indication that he spent little time on public transit.

     His apartment is well-appointed. He gets regular cleanings at the dentist and schedules his next appointment right then and there. When he visits his mother in Greenwich, he carefully drives the family SUV to fetch baked goods and fruit from the small market in town for breakfast.

     Can I come?

     He waited patiently at the median with his groceries in tow, taking care to check for traffic before stepping onto the street. I watched him fade away, walking what I imaged to be the two short blocks to his apartment. And as he unpacked his groceries carefully in his cupboard, I swiped my MetroCard to get back on the train.

Weather

Is it hot where you are? It's so hot here.

Frank

     It was a quiet Sunday morning when I stepped outside my building holding March’s rent check, wearing only my pajamas and L.L.Bean slippers.

     (They’re pretty pricy, especially for slippers, but the shearling liner and rubber soles are an absolute dream. They’re an investment piece, or a very good gift.)

     The walk to my landlord’s house is remarkably convenient. He lives just across the street in his own one family. A kind Hungarian man with grey hair and deep wrinkles, this has been his neighborhood for decades.

     “Come in, come in,” he insisted, looking at me with hopeful eyes, “Do you have a minute to sit down, you know, shoot the breeze?”

     As I considered generating an excuse, I realized that I truly had nothing else to do. (My outfit of lounge pants and an oversized sweater from Goodwill also did not exactly scream busyness or exclusivity.) We sat down on his floral-printed love seat with his vintage television playing a program from the Game Show Network on mute.

     Before long he was expounding upon the history of the block and about how he immigrated to New York when he was eighteen. He was a woodworker, and built the cabinets in my unit along with countless others I could find all over Manhattan. His eyes watered instantly upon speaking about his late wife.

     “Oh, this you’ll find interesting.”

     “What’s that?” I offered somewhat generously.

     “The first floor apartment finally got rented out. Two girls. Younger. Might be good for you and your brother, eh?” He nudged, referencing my younger sibling and roommate.

     I briefly considered playing along before realizing the litany of housing laws that protected me. My lease was already signed. So, like many times before and since, it was time to come out.

     “Well, maybe for Joey, but not for me.” I proclaimed.

     “What do you mean?”

     “Well, I’m gay.”

     Frank glanced down at his baby blue carpet, clearly not expecting this development. I curled my toes anxiously in my shearling-lined slippers. As he looked back at me, I met his eyes, shimmering.

     “Oh, nothing wrong with that,” he assured me, as if I had only spilled a glass of milk.

Sidewalk

     The sweet smell of a hot New York sidewalk knows no peer. While the suburbs have freshly cut grass and D.C. enjoys blooming cherry blossoms, the scent of warm asphalt is the city’s way of indicating the new season. After months of desolation, it reappears like a distant friend, the same.

     Suddenly I begin to notice displays of skin under the florescent lights of the subway. They remind me, to my surprise, that people have bodies comprised of more than weathered hands and frustrated faces. For the first time in a long time I see elbows, calves, and midsections. I tilt my head.

     They say summer bodies are made in the winter, but mine tends to just show up. The warmth of the beach is matched by a cool personal disassociation from my less-than-ideal figure. But thankfully, like a meal of cafeteria pizza with canned peaches, each year I become more comfortable with the mediocrity I am working with.

     In the meantime, I am left to treasure these last few days of brisk air, slipping on my black sweaters with ease and resting my hands in jackets with generous pocket space. The sweet spot is now.

     Before long it will be summer and I will be back on the sidewalk, sweating. I'll pass by a steaming pile of trash, holding my breath.

Notes

What do you do with your other hand while you’re at the water fountain?

A Cheerio on the floor is a recipe for disaster.

Taking your shoes and socks off on the subway feels like having a beer in the shower.

Let the weight of the knife do the cutting for you.

I feel like Bath Fitter is definitely a metaphor.

What would my performance piece at the Short Hills Mall look like?

A magazine is paper in drag.

A poem is an essay in drag.

Wisdom is not inhaling as you open the office fridge.

Tick Tock

Tracing the spiral of tumbling of clothes in the dryer.

Holding the phone to my ear.

Sitting in the gym, sore.

Weaving through foot traffic.

Writing down the list.

Knocking on the door, nervous.

Playing the song.

Holding the hug.

Putting away the dishes.

Making plans.

Gazing out the window at yellow cabs speeding, and stopped.

Wondering, "How many times will I do this again?"

Seasonal

     I am a marketer’s dream.

     I buy citrus brews in the summer, pumpkin ale in the fall, and any six pack that mentions snow, log cabins, or ‘holiday spices’ in the winter. Just as the trees begin to bud, the giant images of young models frolicking on the beach down Fifth Avenue remind me that I really should get a new bathing suit. And I always forget how much I love fast food breakfast sandwiches until I see that I can buy one, get one free.

     Sold!

     The ability of advertisers to pinpoint the moment of connection between my physical desires and my wallet is truly uncanny. When so many of my preferences feel elusive, the organized presentation of suitable options provides a sickly artificial yet welcomed relief. Whether it’s celebrity endorsements or chain restaurant logos placed next to menu items, I find solace in the illusion that I am making a justifiable choice.

     A hair stylist once told me that I should stop using a popular brand of anti-dandruff shampoo every day because the chemicals likely dry out my hair, and could even be contributing to my suspiciously receding hairline.

     “That can’t be true,” I concluded on my walk home. “Sofia Vergara is in the commercials.”

     I use Jennifer Aniston’s face wash, Stephen Curry’s water filter, and Tina Fey’s credit card. What could possibly go wrong?

     My lone point of pride lies in my ability to resist the packs of gum and tabloid magazines at the grocery store checkout counter. While I may take a lingering glance at the headlines, I know there’s no way to justify spending $5.95 on what is essentially twenty pages of the internet. And as for the gum, that remains in that special category of inevitably reoccurring expenses I can’t afford to assume right now, right next to Uber rides and food delivery.

     Any habit, given the time, becomes expensive.

     That’s why having only one product per season, one message at a time, is perfect for me. I will gladly hold my mouth wide open to catch the runoff at the bottom of an unfathomably extensive trickle-down chain of market research. That way, I don’t have to think about what kind of beer I like. I am told.

     And sometimes being told what I like is the most satisfying option of all.

Breaking News

     This just in. We are getting reports. Let us go now to the scene. Sparks were flying. Bullets were flying. Insults were flying. Stay with us.

     The shock value of breaking news dissipates considerably when news is constantly breaking. I have come to view the daily updates more as honks and sirens blazing faintly outside my window as opposed to a fire alarm inside my apartment. The danger is out there. My living room furniture remains unchanged.

     Amidst the chaos of modern communication, the deterioration of integrity has become one of the few constants. The majority of national discourse now mirrors the dignity of a live feed of the happenings at the Port Authority. More urine found in the corner. The investigation is ongoing.

     What is shocking now?

     Breaking News: A mother who never admitted her faults decides in quiet moment on long car ride to admit to her daughter that she was wrong.

     If nights staring at my bedroom ceiling feel most like the truth, the broadcasting of human tragedy feels like some brand of violation. So much of it amounts to little more than shreds of scrap meat thrown to my inner hyena named Fear. Why can't I stop eating?

     The most compelling detail is that everything is happening at the same time.

     The most shocking news of all would be that everything is here.

Miss Nancie

     Standing in the arcane basement of our neighboring town church, I stared across at every girl in my preschool class. Their dresses all incorporated some configuration of ruffled lace trim, and I took note of who made the better choices. Music played. And as parents leaned on columns dotted with Scotch-taped paper hearts, the boys asked the girls to dance. It was an exercise in chivalry insisted upon by my first teacher, Miss Nancie. She was good.

     To call The Three Little Bears Nursery School the Harvard of midcoast Maine pre-k programs would be to understate the reputation it has earned in my psyche.

     Nestled unassumingly on a quiet neighborhood street, it was the house that Miss Nancie built. Belonging to that special class of women referred to only as “Miss” followed by their first name, I revered her more as a grande dame of character development than a preschool teacher. Witnessing her ability to herd toddlers into routines of cubbies and snack time and rest and play was my first true lesson in choreography.

     As I recall, she ran the school with a soft halo following her at all times. Other kids saw that, right?

     A stately older man would appear at irregular intervals to greet Miss Nancie, dressed in overalls and clearly returning from a long day’s work on a farm. (His eyes looked remarkably similar to those of Santa Claus, who also visited our class once a year during the holiday.) Long after my graduation, I was informed that he was, in fact, her husband with whom she lived next door. That still didn’t sit quite right with me.

     Goddesses don’t need husbands.

     My memories of preschool are likely as accurate as the artfully questionable renderings of my family in stick figures. But if these images aren’t true, why do they still bring tears to my eyes?

     I yearn to weep for those who stroll past Miss Nancie today in her local mall, unaware that they are walking next to a woman with impact beyond measure. I find comfort in imagining her enjoying restful winters in the warm air of Florida, gazing out her window and taking note of every palm leaf, each one of us, her children, swaying in the wind with light dancing on our faces.

Oops

I always forget until I get there.There are no rules.

PowerPoint

     As I stood in front of the class, I could feel the tips of my fingers tingling with anxiety. The cooling sensation swiftly flushed it’s way up my arms and through my chest like an army of ants, dipping into my legs and engulfing my knees. My head flushed with a cool, empty breeze as the presentation behind me pixelated away like a broken television screen.

     Undergraduate economics was a subject for which I held great respect yet enjoyed only moderate aptitude. I appreciated that it was an area of study in direct conversation with the “real world,” a focus sorely missing from my days in high school critically analyzing The Old Man and the Sea. Suddenly I was learning how to map desire and name the phenomena surrounding human decision making, a intricate dance of words and numbers I could finally appreciate.

     To be sure, my admiration for the field peaked in Economics 101. Fred Smith, a man who’s voice was as unique and captivating as his name, led the daily lectures. But as he expounded upon the reasons we stop eating at an all-you-can-eat buffet, I found myself listening intently. He drew a graph illustrating the point at which the cost of consuming another cookie is greater than the satisfaction provided by said cookie, and I was sold.

     Diminishing marginal utility was a subject I would come to know far too well as I continued my time on campus, most acutely when I stayed awake almost the entire night before my final presentation in Health Economics.

     As I opened my eyes, I noticed several students towering over me. I felt my professor’s arms supporting my shoulders as someone handed me a wet paper towel. As I dabbed my forehead in shame, I debated explaining what may have been the cause of my sudden collapse, from the stress of finals week to the coffee I drank on an empty stomach. But there was no way out of my unfortunate hole.

     To call my fainting episode a turning point would be to suggest that things got better. I continued to limp my way to the finish line of the economics minor, a badge of honor I continue to hold with fluctuating levels of contempt. Or, should I say, as a good or service that provides me varying levels of utility. I’m sure you could plot an indifference curve for that.

Go Easy

A train that arrives on time.

A deep fireplace.

A country house.

An open field.

A strong drink.

A soft pillow.

Crickets.

Saturday morning.

Hot coffee.

Fresh towels.

Sweet perfume.

Good news.

A close friend.

A long jog.

A deep breath.

A full battery.

A full stomach.

A time to say.

And a place to say it.

Candle

     For those times demanding an immediate escape, I look no further than reality television. Snuggling up on my reasonably priced couch with some chips and store brand seltzer, I jump on the opportunity to peek behind the curtain of the lives of the rich and variably famous. I find a peculiar comfort in setting aside my immediate problems, only to entertain from afar the trivial troubles of affluent women.

     The only thing more absurd than the producer-contrived drama is the extent to which I am infatuated with it.

     As they move from personal training sessions, to late lunches, to cocktail parties, I find myself haphazardly executing mental gymnastics in attempts to solve the economic formulas at play. How much are these girls making? How can they afford such a big house? How can they be so angry with each other when all they have is time and money?

     What is wealth if you can’t enjoy it in complete silence?

     I flip the channel. A pool party consisting of gorgeous twenty year olds at one of their dad’s infinity pools reminds me that I will never have a body worth seeing on MTV primetime. I have the urge to finally start going to the gym. During a commercial break I take a glance at my body in the bathroom mirror. I am fine for now.

     Another channel change, and I fall deeper into the rabbit hole. I inevitably settle on an hourlong documentary program detailing the trials and tribulations of people plagued by one of a variety of addictions, from hoarding, to food, to online romances. Exploitation is suddenly a fuzzy line. I probably shouldn’t be watching this sort of stuff, but look, it’s right here.

     I suppose it’s easy to feel like you’re making progress when you witness another person who is clearly not. It’s akin to the sensation that your train is moving faster simply because you’re passing one plummeting in the other direction.

     A tea light burns quietly in its glass holder on my affordable coffee table. An incoherent screaming match ensues in a housewife’s grand living room, tempers blazing amongst her set of cream couches.

     She may have a gorgeous fireplace, but I am happy with my candle.

Bad Receptionist

     The phone rings. My heart rate increases tenfold for a fleeting moment, only to rest itself on a familiar bed of anxiety. A flare of armpit sweat rages beneath my black sweater.

     “Ethan Hunter Salon, this is Dan.”

     Like most sane human beings, I have a natural aversion to unanticipated phone calls. The inevitable exchange of clunky niceties and awkward pauses makes me want to burry my head in a pillow. Being held responsible for answering the phone feels like sitting in my living room with the front door wide open. Who would tolerate such an invasive channel?

     This attitude, unsurprisingly, did not serve me well during my short-lived part-time career as a receptionist in Portland, Maine.

     I moved to the small coastal city near my hometown in pursuit of a quiet yet diligent life of writing, dancing, sitting in coffee shops, and managing the inevitable litany of cute boys that would be falling into my lap. I knew I would need to find some temporary work to support myself, but I hoped that I could finagle a gig where interaction with the public was nonexistent and the pay was exceptional.

     “Wow, it’s so rare we have applicants who just graduated from such prestigious liberal arts colleges! Right this way, this is where we keep our money pile! Please, help yourself!”

     I was forced to reevaluate my intentions after an unsuccessful interview for an overnight doughnut cutter position at The Holy Donut on Park Avenue. They appreciated my coming in, but ended up going with someone who actually had some doughnut cutting experience. Go figure.

     Eventually, I found myself in the dubiously qualified position of being the face and voice of this sweet couple’s small salon in the historic Old Port district. I spent my days nervously sweeping hair, nervously washing out mixing bowls, and nervously counting down the moments until I could say into the receiver, “No problem! Have a good day. Buh-bye.”

     Wash, rinse, and repeat.

     The mile walk along the brick sidewalk from my studio apartment to the Old Port afforded me many chances to replay a supercut of my life-so-far. Only a few months passed until the plot for my next big move began to crystallize. Once I sat down to let my bosses know that I would be leaving in two weeks, we were all free to release a sigh of relief.

     “We hear you. This probably is not a position where there would be much growth for you,” Jessica offered with her sincerest sympathy.

     She was right. It probably wasn’t.