All about me, so far...

2009-02-09T14:26:00.001-08:00

Growing up in New York City, I never realized how unusual my life was. The “house” I lived in for fifteen years is twelve stories above ground. My dog Byron had neither a doggie- door nor a backyard to use, but rather hard pavement lined with fenced-in trees. My parents never drove me to school but instead; cab drivers who barely spoke English had the privilege of having my friends and I making a raucous in their backseat. I attended a single-sex private school where 99% of my classmates had apartments within a ten-block radius of mine.

On weekends or after school, my aupair, and my other friends’ nannies, would walk us the few blocks from our apartments to Central Park to gallivant on the Great Lawn, climb the Alice and Wonderland statue, sail our toy boats in the shallow murky pond, or see the penguins waddle at the Children’s Zoo. After school play-dates like these escapades to the park, were always a given as each child in their jumper uniforms impatiently waited for their parents to come home from work. Before becoming a goldsmith, my mother worked in the fashion industry. My father, on the other hand, was an investment banker like the majority of my friends’ fathers. All of our dads worked arduous long hours to support their family’s lifestyles (not to mention New York City real estate!) and often didn’t make it home in time for early dinners.

For someone who was raised in one of the largest, and most thriving cities in the world, it was a sheltered bubble to me. Up until the age of 10, I believed that Manhattan ended at the Met Life building when staring south down Park Avenue. I believed our dry cleaner (who was also Armenian), was somehow related to me in this small world. I also innocently believed that heaven was located on the top of the building whose top floors were always lit up with iridescent bright lights.

In every other way, I had a pretty “normal” childhood. I had a similar checklist of accomplishments that all American parents have for their offspring. I did well in school and had close relationships with my teachers. And as far as friends are concerned, like every normal tween and teenager out there, I did have my fair share of betrayals and backstabbing moments—but I believe those serve as essential catalysts to growing up. For the most part, though, I had an amazing and reliable group of girlfriends who are still my best friends even today. My parents consider them my extended family and are so happy and proud that we’re all still together.

While my parents never had to worry about my social life, they did worry about my athleticism (off of the ski slopes). Their dreams of me being a skinny athlete extraordinaire were dashed right off the bat. When I was younger, and then petite (I was often referred to as “Shrimp” by my classmates), I was a fairly competent gymnast. Unfortunately, that skill soon became irrelevant once my growth spurt hit. Later on came the swim team and soccer. As far as swimming was concerned, I found myself wanting to do summersaults in the corner of the pool rather than swim laps. And with soccer, even though I loved the sport—I wasn’t cut out for it. I was consistently the most injured member on the team. I was never the fastest, the most nimble or agile. Instead, I fell the most often and sat out on the sidelines covered with bandages. To this day, my skin is still sprinkled with scars of my soccer glory days.

No sports, however, could prepare me for the rigorous daily chores of living on a farm. Yes, it’s true; the New York City girl enrolled in a semester-long program for high school juniors to live on a farm in Vermont. Wanting to try something new, I traded in my stiletto heels for mucking boots and my short plaid skirts for carpenter jeans. Instead of whining at 8am on the cab ride to school, I was up at the crack of dawn collecting fresh chicken eggs and climbing the hill to the silo. The laborious farm chores in addition to the demanding academic schedule was good for me. I became more independent and took the time to tune-in with myself more often. It was a truly great experience in self-discovery.

Soon after I returned from the farm, I graduated high school and took that first great transitional leap with the rest of my classmates and went off to college. Terrified as I was, it was an exciting time. True to my previous year on the farm, I looked for schools in rural areas with a sense of community. My school had less than 3,000 students and roughly 700 in each class. With a high school graduating class of 39 girls, these numbers seemed overwhelming to me. However, the school’s size quickly began to shrink as each year passed and by senior year, any form of privacy or anonymity was nowhere to be found.

I always compare my college experience to the high school one I never had, with popularity contests and gossip mills working overtime. All the students looked like carbon copies of one another and dressed like they came right out of the J.Crew catalogue. Everyone knew who everyone else was, along with where they lived, who their friends were, and who they were sleeping with. For people who seemed to know so much about everyone else, in actuality—they knew nothing. Most people could only truly interact with one another when drunk—and thus drank themselves into oblivion four to five times a week. I felt like I was in a vacuum of superficiality and at times wanted nothing but to escape.

Nevertheless, for the most part, I hypocritically bought into everything I just complained about. I was in a sorority, I wore J.Crew, I gossiped over Saturday and Sunday brunches, and I certainly did my fair share of partying. It was all part of the experience and I definitely enjoyed myself. Despite all the “setbacks,” I had the time of my life. I had the enviable ability to study abroad my junior year in Paris where I became the cliché American girl who fell in love with the city, the culture and the sexy European men. Back at college, I was a good student who was proud of my work, and left thinking of most of my professors as close friends. The friends I did make over the four years were good ones—the ones you could meet at the coffee house and have a real conversation with, the ones who defended you time and time again, the ones who were there to pick up the pieces, and the ones that I still see many months after graduation and hopefully in the years to come.

Not only did I leave college with handfuls of unbelievable friends, I also left with a love of writing. This hobby was unknown to me for the first three years of my collegiate existence. As the photography editor of the newspaper, I had to submit an article per semester. Once I saw my first editorial printed out in bleeding fresh ink on the grey, thin paper for the world (okay fine, just the entire school) to see, I knew I was hooked. Soon after, I had my own weekly column in collaboration with a close male friend of mine. Together we would write about the same topic but from the male and female perspectives. I finally found a creative outlet to express myself and there was no shutting me up from then on.

And here I am, first year out of college and still writing. When my business partner asked me to become a contributor to this blog, I did not hesitate to accept the invigorating invitation. Even though this site took months to turn this brilliant brainchild into a reality, the launch could not have come at a better time. After graduation, I returned to the city and landed my first job at a fashion-advertising agency with an impressive roster of designer clients. A few days before the site became public, however, I was laid off as the economy dragged on and deflated all of our clients’ budgets. Determined to have an optimistic outlook—I see my recent unemployment state as a blessing in disguise. No longer only a sheltered city girl, it is time for me to devote my time to savor every new experience, stepping stone, and adventure and strive to become the best Miss Know it All I can possibly be .

Lo Star

All about me, so far...