Never judge a banana by its peel.

As someone whose strengths have never been in the looks department, I have always subscribed to the age-old adage, “Never judge a book by its cover.” Applying this proverbial wisdom to myself is perhaps the clearest illustration of this idea: While I may have the hips of a woman who has borne eight children, my ovaries have been in a perpetual state of hibernation since I reached puberty. To see me, you would never know, but to inquire into my marital status, and you quickly surmise that things are not always quite the way they seem.

Well, sometimes somewhat unconsciously, my love of proverbs seeps into my day to day interaction with my favorite six year old, Aldie, who has an inexplicable disdain towards banana peels that bear a brown spot or two. Even when I beseech him to peel the fruit before condemning it to hells of some G-d forsaken subway trash can, Aldie usually refuses. Remarking, “But it’s gross,” he disposes of the perfectly edible banana nine times out of ten.

This morning, however, I determined to no longer participate in the bananacide occurring in my midst. It was time for action, and so without a second thought, I barked, “Never judge a banana by its peel!” Aldie, startled by my rather loud proclamation, paused and then said, “Is this another one of your crazy life metaphors?”

Though my intentions were entirely literal (and perhaps noble, if you’re into saving awkwardly shaped yellow fruit), my rather brash remark did, indeed, contain a deeper message: Stop being so darn superficial. Give things a chance. Experience them. Acquaint yourself with the ins and outs of them. Walk a mile in their shoes (if by things we mean people). And then and only then pass judgment.

Aldie stared at me, realizing my mind had embarked on an impromptu philosophical journey, and commented, “Ok, this one time. For you.” And would you believe it? The banana itself had not a single spot. It was any monkey’s dream, and for my little blonde headed monkey it was reinforcement of this morning’s subway lesson.

Aldie even took it one step further, when he remarked, “A banana’s kind of like a Starbucks latte. You’ve got to drink past the foam and milk to get to the really good stuff- the espresso.” Love. Of. My. Life.

There are no decaffeinated folks in New York City.

Just like there are no atheists in fox holes, there are no (functional) New Yorkers who are not high on caffeine, be it in coffee, tea, or pill form. It’s nearly impossible to make it through a day in this city without consuming a latte or two (or three). And the reason if self-evident: it’s a city of over-achieving, insanely ambitious go getters, who will stop at nothing to make their childhood suburban dreams an urbanite’s reality.

As one of the aforementioned New Yorkers, I found myself this week in a state of perpetual action. As my high school principal once said to me when I refused to silence myself during a Bible class in which the issue of homophobia arose (ok, it’s didn’t arise until I raised it, but anyhow), “Speak little. And do a lot.” Though I haven’t fully mastered this ancient proverb– I still talk a great deal– I have managed to internalize the “do a lot” bit.

This week my loyalty skills were put to the test, when a friend indeed became a friend in need. Spending three nights in the hospital with her, and much of my day running errands on her behalf, I began to understand the concept of running on adrenaline, or some sort of caffeine-driven fumes. Rearranging my evenings, maximizing my one hour lunch break, and limiting my sleep time allowed me to attempt to be the best possible friend I could be.

It also reinforced my reliance on my drug of choice: the Almighty Latte. And as stressful situations often do, it drove me back to my original coffee haven, Starbucks. I will admit that since returning to New York I have been playing the coffee field, sampling Gimme Coffee!, Balthazar, Joe’s, Cafe Grumpy, and on the rare occasion Bowery Coffee too.

But this week was all about the ‘Buck. I returned to my roots– my core caffeine values– and chose to run on the original grind. I reasoned that given the chaotic nature of this particular week, in which every single day had several calendared events, I needed to reinstitute some stability in my life. Some people eat comfort food when they are down on their luck; I drink Starbucks skinny vanilla lattes. Same concept. Starkly different price points.

And I must say it was wonderful to reconnect with my past– revisiting pseudonyms (namely: Liz and Jesse) I used to employ when ordering my drink du jour; chatting with baristas who knew me when I was lowly intern; fighting for the corner seat during the morning rush. As I departed each morning, afternoon, and evening from Starbucks, I was energized, emotionally prepared, and ready to embrace my personal adage, “There are no decaffeinated folks in New York City.”

After all, as T.S. Elliot, the only literary superstar to make an appearance on my Wellesley hoop (used in the traditional Wellesley senior hoop roll), phrased it, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” And if my calculations are correct, I’ve had quite a caffeinated 22 years thus far.

 

“If only he were 16 years older.”

My grandfather, an avid reader of my blog, made a comment the other day I have been unable to avoid overanalyzing in great detail. He said, “It’s a shame that six year old you babysit isn’t 22 because if he were, you two would be engaged.” The implication being that since Aldie is brilliant, adorable, and likely to achieve financial success as a savvy investment banker, he is the perfect guy for a single, clearly not mingling 22 year old girl.

And until he made that comment I had been doing pretty well abiding by one of my New Year’s resolutions– to not complain about the things I am unwilling to make an effort to change. For example, I am constantly plagued by dry skin during the winter months, but I am not ready to shell out the requisite $45 for a decent humidifier. Hence, instead of kvetching for all the world to hear, I have taken to using excessive amounts of hand cream in silence.

The same principle can be applied to my continual bout of singledom. With my future so undetermined, I do not feel like I am in the best position to throw on my Spanx and embark on a man hunt– especially when I have two entire seasons of Downton Abbey to catch up on. And so instead of engaging in a nightly tear fest about my lack of love life, I have embraced a new British period piece television show and picked up a few babysitting gigs.

To my grandfather, this is just plain wasteful. And frankly I get it. If I lived at home and saved money on rent, I could afford the cost of a JDate account. But instead I am choosing to put my career before my uterus. For that, I respectfully apologize. But even Aldie came from non-traditional beginnings– think: petri dish.

“Don’t leave it to fate. JDate.co.il”

And as a girl who has always made a habit of challenging the status quo, I plan to give myself just this evening to bemoan my single status (with the help of a little Mariah Carey and some diet coke). But come tomorrow, I’m back on the New Year’s resolution abiding path. I’ve got mountains to climb before I sleep. As Betty Bender, an author of sorts, once said, “Anything I’ve ever done that ultimately was worthwhile…initially scared me to death.” Or, in this case, my grandfather.

And the baton passes on.

It was a crisp Friday night in January of ’09, and I was intent on having some “me” time. Departing from the Wellesley Hillel, I ventured towards the lake, ready to partake in the magical midnight walk around the glistening waters.

In my haste, however, I neglected to mention to any of my fellow biddies that I was embarking on said journey. Fast forward two hours. It is approximately 2 am, and I return to my dorm ready to embrace my inner idealist once more. Upon entering my dorm room, I am greeted by a group of six girls– all apparently praying for my safety and contemplating whether to put in a call to campus police.

My roommate, the most concerned of all, is shocked to see I am in entirely one piece. I should note that this incident occurred around the time of the Wellesley town fondler, who had a propensity for appearing on Wellesley’s campus, dropping his pants, and giving himself a spiritual experience upon encountering a student. And yes, I somehow managed to forget or neglect that fact when I decided to frolic through the Wellesley wilderness.

Now while my roommate had thought the worst, another friend, Caroline, quickly chimed in that she knew I was all right; that I could survive in the desert for a week, so long as it had a local coffee ship; and that she completely understood and supported my need for personal space.

Tuning into the sense of urgency that had seemed to permeate the room, I replied, “Um, what are you all talking about? I just went for a walk, a thing I do every so often when the eat-less-challah bug strikes me.” But then it all began to sink in. This was my George Bailey moment (a la It’s a Wonderful Life), when I saw my life without me in it. And while I had been enduring a rather painful sophomore slump, in that instant I was reminded that I was significant. At least to six girls in that crowded dorm room.

While watching “The Mountaintop” on Broadway this evening, I recalled that night three years earlier. While I am no Martin Luther King, Jr, I have a reason to fight. To be “the best possible Yaffa I can be,” as Mama B would say. I may not move as many mountains as he did, but like him, I have and should fight to stay alive, to fight the good fight, and to leave the world slightly better than in the state I found it.

It’s a cliched goal– no doubt. But it’s one that every so often, when I endure the inevitable post-holiday depression, I gravitate towards. It’s my calorie-free soul food, which manages to give me an ounce of comfort when the temperatures are below freezing, I am facing the brink of July unemployment, and kittens are chasing after me like they know something about my future I don’t know.

Ernest Hemingway once said, “Forget your personal tragedy. We are all bitched from the start and you especially have to be hurt like hell before you can write seriously. But when you get the damned hurt, use it-don’t cheat with it.” So here I am channeling that hurt away, all the while wishing I could head back to Wellesley for a midnight stroll. (FYI, avid readers, this is your warning should I disappear from cyberspace for more than two hours.)

When life gives you half a lemon, make a Bahama Mama.

No, I am not a raging alcoholic. In fact, I have yet to master the difference between hard and soft liquor (is there such a thing as “soft liquor?”). But I am resourceful– and despite my rather pathetic attempts at recycling– attempt to maximize the use of every item in my itsy-bitsy teeny-weeny apartment.

Now imagine my surprise when I discovered half a lemon in my fruit drawer. Knowing its shelf life was limited, I determined to do what any girl home alone on January 1st would do, make myself a drink. And after tracking down some orange juice and coconut rum, I did just that– employing the remaining lemon in the creation of the Bahama Mama.

Two ounces later, and I remembered why my drink of choice is Diet Coke. I felt tipsy, queasy, and all kinds of no-good, very-bad feelings. I poured the remnants down the drain and curled up with an equally no-good, very-bad movie: Morning Glory, in which Rachel McAdams plays an aspiring news producer who winds up living happily ever with her equally attractive male co-producer. It was a standard Grade C movie, and it was just what the doctor called for.

While I was not drunk– after all I had taken a mere two sips– I remembered why my standard indulgence is not cheap alcohol. It’s a downer, and frankly, at the start of a new year, the last thing I need is a depressant. I need to be able to reflect on the 2011 highlights: completing a senior thesis, starting a new job, interviewing a prolific southern rapper, nannying for an equally prolific midwestern rapper, and increasing my caffeine tolerance. And if I am not completely lucid, I am unable to take in the magnitude of my experiences.

So here’s to a year of sobriety, in which I end each post with a literary quote– this time from Jack Kerouac: “Be in love with your life. Every detail of it.” And Moses do you notice the details when you’re pumped up on lattes and not liquor.