My Hands

My hand gravitates towards yours

As though you were a furnace

On the coldest day of the year

I keep my hands to myself

My body remembers you

Every cell wants to joyfully leap outside of me

My olfactory senses indulge in a familiarity

Rarely ever felt to me

I keep my body to myself

I am an energetic ball of restraint

For fear of rushing in full force

And never bouncing back

And I am terrified

I keep my energy to myself

  

A natural inclination to lay my head on your chest

Fall into an embrace like a child to a mother’s breast

Like your strong arms can hold me

I keep my head to myself

My stomach has collected more butterflies today

Than it has all year

And I like the way you look at me

I keep my heart to myself

I am laughing it off when you discuss other women

And everything in your life that doesn't include me

Using all of my will just to brush it off casually

When really I just want you to

Remember all those little things

That make up me

Like the fact that I’ll never really give up coffee

But I’ll keep trying

And my brow’s arch so slightly when I’m focusing

How I always say obscenities in Spanish

But only when I’m angry

I always laugh at my own jokes

When no one else thinks it’s funny

The way my tongue presses against my front teeth

When I’m smiling

And all I really want to do

Is lie down here with you

With my fingers caressing your face

But I keep my hands to myself

Coffee

Phonecalls, deadlines, emails

The constant beeping of

one machine or another

Text messages or meetings

Lots of people to meet

Even more people to be

The names are dropped

Secret handshakes in the backroom

To-do lists extended

Late nights; early mornings

I want to be a black hoodie

Dark sunglasses

Running free and nameless

An inconsequential member

of the human race

With little in the way of

 identifying characteristics

And that “anonymous” type of face

No time to indulge in fantasies

Where’s my coffee?

Red lipstick, black suit

a knack for running in heels

Phone and neck attachments

Shoulders constantly creeping upward

Ravens circling over my head

But no matter; only time for

Conference calls and deliberations

Too forward focused

Balance failing; dark circles

More wrinkles

Shrug responsibilities

In all the ways you know you won’t

Wanderlust escape artist

A knack for running barefoot

Through sunny beaches

I want to be an endless Sunday morning

Reading quiet with dog at feet

Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me

Kettle warming

For my chamomile tea

Validation sought

Over “I’m just too busy…”

Overextensions 

Acting out accordingly

When’s the last time

I saw my family?

I gotta run, I gotta get this done

Forfeiting personal needs

For the sake of each company

Don’t keep much company

No real company

When’s the last time you were held?

Like, really?

No matter now,

Where’s my coffee?

Where’s my coffee?

Mastering Me

"If you want to learn something, read about it. If you want to understand something, write about it. If you want to master something, teach it.” 

– Yogi Bhajan

 “I practice [yoga] to deal with my own bullshit so that nobody else has to.”
 – Callie Munson, yoga instructor

Callie’s words resonated with me as I walked out of class last night.  In less than two weeks I start my yoga teacher training.  Much has been written about the benefits of yoga such as the meditative aspects to reduce stress or the physical fitness obtained from regular practice.  I come to yoga for those benefits too, but they aren’t what drive me to practice.

I keep coming back to the mat because I learn something new every time I’m on it.  I consider it a self study both physically and emotionally.  In the best of states, I am the quiet observer of my mind during a challenging pose; witnessing my thought processes as I struggle to hold a pose.  Am I kind to myself?  Am I playing a tape on loop that’s unkind to my body?  Am I a perfectionist?  Am I settling for less than the best? As I breathe deeper into the pose I ask myself: why?  Why am I unkind? Why am I rushing through the moment?  Why am I not fully present?  Why am I not giving myself this moment to be the best version of me through the struggle and the challenge?

My practice builds character.  It allows me a glimpse into my inner psyche so that I am armed with the knowledge to be a better person.  I practice to become a noble woman; one who takes responsibility for herself fully so that my issues don’t become someone else’s.  I practice to honor my divinity so to witness everyone else’s divinity with graciousness and humility.

Yoga challenges me to be accountable.  It pushes me to work harder to get past my ego.  It teaches me how to maintain tranquility in moments of calamity.  It shows me how to be grateful for the small things: your leg lifting a centimeter higher than it did the week before, holding the pose for eight breaths instead of six, or that cool breeze hitting your face as your sweat hits the mat.

My practice reminds me that my personal success doesn’t have to be measured in milestones, but rather in the day to day; like giving my lunch to the man I saw digging through the trash or not playing that same soundtrack in my head when things go wrong that is wrought with guilt and violence towards myself. 

I practice to have mastery over myself.

Namaste 

Your Next Bold Move

I was walking down my block after yoga class and I knew.  My bike had been locked up right in front of my house and immediately I thought I needed to lock it up in back.  I took a few steps closer and felt it – I knew it was gone.  Sure enough, as I approached my house it wasn’t there.  It was the final sign for me.  It was time to leave.

I guess I started contemplating moving a few months ago.  I had wanted to change around my apartment – something wasn’t feeling right.  Then I gave up on that idea and opted to just not come home, staying out late, events, drinks with friends or yoga every night etc.  I didn’t notice much considering that it’s not rare for me to be hyper-involved in various activities until I spent the weekend at my parents’ house and my mother made me an offer.

“Yenni, why don’t you come home so you can save money and be with the family?”  She asked.  Last time she made me that offer I laughed and said, “Are you kidding?  We’d kill each other!” Yet, there I sat, considering it for the first time in ten years.  The stolen bike was the last straw. 

I think I’m actually mature enough to move back home with my family.  Odd as that sounds, I really think I had to go through some intense growth to be able to feel excited at this prospect. 

I left home at 18 years old.  My mother and I both couldn’t wait for me to leave the house.   Between college, travels, boyfriends, jobs and adventures I managed to move 10 times in the past 10 years, finally settling in Pilsen, where I’ve lived alone for the past two and a half years.

In the decade I've spent away from home, I’ve howled with wolves in New Mexico, trekked the land of my ancestors, endured heartbreak, and climbed rungs of the business ladder among other amazing things that continue to fill me with a never-ending thirst for adventure and a smile. Today, I find myself in a different phase; one where I’m seeking a quiet self-exploration, but without the solitude I used to prefer. 

I’ve been attempting to incorporate more honesty into my life, especially honesty with myself.  As difficult as it is for me to admit: I need the support of my family now more than ever.  In these past ten years, I’ve seen a headstrong, idealistic and independent teenager grow into a full grown woman that thinks it might be nice to not have to work so hard to maintain her autonomy.  I want to spend time with my family.  I want to save money for my future adventures.  I want to come home to people that love me and care about me especially as I look forward to an arduous yoga teacher training for the next six months.

I’m really excited about moving back home.  I’m looking forward to reading all those books I’ve been meaning to in the backyard shaded by trees.  I can’t wait to spend nights throwing popcorn at my brother as we watch the Lord of the Rings trilogy (extended version of course) in succession.  I don’t think I’ll mind the dog jumping on the bed every morning to wake me.  I’m excited about all the home cooked meals my mama will make and am definitely looking to have some deep philosophical conversations with my father about life on some long walks through the forest.

My favorite LoTR character.

I believe this stage, this layover, this stop, this step, whatever you choose to call it, is necessary, and like most opportunities that present themselves in my life I will come through this a better, more inspired, happier and more peaceful Jen.

I still, however, really really miss my bike.  

How I Really Haven't Changed Much Since I Was 17...

I've been staying at my parents all weekend.  Every time I spend an extended period of time in this house I can't help but remember my childhood growing up here.  I revisit old books I loved so much I wore the spines out.  This past weekend I found my journal from when I was 17 years old - going on to my senior year in high school.

Let me just quote some of the ridiculousness here:

July 30, 2001
The world is fake and the reality becomes the superficiality of the world, but if perception is reality than is everything just some big illusion?  Is the world a lie?  There is corruption at all levels and I wonder where the honesty went and what happens when it's all gone.  Is it all gone?

Typical thoughts for a 17 year old kid...

Or this gem:

I wish there were no price for freedom.

 Really Jen?! This is hilarious.  Or how about quoting Catcher in the Rye (I can totally tell I was reading this book by my style of prose at this particular moment by the way):

It's funny.  All you have to do is say something nobody understands they'll practically do anything for you.  -J.D. Salinger

There's a shocking amount of things written about boys that I don't even remember.  This brings me some peace 10 years later knowing that the guy(s) that I crush on now I probably won't remember later.

So if you're wondering if I was always this intense, the answer is yes.  Also, reading this brought on a humbling realization that I haven't changed much.  I still talk about the existentialists and the fate and plight of humanity and of course, guys. Though, I'd like to think I'm slightly more optimistic in my philosophical approach these days.

The Chicago Project: Validation and Humility

This past weekend I went to King’s Spa with some girlfriends of mine.  King’s Spa is a Korean spa so for the first part of the experience you get completely nude in a room full of other women to enjoy a steam room, showers and hot tubs.

King's Spa 

My girlfriends came up naked and we all looked at each other for a moment before one friend said: look at us; we’re beautiful.  We – as a whole – not based on this superficial notion of beauty but based on our willingness to share this experience with each other.

That set the tone: validation.

My friend has this tattoo on her arm: it says: do not seek outside of yourself in Latin.  I pondered this as an array of different bodies walked past me.  Body-positive experiences are something I’ve been intentional about having lately starting with the naked bike ride and taking my next steps with my yoga practice.

Throughout the evening I pondered the notion of validation within our society and seeking it from external factors.  I’m very guilty of this – as we all are.  I seek validation from the men I keep in my back pocket to make me feel attractive or the books I read to prove my intellectual prowess and the social circles I maintain to show some sort of status. Still, I keep coming to the same conclusion:  when you lose the ego you feel no need to be validated by others.

Humility is honest; it’s vulnerable and damn it, it’s scary.  It’s sitting naked in a hot tub and feeling at peace.  It’s telling the truth even when it hurts you to do so.  It’s smiling at a stranger on the street with no expectation of receiving a smile or recognition in return.  It’s walking into a room with quiet confidence knowing you have nothing to prove. 

It’s also very hard work as we fight against our conditioning in this society.  The ego likes to keep one safe.  The ego keeps my sunglasses on as I follow the beat of my heels hitting pavement attuned to my ipod making no human connections walking down my street.  The genuine me, however, wants to be honest, vulnerable and notice how lonely everyone really is and say, it’s okay, look at us; we’re beautiful.

Goodbye Mexico! I will miss you!

"Yenni! I´ve been looking for you all morning."

"Johnny, hey I lost my camera last night," I said looking like I had lost my puppy.

"I know. My brother told me.  That sucks.  Was it when we were at beach last night? When we built the fire?"

"I think so..all I remember is taking a picture of you by the fire and throwing the camera back into my bag, but I scoured the beach for it all morning.  I even asked all the hotels by there to see if someone might have seen it and so far nothing."

"Well, I will make sure to keep an eye out for it and let the others know as well.  Hopefully it will turn up and we can mail it to you!" He says smiling.

"That would be beautiful." I say cheering up a bit.

"I have something to show you."  Johnny hands me a banana that I hungrily accept.  He guides me out of the reception area of the hostel.  "I want you to see what me and some friends have been working on."

We walk down the sandy road and pass the peaceful dogs who have dug into the sand on the shady part of the street to keep cool.  We pass the colorful shops and the drivers in their golf carts.  I look over at Johnny and think to myself: God, am I really leaving paradise?   I tune into the sound of the ocean and think about how much I will miss this place; the relaxed vibe everyone has, watching the fisherman bring in their bounty every morning, drinking fresh carrot juice and never looking at clocks.  I look at Johnny again.  I will miss my new friends.

Johnny leads me to a vacant terrain half all dirt and half all wild vegetation.  Some women are filling wheel barrels with the weeds and vegetation and some teenagers are working the soil separating the plants with old hardened coconut shells as decor.

"We started a community garden," he said proudly.

I was wondering why he hadn´t let me throw away our banana peels and insisted on carrying them.  He held them up before dropping them into a pile, "compost." He announced smiling.

"We are trying to educate everyone about it.  So the kids can learn to plant fruit, vegetables and to recycle."

A tall woman brisks past me. "What types of seeds are those? We have to make sure they are not Monsanto seeds.  We are boycotting, remember that documentary I showed you?"  She says to one of the girls who was digging into the soil.

"So you´re in charge of this place?" I asked, approaching her with a smile. 

"Actually, I am just learning.  My expertise are animals.  I run the animal sanctuary next door - have you seen it?"

She leads me through the fence.  "I started the garden for the community and it is absolutely dependent on their partcicipation and involvement.  Without them, it will fail."  I stopped to pet the raccoon through the fence.  It grabbed my ring and held onto my thumb.  "They like silver," she said.

It was getting late and I couldn´t afford to miss the last boat off the island.  I thanked her and said goodbye returning to Johnny.  "We´ll keep in touch," I promised.

"Of course we will and I will keep an eye out for your camera," he replied.  I kissed him goodbye and hugged him hard. 

I walked back to my hostel excited for the development of the island.  I thought about what I would contribute if I were to come back again someday.

I boarded the boat, missing my camera and part of my heart.  I headed back to solid ground.

My Life as a Bear

My grandmother will be 90 years old in June. She was telling me this over the phone yesterday and I could sense her fear of turning 90 and thought about how many steps her feet have taken over the span of her life. I thought about her growing up in Cuba and Spain, getting married and having a family then watching her only son leave his country. I thought about her moving to a whole new world in Miami – leaving her country behind too.

I asked her if she ever wrote. She said she didn’t much anymore and I told her that she should write all the lessons she has learned in her 90 years down. I was hoping to someday read them and learn about my great grandmother curing colds with fresh eucalyptus leaves or about a country brewing with revolution and then struggling with despair in the aftermath.

I think it’s human nature to not know what you have in front of you until it’s not there anymore. Youth is fleeting. I keep thinking that and trying to convince myself not to waste any time and then I feel exhausted from thinking about all the things I should be doing with my life like returning to Miami, building my own legacy professionally, listening to my elders’ stories more so not to lose my own history… I start thinking about how tomorrow isn’t guaranteed and why I am not living the life I need to be living now?

I may feel like I need a pause from the madness of the unimportant things I give significance to only to realize that nothing else pauses. That while the bear wants to go into her cave and hibernate during the winter there will be a different forest in the spring. The winter may have killed away some decay, some dying trees and the newness of fresh buds and baby insects buzzing await outside the cave. Life does not give one the luxury of pausing so that you could figure out its purpose. It’s a forest of challenges you to keep moving out of necessity. The only option is movement.

I am an animal, always. It will always come back to me being that bear in the woods responding to her environment. Animals don’t have existential crises about the meaning of life – they see a branch in their path and they move past it, they track their prey and they eat, they meet someone and they mate. They take what they need to survive and then they procreate and die leaving enough of this world for their offspring to enjoy for generations to come.

For now, there is no rest, there is only movement. Eyes focused on my prey with the vision of a better world for humanity’s offspring in my mind’s eye and I take the leap.

Makeshift pathways lead to here or maybe there...

There is something I need to say and I just am not quite sure what it is yet.

Till then I am full of joy and happiness and excited about the uncertainty.  One chapter has ended and I am staring at this beautiful blank page that separates the chapters in a dream almost waiting for the next one to begin.  It’s not waiting so much as being present, in this blank page where suddenly my eyes are playing tricks on me and images appear or maybe it’s a book with pictures (which it is because I’m writing this book and I like pictures).  I am losing myself in this imagery that represents where I came from and this path I walk, not sure where, wondering.

Blessed be this day.

The boy, the bus stop and me...

She had a moment while sitting on a bench waiting for the bus.  One of those moments that twinges on those lost memories at the beginning of a long love affair: the flirtation with ambiguity, the naivety of her youth, the newness of every single little freckle on her lover’s body.

She didn’t run to catch the bus today and instead waited.  She had forgotten to look around all these years because she was running after the bus and now she waited and wished she could sit there all day in the winter’s brisk, fresh snow just to watch. 

She had played the game so well these past few years.  The city looked like a handsome boy smiling and turning away only to look again and smile at her while her face blushed so bright she couldn’t help but smile back.  He would never speak to her though.

All of a sudden she was eighteen years old again, new to this city, these buildings like these giant enigmas filled with strangers.  The pigeons on the street peck at crumbs under the lights on Michigan Avenue.  She is enamored with each begging squirrel, each lingering look from a stranger or the ones that shift quickly by hoping not to be seen.  She is in love.

She is faced with uncertainty all of which is surely leading her away from her lover, Chicago.  The city: the one who nurtured her sweetly in all those bars she nursed a whiskey or a broken heart, in all of those apartment buildings and alleyways.

The city: the one who showed her through mazes of endless streets, brick buildings, steel bridges, wrong directions on the way to finding someone, maybe something new today, maybe herself.

She kept an array of little notes friends and lovers had written her from stupid drunken conversations to times of desperation. They seemed so insignificant at the time but they were like the pigeons now, another extraordinary ordinary moment she’d forgotten to notice.

Her drawings were gateways to periods in her life.  She sat in the living room of her mind remembering the friends that had come and gone, the neighborhoods she had known so well.  They were little snippets into her history – like playing a song from your childhood that would leave you uncertain as to Now’s time and place.

She didn’t get on the bus and instead went back home.  She put on a record and began the process.  The cardboard boxes each categorized so neatly: Kitchen, bedroom, books, bathroom, office…  She sat sorting through drawers and putting new labels on the boxes: Christopher, 2809 N California Ave., Summer ’06…and each item in the box was a familiar pain to the heart, a tinge of anxiety then release, like a needle entering a vein delivering instant relief.  She knew her anxiety hurt her more than the prick of the needle.

She took a deep breath and found a vein pumping her blood back to her heart.  She plunged the syringe into herself of too many late nights, loves lost and friends loved and began to feel the relief. She let go and allowed her tears to rinse the blood off her arm.  Her work was done here.  

You're born alone and you die alone..

I’ve been reading this book called The Last Lecture.  It’s about a college professor that finds out he has a few months to live and decides to write life lessons he wishes he could share with his children.

The book is a great read even though the premise is quite depressing.  It got me thinking about my father and his lessons.  There are several but I will mention only one for now.

I was going through my first big break-up and really nervous and scared. I called my dad bawling my eyes out.  As I was sitting on my stoop, eyes red and the world ending in my 23-year-old head, he said to me the following: Jen, we are born into this world alone and we die alone.  The only one you need to hold yourself accountable to or take care of is yourself.

His white beard has been earned through wisdom!

I thought a lot about this and have always carried it with me no matter what the situation.  It’s helped me leave relationships that needed leaving, change jobs, not compromise on my ideals or who I am as a person and also, on occasion, driven me to advise people in the same manner.

One of the many instances where I was trying to help someone happened on my way to Mexico on a business trip last February.  I was sitting next to an older woman and she started some small talk with me and bought me a drink.  We were drinking those lovely miniature bottles of wine they give on planes and then she started bawling her eyes out about a daughter who I reminded her of.  Then came details of a messy divorce after 26 years of marriage and how her life was an absolute disaster and she was going to Mexico to decompress etc. 

I wanted to be sympathetic and all I could think of saying was: well, you’re born into this world alone and you die alone.

It did not come out sounding like my father’s tone of it’s okay, you’re a responsible adult, you can take on the world, you just need yourself.  Instead it came out sounding far more cynical and hopeless.

Then came the kicker.  This woman with such sorrow in her eyes said:  I wasn’t born alone, I’m a twin!

Then she started talking about how her twin sister wouldn’t talk to her either.

Here I am thinking in my head: Goddamn it, Jen!  The one time you try and make someone feel better or give some sort of advice and this happens.  Of course she’s a twin, of course the ONE time you use someone else’s line she happens to be the exception.

I bought the next round after that.

The Goddesses and me - a journey through cycles

Viene todo a su tiempo…

Youth is fleeting.  I’ll be 27 in February and for whatever reason, 27 has a special significance for me.  To me it wasn’t 18 that represented true adulthood or even 25.  It was 27.

Slowly, I’m beginning to realize how precious time is.  I have no idea where this year went.  The fall always seems to fly by so quickly particularly because it’s my favorite season.  Then comes the winter; it springs to summer and then fall again.  I’m beginning to understand cycles in a way I’ve never known.  Even the cycles in my own body as a woman, my emotional ups and downs are becoming increasingly easier to predict, so now, in the dead of winter of my mind, staring out at the icy blue patches of ice across my driveway I remember the smell of green grass and the sight of trees budding.  What goes up will come down eventually and furthermore what comes down has nowhere else to go but up.

Following the change in the season I am reminded of the life/death/life cycle that women used to know so well.  Women used to be in charge of the dead in ancient societies.  They would not only birth new life, but they would know when to let go of life, having intimate knowledge of the life/death/life cycles.  Just as there is a time for birth, for living, there is also a time for death.  There would be no life without death, no light without dark, no forward without backward and no future without past.  There is an ebb and flow to life that cannot be realized without embracing Death. 

Coatlicue

I think of Coatlicue, the Aztec goddess of death and rebirth.  How ominous is she who destroys life?  How beautiful is she who creates it. Women in many ways live with this duality. 

In some Native American cultures women are not allowed to participate in ceremonies when they are menstruating because they are considered too powerful.  The menstruation is a symbol of a woman’s power to destroy life. 

Isis

I remember the story of Isis– the Egyptian Goddess – birthing life from death through her love with the ability to create something from nothing.

So as I wander through this earthly existence starting to feel older and more grown up I am reminded of Grace that exists in all stages and that viene todo a su tiempo (everything comes at its time).   I am thankful for all stages of womanhood, not just my youth, but great gifts are given at all ages.  I will not fear crow’s feet around my eyes; I will thank the Crows for their wisdom.  I will let the white take over the black of my hair as a symbol of my duality – reminding me that Death approaches with every breath and that fact gives me more reason to live a fuller life.  I will embrace the power of my cycles allowing my blood to remind me of my ability to create new life.  There is a reason we are affiliated with the moon - her cycles from full to new to full again every 28 days resonates through a woman's body.  I am but la hija de la luna, the moon's daughter learning from my my mother.


I leave you with this fantastic song I wrote this blog listening to:

The 20-Something Conundrum

The 20 – Something Conundrum

Ever since the New York Times article came out about 20-somethings I've been doing a lot of thinking about my generation and how we differ from our parents and past generations.

As a result, I’ve “interviewed” several peers, colleagues and friends of all generations about the qualities that differentiate Generation Y and why we are the way we are.  In addition, I’ve done some soul searching and good old internet research (how Gen. Y of me) to present the following perspective on the subject.

First, a few definitions for the purposes of this work:

Millennials, Generation Y (Gen. Y), 20-somethings: These terms refer to people between the ages of 22 and 34.  There is no clear cut definition that was to my satisfaction regarding the start and cut-off ages of this particular group.  While I may use these terms interchangeably, I am referring to the same group throughout. 

Location, location, location: These terms refer to only those 20-somethings living in the United States.  I will go more into why that is in later blogs.

I can’t help but want to defend my fellow Millenials from the constant flak and badgering we get from society and our parents from having several different careers or directions in our 20s.  The times we are living in are very different from our parents and WE are different.  Information is at our fingertips, the world is readily available to us through our phones as well as our education.  We live in a global economy, global marketplace and the simplicities of life our parents enjoyed like the flexibility of having a stay at home parent have suddenly become a luxury.

My parents came here as immigrants from Mexico and Cuba and while it may seem as though they knew what they wanted from the beginning; it’s like most things in life that take form like the telling of a story: it’s much easier to tell it once you know what the end looks like.   My mother was raised like a good Mexican woman; expert at cleaning and cooking, her purpose in life was to find a good husband and breed (This isn't meant to be offensive, my mother, like most Latina mothers, is a force to be reckoned with and she's likely tougher than you).  My father’s path was slightly less defined until familial obligations forced him to be financially stable with an eye towards the future.

They were not raised in the United States during the 90s watching Reality Bites and The Real World and listening to feminist activists like Ani Difranco and going to punk rock shows the way I was.  They also didn’t have the choices my brother and I had so they did their best with all they had to work with.  They did pretty well for themselves; putting my brother and I through good universities, purchasing a nice suburban home and travelling a great deal.

I understand their frustration with my brother and me.  They worked really hard for us to have the opportunities we have at this point in our lives and careers.  It must be really annoying to have a daughter like me who thinks settling down is something you do when you’re in your 40s. For Godsakes, I’m already 26 and God knows my clock is ticking (especially with no boyfriend, right mom)?  


My brother can’t decide whether he wants to be a New Yorker, Chicagoan or California dreamer and so he has moved from coast to coast and places in between with his career.  My parents keep hoping that we become more sensible: purchase some property, make some investments, settle down.  

It seems like the only thing we can all agree on is that our youth is this sweet elixir that vanishes more quickly than tequila at a Mexican wedding.  We just can’t agree on where or how to drink it.

Sometimes, I think I wasn’t born to settle down and sometimes when I try to, I just long for another adventure, while each one makes me thirstier than the first.  To me my 20s means I am free.  Free of mortgages, free of marriages, free of long-term commitments and maybe it’s my only shot to have my adventures.  


I don’t want to wait for retirement; I won’t have my body then, and there are no guarantees that I’ll even make it to my 70s anyway.  Janis Joplin once said, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”  I’ll have a lot more to lose when I’m older and “settled.” Kids might come into the picture as well as a mortgage, a husband and all those other things that I’m supposed to want right now, but I don’t.

My mother is constantly thinking she did something wrong in raising my brother and me.  Somehow, it was a mistake to send us to college or to bring us with her on all those vacations because we were bitten with the travel bug and now we can't stop. Or maybe we learned too much in college and expect to encompass it all in a career.

Our generation as a whole is highly educated with up to 51 percent of us having some college in our educational background.  This, in stark contrast with our parents whom only had a high school education, has helped create what I call the 20-something conundrum that is plaguing and blessing we Gen Yers.

The 20-something conundrum has to do with the paradox of choice.  The current belief system we operate under in Western society is roughly as Barry Schwartz, (The Paradox of Choice, 2005) puts it, “The more choice people have the more freedom they have.  The more freedom they have the more welfare they have.” We are essentially “paralyzed” by too many options and too much freedom that choosing a path is more difficult.  When we finally do make a decision we are likely to be less satisfied by that choice because we are too busy thinking about what could have been with other options.  A perfect example are our parents: they chose the path they did with more ease because of less choices. 

I’m sure many can relate when you’re at the grocery store and you’re in the cereal aisle.  If you had three options: Cheerios, Corn Flakes or Cinnamon Toast Crunch you’d probably have an easier time deciding on the type of cereal to get, right?  But instead there’s Cheerios, Honey Nut Cheerios, Cinnamon Apple Cheerios, Toasted Oats, Multigrain Cheerios and all of a sudden twenty minutes have gone by and you’re comparing ingredients and prices and stressed out about how this decision will affect the rest of your life.  


That’s what the 20-something conundrum feels like except the choices are between: getting a corporate job downtown that pays really well, following your dream to become a writer, actress, singer, nationally renowned cyclist, working at a non-profit and serving your community, backpacking through the Andes, moving to France and studying the language, working for the embassy in China or going back to school and getting your MBA or a Masters in English so you can go back to your old high school and put a new spin on The Great Gatsby.

It’s overwhelming, right?  We are the generation that was told as children that if we can dream it, we can have it.  Our parents sent us off to get really expensive diplomas that we were supposed to graduate with as a passport into the land of opportunity and now we are finding that it’s harder and harder to choose a path knowing what big world there is out there.  


So while I’m busy deciding whether to start my own business, get my MBA or join the PeaceCorps at 26 years old, my parents were bringing their family to the U.S. from Cuba or getting ready to get married.

For our generation, it’s not the work that challenges us, but rather choosing a path and going down it with no fear of regret that’s the challenge.   This is the quarter life crisis; this is the 20-something conundrum.  

Look for more blogs from me about 20-somethings in business within the next few weeks.

I was afraid to be alone. Now I’m scared that’s how I like to be.

It’s been close to 10 months that I’ve been living alone.  My apartment goes in phases of cleanliness and complete and utter disorder.  I like to measure my mental states by it sometimes. 

Things I’ve learned these past ten months:

• Singing and playing my guitar whenever I want is worth the extra cash in rent.
• Occasional insomnia bothers a lot less people when you live alone.
• Drinking wine alone while drawing is okay; drinking whiskey, however, is not.
• I can become much like a hermit and not see people for days (aside from work) and retain about 60% of my sanity, which in my book is pretty damn good considering it’s probably only 65% at best.
• I’ve developed a closer relationship with my plants than I ever thought possible.
• No Jen, you do not need to purchase a box of mangos because of a really good deal. Food spoils a lot faster when you live alone.
• All those dishes piled in the sink ARE all really yours.
• Cooking is a lot less fun when you know you’re the only one that will partake in eating the meal.
• No checking with the roomies to see if the TV will be free when you’re in the mood for a flick is awesome. J
• No one to watch the movie with is slightly less awesome.  L
• Peanut Butter and Jelly sandwiches are nutritious and delicious and make for a great breakfast, lunch or dinner!

You can go a little further in extremes when you live alone with no one to draw you back or remind you that you are not an island.  My tendency to float off on boats to the exotic islands in my head is quite impressive.  I forget there’s a huge land mass I live on called CHICAGO and that accepting phone calls from friends might be a good idea before getting all Tarzan-like: having existential conversations with volleyballs (Wilson), or thinking your pet fish is really a prophet born into a fish-like body and he’s been trying to tell you about some world disaster for weeks now.  Tragically, you don't speak fish and when you watch the news and learn about the tornadoes taking over Kansas your prophet-fish gives you that all-knowing look while you sink into an uncontrollable guilt for not speaking fish.

Like they say, everyone should live alone at least once and perhaps, have a dog instead.

Lesson # 26 I guess

My 15 year old cousin is here from Los Angeles.  She hasn’t been back to Chicago in about four years.  I remember being a 15 year old girl going to visit my cousin Susana at University in Mexico City and I thought she was so beautiful and so cool.  She listened to all of this cool music and had all of these cute friends and would just buy a single cigarette from the kid selling gum on campus and talked about philosophy and how she and her friends were starting a new movement in the art world.  I remember looking at her thinking: that’s who I want to be when I grow up.

Last night, we picked up my dog and it was so hot and I paced around my warm apartment trying to think of something that I could do with my cousin that didn’t involve drinking or bars in the neighborhood.  We were hungry so we went walking and I showed her the cool architecture and we went into local art galleries I had never been in and I realized how difficult it was for me to relate to her.  I took her to Los Comales for authentic Mexican and then we went to this open mic that I’ve only been to a few times and I performed an old poem.  The place was packed.

I kept thinking about Susana and me looking up to her thinking about “when I grow up” while sitting there with my fifteen year old cousin I realized this is it.  I am grown up. 

Took me 26 years to realize it’s no longer when I grow up – it’s now.  Am I the person I thought I'd be at 15?  Am I doing those things I had dreamed of doing?  If not, why not?  What stops me?

Sometimes, I’d prefer to be ignorant of that because knowing that you are in complete control of your life just makes you feel all the more responsible for everything you are or aren't.  Choice is a beautiful thing unless you almost always feel bipolar like me.  My ambivalence pushes and pulls me in opposing directions laying me stagnant and exhausted on my bedroom floor. 

So where to from here?