Impostor syndrome is a real thing, much like middle child syndrome. The latter I have long attested to, the former I just recently experienced while sitting cross legged on a yoga mat in a Mexican jungle-based yoga studio.
So it was with a stroke of great fortune I got to ride out the last of my Sayulita days cocooned within the quiet surrounds of the Kupuri Hotel, lounging poolside and rising early to avail of the complimentary continental breakfast spread. Cereal never tasted so good.
But that's precisely the thing I found with my experience of New York - that although we all grow up watching it on our tv screens and venture to the neon beast that is Times Square on our holidays, New York offers everybody their own little unique taste of it. It abides by no man and is constantly switching itself up so that you never experience the same city twice.
It is very easy to find ourselves stuck, to end up in a funk where we continue in a spiral downward slump of no return. To which I say STOP, you have what it takes to turn it all around and it starts with your mindset and outlook on your approach to life.
A mild case of heat stroke or the result of a lingering PBR hangover, either-way I was buzzed by the easy charm of Music City, its music-rich story and the promise of fiery hot chicken on every corner.
My sister was officially in labour. It was a little surreal since I just rolled over and continued to snooze, conscious of the pain she was about to endure and the chaotic hub of emotion about to let fly, but geographically and mentally I couldn't have felt further away. Winnipeg, CA - 3,630 miles away from Dublin city.
A couple of days ago I found a job in an Irish bar in Portland. It's a chain with sites also in San Francisco and Seattle. I fully grasp the full extent of how archetypal I am in my choice of establishments. Just what the world needs - another Irish waitress in another Irish/American bar.
Myself and my small, close-knit ring of friends devoured the likes of <em>Bliss</em>,<em> Sugar</em> and <em>J-17</em> for all our boy/girl insights and on occasion the more risky mag Look to study up on the Position of the Fortnight. Heady days indeed.
A heatwave had descended on Portland and the irony that I left NYC to escape its steaming sidewalks did not elude me. But here we were with a real bed to sleep in, a kitchen in which to cook our 89 cent broccoli rice and a shower heaving under the weight of copious bottles of shampoo and conditioner..score!
I have never been one to be wardrobe-ready when such occasions demand such practicality. The biggest, most notable problem has always been my lack of appropriate shoe-wear. Which is surprising really, given my utter hate and dread of soggy wet feet you would think I would be savvy to the winter elements with an ever-ready stockpile of go-to waterproofs.
I may or may not dive into the Black Friday madness in a bid to score Christmas gift bargains and have them shipped homeward by airmail in what I would like to think of as ample time, in reality this will probably fare differently.
The summer myself and my sister moved to Cornwall after my graduation to live in a caravan and become fully-certified beach bums, I remember feeling both at once a lasting sense of grown-up freedom coasting alongside the fear of being set loose and thinking "So what now?".
There was always a nail varnish flaunting its sheen by her kitchen sink or a lipstick in an elegant china sugar bowl sporting a little white lace and crochet cover with beads sewn into the edges. Nooks and crannies abounded with copious gems and wonders to fill the mind's eye, a walk through Marie's house revealed story after story and the mix-matched pictures depicted a life fully immersed.
Tossing you up to stomach-churning heights, it's as quick to turn around and peg you in your place just when you feel you've got it, that you're a part of it , that every lesson life has taught you up to this point has merely been a means for preparing you for the daily jostle.
Jumping on the Airtrain to bring me to Howard Beach and the subway line, I ride the A train all the way to 59th and Columbus Circle. Stepping into the frenzied mid-town street, half blinded by the reflecting blaze of the afternoon sun on a glassy skyscraper I think if only happiness such as this could be bottled and bought. Out here, I sing, a fish can breathe.
My milk obsession is simple and that is the lure of breakfast. Breakfast is what gets me moving in the morning, breakfast meaning cereal. Nothing else seems to fuel me through to lunch like a brimming bowl of flakes and clusters, raisins and granola, nut and crunch. The choice is endless and the taste-bud-cum-stomach-satisfaction is a sure-fire guarantee.
It's a case of first world problems at their finest. Individually, paying the extra amount for an item that is locally crafted and sold as oppose to opting for the cheaper, mass-produced variety makes little difference but changes are wrought when carried out collectively; local businesses thrive and that personal sense of locality and camaraderie can live on alongside our virtual communities.
11/06/2014 11:31 BST
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