StyleWhipped

Rebecca Gordon - How I Cured My Taxi Addiction

Everyone who has ever lived in New York, and most who have ever spent a weekend here, have some sort of crazy cab story.  Twice in two weeks this past year I had cab drivers knowingly  drive the wrong way down one way streets; a cab driver once told me how great I smelled and then went on to tell me that driving a cab was something he did to supplement his income as some sort of business owner and then told me again how great I smelled; and once I was in a cab that hopped the curb on the west side highway after I suggested maybe the driver wanted to drive closer to the speed limit.  The day a good friend told me she almost lost it trying to get a cab in the rain, I thought I had heard the craziest of cab stories.  As the story goes, a woman was about to be the fifth person to take a cab that was rightfully for my friend* and my friend ran up to her and said “If you take this cab, I will effing hurt you.” My friend got the cab and we all got a good laugh (I am sure the other woman is still shaking, but this is how serious things can get in the rain when people steal cabs).  I didn’t think it could get any more ridiculous. And then I took a cab to JFK very early on a Saturday morning in October.

Somehow, the driver managed to get completely lost and, because I have never had to drive to the airport in NYC, I was unable to help him find the way (but I did know he was lost).  By the time we got to the airport, I was cutting it close to making my flight, even with all the extra time I always leave myself.  When the total fare amount came up on the screen, I selected credit card as my payment of choice (as my friends know all too well, I never carry cash and this has only become worse now that cabs have to accept credit).  And then the screen went blank and I couldn’t do anything. When I asked the cab driver to reset the machine, he told me the machine was fine and my card was broken. I tried another card and the same thing happened.  The cab driver then started yelling at me telling me I had to pay.  I told him I would happily pay but I didn’t have any cash and was about to miss my flight. He called another driver over and this other driver confirmed the machine did not work, but my driver was not convinced and continued yelling. I calmly asked for his contact information in order to send him the money and offered to give him my business card, but he was having none of it and continued to scream at me. I said “Sir, I am willing to pay you, but your machine is not working and you won’t give me your information so I am going to get out of the cab and get my flight.” I then started getting out of the cab and the driver yelled some more. He was yelling so much that a traffic cop came over and I felt relieved that someone was going to help me (I am not being a wimp here, this guy was really screaming at me and it was frightening). It turned out the traffic cop was just coming for entertainment purposes. Apparently he only got involved in traffic related business of which there was none, so he was free to watch the show that is my life. After enjoying a few minutes of the yelling, the traffic cop told me there was an ATM just inside the sliding doors. I told the driver he could come with me and I would get cash to pay for the cab. He then tried to block my way as I tried to go to the ATM and, of course, continued to scream at me as we walked together to the ATM.  The screaming continued while I was at the ATM and I figured it was making me nervous because I was having trouble getting it to work.  The yelling was so intense that the handsome Australian man in line behind me twice told the driver to stop talking to a lady** like that. After three attempts, I asked the handsome Australian man to try the machine and he had no luck either.  At this point, I was fairly certain I was missing my flight and maybe going to get arrested (I did tell the driver at some point to “go ahead and call the cops, but I am getting on that plane!”).  Then the strangest thing happened, the  handsome Australian man took out the largest roll of cash ever*** and asked me how much money I needed.  I thanked him profusely, told him how much I needed and insisted he take my business card (even though he said repeatedly he did not want repayment).  He then gave the cab driver the money (and I then put it all together to realize this guy did not need the ATM but had come over to help me). After witnessing this act of kindness, one might think the cab driver’s heart would soften or he would at least go on his way.  One would be wrong. The cab driver told the handsome Australian he still owed fifty cents, as if the handsome Australian were actually responsible for paying the fare. The Australian gave him one more dollar and then started giving him the what-for about talking to a lady like that.  After noticing the Australian was wearing a wedding ring and could not be my future husband, I ran to security and made my flight.****  The plane took off with my faith in New Yorkers (or handsome Australian men in New York) restored.

And this is why I took the subway home this Sunday night after a family dinner, even though I was carrying a big bag with my workout clothes and a large box of wine glasses. I knew the subway would take my card, know the way to my destination and only yell at me to announce the next stop.

~Rebecca

*I am withholding her name to protect her.

**Me, a lady!

***Probably not "ever", but you get the point.

****Of course, a bunch of other things went close to wrong – the security line was miles long, my gate had changed without me knowing it and so when I got to the empty gate I assumed I had missed the flight that was actually boarding twenty minutes late three gates down – but I made the flight and including all these details would make the story too long/boring. You are welcome.

Rebecca Gordon - Four Wheels, Three Staples, Two Friends, One Bright Light

I was lucky enough to spend some time in Utah this past week and had the opportunity to enjoy some of the usual winter activities* available in the mountains.  There were lots of choices of things to do and, as someone who likes to stay busy and active, this was perfect for me.  One of the activities I consciously avoided was snowmobiling.  Most of the other people on my trip were very excited about speeding through the woods and enjoying incredible views of the mountains.  Most of the other people are not me and have not suffered a serious injury while on the snowmobile’s warmer weather cousin, the four-wheeler.

About three years ago, I spent July 4^th weekend at the home of my friends Paul and Jes.**  Their home in the Catskills is on 30+ acres and, at this house, there are lots of choices of things to do (running, archery, gardening, fire building, bocce, pumpkin carving). Going around the property on the four-wheeler has always been a fan-favorite. I never really cared for going on the four-wheeler, but occasionally went along with it. This July 4^th weekend, I went along on a ride with Todd*** because I thought I should try to understand why everyone loves this four-wheeler thing.  Todd and I were driving around the property and were on our way to a side field when we came along a little stream that was a result of the heavy rain that summer.  So Todd had to turn the four-wheeler around in what can be described as a many point turn because there were a few trees preventing us from just turning around.  During one of the turns, the four-wheeler very lightly tapped a small tree. This very light tap loosened a branch from a larger tree resting on the smaller tree (again, lots of rain that summer) and this branch fell right on my head.  Todd then looked back at me and said “are you okay?” To this I said, “I am not okay.”  Now, I know I come off as a bit of a wimp, but I can handle pain and am not one to whine too much if I get a small bump on the head.

Todd then took a look at my head and almost at the same time his hand pressed right against my head.  Then Todd told me that I was bleeding and he was going to take off his shirt for me to put on my head, so I would have to put my hand where his hand was while he took off his shirt. When we switched hands, I saw that his hand was covered in blood and as I put my hand on my head I could feel the blood spurting out (I know, gross.). So Todd put his very favorite t-shirt on my head, looked right at me to tell me I was going to be okay and we climbed back on the four-wheeler.  Todd told me to keep my head up and to keep his shirt pressed to my head. As we drove back through the field, everything was getting brighter and brighter and almost started going white – which was freaking me out and I said something like “It’s so bright” to Todd. When we pulled up to the house, Paul and Jes thought we were trying to be funny by coming back from the woods with a shirtless Todd. And then they realized I was not getting off the four-wheeler.

Todd, Jes and I climbed into the car and started the 20-mile drive to the nearest emergency room. At this point I was starting to freak out and was more than slightly annoyed that my friends, especially the biggest question-asker ever Jes, were not keeping me talking.  “Can you both keep talking to me? I don’t know why this is the moment you are choosing to be silent.”

By the time we arrived at the hospital, I was feeling slightly better and had realized that the white light was because I was staring straight into the sun as we drove back to the house. I was so focused on holding the t-shirt to my head that I didn’t think to look away from the sun. So I wasn’t passing out, I was just burning my corneas.

Right about now you are probably wondering what happened to the usual Rebecca, the one who tells funny little stories about roommates and cocktails and her gang.  I am back. This story is about to get funny.

Before I could see an actual doctor (although I am not sure I ever did see an actual doctor that day), I had to talk to the intake woman at the front desk, some hospital administrator and at least two nurses.  One might think the first question any of these people asked me after “What happened?” would be “How are you feeling?” or “Have you lost consciousness?” or anything other than what all of those people asked me -  “Are you pregnant?”  I answered it the first time, I answered it the second time even when the person asking me wanted to know how I was sure I was not pregnant (seriously, she said “is it because you have not had sex in a long time? ”).  When the third person, a male nurse covered in tattoos, asked me, I believe I said something like “Why don’t you ask one of the effing other people who asked me the same question? Not one person here has asked me how I am feeling, but everyone seems very interested in my sex-life.” I am not sure if the man had a stutter before meeting me, but I definitely brought it out in him.

And then, finally, I got to see a doctor. This doctor told me I would need two staples in my head and assured me this was better than stitches because stitches would require the shaving of part of my head. He then asked me if I would like some lidocaine in my head to kill the pain of the staples. I asked him which was more painful, the lidocaine or the staples.  “Well, sometimes we have to fish around a little bit with the lidocaine to make sure we get the right spot”.  Not feeling all that confident about the abilities of this particular ER staff, I decided to limit the number of holes being poked in my head and declined the lidocaine. This means I got two staples in my head without painkillers. For those of you who have not had the misfortune of getting staples to the head, you should know the stapler looks a lot like the kind of stapler used to put very thick staples into a wall (or at least that is what it looked like at this place).  And when I say “two staples without painkillers”, I mean three staples without painkillers. After inspecting his work with the two staples, the doctor decided one more would do the trick. 

And this is why I won’t ever go on a four-wheeler, snowmobile,  mechanical bull, motorcycle or  jetski ever again.

~Rebecca

*Well, I ran and went snowshoeing. So I did two activities and only one is really a winter activity.  But I think the story works better if I make it seem like I did more than those two things and work.  Go along with it.

**She sometimes spells it with one ‘s’.  Go along with it.

***Eventually one of my stories will be about something other than a ridiculous situation with Todd. There is just a lot of good material.

Rebecca Gordon - The Art of Brunch

I spent yesterday afternoon at ellabess enjoying a bloody mary competition with my friends and about 100 other people, mostly hipsters (hipsters apparently have a love for the classic brunch cocktail. Who knew?). Tasting ten or so bloodies felt like the right thing for me to do given my love of brunch and given the bloody mary is best consumed at brunch. I consider myself skilled at more than a few things, but one of my most impressive life skills is brunch.

I always know what to order (at a diner I get two poached eggs, whole wheat toast and potatoes well-done; at a fancy restaurant I get eggs benedict, hold the bacon, hold the hollandaise, sub the muffin for whole wheat toast; at home I make my own poached eggs and toast. If you are paying attention you will notice I basically eat the same thing for brunch regardless where I am. Why mess with perfection?) and, I won’t name names, but I have somehow worked it so that I rarely have to wait at one of the busiest brunch spots in New York. The one part of brunch I am not expert in is the bloody mary.  The reason for this relates to my preferred seating status at the unnamed brunch spot.  A few years ago, I was at brunch with Todd and we wisely ordered drinks before we got to thinking about food.  I had been on a long run that morning and was feeling like I needed a little protein ASAP, so I decided it made sense to order a white russian (with skim milk, of course. Didn’t want to ruin the benefits of the run).  This is not the typical brunch order* and the bartender gave me a strange look before making the drink.  During the course of our brunch, Todd and I happened to overhear a conversation between the bartender** and the hostess that I am not entirely comfortable repeating out loud, so there is no way I am writing it down for you. Let’s just say it would definitely make for an R-rating in a movie and I still blush when I think about it.  The bartender and the hostess realized we had overheard them and we all shared a little laugh.  This conversation combined with my strange drink order meant that the bartender remembered us the next time we came in.  So seats were cleared for us and a white russian with skim milk was in my hands before I could really order.  If I have learned anything in my life going out in New York, it is this: if a bartender remembers your drink, go with it.  This may lead to a free round, but more importantly it leads to not having to wait as long as other customers for a drink.  And at a crowded bar, this is really valuable. So, again, go with it. Even if the bartender remembers your drink, but it is not actually your drink, I still recommend going with it because the benefits outweigh the negative of drinking a drink you may not have wanted.  In many cases, bartenders move from one great place to the next and this means you end up with status at multiple locations without even trying.

Following this rule means years and as many bartenders later, I prefer milk with a splash of kahlua and vodka – even on the days when I don’t really prefer it.

I’ll see you at brunch, just not with a bloody mary.

~Rebecca

*It really should be, milk and coffee are classics at brunch and a white russian basically looks like an iced coffee.

**Yes, we were eating at the bar. I highly recommend this for a party of two at any meal.

Rebecca Gordon: Yoga with a Side of Comedy

Once or twice each year, I decide I am going to take up yoga.  Given all my running and the general hyper-activity of my life, yoga seems like a good idea for my mind and body.  Also, it meets my criteria for exercise* and I hope to one day have amazing arms like my sister-in-law.   When I say “take up yoga”, what I really mean is I am going to spend a few weeks talking about how I am going to take up yoga and then never follow through on my plans.  So except for the brief period in business school where I took a combo spin/yoga class with my friend Katherine, I have made no effort to actually “take up yoga.”  At least until my friend Sarah asked if I wanted to check out a yoga place she found in our neighborhood.  What follows is the true story of what we experienced on Saturday afternoon.

Everything started off normal enough – the instructor introduced herself to us, people laid out their yoga mats and I started worrying that I was about to humiliate myself in a room full of strangers.  This is where normal ended. Before class officially started, a woman shared a story about how she recently stood in a coffee shop vestibule with Alec Baldwin while they both played on their cell phones. The instructor commented that it was “romantic”. Now I like Alec Baldwin more than the next person, but nothing about standing in a vestibule while not talking to or looking at Alec Baldwin (or any person) sounds romantic and I am not leaving out any part of the story. The whole story was: “Last week I stood in a coffee shop vestibule with Alec Baldwin while we both played on our cell phones.”  And the instructor found this romantic and the storyteller agreed. 

Class started and I was glad the weird chatter was over.  But it turns out the yoga instructor fancies herself a bit of a comedian and the weird chatter continued.  Early on in the class she suggested we try to become Facebook friends with Alec Baldwin’s girlfriend and a few minutes later she told us to either focus on our form or think about Alec Baldwin.  When we had the left leg twisted around the right and were trying to squat while holding our arms above our heads, she told us to pretend we were holding a croissant in our butts – and then she laughed and told us we would get it later. I still don’t get it and I am not sure I want to. 

And the commentary was not the end of the weirdness.  Take the playlist. For a yoga class, our instructor selected Pearl Jam, Train, Simon & Garfunkel, and Swell Season.  What about “she lies and says she still loves him” or “you have broken me all the way down” says inner-peace?  Also, are yoga classes supposed to have playlists?

Now consider the sneak attack massages the instructor gave out at the end of class.  As Drops of Jupiter faded, the lights went out and I was feeling relieved class was almost over. I closed my eyes and started looking forward to being able to laugh about this whole experience with Sarah on the way home.  Suddenly and without warning, my shoulders were being massaged and not gently.  Had this class been relaxing, the massage would have ruined it. Were I a normal person who enjoyed massages, this still would have made me feel uncomfortable (Just ask Sarah. She is normal and was equally uncomfortable.). I am not one to enjoy a massage by a stranger.  My feeling is that if you want to get that close at least buy me a drink first.  At a minimum please give me a warning or ask for my permission before putting your hands on me in the dark. Just a useful tip if the opportunity presents itself to any of you.

Lastly, let’s discuss the instructors closing words before she turned the lights on.  “Think happy thoughts and nice things about yourself because everyone out in the world is judging you.”  Really? Everyone out in the world is judging me? This never occurred to me. I always thought everyone was thinking about themselves or the presidential election or what to make for dinner.  Turns out the world is busy critiquing my choice to run and then do yoga three hours later without showering or changing my clothes. My mistake.

And after all that, I think I might go back next week.  My arms already look better.

~Rebecca

 

*Criteria for exercise:  1. No serious equipment or clothing required. 2. Can be done almost anywhere.

Rebecca Gordon: How I Used My MBA

Most people use the skills they gain while getting an MBA to advance their careers, start a business, break into a new industry, or help a non-profit have more of an impact on the world. Because I am not all that different from most people who get MBAs, I have done a few of those things with all I learned in business school.  Because I am different enough from most of the people who get MBAs, I have used my leadership, branding and planning skills for something much more important – I have started a successful gang.

For my 29^th birthday, I wanted to have a low-key dinner with just a few friends. Todd decided this low-key dinner would include everyone forcing me to wear a bunch of crazy jewelry throughout the evening. So people brought bright-colored earrings and ugly bracelets and, of course, a tiara. And Todd got me a platinum chain with a spinning Cadillac charm from a very fancy jewelry store on Canal Street (I think of it as the downtown version of Harry Winston. I am happy to make sure you get VIP treatment when you shop there. Just let me know and I will give the store your name.).

I strictly follow the rule that if you receive a gift you can wear, you must put it on at the very moment you receive it.  So I put on the earrings, bracelets, tiara and the Cadillac necklace.  And the night went from really fun to a lot more fun. We started an impromptu dance party at the restaurant, we did high knees when going from one venue to another, we made new friends wherever we went that night and everyone around us found it all charming (I didn’t ask anyone, I could just tell they all loved us). I don’t know what time I got home that night, but I do know Paul, Todd, Chris, and Augy  were with me until the end and I know I slept in that Cadillac necklace.

In the morning, Todd, Chris and I went for a nice run over the Brooklyn Bridge.* While on the run, we reminisced about the good times we had just hours before and we kept coming back to that Cadillac necklace and how amazing it was. That talk turned into a conversation about how cool it would be if I started a gang with all the guys who shut my birthday party down (sounds lame when I write it that way, but I swear it was cool). It would be called Rebecca’s Cadillac Boys and we would drive around in an old Cadillac convertible.  We would have an initiation and a secret handshake and the all-important tagline.  We had a lot of work to do to make this a real gang and not just a soon-to-be-forgotten silly idea. The tagline was easy. At the time, I frequently said “That’s right, Bitches” anytime I agreed with people or just generally wanted to emphasize anything I had just said.**  The handshake and initiation did not come so easy. We had time to figure out the initiation since it was decided the founding boys did not have to endure an initiation, so we focused on the handshake. We worked on this for a little while, tried a few things out and finally settled on something. You aren’t in the gang, so I can’t tell you what it is, but let’s just say that it left me with such bad bruises on my arms that I had to be sure to wear long sleeves to work in the following weeks.  Even after we had done all this work on the gang, I don’t think any of us realized this gang would take off and endure and be the basis for some legendary nights.

So I had my own gang. And it felt pretty cool. And anytime I saw a Cadillac I started pointing them out to those around me (it wasn’t annoying at all and the guy I was dating at the time didn’t break up with me because I interrupted a conversation to point out the sweet rims on a brick red Escalade).  The more we talked about the gang, the more other friends started asking if they could be in the gang. When I realized people were serious about joining, I called a meeting of the gang and we finally came up with an initiation for new members. Again, you are not in the gang, so I can’t tell you what it is, but just know that I was worried the process might cause my friend’s girlfriend’s implants to burst (it didn’t, but it was still a valid concern. She wanted in so badly that she took the risk.).  Slowly a few more guys were initiated – one-by-one these guys proved themselves and we let them in. And then one night in the Catskills when I was wearing one of the many Cadillac t-shirts I had recently received as gifts, a few girls were initiated.  The gang is still Rebecca’s Cadillac Boys, but it now includes girls.   For whatever reason, my very good friend Ben had missed all the initiations and he was getting more and more anxious about becoming a member. He started introducing me to people as “Rebecca, she has her own gang”. He would regularly ask me what he thought his chances were and I would tell him to “wait for it” and “stop being so eager”. Ben eventually got in, but not before his mother became a member.  Ben’s mother Karen approached me at a surprise party and said “I hear you have your own gang.”  And so began Karen’s quest to join my gang, which ended the next year when Karen was hazed into doing air limbo at her son’s wedding (that was her initiation. Don’t expect the same easy treatment. She’s a mom.). 

The gang is going strong years later (we even have a few babies in the gang. That’s right, babies!)  – members still send around an email if they are so lucky to rent a Cadillac and my Cadillac wardrobe continues to grow. And if I ever move out of New York City, I will probably buy a Cadillac.

So the next time you see a Cadillac on the road, remember no dream is too big, no challenge too great. I started my own gang and so can you.

~ Rebecca

*People find it hard to believe but I don’t get hungover and I wake up early after a big night ready for a run. This is no lie.

**The line stuck and has been shortened to TRB. I sign emails this way, I respond to questions with just those three letters and others in the gang use TRB to express their agreement with something.

Rebecca Gordon: A Sexless Marriage

Since last Monday, I have been fielding all sorts of questions – What time is it? Can you have that to me by 5pm? Which way is North? Do you want a bag for that? But the one I will answer here is: How did you end up writing on this site?  It might not be the most interesting question (or answer), but of all the questions listed above, this is the one I feel best positioned to answer.

I have lived in the same apartment building for over 7 years. Not a big deal for most normal people, but this beats any other place I have lived as an adult by 5 years.  Taking the elevator with the same people year after year means you sometimes get to know your neighbors without actually knowing them – take Ellen and her parents:  After taking the elevator with her every weekday morning, I know where she goes to school, where they spend their summer weekends, that she hates shoe shopping (“That will change” I said to her once) and that she frequently loses the cap to her chapstick (this makes her parents slightly angry). Do I know Ellen’s last name? Or her parents’ first names? Of course not. Unless her parents are called Ellen’s Mom and Ellen’s Dad.  I am lucky to have a few friends living in my building and we frequently share stories about these people we know but don’t know – what is the deal with the family that rents four apartments on the top floor? Have you seen that jerk throw his car keys at the doormen and ask them to watch that his car doesn’t get ticketed? Why does that old lady sit in the lobby reading catalogs and eating salt directly out of a shaker?  Our collective bits of information have created a series of mini-biographies for these strangers. I never realized I was somebody else’s Ellen – until I shared a cab with Alison.

Because I hate waiting for cabs and I am not shy, I frequently ask people standing outside my building if I can share a cab with them. Even when people clearly have zero interest in spending time with me, they seem unable to tell me they prefer to ride alone. Again, I hate waiting for cabs, so I ignore their non-verbal cues and push forward with cab sharing (they should thank me for saving them money).  I did this on a particularly cold night in December a few years ago when I was headed to a Christmas party on the Upper West Side.  Alison (or friendly-stylish-girl-with-cute-dog as I thought of her before that night) was headed in the same direction, so we split a cab.  Once in the cab, Alison said to me, “so you live with your boyfriend…husband?” This was Alison’s moment to learn more about her Ellen. When I told Alison I live with my friend Todd and we are truly just friends*, she let out a little bit of a laugh and seemed extremely relieved. Apparently Alison and her husband had spent years trying to figure us out and had decided we live in a sexless marriage. They would see us enter or leave the building walking a few steps apart. Todd would not wait for me while I check the mail.** If we were in the elevator together we were definitely not standing next to each other, forget about anything like holding hands.  And then there was the week when Alison’s husband saw both Todd and me out on dates with other people in the neighborhood. Alison and her husband felt bad for us – we were clearly not in love with each other and were both so brazen as to cheat on the other within spitting distance from our building. They just didn’t know we weren’t married or dating or anything more than two friends who are living the dream of every 30-something by having a roommate.  If you could see our amazing apartment (check out the view in the picture) you would instantly understand and then beg to be our third roommate – but I am not sharing a bathroom with you until we share a last name, so you can’t move in unless you want to marry me or, at the very least, go on a few high-chemistry dates with me.

That cab ride meant that the next time Alison and I ran into each other in the elevator or the gym we did more than the usual quick hello or small talk, we actually had conversations and those conversations led to us meeting up for drinks for a few times and, you guessed it, becoming friends. The kind of friends who might look like they don’t have much in common, but actually do. The kind of friends who ask each other to write on their websites (except only one has a site, so here I am). 

Or to put it another way, I am on this site because my friend Alison asked me to write some of my silly stories for her fantastic site. You heard it here first.

~Rebecca

*Everyone is convinced we have made out at least once. We have not. Stop asking. It won’t ever happen. Seriously.

**I love checking the mail.  I wish mailmen delivered on Sunday and I fear the end of Saturday deliveries.

Rebecca Gordon: Making Things Happen

Editor's Note: Please welcome Rebecca Gordon, Stylewhipped's newest columnist and resident 'girl-about-town'! Every Monday, Rebecca will bring you hilarious anecdotes about her often nutty life, along with everything from life-coach-worthy advice to dating tips to fitness ideas to (sometimes biased) reviews on the latest hotspots. Read more about Rebecca here, and keep reading below to check out her debut article...

----------------------------------------------

I don't believe in the New Year's resolution. Vowing to lose weight, quit diet coke, drink less beer, or exercise more is hard to maintain for 12 months and easy to stray from after just a few weeks. Once you drink that first diet coke*, why not just have a second? Once you lose the five pounds, why not stop your crazy juice cleanse and go back to bacon, egg and cheese for breakfast? Also, resolutions are often about removing things from your life - cookies, diet coke, nights out - and that just is not fun.

I do believe in picking a theme for the year. Something that will inform your every-day choices and get you closer to what you want in life. I have had themes for the past few years - "who's with me?," "say yes more," "it's raining men"** - and each has made an interesting, sometimes only minor, impact on my life. With "who's with me?," I picked a new goal for each season and worked toward that goal with dozens of others (some friends, some friends of friends) who also picked personal, traceable and positive goals. With "say yes more," as the title suggests, I said yes to activities and events (within reason) I might have otherwise avoided. "It's raining men" is a theme that picked me in 2011 and was initially about the frequency with which suitors seemed to be courting me, but ended up being about some of the most important friends in my life - this is a story for another day.

Today I am talking about the themes we pick. Themes that lead you to decide to run a half marathon in every state before you turn 50, make a barrel of wine with friends, go horseback riding for the first time in your life at the age of 32, or change out of your sweaty running clothes in the tiny bathroom of a trendy west village restaurant*** in order to look slightly less ridiculous amongst all the good-looking people. Themes that lead you to finally write down some of those crazy experiences and share them beyond the usual small group of friends simply for their amusement/support/advice, which is what my 2012 theme is leading me to do. I am "Making Things Happen," and part of that is writing about seeing my handsome neighbor answer the door for his girlfriend in only his small and tight underwear, repeatedly choosing to categorize the long shirt as a dress**** and getting four staples in my head. This theme does not mean to suggest I have been waiting for things to happen to me - I went to business school nine years ago, I left a job without another job because I was miserable with how I was spending my days, I successfully picked up men at bars with awesome lines like 'you look really familiar'. This theme is about doing many of the things I have talked about doing, but never made the time to see through. I am writing, painting, and doing - and expecting this to lead me to figure out what I really want.

So here goes. I am making things happen.

-- Rebecca 

*I have quit diet coke about fifty times and never succeeded. Shameful, I know.

**sounds much crazier than it was. Calm down and wait for the story. It is interesting, but not in the way I know you are thinking. Seriously, calm down.

***I told you some were minor.

****I am pretty short, so this is only daring in my world where crossing the street scares me as much as bungee jumping scares others and switching from wearing pearl earrings every day to mixing in small gold earrings takes two decades.

 

 

Happy New Year!

To all of our amazing readers...Happy New Year!

Thank you for coming back for our relaunch in 2011, and we promise that 2012 holds lots of fabulous new fashion, places, people and ideas to make your life even more full of style! We'll be back on Monday with a brand-new column from our 'girl-about-town' writer Rebecca Gordon (you don't want to miss it!), as well as more from editor-in-chief Alison Stewart, Bridal & Party Planning expert Danielle Aspromatis, Interior Designer Sherin Botros, and resident Music writer Jennifer Corcione. 

In the meantime, celebrate the new year in a way that would make us here at Stylewhipped proud...beautifully, safely, and full of hope.

~ The Stylewhipped Team

Sign Up! Right Now!

We are so happy that you are reading Stylewhipped! And we're excited to announce that there are going to be some exciting give-aways on the site very soon...BUT, you can only win if you are signed up for our mailing list! All you have to do is enter your email address in the spot to the right. Then we can send you an email to officially join. Really, it's that simple to be eligible to win some fab gifts from our featured brands...PLUS you'll get a weekly email from us, reminding you to read all our new articles! (And we never, ever share your information. Ever. Promise.)

~ The Stylewhipped Team