|Me in Paris, 2011. Photo: Katherine Lowe|
It’s 4:27am on Monday morning and I’m insomniac-ing out in my bed right now. Having spent the past hour reading three months’ worth of posts from Karley Sciortino I suddenly have a strong inclination to write something. And here we go. Resolutions only work when they’re potentially achievable – ie go to the gym three times a week in an attempt to develop those pectoral muscles that never grew of their own accord (I did this last year for about six months and it worked, but then I popped a weird little hernia in my wrist and got frightened and quit and the pecs retracted soon after) – and goals are all very good and well; but what happens when you achieve them and can’t think of what to do next?
This happened to me in 2012. For as long as I could remember, my lifelong dream had been to move to New York and to write for The New York Times. I did both of those things at the end of 2011. There were other aspirations that panned out: Work alongside the original men.style.com dream team, collaborate with a brand, get interviewed by both Kim Hill and John Campbell, fall in love with an amazing girl, fly to Berlin with HUGO BOSS, shoot my first pilot; and aims that didn’t: Get that pilot picked up, go to the Oscars, create a sell-out first collection for Little Brother, become a celebrity stylist, go to the gym three times per week, etc etc.
And then it was like, now what?
I spent a lot of time complaining to my mother, hoping things would work out, envying my model friends who seemed to have it so easy, trying to blog about menswear in a way that differed from the pretentious, ironic, self-adulatory, #menswear voice that I began to despise, and not doing a whole hell of a lot to change my circumstances.
I steered clear of anything that scared me – a mistake in itself, because the tried and tested got me nowhere fast. Worst of all, I began to resent my blog – the very thing that got me here in the first place.
What to do? What to do?
I’m still trying to figure it out.
In the meantime, here are my resolutions:
Get out of my comfort zone as often as possible.
Get out of the house.
Take responsibility for my successes and failures.
Write about things that actually interest me, or don’t write anything at all.
Pitch something to someone every day of the week.
Move out of my current apartment and into one that has my name on the lease.
Attempt to be a little less self-involved (or at least make a valiant effort).
Surround myself with people who I actually like as opposed to people who I just like to party with.
Make myself enjoyable company when I see my family (apologies for the past two visits, Hindin-Millers).
Don’t turn into the less intellectual version of Woody Allen’s archetypal character that I was in so much danger of becoming.
Good luck to you and yours.
Happy New Year.
It’s now 5:17am.
As always, I LIKE YOU.