What got me started?
Day in and day out (which sounds as though I am being dramatic, but trust me, I’m not) my friends and acquaintances ask me for advice on an array of topics, which is strange to me because I will be the first to tell anyone that I am not an expert on anything. I swear I hold the throne on being good with a lot and exceptional at little. I think the first time that someone told me I should start blogging was during my freshman year of college when a girl from one of my classes came knocking on my door one night. I opened the door to a frantic girl.
“I need your help!” she blurted.
What the…? Apparently she met a guy the day before, which was beyond me considering we were in our first semester at an all women’s college, but the girl was beautiful. Hey, shit happens. Turns out, he asked her on a date and she had no idea what to wear. She showed me her options. Drab dress number one and forgettable number two. Again, what the..?
She was freaking out because beyond her traditional clothing (she was from Pakistan) she didn’t have much to wear. So I took this mid-length, deep blue, boat-neck dress she had, told her to pair it with some bangles, a nice boot and wear her hair out. She had phenomenal hair, Jessica Simpson wouldn’t sell you wigs as amazing as that girl’s hair. When she put the outfit on she looked great. She was dressed up, with a few statement pieces, without distracting from her natural beauty. Simple yet elegant.
That wasn’t the end. Most people I knew, whenever they had somewhere to go, some party to attend, some guy to impress, would send me a text or a phone call and I would be in their rooms, or them in mine. It reminded me of Clueless, Cher and her amazing closet/computer that would choose her outfits for her. I was that computer. Damn.
It wasn’t just with clothes, either. It would happen when friends needed advice with school, their social lives and even their personal lives. One day one of my best friends said, “Can you please start a blog already!” an idea which had never occurred to me, surprisingly. So I tried. And tried. Then I tried again. It just wasn’t working out for some reason. It’s not as though I didn’t like to write. I love it, but it wasn’t coming to me.
I think that now that I’m in my twenties, I realize that I did not have much to write about. How much did I really know at eighteen? Sure I had experienced some things, especially living in New York City my entire life. However, I think I needed to be independent, to learn, to hurt and be hurt. Now that I’ve adopted this no fucks given attitude and an appreciation for myself, everything flows so easily. Holy crap, I think I grew up. Well, who would’ve guessed?