If you cut me, I will bleed … very, very slowly

What a ride 32 was. I always said 27 was my best year (I was dating a surfer … with a six-pack … in Bali … while waiting on my first book to be printed. I mean … come on), but this one has been solidly better. It’s been better because it was harder. If 27 was Eat, Pray, Love, then 32 was Shantaram. It was real. Visceral. It was long at points. I couldn’t chew through it all gluttonous and absent minded. I had to pay attention to 32. At times, I totally lost the plot.

I found out at the close of being 31 that my blood doesn’t work properly. It all happened when my brother was hospitalized after running a marathon. Apparently when you run 26 miles without stopping, you should NOT hop on a flight for five hours and down several glasses of Champagne. You might have a mysterious blood disorder called Factor V Leiden. (Yeah, I agree that sounds more like a Vin Deisel movie than medical disorder, but it’s real). If you run like an antelope and then fly far, far away, you might end up with two blood clots in your leg. You might have to go on blood thinners for six months and pray those suckers don’t break loose in your sleep and kill you instantly. That’s what happened to him.

I panicked for him. Then I found out this weird-ass blood bullshit is hereditary. Then I panicked for all of us. Turns out, we both clot too quickly. Yup … mom’s a clotter. My niece has tomato soup blood too.

And it’s hard when all of a sudden, you get some test result and your insides feel dangerous. I turned 32 and I suddenly felt old.

I felt lost. I felt too far away from the Buddhism I’d studied so ardently in college. Miles from the meditation and the Reiki I used to practice. I contemplated that New York City wasn’t really my home. I lost myself for a bit and as a result, I lost close friends. Or … maybe I realized those friendships just weren’t meant to last forever. I was a real pain in the ass to be around, for sure. I wallowed and cried and spent weeks in bed. I was sick of being single. At the same time, I wanted everyone to leave me alone. I hated going out. I hated staying in. I couldn’t get comfortable in my own skin. Anywhere. Anytime. For anything.

Eventually, you find the proverbial Paxil. Or, I suppose for some people, you take literal Paxil. Whatever works in a crisis, right? In my own mini melodrama, I went out and hired a personal trainer. She’s been a therapist, a friend, a sounding board and a real mentor to me. Jill Livoti – I love you beyond, and I owe you a lot. Oh, and as an added bonus, I kinda sorta have abs now. Kinda. Sorta. Some days.

Over the past year, I also went out and made new friends. That was not an easy process. It’s amazing how you can feel incredibly old and also 13 all over again – at the same mother fucking time. Facebook is not your friend in moments like these. You see status updates that your old friends drinking together at bars. You aren’t there, because you didn’t get invited. That’s your fault. And you know that, but the relationships got too damaged to fix. And here you are … 32 and going on what feels like a bunch of friend-shopping first dates. It was bizarre, flat out. PS – Stefany Cesari … I’d take you out for a first-date Zaragoza taco any day.

In the in-between times, I re-read Siddartha. I sat down and meditated again. I booked a flight back to Asia. I committed to 30 days working with kids who had all sorts of health problems that would make blood clots look like sprinkles on a cupcake. I did this as a selfish move. I’m as aware of that as anyone. Nothing in this world is truly selfless. Even – and at times especially – charity work.

Anyways, I’m rambling off course. Collectively, these things brought me out of one of the worst depressions I’ve ever known. And yeah, I’ve known a few. I’m really happy in my life right now. Will I always be? Nope. But for now, it’s great. And even though she’s as mentally stable as Mickey Rourke and she smells, New York City is my home. Will it always be? Who knows? But for now … it’s great.

I guess while most days this blog is about travel literally, today it’s about the travel we all do in our own heads. It’s about looking back and looking forward … and all that milestone, nostalgic, emotional carb-loading we do on our birthdays.

I guess I wanted to share a bit of myself with the people that read this thing. A real bit of myself and not just the fun “oh I’m traveling and drinking and running amok” side of me.

For everyone else on Earth not born on 7/7, it’s any given Sunday. For me … today is my day. I plan to go and make the most of it. There will be bacon and tequila and hugs and nonsense. But first, I want to say thank you to all the people that made my 32^nd year so meaningful. I love each and every one of  you.

Like all the other hard crap in life, I wouldn’t give up the blood disorder drama if I had the choice now to go back and change it.

My brother and I really work on our relationship because of the trials of this past year. I’m incredibly grateful for the lesson and the reminder that having a sibling is one of the most unique and remarkable relationships that life could afford you. If you have one, don’t take that shit for granted.

They say blood is thicker than water. In our case … it’s thicker than it should be. And I wouldn’t trade that for the world.