Nikki Yeager

As you all have probably noticed, I'm blogging very little lately. So little, in fact, that you might have given up on me all together.

Which is OK because in the end, I think I may have reached the end of this blog for a while.

When I first started to blog I had a dozen and a half reasons for doing so. I like to write. I wanted to stay in touch with my family who is scattered all over the world. I needed to share my life with the general public because I had no consistent companion to share it with.. my friends are rather transient. I liked the idea of making my life, my art and my adventures public. Oh, and I had a crap ton of stuff going on.. why not share it with someone, anyone??

But somehow many of those reasons have faded. For the past year I've been a pretty boring human being, which I say without regret. I've had responsibility-type things to worry about during that time... paying bills, saving money, finding a companion, etc. Now I've jumped most of those hurdles and I'm about ready to go back to my old self: adventurer and wanderer. Slightly eccentric but with more than a few good stories to share. Energetic and curious and hard to pin down.

But I'll be doing it without the intense blogging. I'll be doing it without being alone.

In the past, I've always prided myself on being independent to the extreme. I've never travelled any way but alone. I've never made a decision while considering anyone else but myself (which has led to some of the best decisions of my life). I've followed different paths with no regard for other people's arguments or concerns. Always pursuing life for nothing but enjoyment.

I still plan on following those random paths that shoot off to foreign countries and unexplored territory but, this time, it'll be with someone by my side. Two years ago I set out to "find myself a man!" and after countless dates, I did that. Little did I know that I'd find the person who (in the undeniably cheesy words of The Adjustment Bureau) would "be enough". I've found the person who became my journal, my shared memory and my long term companion. I found the person who makes it unnecessary to share every detail of my life with the general population.

Why? Because I can share it with him.

He loves that weird sponteneity I just can't shake no matter how many people think I should outgrow it. When we imagine our lives together, we imagine deciding to go to Europe on a Thursday and leaving on a Friday. We imagine living in Thailand for no reason than because it'd be a change. We both get antsy when in one spot too long but always plan on returning to NYC between adventures (I found someone who shares my obsessive love for the city). And some day in the future, if we ever take that leap and get married or have children... well, neither one of us considers "settling" to be something stagnant. We consider a "settled" life one that is stable but international, easy but adventuresome. We would like our children to be worldy and multi-cultural, multi-lingual and experienced.

And throughout all of those adventures I've found someone to not only tell about it all but to actually share it with. I've found the person who doesn't only put up with me grudgingly, but admires my oddities. Basically, I've found everything I ever dreamed I could find in one person.

Most importantly, I found someone who prizes me as an individual. And I, him.

One time an ex-boyfriend asked me: "So, Nikki, when will you finally let someone tie you down?"
And I answered: "The right person won't want to."

And for all the people who never understood that, Daniel does. Which is how I know I've found my person who is, and always will be, "enough".

So I’m currently 4k in debt. In serious, high interest, painful, exhausting, endless… debt.

I pay so much money towards minimum payments each month that I could easily rent another apartment in Manhattan if JP Morgan Chase didn’t own my soul.

However, I’m happy.
Why?
Because I’m only 4k in life-crushing debt. 6 months ago I was in double+ that amount. And then I made a life changing decision. I waged an all-out war on my credit cards and so far,

I have been victorious.

Armed with nothing but an enormous capacity to live in abject poverty and an affinity for extremes, I’m beating down each balance every single week. With a good 300 dollars automatically removed from every measly paycheck I get, I’ve managed to slaughter two cards. I took their 2 thousand dollar balances and laughed in their faces. I ate pasta for a month.
I gained weight from eating nothing but snacks from my office for a week. I lost weight from eating nothing but apricots the next week. I sold books, picked up promos and put my bridesmaids dress up on ebay the day after I wore it.

I stopped having fun unless it involved the word “free” (which still involved quite a bit of fun).

I gave up shopping, lived penny to penny and usually purchased breakfast with leftover quarters on Wednesdays (the day before payday). Aside from rent and cell phone bills, I use money for nothing except my ongoing debt battle. Each 300 dollars making nothing but a tiny, disappointing dent in the never ending debt.

And then, one day, I woke up with only one card left. The largest and most vicious – this is the card with an interest rate that eats other interest rates for breakfast. This card has no other goal then to crush the dreams of little girls trying to survive in big cities. This card is my biggest opponent yet.

Yet I am happy, because I know that after 6 months I’ve almost completely eradicated all those pesky little payments from my life.

And I feel like Achilles… before anyone learned about his heel.

The other day I had a work breakfast for REBNY (Real Estate Board of NY) and of all the strange things to make me stop and think, this breakfast was one of them.

I got there a few minutes early and met up with a few other people from our company. Clad in business casual slacks and sweaters, we made our way to the ballroom of the Roosevelt Hotel. Amidst the many department store suits and middle aged men, we found our white-linen covered table and sat down to a much fancier breakfast than any of us girls were ready for. While waiters brought out silver carafes of coffee and plates full of breakfast food, we half-heartedly listened to the first 2 speakers.

Then came a third - one of the NY government guys from the Communications dept. He was clearly politicking his little heard out for the current Bloomberg administration (something that elicited quite a few eye rolls), but he was doing a fine job of renewing my enthusiasm for NYC. Something I don’t usually need help with but lately Brooklyn’s been wearing me down.

As a city we have the 2nd largest amount of investments in Tech startups, we had a record breaking 48.7 million tourists visit in 2010 alone, our unemployment rate is a good amount lower than the national average and we have one of the most comprehensive train systems in America. Then he went on to say we’re on the cutting edge of new technologies, are dedicating a huge amount of resources to balance our budget instead of waste mass amounts of money, we’re donating money to the arts. Our streets are clean, crime is down, murders are almost nonexistent. According to this man, New York is better than it’s ever been.

While all these positive facts were being stated, the native New Yorkers scoffed and rolled their eyes, “New York better than it’s ever been? You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me.”

But you know what? It is. And I say that proudly as a New Yorker, well aware of my transplant status and well aware I’m not the most knowledgeable person in the world. Which reminds me of a little quote by E.B. White:

“There are roughly three New Yorks. There is, first, the New York of the man or woman who was born there, who takes the city for granted and accepts its size, its turbulence as natural and inevitable. Second, there is the New York of the commuter--the city that is devoured by locusts each day and spat out each night. Third, there is New York of the person who was born somewhere else and came to New York in quest of something. Of these trembling cities the greatest is the last--the city of final destination, the city that is a goal. It is the third city that accounts for New York's high strung disposition, its poetical deportment, its dedication to the arts, and its incomparable achievements. Commuters give the city its tidal restlessness, natives give it solidity and continuity, but the settlers give it passion. “

And it’s true. Those of us who move here from other places have an undying love for the city, we make the New York that brims with passion and overachievement. If for no other reason than to prove we were right in moving here. To prove we too, can make it in such a place. We’re not too weak or two dumb despite our small town backgrounds, funny southern accents or excessive Midwestern conversation.

When that man was shouting out to the old fashioned ballroom full of real estate management companies, he was talking to us, the transplants. The people who felt his fiery passion. The people who agreed, NYC is better than it’s ever been. Better than anywhere I’ve ever been.

And in that REBNY breakfast I felt a new surge of pride for my home, something that sneaks up on you odd places like hotel ballrooms and dirty streets. Something that never gets old.

When I was 18 I moved to NYC with a friend from my little 2-mile-wide city. It just so happens that my friend (let's call him Barry*) was a little too big for a town so small. Something I could relate to at the time. 

So we took off for a city that would make all of our dreams a possibility. Mine - independence and networking. His- fashion, art, acceptance and life. We were two teenagers ready for the world. 

And we took it by storm. He found a job at a store he adored, I worked my butt of to prove myself to everyone who ever knew me and everyone who ever would. We rode the subway for the first time, shared our failures (and occasional successes) and giggled before bedtime. He became the best friend I had at the time. When I spent 24/7 working my butt off at a non-profit in the Bronx and moonlighting at a yogurt shop nearby, he experienced NYC inside and out. He took every doubt anyone could have had about him, lit it all on fire and then danced on the ashes (all while paying his bills, getting in amazing shape, enjoying his social life and exceling professionally). And when I came home exasperated and he came home exhausted, we collapsed together and relied on each other. Little did I realize at the time, he was becoming - and eventually became- the person I'd always tried to be. He was the person who could do it all.

On top of that, he made that first year what it will always be in my memory: perfect. 

And then there was the day I felt particularly abused by the world. The day I blamed Barry for everything that was hard in life. And I didn't just blame him, I took out my rage at my coworkers, my deadly exhaustion, my sleepless nights, my work overload, I took it all out on him by writing a journal entry I thought he'd never see. I figured it'd be ok to pour my anger out on him as long as he never knew. 

But I left that journal open and I managed to come closer to ruining a friendship than I ever had before. 

Sure, I spent the next week avoiding him, and he considered moving home. But it eventually blew over. He brushed off my scathing comments as well as he could and I never brought it up again. He left the event holding his head high, I left it cowering in a corner.

But we healed as well as we could and I continued to consider him as the one person I needed in my life. I hope he always knew that.  

A few years later we casually fell out of touch. 

And it turns out, my once best friend, turned into a boy I haven't spoken to in over a year. 

And for some reason I keep rereading that journal entry in my mind. I can never take back those venomous words but I hope wherever he is, he knows that not a sentence of that entry was ever true. Because this boy, he did what he came to do from the moment he set foot in Manhattan. He made it in NYC and he did it without the help of anyone. He did it with more initial enjoyment than me and more feeling than I could ever seem to muster. He did it while finding love and finding himself. And Barry, he never had to make up lies about his roommate in a journal for the sake of faceless rage. No, he was always too kind for that. Too kind, too responsible, and too good a friend. 

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss him. And I just hope that that wherever he is, he would believe that I've never met a person I'd be more proud to know. A person I'd believe in more. 

Against all odds, I honestly believe he has everything it takes to set the world ablaze. 

* Sorry for the awful fake name, Barry. 

Last night I had a full blown Madrid night complete with great Spanish wine, lots of sightseeing and tapas that would make your mouth water. 

It started at a bear statue outside the Metro station where my third CouchSurfing host met me and proceeded to take me through every neighborhood in Madrid. He explained what different buildings were, told me about the population, the culture, everything. Then we wandered into a huge market with small stands for random tapas and caña. A few small beers later we wandered back into the cold air and discovered  a holiday market, wonderful coffee shop for Cafe con Leche (seriously, coffee here puts all of the United States to shame) and worked our way back to his apartment for dinner. 

To finish off the night - and boy, was I ready to finish the night considering I slept for 3 hours on a bus between Barcelona and Madrid the previous night - we ended up walking through one of the huge public parks in the city center and then met up with a few friends of his at a bar. One girl was Polish (now living in Spain), my host is originally from Argentina, and we were soon joined by a Brazilian girl who spoke little English but was one of the best human beings I've ever met. 

Sitting behind another glass of Spanish vino, I took a moment to look at where I was. Around me were people from three different countries using an awkward mix of English and Spanish. Somehow, from sheer interest in one another, we managed to make it work. After discussing accents we moved to sharing silly jokes and talking about discotecs (sp?). 

And the four of us had some of the best conversation I've ever seen until well past 2am in a small Spanish bar in Madrid. The perfect addition to an already wonderful vacation. 

Him: "You're going to Spain? That's awesome." 

Me: "Yea, I've never done Europe before." 

Him: "You and Daniel will have a great time. Perfect place for couples"

Me: Bursting with giggles "I'm not taking Daniel! This is MY vacation." 

Him: Drawn back in something resembling horror, "But... you can't go alone"

To which I could only chuckle and ignore the remark. Why is it that boys always find it inconceivable that a girl should travel on her own? 

Is it only boys who are supposed to embody a traveler's spirit? Well I think that's just silly. Poo poo on the ingrained idea of a vulnerable female. No, I'm ready to take on Spain and do it alone. I'm ready to visit the Dali museum and spend just as many hours as I like staring at the very pieces of art I respect more than Monet or Rembrant. And after the museum I'll attempt to decipher signs and maps, trying to figure out public transportation in a country I know nothing about. I'm ready to laugh out loud at my inability to read, speak or write even beginner's Spanish and am already preparing for the misunderstandings that will follow. Hopefully some good natured hilarity will ensue. 

Please bring on the delicious food in Barcelona and the interesting travelers who are offering their couches for a night here, a night there. Bring on the culture and the night long bus ride to Madrid. This is what I live for- experiencing. Experiencing the taste of another country's food. The pace of another country's life. The language, the sights, the wine. 

Bring it on world. I can't imagine a better way to spend 9 days without a companion. 9 days with no one to rely on but me. 

Nobody to lean on except a little short-haired American girl. 

I cut my hair, I didn't kill a baby animal. Yet by the reaction of some people you'd think I did much worse. 

But you know what? I don't care. 

It's not a statement of rebellion or any particular statement in general. I did not chop off my chin length locks to impress anyone or to promote an increasingly popular androgynous image. I didn't do it in protest, nor as a vague statement of feminism. 

I did it for me. 

I went in and said "as short as you want" because I wanted to. Because when I face life I do it looking forward and without fear. Why have bangs and messy strands falling in front of my eyes? Why hide behind a full head of hair when I'd rather have my face out there- without shadow. Ready to take whatever comes my way. 

I did it because I'm beautiful.

Maybe not model beautiful and maybe not obvious beautiful. But because I love my features. I love my mother's cheeks and the fact I can see my dad in my bone structure. I love the way my face shows every thought or feeling I have no matter how hard I resist. The way any simple joy in life makes my eyes light up and my face explode with uninhibited happiness. It's silly and it shows how unguarded I am - but why hide the things that make me me? 

I did it because it makes me feel more like a woman. 

Not in the conventional sense. Not in the demure, fifties sense of a woman but in the confident, collected and independent sense of today's 'woman'. The fact that my hair may be harsh but my features remain undeniably feminine proves that I am a girl. It sits on my head as a testament to my individuality -  which every woman has. It expresses who I am and who I want to be similar to a person's fashion sense. The way my hair is makes me different, it makes me an individual, it makes me a female. 

I did it for me. 

Despite the fact some people say I look too old. Despite the fact boys have a natural aversion for all girls with less than chest-length locks. Despite the fact I'm not what everyone wants me to be. 

Because honestly, it doesn't matter what you think. 

It matter what I think, and I think it's fabulous.

Sometimes I get antsy. Who doesn't? 

Sometimes I need to jump around, move, change things up. 

Why not? 

More often than not I start breaking down without ample vacation time, constant changes in setting, big life events and so on. 

So goes my life and I love every second of it.

But when I hear the comment "you've done so much," I can't help but thank my insatiable desire for change. I would'nt have the accomplishments under my belt that I do if I was content with monotony (no matter how much I wished at certain times that I'd  be ok going to the same office every day or I'd be happy living in the same place every year or I'd be content showing up to the same campus for 10am classes).

For all of that I can thank my dad- the original family vegabond. 

Anyone who hasn't had the stories, I thought today would be a good time to share  

If you ask my dad about stories when he was younger he'll chuckle, turn a little red and walk away. Sometimes he'll share a small insignificant detail and then say "eh that's really all" and he giggles. But sometimes I get the goods. Not all of them and not with full disclosure. But I get the basics. 

It goes something like this. 

He hopped freight trains from PA to Cali where at some point he had friends who grew pot in their dorm room. He then went to live in a tent (seriously, he lived there.) and headed off from there to Vail where he worked as a maid for free ski passes. His other man-maid-friends took him up to the backside of the mountains and they'd jump off the side of the road and extreme ski through the forest to the bottom of the untamed mountain where they'd hop in a passing taxi to take them back to their car. 

You'd think it'd stop there but it doesn't. 

He worked in some sort of mine, had a job lighting the Christmas lights in his town with a giant stick (his little chicken legs would have to run him from one light to the next with a pole vault sized wooden rod in his hand), lived with ex-convicts (who may or may not have been planning another heist of some sort in his living room), had a motorcycle, grew a beard, ran wild across the country. 

But I was always kept in the [semi]dark about his young and crazy days. 

Since I've known him he's been a grey haired old man who reads the newspaper every day and never takes his shoes off. Even when we're inside. 

He was a stay at home dad when I was little, taking full responsibility of volleyball dinners, school meetings, housework and cooking. He baked cookies (and then ate the whole pan), he did my laundry before I learned how, he took on carpool duty and shuttled my friends back and forth from the mall, from track practice and from school with the prowess of a seasoned soccer mom.

And he never yelled at me. Just gave me 'the look' which was more disappointment than anything and used his 'upset voice' (it wasn't angry... more sad than anything) to talk to me when I did something wrong. And boy would that voice make me cry. For HOURS! ... in the privacy of my room. 

So I never thought about his wanderlust and, at times, ridiculousness, except as a vague point of fascination. 

However, as I get older I realize his wandering ways didn't disappear when he decided to go domestic. They're still alive and well. His restlessness appears in my hatred for 9-5 jobs in a single office every day. His need for adventure manifests itself in my snap decisions to take a plane to Cambodia, to the Bahamas, to Japan. And even his slight introverted tendencies come to life in my quest for individual adventures, solo excursions and long walks with no one but myself to keep my company. 

The fact that I'm sitting here thinking of my 21 days of my 21st Birthday and getting the urge to take off immediately...my leg is jiggling and I'm spending time alternating between work and looking up flights.

Which reminds me of those characteristics that made my dad who he was when he was younger. And who he still is inside. 

It's quite obvious I'm his daughter through and through. 

There are people in the world who live life out of boredom. The ones who keep things on track, the ones who offer stability but little enjoyment.
Then there are the people who live life with an air of enthusiasm and authenticity. 

These are the people I love. They keep positivity alive; they breed optimism and the world is their playground. These are the people I choose to surround myself. The people who keep me on track.

One such person is my friend Moses (hope you don't mind me mentioning you, buddy!). Never mind the fact he dresses with a confidence few men can pull off. Never mind the military background and current fashion career. Never mind the unconventional lifestyle, ability to speak Arabic and million other traits. The thing that makes him worth knowing is his undeniable genuineness. The ability to experience the world in precisely the way that makes him happiness. So he wants to visit a certain corner of the country? He does it. So he wants to be better with names? He learns how. There's a zest behind his actions that can be spurred by nothing but appreciation for life. There's an ability to understand, accept and even enjoy the day to day in a way so many people don't dare attempt. I guess that's what you;d call "making your own happiness"

Something I hope to emulate, but occasionally fail at. After all, no one can be perfect.  

Having people in my social circle who radiate confidence and happiness does something for my life that is hard to put into words. It inspires me and keeps me going. It confirms my independence. These friends take a mirror, turn it to me, and reflect only the positives. They affirm my quirky lifestyle and give me the "ok" to be me. Granted, I'll be 'me' any day of the week without prompting... but it's the people in my life who make me feel great about the decision.

So thanks. To all the Moses' of the world. It's not just your experiences that make me thankful to know you - it's your love for the world. I adore that. 

Let's all take a moment and appreciate the people who mean the most. 

Two of my friends are going to Egypt in the next 6 months. Two speak Chinese after living in China and one invented a sports bra. Another one is starting a magazine, another finishing a book. One is working on two television shows simultaneously and all of them support my lifestyle. All of them brainstorm and laugh with me, share their life decisions and indulge in mine. 

No wonder. We're all birds of a feather and just happen to flock together. We're all slightly insane and slightly delusional. The successful people always are (or the near-successful). After all, making it big has so much to do with being yourself and so little to do with formalities.

Which is why I'm going to be thankful for the few people who wander in and out of my life as the epitome of convention. They mean well, they just chose a different path than I and the unwarranted advice I recieve from the do-as-I'm-told not-as-I-want perspective is nice to hear once in a while.

Nice because it makes my blood boil and my brain hurt. It makes me want to lash out and start screaming. It makes me grit my teeth and smile silently. After all, my life needs no defense because the only girl who's living it is in love with every waking moment.

However, that doesn't change the fact it makes my ears hurt and my eyes cringe when I hear advice from others who so chose the path that was taken by all of those family members before them. Those people who are in school without a career aspiration, drinking away evenings with no necessary desire (I'm not insinuating all college students do this- I'm just mentioning a very specific minority who happen to chat with me once in a while). Those people who then tell me I'm doing it wrong. Me- who pays my bills by being a so called 'free sprit'.

The reason I'm thankful is simple. I forget about reality on occasion. All of my friends being slightly delusional (in only the best way) means I can forget the majority of America is grounded and slightly more predictable. Meeting those people reminds me what average is. And knocks my dreams back down to earth. It grounds me, makes me evaluate my life, appreciate it and rework any aspects that aren't spot on.

So to the person with advice- Thanks for the suggestions but it just so happens I have deliberately fashioned my life this way in order to maximize my enjoyment and minimize my boredom. Which explains my constant smile. Life is good in this Chinatown apartment.

My body is a runner, even when my lifestyle prevents it. This has never been more obvious than over the last week. With my lack of muscles, my skinny legs and my anemic complexion, I've decided to start pounding the pavement (in the literal sense) yet again. An unlikely runner, I took off down Chinatown roads well past 1 am in the 30 degree weather. It was freezing, my legs hurt, my head hurt... but I couldn't stop. I went well past my planned .5 mile run. Well past a 1 mile jog. I kept going, the pain building and my heart racing. Yet my legs wouldn't slow, my chest wouldn't cave in, my mind set a defiant goal against my previous plan of a short jog. 

And somewhere around mile two I hit euphoria. My legs kept going, my breathing slowed to a rhythmical beat and everything inside of me synced up with everything around me. That runner's high people talk about -it happened to an out of shape girl with crappy shoes and frozen fingers. It happened to me as it always has.

After a half mile of oblivion I became aware of ever little nuance in my form, the cadence of my movements. It was beautiful, it was love. How can anyone feel anything but amazement at a body with lean limbs meant to pump back and forth, a heart meant to supply oxygen to extremities despite heavy breathes and bones strong enough to hold a full grown woman trotting down Sixth Avenue? How can anyone resist awe at the human form? 

Since then I haven't been able to take a day off despite the seering pain in my leg muscles and inability to walk down stairs during the day.  Between runs I write my book and my ebook. I plan for the next year. I do business and I enjoy every minute of my day. After all, I have a capable body that can propel me through any workout and throughout any of life's little challenges. Why not put it to the task of enjoyment? 

Which is exactly what I do with my days - enjoy it all. 

A girl named Emmanuela (sp?) commented on my blog yesterday and included a link to her own. At first I dismissed it as a spam comment... until I clicked on the link to her own blog. It's a Natural Hair Care blog with tons of tips for hair care and a chat room.

But what stuck out was her post about her birthday. Here's how it started:

"I am a college student who moved back home from going to a school 5 hrs away. I do not want to be normal, and have never been normal. I am theweird girl, who's quiet because I do not wish to get my dreams crushed by the robotic thinking that people sometimes have.

So what have I accomplished this past year?..."

Which made me question (considering it's New Years and all), What have I accomplished this past year?

After all, we 'weird' girls always question that. It keeps us humble and keeps us moving. 

Here's my answer to her question, it's for my own knowledge and reflection but feel free to comment if you chose. All the links go to other blog posts from the year (that I wrote).

1. I moved to Cambodia. Despite the malaryia, my lack of knowledge on Southeast Asian culture, the language difference and my youth (19 yo at the time), I did it. And it's the single most important decision I've made in my life to date. I will never forget landing in that country and knowing it'd be home for the next 6 months. I will never forget visiting 5 star hotels for fundraising opportunities and immersing myself in the culture of a country so foreign. It defined my year as one of adventure.

2. I left Cambodia with a sickness, stopped in Houston and landed a job running a non-profit in the Bahamas. It wasn't much to speak of, just a little baby non-profit that wasn't very established nor very well thought out. Maybe I shouldn't have taken the job considering the position they were in. But I did and I had a 3.5 month vacation from life. I handled it, hated it, swam in the ocean every day, ran on the beach alone and drove a cadillac often enough to get my fix for life. Then I left and I haven't looked back since.

3. In NYC, I showed my art in 2 venues, 1 gallery and am lined up for one more gallery next month (in Chelsea!). One online magazine featured me, several websites posted my pictures and dozens of twitter fans tweeted my art. Basically, I got small time attention (that meant a big time confidence boost) for a hobby I never put much faith in. I'm now a part time artist. Big change from doing it behind closed doors.

4. I started my own company. Randomly I decided it was best to go my own direction. After all, I'm capable. Might as well do it. So I did and now you can hire Snag Everyone Online for all your Social Media and online marketing needs!

5. Right before the year closed out I fell in love. For real. The kind I didn't believe I could have again. After all, I was convinced butterflies were reserved for firsts and all of my firsts have already occurred, and my last hope for a rekindled relationship died in July. I was ready to sett;e for happy, compatible and comfortable. Someone who made logical sense could've come around and I'd be ready for marriage within a year or two. However, life always has a few surprises in store and although I intentionally set out to find a boyfriend, I didn't mean to get this lucky. The first time we held hands (before we kissed... how often does that happen when you're out of your teen years??) my heart flip flopped in my chest and my fingers went tingly. Instead of a year I may have to wait 7 for a ring, but I'm very happy with my find weather it's how I planned it or not.

And that's my top five. Cambodia, Bahamas, Art, Company and Love.

Not a bad way to finish a year. But I'm convinced I can do better and can always accomplish more. Maybe tomorrow or the next day I'll post what this year has in store for me.

It's the day after Christmas and I've been doing work for the last three hours. My Twitter following is up to 2000+ on @SnagEveryone, I'm increasing links and backlinks to one of my clients' sites and I'm using my second monitor to catch up on emails.

He walks in the room, "If you could be anyone in the world, who would you be?"

I swivel the chair around and smile.

Without thinking I answer- "myself"

He kisses me.

I said something right and I didn't even try. The thing is- it was such a candid response. It required no thought on my behalf. If I could be anyone or do anything it would be exactly who I am and what I am doing.

This is the life I've consciously chosen every step of the way. This is the person I've always been (and yes, if you're confident you can be the same person from a very young age). And this is where I've always wanted to be.

Which, I believe, is the mark of a strong will. I've decided independently of anyone else who I am and which path to pursue. There's no room for unhappiness when you intentionally eliminate the unsatisfying and increase the positive.

So when he asked "who would you want to be". It was an easy answer.

He told me the L-word and then agreed. He'd be himself as well.

I never cease to shock myself. I have moments in my life when a realization smacks me in the face, and I'm nearly knocked off my feet. 

For example 

1. I wake up with a stray dog in my apartment and it hits me- "I live in Cambodia" 

2. I'm standing next to my art in a gallery, watching eyes scan across it, and all of a sudden I'm an artist. 

3. Sitting in Starbucks, I open my computer and notice an overflowing inbox with questions about Facebook, Twitter and celebrities. For the first time I realize- "I'm an entrepreneur". 

The last example just occurred a few seconds ago. I'm still reveling in the moment. After all, it was just a few weeks ago that I casually decided to start a company. A friend of mine told me it would take years to make any sort of profit and being Nikki Yeager I giggled a bit and told him I'd do it in months. 

Thanks to a wonderful friend of mine, I already signed one major client and will be starting SEO/Social Media workshops next week. Due to a few strategic emails I may be booked for a speaking engagement in Ohio. My twitter has over a thousand followers (@SnagEveryone) and I've met some incredible Marketers along the way. 

So here I am in Starbucks and the only thought I can manage is, "how does this happen to me?" Because it seems like I'm too lucky for my own good. I start a business and my friend hooks me up with a client that could determine the next few months of my life. I decide to be an artist and I'm in a gallery. I decide I want a boyfriend and the boy of my dreams waltzes into my life. 

I don't know how I do it and I'd never give myself full credit because something else has to be helping me along.

Which is why I can't ever let go of my notion of fate. Everything has to happen for a reason because things don't fall into place without a little help from someone bigger than myself. There's just no way it'd be possible.

At 20, I realize I'm relatively inexperienced. I have years to go and the events that now define me will eventually shift and melt and mold into something new and wonderful and much, much older.

But for now I have these memories- the few that really make me who I am. These are the moments that really boiled me down to my essence, made me feel the most like 'Nikki'. This is my list of the big 6 defining moments of my life.

In no particular order-

1) Building my futon/bunk bed during our first night in New York.

2) Watching Cambodia appear in front of me as my flight landed in Siem Reap.

3) Watching Cambodia disappear after takeoff

4) The hour leading up to my second year of district semi-finals in hurdles

5) Dropping out of college

6) Listening as my second grade teacher told me, "Nikki you're going to be a writer someday". Yes, I was 8, but it still counts.

So there it is. There I am. Nikki Yeager in a nutshell. So why am I writing this? Because this week I've revisited number 1 on a smaller scale and I feel like if I don't write the original experience down it'll someday be lost in the insignificance of old memories.

Here it is:

I remember that day perfectly. We'd been up since 6 a.m. and while Brian and my dad alternated sleeping in the passenger seat I spent my time driving the Uhaul or uncomfortably perched on an overturned bucket. After all I was the only member of our 3 person moving team that was small enough to fit my legs in the middle.

Someday in the afternoon we pulled up, signed a lease and got the keys. Our first apartment ever. Brian's first time with rent. My first time with relocation. All of our months of planning suddenly became real.

It didn't take long to unload- after all we didn't have much. On the other hand, our apartment didn't hold much. My dad waved goodbye and left us with our boxes.

There were so many boxes.

So Brian stared at the boxes in bewilderment, trying to put things in their place. But with a two person move across several states there's never a good place to start.

I set out to build out bed. It looked relatively harmless- a bunk bed with a futon on the bottom. The nice, neat box laid on our floor. I looked at it and thought, "this should take, what? An hour?"

Well an hour passed and I'd already attempted to put two pieces together five times, failed miserably and bruised two knuckles on the stupid metal framework. Three hours later and I still couldn't make sense of the non-pictoral, Japanese directions. Three and a half hours into it and I called my dad.

"I can't do this."

Being my dad, he replied something non-sympathetic and overly rational, "Just sit down the directions. Take a breathe and put the pieces together. Nikki, thousands of people have built beds, it's not impossible."

How does a girl argue with that? Thousands of people have done it.

So I took a breathe, cast the directions aside and thought about it. Fourteen tries later, I had the bottom done. With a little help from Brian holding up pieces while I used my little screw driver to attach rails and frames, I watched a bed appear... from my own two hands.

It was the first time I've ever build anything in my life and when I finally crawled up to the top bunk around 3 am laid back, having never felt so good. As panic for a new life sunk into Brian, euphoria for a seemingly impossible task lifted me up to heights I've rarely revisited.

I looked at my new apartment from up high and I thought to myself "I did it." And from that moment on I approached my new life with the same though "I built my bed. I can do anything in the world." And I have done anything I wanted to do in the world- anything I set my mind to.

Which I was reminded of this last week when I purchased and built both a bed and a storage unit. A muted sense of gratification came over me and I was repeatedly reminded of that night.

I did it.