New Year, same old me, and hopefully, same old you

New Year, still smiling.

Sometime during my first few months of high school, I finally used a Nordstrom Gift Card that I had received for my birthday. I say finally because I tend to be extremely picky about the purchases I make with gift cards. I consider the purchase, not the card itself, to be the actual present from the gift-giver. I make it count. At that point in my life, I (on my parents' payroll) didn't often shop at Nordstrom. My parents weren't too keen on spending one hundred dollars on a pair of jeans I would likely outgrow in one hundred days. With the holidays around the corner, I decided it was time for something nice to sport at upcoming festivities.

At a time when I still couldn't drive and getting anywhere was a huge ceremony, my mom and I planned to go to the mall one Saturday afternoon. I browsed through the multiple levels of racks and shelves until I caught sight of a rather fashionable tweed blazer much like this one.

It was love at first sight. From that moment, the only images in my mind were those of my wearing the blazer with various outfits, on various occasions. I'm sure you know how it is, to find those specific things in this world that seem to have been created only for you. That's how I felt about this particular blazer, at least.

I still remember the first time it touched my skin. The satin lining sat so gently on my skin while the tweed exterior maintained a sophisticated shape. As I looked at myself in the fitting room mirror, I was overcome with an odd sense of disbelief. I couldn't believe it was my reflection wearing this dapper jacket. At that moment, nothing else in the world, nothing that I owned, seemed to matter. I felt like a different person. I couldn't wait for people to see me wearing it. The blazer came home with me that very day.

The following weekend, a good friend came over to spend the day. Still on a blazer high (no pun intended), I immediately showed her the newest addition to my wardrobe.

"Wow! This is so stylish. It looks phenomenal!" She exclaimed. It was the only reaction I expected. The comment that followed, however, was startling. "Can I borrow it for Thanksgiving dinner?" Despite the overwhelming possessiveness I felt for this blazer, I didn't know how to deny the request of a good friend. I conceded the jacket.

From the moment she left my house that day until Thanksgiving, I felt an inexplicable sense of anxiety. Separation anxiety, I think it must have been. It was a couple weeks until the blazer was returned to me. My friend had loaned it out to someone else after she got a wear.

My heart must have skipped a beat when I finally held the jacket between my fingers again. The juxtaposed coarseness of the tweed with the softness of the silk lining was nothing short of beautiful. What came to my attention next, however, was everything short of that beauty. The jacket had split completely down the back. My heart sank as I recognized that one of my borrowers had taken the phrase wear and tear to a most literal level. 

There were tears. There was tantrums. There were curses. The split tweed blazer felt like an ironic metaphor of the friendship. My parents took me to Nordstrom that very day, but much to my dismay, that exact style of blazer was permanently out of stock. I was overcome with grief at the loss of this prized possession. I felt that nothing could ever be the same.

I've certainly grown quite a bit since then.

Last week for Christmas, my brother got me an iPad mini (don't worry, I presented him with the Brother of the Year award). Within hours, I had cast my original iPad aside, one that I had loved unconditionally up until Christmas morning, with stoic comments about selling it. It had taken only seconds for me to replace it. It was just hardware.

In early December, my grandma had a heart attack. She was actually in my home at the time, and the experience was generally traumatic for obvious reasons. As I sat at the hospital with her that evening, I noted her frail frame and weak attempts at speech. I hoped that my love for her was visibly reflecting. At that moment, I didn't care about anything else, as long as she was going to be okay. It was a chilling reminder that some of the most powerful things in our lives are also the least tangible.

It's so easy, during the hustle-bustle of the everyday, to be fooled into measuring ourselves, and others, by the existence of possessions and the pursuit of additional ones. To rely irrationally on these possessions as a means of defining us and our happiness. It was on the evening of the heart attack that I was reminded that our lives are defined by the people in it -- those who impact our lives in an unequivocal way, one that often goes accidentally unnoticed.

As you ring in the new year with a set of "out with the old, in with the new" resolutions, think about the good people in your life, the impact you have on them and they on you, and make sure they are part of that definition of a "better you." Years will come and go, but those relationships are irreplaceable.