Sad as though it may be, you truly never leave high school.

There will always be the pretty girls, the guys who have the world at their fingertips because they can catch a ball, the geeks, the art freaks, the granolas, and the inevitable wannabes.



Life is compartmentalized and clique-ish in New York. There is a status, a membership, a label attached to everything. You are either in or you're out. There are neighborhoods, bars, floors, and even sewing machines that restrict entrance/use.



After proving my ability in turning paper patterns into prototypes, my days seem to be spent listening to "Livin' La Vida Loca" in a hot, sticky sewing room. For the first couple of weeks I was shunned by the sewers and forced to sit in the corner sewing on a rusty Juki with feed dogs so ravenous so as to eat my fabric.



As if the language barrier wasn't excluding enough, I sat in the corner in a somewhat wannabe state of mind, with my back towards the professionals, the locals, the geeks you befriend so you can stay eligible for the Friday night game. The sewers are the heartbeat of fashion. So often forgotten and overlooked. They turn your vision into reality, your failing trig grade into the winning touchdown with no recognition. Their name isn't on the garment, or the MVP trophy you walk away with at the end of the season.



After doing my time as the "new girl in school" desperate for acceptance, I was finally allotted a seat next to Louis, master sewer, valedictorian. I felt oddly validated, and terrified of failing to deserve such a sacred seat. As I began loading my bobbin for winding at my shiny new Juki complete with a personal fan, Louis looks over at me and shakes a pre-wound bobbin in my face nodding at me to use it. He just gave me a sharpened pencil before the final.



He might not be the quarterback or voted most likely to be famous, but he is the one cheering you on at the big game, or voting for you so you can receive coveted yearbook space.



He is the one sewing the labels into your clothes so you can feel constant indulgence. He winds your bobbin so you can sew. He holds the seams together as they are falling apart.

People often say there is beauty in the breakdown. But I find the beauty to be in the formulation.

The formulation of relationships, seams, and Spanglish.

Confucius says: You cannot open a book without learning something.

The New York Public Library. Home to books, pictures, and dust.

I find libraries to be completely fascinating. Getting lost in a sea of books helps you stumble upon something you would have never sought out, quite like the adventures a directionally challenged girl finds in a city like Manhattan. The air is filled with knowledge waiting for someone to absorb the information like skin absorbing sunshine. People can feed off it. Long for it. And feel quite pale and unwell without it.

Libraries are also quite tragic. The lost books that sit on the shelves waiting for someone to choose knocking off dust over a shiny cover. Waiting for someone to turn the pages and let the smell of old wise words intoxicate them, breathe life, and infuse the lessons of yesterday into the present. Such an un-tapped resource.

Books and people are a lot alike. We put on clothes to get attention, draw people in, and entice them to know us more- just as the cover of a book does. We categorize and define ourselves by key words and phrases. We do not share shelf space with those who do not promote the same level of knowledge, passion, or glossy printed pages. Some even find comfort in the multiple check out cards placed in their cover pocket to solidify their pretentious nature -their checkout cards scream "I'm important. See everyone else thinks so too."

The fashion industry is a genre all its own. Shelf space is a hot commodity. Do not expect to sit next to Gianni Versace or Donna Karan. Don't even expect to sit next to those anonymous designers who design for them. Interns are all in a bin waiting to be revised before placing on some obscure shelf.

Perhaps that is why I enjoy the art of getting lost in a library. Finding those shelves behind bathrooms or in dark corners, that house those books that have something important to say but didn't make Oprah's book club making a prime library locale impossible. Lost words, forgotten wisdom, undiscovered genius paint the pages of a deserted book.

Sometimes the arrows in life point you to what you think you want. But choosing opposition and defying the direction others choose for you, is what you need to find yourself nestled in a corner hoping no one finds your secret. Your hidden gem of a book. Your garage sale Yves Saint Laurent blouse.

Sometimes you have to get lost to feel at home.