LIVING THE DREAM

Saying my relationship with skincare was troubled is like World War I trench warfare was efficient. My skin was in chaos and I needed help. However, what needed my help more than my skin, was my relationship to myself.  

My acne got serious freshman year of college. Although I was not a skincare veteran, I was not a rookie either. By fluke, I had a girlfriend in high school. She taught me fundamentals such as face sunscreen versus non-face sunscreen, eyeliner versus mascara, slow dancing versus grinding and a girl’s pee hole versus their vagina (it is not the same thing!!). When we broke up after high school, I was an emotional wreck. After we bid our tearful goodbyes, acne began to haunt me like a pop-up ad for Victoria Secret underwear. (I swear I only googled it once.) 

Freshman year of college, I began my five-year train wreck of self-guided skincare. I lacked an intelligent authority on skincare (aka girls). My oversize clothing, pimple ridden face and decision to live in the math and science dormitories were powerful girl repellents. My “how to skincare” Google searches returned a bevy of products that I did not understand such as tinted moisturizing creams, toner, and acid peels. Not only did each product cost more than any article of clothing I owned, distilling which products worked and what I should use was confusing. For example- “Wash face twice a day with a gentle cleanser”. What does ‘gentle’ really mean? Is the Trader Joe's Tea Oil face wash my mom buys gentle enough? How gentle is gentle?? I made some Sleepy Tea to calm down. 

I am not finished ranting on gentle skin cleansers. 

The first Google result on a “Best of Gentle Facial Cleansers” list was $15 and won the “Best of Beauty Award”. A reliable award? Potentially. But the same list recommended a second, more expensive cleanser for $34. How do I know what to buy?? Confused, I took my dad’s advice of inaction. “Just don’t worry about that skin stuff Columbo.” 

I felt insecure during college. Most observers would presume The Pope was my dating coach and the Costco magazine was my fashion inspiration. My acne made me feel juvenile. I would go to the college gym and see guys with zero acne and perfect ‘I’m a Man’ stubble. They were doing their curls and using the squat rack. Being tan. Fuck those guys.    

Instead of taking responsibility for my skin, my fitness or my wardrobe (What about seeing a therapist dude, Sounds like a lot more is going on than just acne bro!!) I poured my angst into schoolwork. I made the Dean’s list each quarter, interviewed for internships and became President of clubs. Pricewaterhouse Coopers thought my GPA was sexy and that was enough for me.

During my (few) dating adventures in college, I learned about ‘shimmer’ (not for me but useful if I decide to go clubbing in Berlin) and coconut oil. (I slathered coconut oil on my face for two months and it was definitely not an acne deterrent.) But my dating life’s biggest problem was not my skin, but how I let my insecurities get in the way just being me. I built my life around finance and schoolwork to feel better about myself instead of building my life around the activities that made me feel the most alive (playing music, teaching, traveling, writing, performing, reading, running). While I did some of those activities, I put most of my energy into finance and schoolwork with the ultimate goal of making money. Because money will make me feel confident right?? I am not saying that I am upset that I worked hard in school and worked hard to get a job. On the contrary, I am proud of that work. However, I would work just for work's sake and work became my identity. 

The year after college had two constants—my skin still sucked, and I was always working. My good grades landed me a ‘prestigious’ investment banking job in San Francisco. I was living in a communal tech hacker house known for attracting computer engineers who were okay living in a bunk bed with random 35 year olds. 

At the end of my first year out of college, I was alone on my top bunk watching a Netflix show called Queer Eye. Queer Eye is a show about five gay men and their noble quest to improve the lives of sad straight men. I looked at myself. I was getting home between 1AM and 3AM each night from work and waking up at 6AM in a panic to check email. My skin was fucked. I had just broken up with a wonderful, attractive girl for no reason other than I did not have the energy to try. And contrary to the nursery rhyme, there were very few fish in my sea. 

I needed to Queer Eye my own life.

My personal Queer Eye journey began in earnest. I emailed my landlord my 30-day notice and used my finance money (one of the few positives of the job) to move into a beautiful room in the Marina. Bobby would have been proud of the room, but less proud of my decoration skills. In the spirit of Jonathan, I looked up the best estheticians in the area and booked an appointment that week. The first esthetician I saw was more interested in leaving me in a hot eucalyptus scented towel for 30 minutes and selling me $230 moisturizer than fixing my acne. Four weeks later, I found a small private skincare studio and met Melissa. Melissa was a goddess of skincare. And she did not bullshit. “Chris you cannot live like this. My goodness. Do you even wash your face?? I am so glad you found me.” It was the beginning of my first successful relationship with a woman in quite some time. 

Each session with Melissa, my skin improved. There were some weird weeks where the acid peel would get feisty, however, merely taking action to improve my skin increased my confidence. I began thinking about my life as though I could control the outcome. I started dating. I bought new clothes. (Including an awesome bomber from Banana Republic that landed me a second date with my now girlfriend. Seriously, Tan, if you ever see this, let me know if you want details.) I organized a birthday party for myself where my friends hiked 14 miles. (I owe you guys!!) I ran and biked over the Golden Gate Bridge nearly every day. I ran a 50k ultramarathon up and over Squaw Valley in Lake Tahoe. I began self-advocating and setting boundaries at work such as “I will not respond to this 2AM email.” I was a rebellious mf.

My skincare catalyzed a virtuous cycle of confidence and positive life habits. 

Now the real question. With this newfound confidence, would I quit the job I hated?

I was performing well in finance. Very well as I would find out during my next bonus discussion (BIG flex, god you are sick Chris). However, finance was just not for me. The more I worked, the less interested and motivated I became. But what do I do? 

The only idea that continued to resonate with me was that I wanted to live in New York City. So, I threatened to quit unless my work transferred me to our New York office. It worked. However, three weeks after the move to NYC, I had a mental breakdown at work, fell into a semi-catatonic state and quit the company via email after crying on the phone for an hour with my dad telling him how miserable I was. Graceful. 

My boss convinced me to take a few days off and rejoin the company. I gratefully accepted. Quitting felt scarier than jumping out of an airplane and I was grateful to come back. But the following week, I quit for real because my body simply could not continue to work. I was completely exhausted and burnt out.   

After I quit, I took daily hip hop dance classes, ate a lot of dim sum, and read books at coffee shops. I bought a domain name for a men’s skincare business called “Whose Mans”. (Guys, this is a million dollar idea! Men’s skincare is taking off!! Just ordered face mask samples from China!) RIP that business idea. I hung out with my girlfriend. Oh yeah. I completely forgot to mention—I started dating Nicole right before I moved to New York. Great timing, I know…but honestly it was. She was (and still is) dope as hell. She is a much larger part of this story than I am letting on. We celebrated our year anniversary yesterday and both woke up with hangovers after one beer and some sake. Nice. 

After a glorious month of hip hop and a vacation from Microsoft Excel and PowerPoint, I joined a startup company with an office in SoHo. I met my boss at a coffee convention because going to coffee conventions is the kind of random stuff you do when you are unemployed. My boss and I got along great, my colleagues were not all white men, and my work schedule allowed me freedom to continue exploring my passions. 

I was beginning to build MY life, with the Queer Eye guys shouting encouragement in my head. Somewhere in my hip hop, Chinese takeout, caffeine fueled unemployment, I realized an itch to do something in comedy. (Because I am hilarious right???) I enrolled in two improv classes a week after work. Both culminated in live performances where the public aka my roommates and some parents paid $7 a ticket and cheered loudly from their seats. I was not that funny, but I had so much fun. I started writing comedy sketches. Although my skin got worse after moving across the country (and away from Melissa), I was smiling more freely in pictures.  

COVID sucks. I was furloughed from April to July and moved out of NYC to save money and be close to family. Like most people, I am nervous about the future. The CEO of our startup is a genius and somehow raised $12 million dollars for a coffee technology startup during COVID and now I have a job again. I feel really lucky. My parents were incredibly supportive and let me live with them while I paid rent for my New York apartment. I love them so much.  

Weirdly enough, even with all this crazy shit happening, I feel in control of my life. 

I have made decisions, really hard decisions, that were just for me. I do not make near the money I used to make in finance, but now I feel content. I am pouring my energy into the activities that long term will make me happy. Writing. Music. Relationships. Health. Sleep. Family.

This is my life. And I really feel like I am Living the Dream. 

LFG baby.