The Comfy Corner

I had a real flair for the dramatic growing up. As did, I suppose, most people who grew up to become actors. But, I believe, everyone kind of has a flair for the dramatic when they're young, right? I mean, just listen to the cacophony of children on the subway every afternoon screaming for their "passy" or their "baba" or whatever. Or, God-help-me, listen to those kids at brunch on the weekends in Tribeca. "I SAID I WANT OYSTEEEERRRS!!!" I swear, that whole neighborhood becomes one giant, bougie Gymboree on the weekends. Thankfully, most people grow up and learn how to tame that dramatic beast inside themselves and only release the drama-beast when they are drunk or heavily medicated after surgery. Actors, on the other hand, have the unique ability to be dramatic about things while completely sober and sans-incision (but that clearly doesn't stop us from going under the knife or drinking alcohol Lindsay Lohan). In any event, the message I'm trying to convey here, perhaps unsuccessfully, is that it is perfectly healthy to be dramatic sometimes while you're sober. Just get it out of your system, y'all! Drama is a dish best served piping hot. So go for it! Do what I did the first time I got a charley horse.

I was seven. I had just cozied into the top bunk of my bed. My mother had tucked me in burrito-style, like I prefer, and turned out the lights. I had waited the standard couple of seconds before I turned around to pull out my secret stash of toy cars from under my pillow (I liked to play cars even after I had already been tucked in. Rebel Chang) and that's when it happened. Searing pain shot through both of my legs. It was like the devil himself had reached his red, hot hands through my skin, grabbed hold of both of my calf muscles, and started slowing ripping them apart, cackling all the while. I screamed out in pain and horror as I fell out of my bed. I rolled around for a bit clutching my shins, hot tears streaming down my face. My life was flashing before my eyes, all seven years of it. No more pushing sticks down the creek, no more riding my bike around the cul-de-sac in tight circles, no more slip n' slides! In the words of the Backstreet Boys, it hit me harder than a shark attack! My mind was exploding with pain, I knew nothing except that I needed to seek immediate medical attention. I made use of my only two working limbs and I army-crawled out of my room. Every pull of my arms caused an equal jolt of pain through my legs. It was torture, but I knew that I needed to see my Dr. Dad right now because I knew these legs needed immediate amputation! That was the only solution for this brand of pain, I knew it. So I crawled down the stairs crying out for the whole neighborhood to hear, "I'LL NEVER WALK AGAIN!!! I'LL *sniff* NEVER *sniff* WALK *cough* AGAIIINNNN!!!" I pulled myself into the living room with the last bit of strength my arms had left in them. It was like the final scene of Lord of the Rings when Frodo has to make that final push to get the ring into the volcano. And there sat my family, all staring at me drop-jawed. I saw their blurry outlines through my tears and I reiterated "I CAN'T WALK! I'LL NEVER WALK AGAIN!" They didn't seem to understand me! Why weren't they rushing me off to the hospital or bursting into tears? Their baby boy was dying!  Perhaps, I conjectured, they were all born without emotions! This is when the worst thing that could have possibly happened, happened. They all started laughing. A look of confusion spread across my snotty, tear-stained, seven-year-old face. They were salting the wound. The louder they laughed, the more my legs hurt. Didn't they know that?

My dad eventually calmed me down and explained to me what a charley horse was and that I just had to stretch it out for a bit. I got better. No amputation necessary. And now, my family just loves to tell this story at the dinner table. Okay, was I being a bit dramatic? Yes. But isn't that how we ALL feel when we get charlie horses?! Like we'll never walk again? I was just responding to my pain honestly! And I feel like people don't do that often enough. We stifle our response to pain because we are afraid that we might come across as what? Weak? Well, I have no fear of seeming weak. I freely admit that I am a delicate flower. When a doctor asks, "On a scale of 1 to 10 how is your pain?" I say, "11! FIX ME!!!" I'm that guy that says "ouch ouch ouch!" before people even touch me or if someone maybe came close to stepping on my toe. Because I don't wanna hold it in. I want to feel. And to feel is to experience, y'all. So go ahead. Throw your temper tantrums. Whine about your petty problems. Get it out of your system so that you have a clear head to actually deal with things like an adult. And also so that you don't become a drug addict or something. It's healthy to feel emotions, I promise. Stay comfy y'all.

When you attend a middle school in a hippie-littered, lesbian-abundant, obnoxiously self-satisfied city like I did, you don't go on normal school field trips. No, you go to Camp Earthshine. Yes, this is a real place and yes I really went there.

I had exactly two friends in middle school. A nerdy white boy named Matt and a nerdy Indian boy named Keeshan. They were awesome. We were awesome. And we did everything together. I mean, come on, who needs girls or parties or middle school drama when you have awesome RPG's to play on the computer?! Xenimus, anyone? So fun. We even had a shared notebook of secrets that we would pass back and forth to each other in class (it was links to porn sites, y'all, we were C-O-O-L). And when it came time for our school field trip to Camp Earthshine, of course we decided to room together. We were buds. And we were psyched.

The theme of our three day adventure at Camp Earthshine was "Destination: 1840." For the first half of the trip, we were Cherokee indians. It was like an acting exercise, so naturally, I rocked at it. I gutted a fish, I cooked said fish over a fire, I then ate said fish in a legit teepee, I threw a tomahawk, and I ground some corn. If I had been any more Cherokee, I would have been walking the trail of tears! The second half of the trip I was a pioneer, black-smithing, candle-making, and apple-cider grinding. If I had been any more pioneer, I would have been kicking the Cherokee off their land and sending them on the trail of tears! It was both educational, a little bit sad and dangerous. So naturally, I thrived. The best part of the trip, however, was the accommodations. All of the students stayed in the main lodge, which was pretty cool. That's also where we ate our meals and they would give away awards for the tables that left the least amount of food waste (hippies). The lodge, however, was not big enough to accommodate all of us. Three boys got to stay in the guest house. And you guessed it, Keeshan, Matt, and I were those lucky boys. Cherokee by day, middle school boys wreaking havoc in the guest house at night. And this wasn't just any guest house. No, it was practically Trump manor. Two stories. A spiral staircase! A KITCHEN! Just for the three of us. We stayed up late into the night swapping ghost stories, having pillow fights, and eating strange things on dares. Everything was perfect until, if I remember correctly, we got a little too rowdy and ended up punching a hole in the wall. And then we got a little hyped up on candy and broke a bunk bed. And then I got bad diarrhea because of all the candy and I think I didn't cook my fish all the way through and I definitely ate too many apples (they were free y'all!). And our teacher had to intervene.

We got in trouble, yeah. But would it have been so memorable if I hadn't gotten in trouble? Absolutely not! We were three nerdy boys allowed to let loose for the first time ever! It was our time to break shit and we did not disappoint. So if you are a parent of a nerdy, perfect teenage boy and you are trying to get them to do something wrong for a change so that they can live a little.... send them to Camp Earthshine. Stay comfy y'all!

In this time of giving thanks and recognizing what we are grateful for, I thought it might be nice to give NYC a little pat on the back and thank it for all that it does for me on a daily basis. It's a big apple, and I've taken many bites of that apple, and though it has left me with a constant, mild case of diarrhea, I'm still grateful to be living here. So here's lookin' at you New York! Here's what I'm thankful for:

1) The ease with which I am able to do my laundry. I only need to block off a day to do it! #LoadsOfTimeLoadsOfLaundry #ThanksYouThankYou

2) Getting my packages has never been simpler! Sometimes, I actually receive the package! #PutThatThankYouInACardAndSendIt

3) The overwhelming presence of late night trains. Getting home drunk from the clubs? Easy! It's a simple Blip-blop-2-hours-later-Im-there! #SoSoSoBlessed

4) The decreasing rent. Thanks for keep an eye on our wallets, NYC! I owe ya a $9 Budweiser #WinkyFaceTongueOutGrateful #TakingThatThanksToTheBanks

5) Parking is a breeze. And no one works harder for this city than the meter maids! #ThoroughAndSoThankfulForIT

6) Icy winds that actually are powerful enough to blow tears out of my eyes and cold enough for those tears to freeze on my cheeks #FrozenTearsIsMyNewAutobiography #WinkWinkNudgeNudgeMotherNature

7) The high number of Baby Bjorn strollers in TriBeCa. Whew! I was worried I might have to look at those trashy Graco's the rest of my life. Thanks for keeping our babies bougie NYC! #GratefulForBougieBabies

8) The phrase, "This train is being held at this station by the dispatcher. We should be moving shortly." Which is always followed by #SeventeenLipSmacks #ThankfulForNYCAttitude

9) Every party that is ever thrown in Brooklyn. Wow, Brooklyn is fun! And getting there has never been easier! Just a quick A>F>Construction-on-the-L>G and I'm there! #ThatWasEasy #BlessedButNotObsessed

10) Mariachi bands on the trains #SpeechlesslyThankful

Stay comfy y'all and have #Blessed #Thankful #Grateful #PraiseHimForHeHasGivenUsARoofOverOurHeads kind of weekend!

Everyone says that the first year out of college is the toughest. There are still traces of cheap beer and poor choices flowing through your veins and you are caught in a post-collegiate whirlwind of life decisions and experiences and it is tough to know where to cast the proverbial net. But for me, that wasn't necessarily true. I got a fun, degree-related job right out of college, I went straight into a meaningful relationship, I was doing what I love with people I loved, I was WALKING ON AIR! But then, earlier this year, everything made a giant shift. My relationship ended, my enthusiasm for my work started to deteriorate, the world around me that once felt so small, manageable, and neat started to grow bigger and more daunting and more unorganized. It happens to everyone and it had finally happened to me; I was hit with a major case of the twentysomethings.

I'm not proud to admit it, but I spent two weeks in June paying for my meals with quarters that I had found in my room (thank Gods for dollar pizza) and literally surviving off of the food my restaurant job was giving me. It was a bleak time, sure, but I felt too proud, too determined to ask my family or friends for help. I knew that I could push through it. I felt in my heart that this was a struggle I needed to go through in order to really bring myself up. I thought, "You can't rise to the top if you don't know where the bottom is. " And I had found bottom. I may or may not have spent an entire evening by myself (under the influence of some recreational anesthesia) watching wedding proposal videos and sobbing uncontrollably. Bottom. So what I did was I picked myself up by my bootstraps and labeled this past summer the #SummerofChang. My job started paying me more money so I started eating real food again. I explored every beach within reach of NYC. I painted my living room walls and bought new pants. I booked a show in Maine and went there for a month and made some amazing friends. I was, for the first time in my adult life, figuring out who I was, by myself, for myself.

It feels weird to admit that you don't know who you are. But I did that. I admitted that I wasn't sure who I was or what I wanted. And that is what your twenties seem to be all about, right? Uncertainty. I am certainly certain that everyone has felt uncertain about their lives in their twenties.  And now, though I am in a much better place than I was earlier in the year, I still don't really know where I am going but I feel much more confident in the man that is going there. Wherever "there" is. And I can literally feel the neurons in my brain rearranging themselves to become that of an adult brain. Two days ago I poured out a bottle of champagne because I knew it was cheap and would give me a headache. Two years ago I would have drank the entire bottle no problem. I know now that a Bourgogne wine is from Bergundy, France. And I know that I like wines from that region of France. I know that my favorite Bourbon is Basil Hayden and I like to get my produce from Whole Foods. Brick by brick I am putting myself together. And for all of you twentysomethings reading this, you gotta do it. Dude, I get it, it's a tough decade. It's lonely and confusing but it is also a crucial period of self discovery and you gotta make sure that you end up liking the person that you discover. As Dr. Meg Jay, author of "The Defining Decade" says, "There are no guarantees. So claim your adulthood. Be Intentional. Get to work. Pick your family. Do the math. Make your own certainty. Don't be defined by what you didn't know or didn't do." Stay comfy y'all.

I'm a Southern boy through and through (with a touch of Sriracha, of course) and thus I have done my darndest to avoid the New England traditions for as long as possible. Ne'er have I stood 'pon yonder Hampshire white peak proclaiming myself a Yankee doodle dandy, but I did, as of last week, partake in the one fall tradition that all New York parents drag their children out of the concrete jungle to enjoy: apple picking. But, in true Chang fashion, I performed this tradition of traditions in the most non-traditional way possible.

I recently befriended a middle aged man from Bangladesh. And for our purposes, let us say his name is Sumon. Sumon and I became friends at work and one day some co-workers left to go apple picking for the day. I sighed with jealousy and casually mentioned that this was an activity that I have sadly never partaken in. He turned to me and admitted that he too had never been apple picking and, with a fervor that only Bangladeshi people possess, asked if I would take him. I was taken aback by this request. So few people ask me on such romantic dates, I was not prepared. As I usually do when I'm caught off guard or afraid, I said yes (It's a dangerous habit, I realize). I learned over the next few days that Bangladeshi people do not share the American people's reputation for broken promises. They are a people of persistence. Thus he kept reminding me of our impending apple picking excursion and insisted that I set a date, so I eventually gave in and said, "YES, Sumon, Wednesday morning, we will go." Feeling the need for a buffer of some sort I invited some other coworkers and friends so that I could have a full car for the journey. But when I mentioned to Sumon that I was bringing some friends he looked at me perplexed and said, "But there is no room in the car!" I said, "Yes, Sumon, I have plenty of room in my car, what do you mean?" To which he casually responded, "Well, there's me, my wife, my daughter, my mom, my dad... no room, full car!"

My jaw dropped. I admit that in the heat of the moment, I was not happy that Sumon had invited his entire Bangladeshi family without asking. So I put my foot down, "No, Sumon. It is my car, I decide who goes. Only you, not your whole family." But then one by one each of my friends canceled so I thought, "YOLO!" and I told him he could bring his whole family. What the heck, at least Bangladeshi people are reliable. So Wednesday morning I overestimated the drive to the Bronx and arrived at Sumon's residence - half an hour early. I sat in his living room and ate oranges and mangos that Sumon had peeled for me while his amazing old, amazingly tiny father stared at me smiling his very-few-teeth smile. Then, when the whole family was ready, we all piled into my tiny Honda Civic (2 door). Sumon and I in the front. His wife, his one year old daughter, his mother, and his father in the back seat. How did they fit you ask? Well, his ancient, tiny father essentially sat on his mother's lap for the entire hour and a half journey. It was a sitcom episode y'all. You can't write a scene like this. None of them spoke a word of English except Sumon. So I listened to them talk and talk in a language I did not understand as I drove them through the beautiful land of New Jersey. As I drove, I thought to myself, as I often think to myself, "What events in my life led me to this moment?" And then we arrived at the apple orchard.

We all exited the tiny car like clowns in a circus. The waspy, manhattanite families stared at me (the clear outlier in the group) in confused judgement as we made our way to the counter to get our apple bags. But when we got to the orchard everything clicked for me. I saw the incredible smiles on Sumon's parent's faces. I saw his daughter running through the orchard. I saw his wife eating the apples with pure joy. I saw myself running through the orchard and tasting, for the first time, the beauty of a fresh picked apple. I later learned that this was the first time Sumon and his family had ever seen an apple tree. And, for his parents, it was the first time since they moved to America that they had ever left New York City. I watched Sumon lift his daughter up to pick apples from the trees and an incredible feeling of pure joy flooded through me.

I've been living in Manhattan with blinders on. Just laser focus on myself and complete ignorance to the reality that surrounds me. Bangladesh, I learned, is just east of India. If New York were India, Bangladesh would be like Long Island. And Sumon won some sort of immigration lottery that allowed him to move to America on a working visa. For him, it was the opportunity of a lifetime. And he has worked so hard to bring his family here. One person at a time. And what have I done? I write blogs, make silly videos, sing songs and complain about my family. But this tiny gesture of taking Sumon's family to an apple orchard meant the world to them. His wife cooked me an incredible picnic lunch of tandoori chicken, hard boiled eggs, and basmati rice. She made it "not too spicy" just for me and even brought me a fork to use (they ate with their hands, a tradition that didn't necessarily warm my heart). She even apologized for not making me a salad (which you better believe I was furious about). The kindest and gratitude they expressed toward me for doing this for them was not a kindest that I've ever experienced. And I can't help but thank him for taking away my blinders and helping me to see that I'm not the only person in this world. It was an experience I will not soon forget. And now I always have a Bangladeshi family that I can have dinner with. And you better believe, I'm bringing a set of utensils. Stay comfy y'all.

It is fifth grade. A sweaty, overweight, pre-diabetes half-Asian youth is released onto the gravel playground of his elementary school. Beads of sweat immediately form on his upper lip as he shields his eyes from the harsh afternoon sun and gazes upon the game of kickball that the athletic boys are starting up by the jungle gym. Afraid of sweating through his shirt too soon he climbs the jungle gym, finds a comfy place to sit, and begins to commentate the kickball game. "Zach is up for the kick. He's looking anxious. Will he be able to help out his team this time?" He nods his head in satisfaction. Yeah, this is his idea of fun. But eventually he realizes no one is listening to him and he joins his two best friends: Kelly, the super-Christian and Kandace, who often kicks him in the shins for no reason. They draw a definitive circle in the gravel and begin to play their favorite game: push the other person out of the circle. It's like sumo wrestling, with less rules. The half-Asian, because of his weight advantage, usually wins. He would always win, but he loses on purpose to Kandace for fear of being kicked in the shins. Then the whistle is blown and this joyous, carefree hour of recess ends. The half-Asian sulks back into the place of learning with a sweat soaked shirt, a dozen fond memories, and a sadness that the hour of play has ended so abruptly.

You guessed it, that half-Asian was me. And I tell that slightly embarrassing story because I recently ended a month long recess period. Sometimes shows feel like a job, sometimes it's just for the money, and sometimes they feel like that time you were a kid and you were playing in the sandbox with your friends for hours (but it felt like only minutes) and you never wanted to leave and when it came time to say goodbye, you cried. That's what this show was for me. It was sandbox time. I mean, it was just an Andrew Lloyd Webber show, ya know? A lot of fluff, not much content, the gayest thing since Grindr. But every single show, I cried at the end. There was something about this group of people, the place we were in, the ensemble we had,  and my emotional state at the time that just clicked for me. I felt it. I felt it pretty hard. We weren't really changing the world with this production but this production was kind of changing my world. It restored for me that sense of freedom and joy that I got when I was playing "push the other person out of the circle" in fifth grade. And when it came time to say goodbye, it was like hearing that whistle that marks the end of recess. I was sad. But like, a happy sad. "Bittersweet" is usually the word people use. Happy that I had the experience, but sad that it was time to go back to real life.

But there is always a silver lining to returning to real life, right? I mean, as Alfred Pennyworth says to Bruce Wayne in Batman Begins, "Why do we fall master Bruce? So we can learn to get back up." Without real life, we would have nothing to compare sandbox time to, am I right? Thus sandbox time wouldn't be special. So for now, I'm looking fondly back on my month of recess. And I'm looking forward to the next time that bell rings and I get to go back outside and play again. And until that time comes, stay comfy, y'all!