My life, until a certain point, followed a road map created by the Almighty himself.

The Great Cartographer deals only in deep blacks and pristine whites and in twenty something years, I’d never made a mistake, never strayed. It’s actually very hard to make a mistake when there is Right, and there is Wrong, and your fear of God – curiously, not your love for him – kept you far, far away from Wrong.

But as frightened as I was of hell, I was more consumed with the pride of always being right. Piety had always been my safe harbor; armor for the self-righteous. And then, one Sunday I walked down the red brick steps of that church in Cambridge, threw off my armor and embraced a new geography:

I was moving into the Gray Area.

I knew what assumptions people made when I made that move, too. But my leap from faith had little or nothing to do with the strict, sometimes arbitrary commandments of the Mormon religion. In fact, a year or more elapsed before I even had my first drink -- an event which was followed in good time with my first co-ed sleepover.

Religion had not necessarily failed me. Certainly, there had been times I’d turned to God, pleaded for some favor which had gone ungranted, but even those instances had been explained acceptably as, ‘Sometimes, the answer is no.’ Religion had sustained me, given me someone to cry to when I hurt and provided me with rules by which to live. Obey the rules, reap the blessings. It was all very simple.

And then, I outgrew simple.

I remember sitting in the congregation, listening to that week’s answer to the world’s problems when the thought struck me quite plainly, Says who? And with that, I began to question everything. Not simply the existence of God (though it must be said that I still haven’t quite reconciled that for myself), but the existence of Right. God’s Law, it seemed to me, was unbending and yet I knew from experience that the world required more compromise.

My piety was a sham. And it was annoying. Furthermore, the idea that God had been getting all the credit for my hard work started to prick at me. The Lord Almighty took all the glory for my success in school, career and for every good decision I had ever made. Years of religious training taught me that credit for what I now call 'good instinct' was to be given to the Holy Spirit -- a notion that I now consider to be malarkey.

A level head, rational thought and the ability to crank out one hell of a pro/con list had been the reason for many of my successes, not the supernatural. Still, the day I turned my back, headed down those steps with no intention of returning, something in me flinched. What if I was wrong? What if I abandoned a God I wasn’t sure I believed in and my life took a downward turn? What if I actually failed at something?

I felt it keenly then as I do now that I have always sustained me. Additional support came from family and friends, but ultimately, strength came from within myself. I did not need to fear punishment in order to do the right thing. Friends and siblings have wanted to know the ‘why’ behind my lifestyle change and even felt insulted by my dismissal of things previously held dear. The best answer I can give any of them is that it just isn’t for me. I don’t know who this God is, or why I can’t accept “because god said so” as an answer anymore. I know me, though. I do good, I treat people well and I understand the reasons why I should. And none of them have anything to do the expectation of a reward in heaven.

It’s been five years since that day. I’m still waiting for failure and for the Almighty’s retribution. I don't expect it to come. Though I admit, there are still brief moments when I wonder how it’s all going to turn out.

“I pretty much shot my wad already on the blog today, so… can we talk about shoes?”

I snort a laugh into my mango salad and settle in for a bit of unwinding. And listening. Simultaneously, I hear suggestive talk involving cheese wiz, a discussion on the esoteric nature of Napoleon Dynamite, and the requisite blah blah Stuart blah.

And so goes Gate Night.

Over the course of an hour or so, our party of three grows to twelve – can you scooch over a tad? Kisses are exchanged and beer runs made as cameras dart about capturing proof of half-drunk pale ales, a leaf that sort of resembles a leaping squirrel, and folks with their mouths full of food. I’m the subject of the third category of photography and I learn very quickly how to use the delete function on all models of digital cams.

My level of insecurity triples in as much times as it takes me to scroll through the night’s images. I don’t like to see pictures of myself. I much prefer the idea of me that’s in my head. It’s better put together, more stylish, more svelte and frankly, it has a much better nose.

Maybe even a more interesting life.

Everyone you meet at Gate Night is an actor, a writer, a photographer, a musician, an artist. They use impressive vocabulary punctuated by instant messenger-bred slang. They know things. Literature, music, technology and politics – the conversations run the gamut and opinions fly. Sometimes, I feel set apart. I haven’t read that book. I only know enough about my computer to make it work. I am, to my own shame, somewhat apolitical. And when the group is large and conversation loud and animated, it can feel like a segment from Sesame Street.

One of these things is not like the others…

It happens very rarely, but it makes me uncomfortable. And tired. So I excuse myself and trek back to the subway, some very unhip music in my headphones. It gives me some time to think about my place – what I do, who I am. Where I am.

I decide that New York is the Epicenter of Interesting. We flock here to lead lives we consider improved over the ones we’d have had in Dallas or San Clemente or Kansas City -- just being here makes us feel important and part of something bigger and fundamentally worthy. And maybe that’s why once we get here, we stop looking up. Because if we look up, like the sidewalk-clogging, gaping-mouthed tourists, we get reminded of our size. Of our relative unimportance in the grand scheme of things.

The tourists are awed by it. We are chastised by it.

It’s a lesson that the city has taken out its willow reed to teach me – or maybe Life itself has – and lately, it’s been harder for me to accept. I don’t like feeling unimportant. Relatively or otherwise. It makes me uncomfortable and tired.

In New York City, Hyenas wear dark suits, cobalt blue shirts and ties of varying hues. They hover around watering holes, instinctively draining over-priced cocktails and imported beer, and though huddled in groups, each is aware that it is every man for himself as they keep close tabs on the prey they stalk from behind designer eye wear.

The Serengeti of Bryant Park’s outdoor café is abuzz at dusk, teeming with double-breasted, double-vented Hyenas and their respective prey, carefully balanced on over-priced heels and toting imported handbags. The prey saunter up to the watering hole, the Hyenas leave their packs, and the circle of life is yet again completed.

In New York City, the well-educated and well-paid corporate ladder climbers lean against the facades of their Madison Avenue office buildings, taking hasty drags of their cigarettes (there’s no time for lunch), and leer at women. They appraise each feature without any measure of subtlety, loudly voicing their appreciation for that which appeals to them. “And she’s got the legs, too” one calls out in a thick Brooklyn accent. Instantly, my mind’s eye replaces his expensive, nicely-tailored charcoal suit with a brown velour jogging suit and gold chains. He could be called David, or Alexander for all I know. But now, he is a Joe Jr., or a Lou.

Lou calls me sweetheart as I pass, and I shake my head. While his fancy costume belies the cheap, classless undercarriage of a being whose only real purpose in life is to chase tail, my apparently sweet face, glossy black coat and trendy shoes hide the soul of a girl who has absolutely no problem removing his genitalia and sucking it through a straw.

Don’t call me sweetheart.