Taffeta Interlude

What the What?

2011-10-02T09:57:00.010-04:00

Full disclosure. I haven't posted anything in a very long time because, quite frankly, I no longer identify with who I had become in this forum. The Sarah represented on this blog is unequivocally not the Sarah I am now. She (past-tense me) is cynical and self-destructive and whiny and, basically, pretty awful. She (blog-me) didn't start that way, but she soon spiraled into a hyperbolic bitch-fest all the while trying to to make herself appear to be something so that someone at some point would read into some sentiment (which they never do when you want them to). So much so that even typing "taffeta" into the hyperlink made current me get all lip-curled and anxious over this gross girl who was so willing to frivolously share so much. And, yes, I realize that speaking about oneself in a third person narrative is slightly off-putting, but this she is so not me that I can't even entertain the first. And, yet, with all that, here I go again writing in this manner? Well, not exactly.

Last night brought the first chill of fall and, like a familiar sweater freshly unpacked from storage, so too did the night resurrect residual behavior as I found myself slipping into something that has shrunken in size over the summer and can no longer keep me warm. As it were. It started from a gushy feeling. I was giddy and excited and deeply engrained in a truth I've worked so fervently to realize. Then, as quickly as a wine glass can empty when consumption overshadows cognizance, I wasn't in the driver's seat of my experience. Instead, I was relying on past maps -- that never served me well -- to yield different results. That's a fool's game, I tell ya, a fool's game. But there it was and there I was and there everything was that wasn't what I was anymore and it was all so damn ugly. But it's okay.

Acting out isn't indicative of anything beyond a misjudged moment. It's impossible to be enlightened and evolved at every second of every day. It's a struggle and we have to forgive ourselves our tribulations with the same compassion and kindness that we reserve for our loved ones. There is, after all, always a learning curve and a curve ball and (continuing with the hackneyed metaphors) an otherwise unnoticed curve in the road. I guess what I'm trying to say in all this candid gurgled jumble is that, um, nothing is indicative of everything and that this blog sorta serves as something bigger than a bunch of sentences. There are incidentals of which I'm not-so-proud and not-so-fond, but such is life and that's okay. Onward and upward, I suppose.

To be continued, I hope.

Can't Fight the Seether

2011-07-10T00:04:00.015-04:00

It's always when you least expect it. Or when you don't want it. Like, genuinely don't want it. Actually, saying you don't want it isn't strong enough a sentiment. Instead, "it" always happens when "it" is the worst idea in the whole wide world of bad ideas.

There you are living life the way properly indicated for you. You're stoked some days, bummed other days and, the rest of the time, you slink your mouth into a half-grin suggesting, not so much complacency but, a this'll do mentality. No big deal. That's life. But then something happens to shake everything up. Something that tests all the absolutes you've placed on yourself about the shape of your life. It's as if every little rule you've made unnecessarily heavy starts drifting away, helium-balloon style, until you realize you can't reach rationality no matter how high you stand on tippy-toes. Which is spectacular. And scary. So you fight it, no matter the dullness of your balloon-popping blade and the futility of your effort.

Maybe you explain to whoever is most interested that this deck just isn't the one you planned to play. According to you. Even if the hand looks pretty awesome -- maybe even more awesome than what you were anticipating -- it still isn't right. According to you.

So you fight this thing simply because it was not, as you imagined, in the Grand Scheme of Things. Plus, quite frankly, you'd rather not deal with this now. Maybe someday, but not now. Never now. But then it showed up and shocked you with its HelloHow'd'yaDo and you can't get it out of your mind. Still, you try to stay true to a stagnant past view and, with all the valor you can muster, you fight and fight and fight until your narrative is no longer about the thing itself but, instead, about how much you're fighting against the thing when, really, it could all be so easy.

Some things like, say, I dunno, cancer and grammar and marriage equality really deserve a good fight. Absolutely. Keep on keepin' on. But then, c'mon, other things like, say, I dunno, anything involving how you arbitrarily think your life should unfold deserves to be unhinged from attachment and expectation. Some things really are rare and special and surprising.

But fight if you like to fight. The thing -- whatever its proper name or title or face may be -- will just begin to go with the flow of the tide while you exhaust yourself swimming counter to the current just to prove a point you've already forgotten.

Absent Mind(fulness)

2011-05-26T13:18:00.000-04:00

I've been doing a lot of cleaning house. And not the behind the couch/between the cushions variety (though there has been plenty of that too). This cleaning has been a little more Sarah-centric, a little more internal and esoteric and contemplative (cue the sage and the third eye and the healthy organs). For a girl teetering with obsessive-compulsive tendencies, this kind of cleaning requires full focus for the success of its outcome, if only to not justify a waiver.

First things first. It was officially time to stop smoking. I'm in my late twenties and, quite frankly, it just isn't cute anymore. I suppose it's debatable if it was ever really cute, per se, but it was, at least, forgivable: a crutch of sorts aiding a pose of sorts. But what initially spawned from feeling socially-awkward at seventeen slowly morphed into an essay writing companion at nineteen, then to a bitch-at-work enhancer at twenty-five, then, finally, to a gotta-have-one-to-write/buying-cartons-'cause-they're-cheaper addiction. And a winter spent with windows down/furnace on while secondhand smoke wafted through my studio apartment. And scene. And gross. It was time to breakup with this disgusting -- albeit wild -- little lover.

This is not the first time I've made such claims (hopefully it's my last), though I've never really felt like a nicotine slave. Instead, it seduces me with a slow, steady build of cues. It's a slippery slope. I've "quit" many times: either as a deliberate decision (i.e. writing DON'T SMOKE SARAH! in permanent marker every day on my forearm until it, quite literally, sunk in) or as a fluke (after, say, a week of being sick and not smoking and continuing on the clean-lung path). So a few weeks, months, whatevers go by and then, just like that, I'm lured back in because I stupidly think I can handle it. Maybe I'm pissed off and, instead of just breathing into the feeling, decide a few puffs will alleviate the stress. Or maybe I'm out with friends and crave respite from the group, so I go outside to talk to the cute boy with the cigarette because it's familiar. And then, before I know it, I'm not bumming, I'm buying and finding every excuse to light up before the sun sets. I become addicted to the activities surrounding smoking -- socializing, writing, drinking -- and, in due time, convince myself I can't accomplish anything without smoking. This happened in epic proportions this go 'round. And, as such, I've barely written an email for the past month.

Just like any breakup, this Sarah-and-smoking divorce has been stage-plagued. No need to bore with tedium, though one instance illustrates the shift more than any other: the transition from liking a dude because he's a smoker to being completely appalled by a dude for the very same reason. Cigarettes used to be a secret turn-on, like height (I'm a sucker for the six-foot-plus variety. Checking out men on the subway is basically me scanning the ceiling.). Not anymore. Now I've become one of those self-righteous assholes who doubts they could date a smoker; taste aside (which is gnarly), I don't think I could handle the constant post-coital, pre-cocktail, deep-in-conversation temptation again and again and again.

And maybe that's my lesson: when it comes to cigarettes, I'm not that tough. Not at all. Like an old lover whose memory is a just-picked scab, I can't be trusted around this kryptonite. Not at all. So I gotta stay away. And I am. Perhaps that's the thing about destructive behavior: no one is going to tell you to take care of yourself more than yourself. Until then, you surround yourself with whomever enables your habits because you need someone with whom to shrug it off. But it's not their fault. It's yours. There is always a justification and a reason until there isn't. And then you stop. Because it's gross.

Game Playing

2011-04-19T15:00:00.016-04:00

It's like holding your breath underwater. You try to make it from one end of the pool to the other without so much as thinking of the surface, just to prove to yourself that you can. Still, sooner or later, you're going to be left gasping for air between the gulps of holding it in. Sure, the longer you're submerged with taut lips and a clenched diaphragm, the easier the subsequent seconds become, but, at some point, you can't do it any more. So you don't. So you breathe -- all the while clinging to the few seconds that you had ultimate control over your body's functions, just to prove to yourself that you're not, as it were, flailing at the whim of every prescribed inhale. Look at you -- catacean-you -- you've exhibited so much more restraint than the rest of us Homo sapien saps who revel in the exhale-release. For a moment, at least, you win the game-prize. But we all gotta breathe at some point, no matter how long we time ourselves otherwise.

We all say we hate it, that we're not going to do it, that it's a waste of time and pretense and that the jig is going to be up before you can burp the alphabet and, as such, any fronting will ultimately backfire. So why do it in the first place? Well, because you have to, because people don't need to see everything right away, because cards are meant to be played close to the chest and hands revealed accordingly. So I've learned. The hard way.

My mom used to tell me to just romantically do whatever I want to do. If I was considering telling a certain someone something, she'd encourage my candor and say, "Well, they're gonna find out who you are at some point. Might as well be honest now and, if they can't handle it, then they're not right for you." Yeah Mom, I'd think, that's right. Then I'd sans-water swallow a healthy dose of the Fuck Its and tell that particular person whatever I thought I just had to say at that particular moment (which was normally something along the lines of whatever happened to currently enter my mind -- the stem of the sentiment always being, but never blatantly stated, "I really like you and want to reach out to you so that you reach out to me so that I know you like me so that I'm validated in my liking you" or whatever). Maybe, though, this grand expression of anti-game playing honesty was really my mom's way of shutting me up.

I'm prone to obsess (Really, Sarah, you? Never woulda guessed...). I over-think every move before so much as making a single step. Text messages require proper-grammar deliberation and subtle-hint flirtation. Outfits solicit gut fluctuation and mood altercation. Meals involve incessant cost calculation and specific taste inclination. And so on (-tion). Spontaneity is never my forte. Until it is. Until I spin myself dizzy with a casual -- albeit rehearsed -- rationalization as to why I need to buck up and be me. Warts and all. Nuts and all. Excitable and all. Then I go ahead and place my foot so far in my mouth that I'm choking on my own knee and there's no way to undo the acrobatics I justified in a haste act of lemme-show-you-who-I-really-am. But I'm finished with all that. For the moment.

It's not so much game-playing as art-making: the art of withholding and the reward of the release that only a properly-placed buildup allows. Every last thing doesn't need to be revealed at every first contemplation. And that's really nice. We all have flaws and fuck ups and stories to tell, but we don't need to put it all out in the open right away. This becomes particularly true -- and particularly tricky -- when we meet people with no prior context of who we are. It is much safer to express yourself freely under the guise of mutuality; however, that is so rarely the case post-academia or outside of work. We are all blank sheets and someone will undoubtedly write notes in our margins, no matter how much we try to control the scribbles with our supposed charm. Thus, tact must be maintained for as long as possible. Plus, there's the more-often-than-not possibility that you'll end up not liking this person. Or visa versa. Might as well place all odds on that outcome so as not to choke on the passion that you felt for a fleeting moment. And, with that, viva la game playing! Replace the negative context of the association and look at it as a way to perpetuate patience for just a little longer. It, after all, keeps everything more interesting and allows desire to well up until it reaches the inevitable pinnacle of the release.

Breaking Up With The Family

2011-04-11T13:54:00.000-04:00

Every year, on the night before Thanksgiving (Thanksgiving Eve, if you will), we'd order pizza and make pies. This tradition started per my suggestion: pizza seemed like the most logical thing to eat before indulging in Americana gluttony. We would stay up really late and -- with a slice of something Bay Are delicious -- roll dough and cut apples and roast residual pumpkin seeds, all the while downing Chandon and dancing in the kitchen. When there was a baking lull, my boyfriend-at-the-time and I would curl on the couch and catch up on a year's worth of Martha Stewart Living. We'd fantasize about future meals and organizational inspirations until the timer went off and we were needed in the kitchen again. Then, we'd join his parents and continue cooking as a team: chopping board here, washing dishes there, et cetera. I was at ease in his parents' home. His family had become an extension of my own and I was, quite simply, happy. This ritual, like our relationship, lasted for four years. The first Thanksgiving I spent sans annual ceremony was a major bummer. Like, beyond a bummer. I had become so accustomed to the love and familiarity of his family that the thought of not being with them on that holiday made me nostalgic and sad, despite the demise of our romance.

It's so rarely only the lover with whom we break up. That is the lesser blow more often than not because, by the time you throw in the proverbial towel, you have both known for, what, the better half of a year, that the relationship isn't going to work. Maybe the sex has stopped and the fights have increased or maybe you have nothing to say over dinner besides how good the meal tastes and what your boss did the day before. But these are all private things, little things easily shielded from the rest of the world. Your lives are so completely intertwined and, as such, discontent often masks itself as rut; thus, no one on the outside knows of the turmoil. Until you split up. Until an announcement is made. Until reality sets in and all the little things that filled you with simplistic joy are gone. And, as such, breaking up with the family is the most difficult part of a relationship's end.

Despite my being ridiculously close to my parents, I've always been adopted by the families of my boyfriends-at-the-time. And I'm lucky: I've never had bad "in-laws." Quite the opposite. Even my high school boyfriend had amazing parents. They embraced our relationship -- regardless of it being fleeting and our being sixteen -- and included me as an extended member of the family. I spent weekends with them, traveled with them, opened Christmas presents with them. Everything. Even when we were no longer in love (or whatever it is that you feel when you're sixteen), I couldn't bring myself to breakup because I couldn't bare the thought of not regularly seeing his family. So we stayed together until I met someone new and couldn't fake it anymore. I tried to maintain a relationship with his parents, but I couldn't. It was different.

While I'm accustomed to the parental breakup, the ending of my last live-in love had a new familial dynamic that I had yet to experience: he had two daughters with whom I became terribly close. I was weary of the kid component at first. It was weird. Totally weird. I was in my late twenties and hanging out with two teenagers. There was no way they were going to like me. Or maybe they would. Maybe they'd think I was the coolest gal this side of the Mississippi. Maybe we'd shop together and talk about boys and tampons and sex together. Maybe we'd watch shitty tv on school nights and bake cookies on weekends. Or maybe they'd resent me for being so young and occupying their dad's time. I've heard all the awful stories. Why would this be any different? I was the other woman, another force, an extra adult. Fortunately, they adored me -- and I them -- and the former exchange reigned supreme. It was a full-fledge love affair, so much so that, when the relationship ended, I was spending more time with them than their father. And, like is so often the case, we tried to keep in touch -- sending texts and Facebook messages and whatnot -- but it had changed. The closeness we nourished for so long was replaced by distance and once-upon-a-time fondness which can only maintain itself for so long before spiraling into mutual masturbation, albeit of the most PG variety.

The first meeting of someone else's family is always awkward. How can it not be? Everyone is on their best behavior so as to be the ideal version of themselves. Intimacy takes time and cannot be feigned through formal dinners and random conversations. It requires care and patience and fostering. However, after a few months or a few years or a few fish-out-of-water instances, it gets easy. Suddenly you realize you're part of the family. You have a say in vacation-planning and meal-making. You have traveled to distant relatives' houses and can laugh at stories of the time you missed the exit on the way to Tahoe or the time the drunk uncle made the inappropriate drunk comment. You no longer have to worry about the uncomfortable silence of conversational lulls because you're at home with these people who were once strangers and to whom you owe nothing.

Still, no matter how much you promise to maintain a relationship once romance subsides, it is never the same. The foundation has changed and all that remains is history and memory -- which is amazing, but never as fulfilling as perpetual engagement. When you do see these people who once occupied such a large aspect of your life, it feels as if you're meeting for the first time all over again. You play a quick game of catch-up all the while leaving out the tastiest tidbits of your life. You can't talk about foibles and flings. No way. That'd be weird. Instead, you slightly desexualize yourself and discuss broader brushstrokes and wax nostalgic poetics. And that's how it is.

At some point, someone new and significant is going to enter the picture and clinging to how things were back in the day is only going to make this new and significant someone feel inadequate and irrelevant. And there's the rub. And there's the real heartbreak. And there's the true tragedy. But that's just the way it goes. There will always be a deep fondness in your heart for this other family, but it can't take precedence over the current incarnation. After all, if you're lucky (and I'm very lucky), you already have a blood-related as well as a friend-centric family that is pretty terrific and they're not going anywhere -- no matter your mood swings and romantic predilections.

The Depressive Collective

2011-04-08T14:43:00.000-04:00

I don't know exactly when it happened. Maybe mid-January, when the daylight hours were shorter than menstrual cycles and the whirlwind of Holiday Activity gave way to heaps of boot-printed, dog-shit stained snow. Or maybe at the end of March, when the rest of the country was, if not wearing, then at least removing mothballs from tank tops and t-shirts, while us assholes in New York were still clinging to North Face coats and wool-lined tights as we traipsed through another I-Can't-Believe-It's-Only-Twenty-Degrees day. Whatever the specific afflictions leading to a specific demise, in the past few months every single one of my closest girlfriends have expressed overwhelming depression. This isn't just a "damn I'm bummed out today" depressed. No. This is deeper than midweek fluctuations. Like, "maybe I should move" depressed. Like, "what am I doing with my life" depressed. Like, "I think I need to be on meds" depressed. Like, "I wouldn't know inspiration if it punched me in the face" depressed. Like, "I'm lucky if I write an email" depressed. You get the picture...

All of these women, my New York girlfriends, have, it would seem, everything that every other woman living in the middle of the country who can quote Sex and the City verbatim would want: they're single (or "happily" coupled), they have cool jobs (or they're working from home with the leisure of day-planning and schedule-making on their side), they're really smart (some would maybe even argue that they're too smart for their own good), they're talented (same as the above-mentioned sentiment), they're really pretty (and again), they're living in the best city in the whole world (maybe that's debatable, but I'd take the bait and argue as much any day of the week), they're never at a want for anything (social calendars filled, romantic rendezvous maxed, cultural explorations abound) and they're completely, unabashedly, undeniably miserable.

Maybe they can sense my own gnawing apathy and, as a result, choose to confide in me (misery loves company?). Nonetheless. Every single one of these awesome women have either called me crying in the middle of the night or emailed me their despair in the middle of the day. I've talked them up and down and around their problems. I've met for a drink when I wanted to be dry and stayed up late when I wanted to sleep because I know they'd do the same for me. (I know because, quite frankly, they have: shown up to my apartment with flowers and a movie, tagged along when I wanted to see some stupid boy unworthy of my unrequited affections, binge-ate ice cream and pretzels even after their bellies were full of some delicious, calorically-fueled cuisine.) And this isn't even a grand, romantic group of girlfriends with all of us feeding off our debilitations. No. This spans cliques and circles and specific contexts. From the girl with the good-on-paper nine-to-five to the girl romantically-link for two-plus years, we are all wallowing in something a little more sinister than anything else we have every experienced.

From irrational loneliness to ridiculous affairs, I've heard it all. I've tried to convince friends not to travel when the going gets tough and not to cheat when relationships teeter on complacency. Whatever. No matter. People are going to do what they're going to do and no amount of advice or common sense can convince them otherwise. It's wasted breath, these conversations, but that doesn't make them any less important. Sometimes we need to broken-record repeat ourselves so that something finally sets in -- if not for the person who is supposedly listening, then at least for our own sense of sanity. Diatribes serve as allegories: little stories we tell ourselves and each other so that, maybe, something will sink in and we'll be able to deal with our own lives as they relate to the lives of someone else. And therein lies the transcendence.

Granted, camaraderie is important, but at what point does the collective woe of everyone else begin to bring you spiraling further down into your own dizzying decay? It's so easy to bitch together, but is it just as easy to get out of a funk together? Are we just feeding off of the crumbs of our own conceit or can obsessive talk really lead to paramount change?

Last night I had dinner with one of my best friends. We haven't seen each other for a few weeks and our relationship was entering that point of misplaced grudges and did-I-do-something-wrong confusion. We didn't know it at the time, but after two bottles of sake, we both revealed that neither of us wanted to go to dinner. I didn't want to discuss my absence (and the fact that I'd rather lay in bed with months-old New Yorkers than have a conversation about my emotional state) and she didn't want to indulge in gluttony after succumbing to a drunken (isn't it always?), five-in-the-morning pork-induced binge-fest. After an hour or so of catching up (boys boys work boys), we got into the thick of it and had one of those meaningful talks that leave you feeling empowered and ready for whatever life throws your way. We were both reminded that, despite the affects of menial sadness, you can rise right out of it if only you allow yourself to really -- not superfluously -- reveal it. And that takes guts. Lots and lots of guts. No one wants to share the embarrassing roots of undoing (it is, after all, quite silly more often than not -- especially when spoken out loud), but, when you do (and only then), you can reclaim the willpower and motivation and gumption that fueled you in the first place to do something a little more grand than everyone else.

Maybe it's just that we're in our late twenties (Saturn Return?) and that this is the time when we're supposed to finally figure our shit out (whatever that means). Maybe this is when other people in smaller cities decide to settle with the person they've been with for a decade and start contemplating procreation and the white picket fence fantasy. It surely sneaks up on most of us. However, instead of judging yourself based on the projected desires of everyone else, it is far more productive to give the status quo the finger and remember that you're exactly where you're supposed to be, doing exactly what you want to do, regardless of all the snags that happen along the way. And, if that doesn't work, then you can at least find solace in the changing season: a little vitamin D never hurt no one...

Fat

2011-04-04T15:32:00.000-04:00

It's as if we all hate each other, no matter how much the inverse is true. It's as if we're all searching for that secret roll, that extra dimple, that unfortunate rub. It's the way we look each other up and down while someone is talking, averting our eyes with a quick hip glance, a chin peek, a stomach judge. It's a way of having something to sneer about -- no matter what said sneer says about our own imperfections and projections. It's the way we bond and assess and contend with our own misperceptions. It's how we walk down the street. It's how we wear belts on the cinchiest parts of our waists, skirts that hike up the smallest stick of our legs, t-shirts that hug the gauntest protrusion of our arms. There is always something to prove and something to size.

Everyone has had the conversation. You're talking to someone and someone else comes up. There's nothing to say, really, but you find commonality in the insult: Have you seen So And So? Man o man has she/he/whomever gained weight. Man o man I feel bad for her/him/whomever. Man o man she/he/whomever used to be so hot. If only she/he/whomever would just lose a little weight. And there it is. The nothing. The everything. The thing we all fear that someone else is saying. And, no matter what the scale and the tape measure and the size of your jeans tell you, someone has said something awful about you.

And then it happens. You're the asshole at the party who won't have another cocktail 'cause your dress is too tight and you don't want the booze bloat. I mean, okay, whatever keeps you off the fat wagon, right? No matter how momentarily delusional and destructive it is, right? Wrong. Still, you pose with your seltzer for a few more hours, 'til it's four in the morning and you're starving and eating clever-named, euphemism-loaded preservatives at a bodega or shitty pizza at a twenty-four hour parlor or hormone-injected burgers at McDonald's. If only you shrugged off stigma with a calculated callousness in the first damn place you wouldn't be so quick to succumb to a ravenous whim.

Or maybe you're the jerk to make the first comment about your burgeoning double chin -- just so you're ahead of the name-calling curve -- assuming if you say it out loud no one will say it behind your back. But they still do, whether or not to the double-chinned you. You could be so cute, they say. Or maybe you were so cute, they say. Whatever. Doesn't matter. You called yourself out and there's no going back. If only you let your spunk reign supreme in the first damn place you wouldn't mind-fuck the folds of your face and anything that anyone could say would be as menial as your profile.

But what of the other content with their faulted frame -- of the girl who doesn't notice her chaffing thighs in the summer heat, of the dude with the gut who will go back for seconds, of the couple who eats Taco Bell with mild sauce in bed whilst streaming Netflix and sharing Dairy Queen? Sure, we can scoff and scold 'til we're gaunt in the face, but it doesn't really matter if the subject of our dissatisfaction is unaffected. Confidence transcends flaws and hate and cake every day of the week. This is not to say that we should forgo ego and health and attraction in the name of gluttony. Not at all. Gross. But, maybe, if we stopped caring about the temporary body-squish of consuming freshly-baked bread with perfectly-melted butter and some black sea salt then, maybe, we'd all be a little happier, albeit a little rounder -- but definitely more sated. Then, maybe, we'd find more time to focus on things that really matter, like, I dunno, everything else in the whole goddamn world. Haters are gonna hate and people are gonna talk because, quite frankly, they've got nothing better to do. And they're jealous. Beyond jealous. The apathy these chubs have honed is enough to send any kale-eating, smoothie-drinking, hipbone-protruding motherfucker into a tale-spin as they cling to an artifice perpetuated by the construct of mass-marketed desire. (Full disclosure: there's nothing wrong with kale-eating, smoothie-drinking, hipbone-protruding motherfuckers as I am, indeed, one of said motherfuckers. I do, however, have enough interest in the culinary world to forgive these leanings when something with flavor and deliberation is plated in front of me.)

Bottom line: allow yourself some indulgences and BMI fluctuations and sinister whispers because, at the end of the day (end of your life), what does it really matter if you're five pounds (ten pounds?) heavier than the ideal version of yourself? Moderation is definitely key, but that doesn't mean it opens every door to everything. Isn't it better to be left with something sweet (or savory) in your mouth than the sour aftertaste of discontent (or vomit)? After all, bodies are gonna change and people are gonna talk, but who cares? Really, who fucking cares? We're all hungry for something. Starvation is simply a metaphor for all the ways we choose to ignore what we want, when we want it, how we want it (medium rare, please).

Repetitive Stress Syndrome

2011-03-25T15:26:00.000-04:00

I've been dealing with pain for about a month or so. This is not a metaphor. Yet. It started in my right hamstring attachment. Then it traveled to my right hip flexor and the right side of my lower back. Being well-versed in yoga, I begin to modify my practice: bending a knee here, engaging a quadricep there, et cetera. It was all to no avail. The pain, unfortunately, is perpetual, so much so that the simplest of poses -- for me, at least -- (seated forward fold, triangle, half-moon) have become quite debilitating. I even find myself limping when I walk my dog or crying when I stretch a muscle. The most obvious response is to chill out, back off, rest a bit. But I can't. I'm so addicted to asana that I'm unwilling to stop practicing and start healing. I'm a stubborn know-it-all and think I can solve my own body's aches. This, I'm learning, is untrue.

There is a common misconception that yoga is for the flexible few. People always claim they shy away from the practice because they can't touch their toes and whatnot. However, I counter, yoga is about finding balance between strength and flexibility and, quite frankly, those who are tight in their bodies are less likely to hurt themselves: their bodies tell them how far they can -- or cannot -- go. On the other hand, a bendy person can unsafely and improperly shape themselves into any pretzel pose, all the while ignoring the proper alignment that will protect the integrity of their limitations. So, as it goes, the flexible person (myself being included in this category) gets injured more often than the tight person. This is not to ignore the benefit of distress: I've learned a lot about my body with every injury and, more importantly, how to pull back from my flexibility and cultivate strength. Seriously. I've hurt almost every part of my body -- shins, shoulders, lower back, wrists -- in the evolution of my yoga practice. These samskaras serve as lessons, albeit painful, and transcend my asana beyond the ever-present ego attachment. If only everything else in life could be so literal.

Before my current injury, I became bored with performing the most difficult postures possible. After years of sweaty flow, I no longer needed to prove myself via poses. They're easy. I'm flexible. Instead of lifting into an arm balance, I became fascinated by sitting in the struggle of a squat (malasana as opposed to bakasana), which often yielded surprising results (such as crying, not out of pain, but out of opening). Or, instead of lifting up into a backbend, I started exploring the less-demanding (yet more laborious) prep of said backbend (setu bandhasana as opposed to urdhva dhanurasana). I learned that the prep is so much harder than the full pose (for the ego as well as the body) and that trying to perfect something is more rewarding than showing off the completed expression. Considering the transformation of my practice, it is quite ironic that I'm now dealing with my most debilitating injury ever.

So. It is said that what we do/how we act on the mat serves as an analogy to what we do/how we act in the rest of our lives. This, of course, isn't limited to yoga specifically or exercise generally. Instead, indicators are all around us: how we drive our cars through traffic, wait for trains on the platforms, eat our dinners, drink our booze, socialize with our friends, attend to our responsibilities. You can analyze one measly anything as it relates to a whole lot of everythings.

Repetitive stress syndrome is defined (by our good friends at Wikipedia) as "an injury...that may be caused by repetitive tasks, forceful exertions, vibrations, mechanical compressions, or sustained or awkward positions. [...] Conditions such as RSI tend to be associated with both physical and psychosocial stressors." And there it is: psychosocial stressors. Let's define that, shall we. Again, according to Wikipedia, psychosocial stressors are "one's psychological development in and interaction with a social environment. The individual is not necessarily fully aware of this relationship with his or her environment. [...] This refers to the lack of development or atrophy of the psychosocial self, often occurring alongside other dysfunctions that may be physical, emotional or cognitive in nature." Ding ding ding. So, repetitive stress syndrome isn't only the manifestation of our bodies' movements, but also how we inadvertently behave in the world at large.

And there you have it. My drive to push push push through pain (regardless of its impetus) and do things that I know are bad for me (regardless of its harm-factor) is something I do in all aspects of my life. Take dating (shocking) for instance. I know that there are certain types of people who I should avoid (the list is ever-growing and ever-changing), but I don't. Whether a particular person is emotionally unavailable or disinterested or repressed to the point of needing three-times-a-week therapy (and not just of the I-can-fuck-the-repression-out-of-them variety), I ignore the warnings and go in full-speed ahead, thinking it will be different this time. But it's never different. We're addicted to the comfort of the delusion, be it of the mental or physical variety.

Just like with my yoga afflictions, I need to back off and let go and cultivate a little non-attachment. That's the only way to heal from any harmful symptoms, be it of the literal or symbolic variety. Only then will things start to mend and only then can you allow yourself to surpass the struggle of the strife. It's about respecting yourself. All of yourself. And, most importantly, it's about not needing to prove something beyond which you have control. Just because you did something once or twice or three times, doesn't mean you need to do it again. And again. And again. It will, more than likely, not yield different results.

With that, I'm awful at taking my own advice: I'm putting on my tights and popping a few Advil as I prepare for my second yoga class of the day. Some things (people?) never change...

Lesson Learned (Probably Not)

2011-03-24T17:13:00.000-04:00

I'm the queen of projection. I meet someone and, instead of listening to the little flashing red light incessantly blinking warnings as to why it'll never work, I convince myself that they are absolutely perfect for a whole host of menial reasons. The root is always enthusiasm, perhaps sprinkled with a little salt of narcissism. I meet someone and am totally stoked. For some reason, they seem juuuust right (probably because they're the antithesis of my last version of "wrong" -- so much so that it's like a ping-pong of differences from one dude to the next). Regardless. I brainwash myself into thinking that this is it. Sign, sealed, delivered. It happens with such speed. Zero to sixty in two days time. I have no patience for the build-up. The feeling of (maybe, though probably not) falling gives way to the prudence of experience. I trick myself into believing an idea instead of trusting my instinct (or, more accurately, the instinct of my friends). But by this time, none of it matters. I'm lost in a labyrinth of my own obsession.

I try to concentrate, but I can't. My mind is cluttered, full of thoughts of late night kisses and could it be's and the things that were said. Details. Little details derail me right out of myself. Like the accidental finger-brush on the concave between my chin and neck or the way he watched me walk into a room or the way his hair smelled when we let a hug linger a little too long. I've felt all these things before. A lot. All the time. With every crush there is the potential of the undoing, of the falling, of the be all end all. But, for some reason, I never have this foresight. Instead, I convince myself that it's different this time. Each time. The times are racking up. Everyone around me is sick of my swoon. I'm sorry.

Maybe I'm a victim of routine. I eat the same green smoothie for breakfast every morning. I shower in the same order every day. I go to the same six yoga classes every week. I listen to the same NPR shows every afternoon. I wear certain pairs of socks with certain pairs of shoes. I never get up in the middle of the night to read or write or watch tv regardless of how afflicted I am with insomnia or inspiration. Projections are pattern-breakers. No matter how insignificant and not-right-for-me a person is, there is something so wonderful about dismissing a schedule with reckless abandon and, as a result, feeling a little less hinged and predictable. However, all this behavior is making me predictable.

It's like the little boy who cried wolf. We all know how that story goes. Sure, it was fun to get the townspeople's attention for a while but, then, when the wolf actually came a'calling, no one was a'caring -- or a'believing. I fear this very thing with my own romantic wolf-screaming. How many times can I say "This is it!" then, "No, I was wrong that time, THIS is it!" then, "Forget what I said before, this is really really really seriously it!" then, "I'm not gonna say anything, but I know how I feel. This right here is really it!" before no one is really listening -- or caring -- anymore? When the wolf actually devours me no one will notice as they trip over my remains. I've put myself back together so many times before. As it were. Maybe I just need to learn how to shut the fuck up, stop pining and searching for all the little clues that will add up to something. After all, if someone likes you, they make it pretty damn clear. There is no need for the constant deliberation of details. But then there goes the fun and the danger of a wolf at the door. Plus, you can't totally fault a girl for enthusiasm and optimism, no matter how often it ends up otherwise.

Exuding V. Experiencing

2011-03-23T02:10:00.000-04:00

Maybe it happened in fifth grade. That's when I got boobs. And not any measly training bra boobs. No. I had a full-fledge rack. Think underwire and roundness. Then scold yourself for imagining an eleven year old's tits. Either which way, I was aware of my sexual power at a very young age. I never had a hard time finding a boyfriend and they never had a hard (well...) time creeping a hand under cotton. But it wasn't so much the touch that I craved. Instead, I was interested in honing (albeit unbeknownst at the time) the persona that accompanies the performance. Or, rather, the attention that the performance produces.

I went to a very liberal performing arts high school. Teetering between the ego-pull of theater and the esoteric lean of poetry, there was nothing I loved more than being on stage. I quickly learned that most kids (people?) don't really care to attend (or listen to?) poetry readings. They find it boring and dull and doze-inducing. They stop paying attention and start checking their cellphones. Or, worse, they start coughing and talking. To guarantee that my time on stage wouldn't heed these common results, I did the only thing I knew how to do: I sexualized my poetry. It was the quickest way to please a crowd. Even at fourteen my metaphors were ripe with age-inappropriate body imagery. I talked about the curve of my breast, the shape of my mouth, the sway of my hips and, for some reason, I got away with it. I was never censored or (publicly) scoffed. Quite the opposite. I was known as the girl who talked about sex, no matter if I didn't know the first horizontal thing about it.

It goes beyond that. There's nothing I love more than discussing sex. In fact, the only things I ever really want to discuss are the holy trinity of social taboos -- sex, politics, religion -- with sex reigning supreme. Just as with religion and politics, you can deduce a lot about a person based on their sexual opinions. But, as the saying goes, there is a difference between talking the talk and walking the walk. I am definitely a talker and, as such, perhaps, less of a walker. In other words, there is a disconnect between what we exude and what we experience. If we have a need to perpetuate attention, then what of our actual visceral affections? If sex is the ultimate performance, what happens when it's released on a larger, less intimate scale?

I was talking to my friend the other night about this very thing. He is a musician and said that his greatest lover is his guitar if only because women tend to disappoint while the guitar's gratification never wavers. Moreover, he said that, while he craves touch and connection as much as the next carnal male, he isn't a very sexual person in its typical manifestation. Ignoring the sentiment of the expression, he feels sexually satiated while on stage. When touring and performing for an audience every night, he doesn't have the urge to sleep with random women. It's as if he shoots his load, if you will, on stage and, as such, he experiences sexual release to the point of not having much left to give to the flesh-and-blood incarnation of interaction. This is quite interesting. I've seen my friend perform and there is no doubt that he embodies sex down to the way he moves and works up a sweat; however, I thought this was a result of being so emotional invested in something as opposed to it being a deliberate expression. And maybe it is. Maybe you can exhaust yourself so much in the public realm that you have very little left to give in a more privatized sphere.

It is easy to deduce that these veracious people act out in this way because they are bubbling over the surface with sexuality, that they have so much passion inside they can't help but let it come out in everything they do. This is not necessarily true. Instead, the energy that radiates is exhausting and gratifying to the point of having nothing left to give. Or, perhaps more positively, they feel so content and sated that there's really no need to search for sex in other common outlets.

This makes me think about beauty and, more specifically, the role of beauty as it relates to sexual presence. My friend is quite handsome and doesn't have to lift a finger or verbally seduce to garnish attention from the ladies. He can pretty much take his pick and, as such, picks no one more often than not. His persona isn't weighed down by the need to impress and his impressiveness, just as his beauty, is a given. Therefore, the desire to seduce plays second fiddle to public display. Perhaps this is why ugly people make the best lovers: they have to try harder than their prettier counterparts. When people aren't throwing themselves at you, you learn to hone a certain set of skills otherwise lost on those chained to the hems of their own attractiveness.

We can't help but be a victim to our biology: it defines how the world sees us and, as a result, it shapes our role as sexual beings. I've been told that my physique is of the hourglass era which, despite not being the most desired body of our generation (what with the fashion race to be the skinniest girl ever), is definitely the archetype of sexy as it relates to procreation, which in turn perpetuates the population. Thus, regardless of how I dress or act or what I say, I will forever be defined as a sexualized person because of my genetic implications. So, maybe, instead of fighting against what I have, I've learned to go with the flow of my form.

Confidence also plays a part in this equation. When you know you're desired on a relatively universal scale, it is easier to exude sexual energy. There is nothing at stake. You have the freedom to perform sans inhibition because you know the results won't go unnoticed. However, when you replace the construct of the stage with the intimacy of the bedroom, vulnerability often reigns supreme. No matter how you work a room and vicariously "touch" people with your sexuality, it is a far different beast to have one-on-one assurance. Plus, you feel so spent and worked up by talking and performing and exuding that you're all but drained to give any more of yourself. So, alternatively, you do nothing. You allow people to believe what they will about you -- aiding it along with your tenacity -- all the while feeling slightly less self-assured when things get personal and your performance is reduced in size.

Last (Wo)Man Standing

2011-03-21T14:25:00.000-04:00

It's a marathon of sorts. You're at some social gathering somewhere (more than likely a house) and someone catches your eye (more than likely the host). Everyone else becomes blurry and irrelevant. Still. You can't pounce right away. You can't dominate the conversation too quickly. No. You gotta take the time to circulate and make yourself vicariously desirable for as long as possible. You gotta wait for the yawns and the this was funs and the two minute doorway conversations to commence. You gotta be in it for the long haul, despite what you might have to do the next day.

Who knows why people pinpoint in front your radar. There's always an impetus, albeit ever-changing. But when it happens, it happens and there's really nothing you can do besides go in for the attack. Still, though, slow and steady often wins the race. So you employ temporary patience and social skills until the crowd thins and things change. It's time to make your mark. Or have another drink. Or go in for the kill. This game -- no matter how tempting it may be to play -- is stupid. No one wants to be the last person hanging around for a chance of connection. It's far better to peace out and leave the particular person wanting more. Always. The stench of desperation is pungent. Always. However, this is all easier said than done when middle-of-the-night leanings replace better judgement. So, before you know it, it's just the two of you and only one thing to do. No one's really that picky at that time of the night and, after all, you did kinda ask for it.

It never fails. I'm always the first to wake up after a hookup. Perhaps it's something about the foreign bed and the foreign room temperature that stirs me from my (more often than not) post-drunken slumber. Not to mention the ever-present question of Now What. Am I supposed to feign sleep until the Other Involved Party stumbles to the bathroom for a mid-morning pee? Then, only then, can I pretend to wake -- vacant spot in the bed and all -- stretching and yawning and smiling as if this wasn't an awful idea. Normally I lay awake for about twenty minutes, feeling uncomfortable for not forcing the necessary post-coital urine dribble. I start obsessing about every which way I can leave without it seeming awkward or forced or tinged with regret. Even if I wanna stay, I convince myself to go. It's time. It's morning. There's really nothing left to do.

After I've imagined myself dressing down to the most asinine detail of how I'll lace my boots (calculated bunny-bows and double-knots), I sit on the edge of the bed and begin to search for my clothes -- socks crumpled at the bottom of the comforter, skirt sneaking out from under the bed, bra dangling from the nightstand -- and clumsily reverse the order of the outfit. Once fully-dressed (a disheveled version of Last Night's Primp), I pause for another few minutes, maybe pretending to check my phone or put on lip gloss, hoping the Other Involved Party will either wake up or start snoring (though, truth be told, I could never successfully date someone who does the latter). When neither desired action is achieved (are they faking sleep too?), I rumple their hair and kiss their cheek and say goodbye, knowing full-well that I'm unflappable and nothing they say could convince me to stay. They blink themselves awake (yes, they were genuinely asleep) and pause to remember who is in their bed before asking why I have to leave. The merit of the question is as inconsequential as the answer. I'm outta there with nothing more than a bit of a headache and a grin for my conquest.

Then, usually, in thirty minutes tops, I get a text or a call asking me to come back. Maybe they still smell me in the bed and want a little more. Or maybe they really like me and want a little talk. Who cares. They tempt me with breakfast and bad tv and all the other things that loneliness requires in others. But, as the cliche goes, I never return to the scene of the crash because, quite frankly, I don't want to. Or, more accurately, I don't like them enough to. If I did, I probably wouldn't have acted with such haste and determination. If I did, I would have let things simmer a little longer because everything that's really good takes more than a night's worth of steeping.

Or it's something like this. As much as I crave the cuddle and companionship as the next sap, I dread becoming the shit at the bottom of a shoe, unable to scrape off the stain or the smell. Plus, you can't create connection out of the thin air of sexualization. You either feel it or you don't. It's that simple. No amount of morning embrace can alter that intrinsic sensation of attraction. Plus, I know what it's like when someone you hardly know and barely like wakes up at your house. I manufacture busyness -- gotta walk the dog, gotta go to yoga, gotta meet a friend -- just so I don't have to rehash the details of the previous evening. Excuses are the best defense. Regardless of candor or character, no one really wants to hurt someone else's feelings.

Or else it's something like this. While in the bathroom debating the gait of my next move, I notice the size of their tub and start fantasizing about bubbles and candles and mid-afternoon bathing spontaneity, and -- just like that, despite my better judgment -- I realize I actually kinda like this person. Shit. I want to have croissants and coffee and read the newspaper in their dining room, passing sections and sharing articles, both of us stealing glances and lingering in procrastination. But I could never reveal as much. My intentions were obviously made clear a mere few hours ago. Thus, instead of dealing with the Wants and the Expectations of What Could Be, I go home too quickly. I am unwilling to accept the unrequited.

No matter the extent of the attraction, this serves as a lesson against the one night stand. Sure, there's always the story of the couple who fell in love after the one hit wonder, but this rare occurrence is nothing on which to place hope (especially when you're completely apathetic to the wishin' and hopin' and, instead, are more married to the projectin' and conquerin'). Someone is probably gonna want more. Someone is probably gonna get disappointed. But in the moment of boredom, we tend to settle on the Right Now instead of considering the Better Later. Everyone wants a little affection. It's how we deal with the residuals of said affection that determine how we should proceed. Plus, you initiated the game with your attempt of casual affinity. Better pass the ball along to see if they reach out their hands for the catch and actually want to play. Or else just throw the ball out the window with the resounding thud of Oops.

The Great Escape

2011-03-17T12:10:00.000-04:00

Despite everything suggesting that spring is so close you can taste it in the vegetables -- the chirping birds (yes, there are actually many a chirper outside my window) and blue skies and it being so sunny that I see my reflection in my computer screen -- I am a bit of an escapist. Whenever I start to feel settled, I want to leave. And so, quite often, I do.

Let's backtrack a bit. I officially moved to New York in June (after spending close-to-year in a state of semi-bicoastal envy). This had been a longtime coming. Ever since I was an ambitious twelve year old, I wanted to live in New York. Alas, life and love and whatnot forced (though, of course, I was a willing participant) Los Angeles on me. When I finally unpacked the last bag of clothes that I haven't worn for close to a decade, I had no desire to travel outside the main borough. Plus I was living at a retardedly amazing townhouse in the West Village (that's another story) where it was easy to lure loved ones on a plane and walk amongst the throngs of other sweaty pedestrians stupid enough to contend with the humidity of a New York City summer. While many of my east coast friends were quick to get out of dodge every other weekend, I wasn't. I stayed. The city, after all, had so much to offer a newbie like me. Why in the world would I want to leave? I didn't, so I didn't. Then November rolled around and it was time to Thanksgiving-it-up with my family in Florida. I was beyond-ready for the escape. I had become quite anxious (an affliction that often has its way with me) in my new home with my new friends. I craved the familiarity of anything other than the density to which I had become accustomed. After that first week-long foray out of New York, I was ready to be back, albeit only for a few days. Then it was time to go to France in December. Then it was time to go to California in January. Then it was time to go back to Florida in February. Now it's March and I'm itchy.

I recognize this escapism in like-minded friends. When the going gets tough (re: boring) or the relationships go sour (re: over), they justify booking the first flight anywhere -- so long as it's not here. I'm always quick to deter this behavior, if only because I see the same tendencies in myself. Instead of sitting in our shit -- whether it's fear of failure or complacency or sadness -- it is so much easier to just leave (our minds, our grinds, our responsibilities) and have a good time. However, when you return, you have to deal with the residual effect of everything you left. It doesn't go away. Instead, it builds and mounts and, eventually, comes tumbling down once the pile can no longer withstand the weight of your distraction. The things that seemed so overcome-able take a new shape, looming larger than they ever should.

It takes a while to re-situate yourself after you travel. All the routines that you've created must be reestablished and the plans and friendships you've almost-made have to backtrack to the impotence of context. You play a perpetual game of catch-up: cold-calling coulda-beens and reminding kinda-friends that you're back and better than ever (even though you know you might be leaving before the season changes again). So you make new dinner dates and figure out new yoga times to get back on track. Slowly but surely, you wipe the dust off your metrocard and, after a few nights with really amazing people who you know you'd never meet in any other city (full of the self-referential irreverence of transplants), you remember why you fell in love with this city in the first place. Until something happens. Like canceled plans. Or a lonely morning. Or, quite frankly, that you have no family within a thousand-mile radius. All that LOOKOUTWORLD gumption is replaced with amisurethisiswhatiwanttodowithmylife insecurity.

Place has nothing to do with happiness. We can flee until we're so frequent-flier loaded that we'd be bumped up to first class for the rest of our lives, but that doesn't change anything. Quite the contrary: it only exasperates what we do not want to see in ourselves. The root of the escape must be explored (and, more than likely, needs to be explored wherever we presently reside). What do we feel is lacking to make us crave changing the scenario more often than we change our sheets? Once we figure that out, the irrelevance of our specific state can give way to the immediacy of our current condition.

And that's what's happening. Again. I'm experiencing the familiar feeling of Now What? I am so terrified of making a mark and establishing myself in this city chalk-full of possibility that I just want to run away and find someone (anyone!) to take care of me. I've even romanticize the notion of everything I normally despise. Like marriage for the sake of why not. Or romance for the case of you'll do. All of those outlets put a bandaid on the perpetual struggle of figuring it all out because, quite frankly, it's exhausting to figure it all out when you don't even know the half of what you're figuring out in the first place. Plus, I know enough about myself that if I were to leave -- even for only a weekend's worth of time -- I'd miss everything that I so love about New York. That's always the case. That always happen. I can't wait to get back every time I leave. So I guess I know I have to stay and muck through the trials and tribulations to feel my feet firm on the ground (cement?). I've made my bed, as they say, now I suppose I have to lie in it a little (or a lot!) longer. Nothing materializes without a little struggle and it's in the There's No Way I Can Make It where all the makin' starts happenin'.

Home (Un)Working

2011-03-16T16:24:00.000-04:00

I'm obsessed with the idea of productivity. Almost every conversation I have with everyone I know becomes a diatribe about artistic potency and how time is spent. Motivation is the manifestation of curiosity and, if you lack that, then, quite frankly, I deem you dull. As such, I judge the value of my day based on what I creatively accomplish. This is only exasperated since I work from home and don't have a boss looking over my shoulders. Save for deadlines -- some given by editors, most deigned by me -- I am at the whim of my artistic expression, but I have no patience for inspiration. Production is far more important.

No matter one's specific profession, there is a work-construct surrounding the daytime hours. This is when most people tend to their nine-to-fives. Even though I hypothetically could relish in the middle-of-the-night, whiskey-loaded writer cliche, I still feel the need to join the masses in the daytime hunched-over-computer solidarity -- if only for the "reward" that then accompanies nighttime sloth. Perhaps this is the allure of alcohol consumption: it numbs the time spent waiting for something to happen. It's compulsive. So, instead of dealing and/or dwelling in the boring, we drink to it. However, in order to justify social interaction, I have to cling to the polysyllabic for as long as I can muster (which is, on a bad day, only a few hours). This is easier said than done and focus, quite frankly, requires a healthy dose of cultivation.

Before settling into my Brooklyn life, I was easily distracted by lunches and coffees and midday shopping sprees. Pause. That's a lie. Considering I've never had a traditional job, I have always been easily distracted by any kind of daytime social engagement. While it initially seems fabulous, I end up resenting these people who have nothing to do in their days or, rather, who re-construe their cultural apathy as an excuse to linger in leisure. Instead of getting shit done (no matter the specificity of the "shit"), they manufacture tasks and chores and activities to occupy hours so that their lives becomes a travelogue of the asinine. I'm fervently fighting against this tendency if only because it lies dormant in me. Their lack of artistic stimulation isn't their faults; it's my fault for being so easily seduced into laziness. If you are who you hang out with, I know that these type of people are not who I want to mirror. Because, in only a few day's time, I inevitably will. Mirror them. And, as it goes, the things we don't like in others are the things we fear in ourselves. Thus, I am overwhelmed by my own complacency that I end up vehemently judging it in others even though that should have nothing to do with me.

I have to contend with my own guilt. Instead of relishing this moment of my life when I can write and explore and create on my terms, I get pissed at myself for not doing more. There is, after all, always more to do. I suppose my dormant guilt is a good thing: it shows me that I am someone who expects grand things out of my existence. But, when I'm in this guilt malaise, I can't see the good of my abundant free time. Instead, I envy people with office jobs. They have a specific place to go and a thing to accomplish and then it's done. I'm never done. I could always be writing more and mucking around the apartment less.

Loneliness is another result of working from home. I often spend days without vocalizing a single word to a single soul; as an unfortunate result, I cling to social media. From text messages to Facebook statuses to Twitter feeds, I'm constantly checking. The need for interaction is visceral and, without those interludes, I can't accomplish anything. This constant checking makes me hardly ever present. No matter what I'm doing or who I'm with, I'm always thinking about what's next. This extends beyond "being in the moment" and all of those other awful self-help slogans that makes me feel guilty for my wandering -- and wondering -- mind: I pick at my toenails during forward folds in yoga; I consider dessert before finishing dinner; I can't wait to get home while on vacation. Try as I might, there's rarely a second when I'm truly immersed in what I'm doing. Even when I tell myself to focus and listen and engage, it's basically for naught. I'm still in my head, either mad at myself for wasting time or thrilled at myself for being so motivated.

My situation is enviable. I'm lucky. I know that. I don't want to spend my whole life waiting for the next thing to happen, all the while not appreciating the awesomeness of now. I guess what it comes down to is forgiving yourself of the time you spend not focusing on your goal. I guess knowing that you have drive should be enough to get you through the day. You're either an inherent wallower or you're not. Luckily I'm not. That should be enough. If the grass is always greener, I'd like to at least lay in it for a while before my life shifts into another duller pasture.

Performance Anxiety

2011-03-15T13:20:00.000-04:00

I read or heard or figured out on my own that the most effective way to not exhibit unwanted emotional displays is to repeat ad nauseum the very thing you don't want to do. Say you're with a group of new friends and a topic comes about which you know very little. You want to socially participate and, so, you make some ill-informed comment. All eyes turn to you to weigh in as you begin to flounder. You can't even remember your initial point. All you feel is the heat expressed on your cheeks. Thinking "don't blush, don't blush, don't blush" only makes matters worse. However, I've found if you tell yourself to blush, you won't. Or say someone you really like tells you something you really don't want to hear. Your eyes begin to well, but you'll be damned if you let this person see the effect of their words. You tell yourself not to cry, but it's useless. The tears start flowing. This stategy was revealed to me as a young actor. There was some gripping scene where I had to cry and I remember, instead of using my actor bag o' tricks of sense memory and whatnot, wanting to speed up the process and, thus, simply started thinking "cry, cry, cry" to no avail. My eyes were dry and my performance stagnant. I couldn't force a demonstrative response. Thus, considering the inverse result of those two instances, I've deduced it's more beneficial to trick your mind into doing the opposite of what you actually want to do. I don't know why this works, but it most certainly does. Perhaps it's because it's a little more exciting to fight against something than go with the grain. Whatever the case, it's gotten me out of (and into) many a jam. It's my own personal defense mechanism.

This makes me think about sex. Whether it stems from the selflessness of having a hand (or a tongue?) in someone else's pleasure or as a way to, umm, lubricate the situation, men seem slightly obsessed with the female orgasm. The order of events is often the same. You get naked, start kissing, start touching, maybe a few nipple licks and fingertips and then, before you know, they're between your legs, working with an anatomy more complex than any sex guide could ever describe. Most men think they know exactly what they're doing. They've got the flicking and sucking and slurping down to a science. It's almost methodical. Now it's countdown time. They start looking up at you with "you close?" eyes, timing things out based on pointed toes and arched back and tightened thighs. It's as if they want to prove to themselves that they're really good, rather than focusing on being, well, really good.

Instead of enjoying the moment and the attention and the sensation, your brain starts focusing on coming: are you taking too long, are they savoring the experience, are you "properly" displaying pleasure. And so on. Even though you know you can come and -- more than likely -- this particular person can make you come, the end result becomes more important than the process. You think about climaxing and performing satisfaction as opposed to letting the blood rush where it will. And then, just like that, all you hear in your head is Rossini's William Tell Overture. And then, just like that, sensation is replaced by concentration, which is, of course, a slippery slope leading to nowhere slippery. Plus, nothing makes you not come more than trying to tell yourself to come. So stop trying and start feeling. Who the fuck cares how long it takes.

Men have so much pride and ego attachment surrounding the female orgasm -- so much so that if you don't come, you feel slightly inadequate. This is unfortunate. Sexual satisfaction shouldn't spawn from vicariously making someone else feel satisfied with their job well done. Just because a dude does something somewhere with some girl absolutely doesn't mean that the same thing will happen with another person. Men, you gotta listen to a body as opposed to checking off a past tense list of fruitful tactics. Women, you gotta tell lovers what feels good to you, no matter how momentarily vulnerable this candidness makes you.

The depiction of sex in film and tv only perpetuates this scenario. For the sake of time and titillation, there is rarely a build-up. Actresses tend to moan and respond at first touch, which, again, makes the flesh-and-blood experience even more artificially constructed. If we're not instantly advertising arousal, then we're either not enjoying ourselves or else we're incapable of enjoying ourselves. It becomes our fault. Not theirs. This is insane. And untrue. There is nothing more exciting than someone truly relishing in your body, especially when it's because they want to -- not because they feel like they have to in order to move on to the main course. So. My advice to all guys: chill out a bit and let things unfold as they will. Not being so goal-oriented heeds the best results. Always.

Sexual Projections

2011-03-14T13:22:00.000-04:00

File this under anomaly. A dude friend (a rare one who is still morals-pure and relatively innocent and tooth-acheingly sweet) recently had his first one night stand. His initial reaction surrounding this situation was regret mixed with foot-stomping confirmation of why he normally suppresses his lust. He believes in truth and, no matter the sincerity of candle-shadowed bodies, feels that random hookups are nothing if not dishonest. He said that he can't lie when looking into someone's eyes and, if he takes a girl home just for the sake of sex, the disingenuous reigns supreme. So he chalked up this hookup as a lesson learned. This isn't a girl who he'd want to date, he said, so there's no reason to perpetuate penetration. Plus, there's always the what-to-do post-coital. Regardless of how engaged you are for -- if you're lucky -- twenty minutes, after the sweat subsides or the morning arises, it's often difficult to know the proper way to act. No one wants to be the lingering party suggesting breakfast or future plans, so we excuse ourselves with whatever residual dignity we have stored in our shoulda-known-better subconscious. But I digress. Back to my friend. When he next saw the girl (under the age-old artifice of the girl leaving something at his apartment that she had to retrieve), they fucked again -- and, maybe, again -- which converted the one-night stand construct into something ever-so-slightly more substantial. The conviction -- and romantic apathy -- he once had regarding this situation had given way to confusion over its significance -- or, rather, the significance he believes he must consider now that his actions have become chronic.

The prudent, been-there/done-that cynic in me scoffed at his naivety. I told him, instead of simply calling a spade a spade, he was making sex serve as an indicator for something else. I told him he was forcing translation and projection onto a minimal affair, considering his first impression about this girl was indifference-cum-sexual-curiosity (and god knows you gotta trust a first impression, no matter how many twists and turns in logic you allow). Alas, he's stubborn and unwavering. He now, he claims, has a crush on this girl even though he knows the silliness and impermanence of said crush. He said he believes in monogamy and, no matter how much he otherwise tries, he cannot compartmentalize desire.

In light of this antidote, another male friend well-versed in one-night stands said that his in-the-moment passion often serves as his cross-to-bear. He so fervently loves sex and the female body that, when locked in an embrace, he can't help but be loving because, in that moment, he believes it. Thus, his sentimentality -- albeit brief -- produces mixed signals of the Does He Really Like Me/That Was Really Special variety. And then, before too long, he has to have yet another faux-breakup conversation in light of the girl's concocted infatuation (or the need to "figure it out") that she wouldn't have had if he was a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am dude.

And yet another insatiable guy friend told me that, before ever crossing the bedroom (kitchen table? living room couch? bathroom floor?) threshold, he makes his intentions clear. So much so (and, mind you, he was once one of my best friends) that when I became single a few years back and started pining over his, well, everything, he sat me down to say that although we have tons of chemistry and our sexual undoing is almost inevitable (he was right), he didn't want to be in a relationship with me. If I was okay with that, we could continue the trajectory. If not, we should pause as friends. Desire is a deceptive little monster and, as such, I told him I was totally cool with all of the above. This wasn't true. I secretly thought (hoped?) that I could (physically?) convince him otherwise, that there was no chance he wouldn't want to be with me once he got to know the XYZ of me (delusion is a motherfucker). Alas, I was wrong. Although at first this forced conversation seemed slightly patronizing, it absolutely wasn't. People rarely speak their truth so as to not hurt feelings, thus you gotta listen to the words instead of trying to read between the lines.

While the last scenario suggests the contrary, I don't know if we can ever be authentically polyamorous. I love the idea of dating multiple people (and all of the sexual trysts that accompany it), but I can never do it. I've got to invest in each particular person before releasing them from my radar -- even when I know from the get-go that it won't work out.

Okay. Now for my own crown of embarrassment. I've literally considered marrying every single person I've ever slept with. Or, if it's not initially that grand, I've at least imagined dating every single person in some projected, monogamous way that would ultimately lead to the white gown fantasy. Maybe my private, internal questions manifest themselves as intensity which, in turn, freaks out more than few dudes and sends them running -- tail-between-legs, hand-over-heart -- away. Or maybe I'm just really puritanical. Who knows. What makes this even more interesting is that I don't know even know if I believe in the institute of marriage or trust the notion of monogamy. However, in the moment, I don't want my actions to pass without proper consideration. Perhaps this seems really archaic, but it's still really true. Try as we might to convince ourselves otherwise, sex often clouds and muddles and smears rationality. Thus, we're left to cock an eyebrow over people who don't even deserve a second glance. Blame it on biology, maybe, or the residual morality that many of us fervently try to fight. Though sex can be had quite easily sans romantic expression, it's still, in its most wonderful incarnation, loaded with romantic subtext.

I've tested this theory thoroughly: from purposefully separating myself from sexual implications and slutting-it-up with random assholes to dating a handful of dudes while not having sex with any of them. Considering the way I hyperbolize sexual connotations, I thought the latter was the way to avoid projection. Not true. Instead, while the former had me pining over relative strangers, the latter had me doing the same but without so much as a spit-swap. When you like someone, you like someone. And when you don't, you don't. It's as simple as that. No amount of sex (or non-sex) can convince yourself otherwise. Thus, why employ relevance to situations that are absolutely irrelevant? I'm not suggesting that every sexual encounter should be loaded with significance. No way. We gotta explore to better know ourselves and whatnot, but everything doesn't have to be so damn meaningful. However, when we know it's infinitesimal to our lives, then maybe we should stop doing it and move on the next (more often than not) infinitesimal scenario -- if that's our libidos' particular leaning. Someone at some point is going to get hurt or disappointed or pissed off when the disingenuous parades as importance. Monogamy, after all, is too loaded and scary and time-consuming to simply be what happens when we accidentally stumble into something based on compulsion rather than intention.

Staring At Yourself

2011-03-12T13:23:00.000-05:00

Last night I saw a dance performance about Narcissus. This got me thinking about the construct of conceit. We all lean on a sliding scale of narcissism, no matter how quick-to-judge we are of others who exhibit an overdose of this trait. Granted, being self-involved to the point of disconnecting image from reality is problematic for intimacy and whatnot, but narcissism is nonetheless a form of survival -- as long as we don't fall into the water of our reflection. You need to see things mirrored to gain perspective and, maybe, get a little outside of the esoteric and into the body (as was illustrated in the physicality of the performers). I knew I wanted to write about this, but I didn't know how. Until now.

I have psoriasis. There, I said it. Publicly. First time ever. (Cue major exhale.) This is a new plight, specifically since I moved from LA to NY, specifically after a breakup, specifically when I eat nightshade vegetables. So. I'm almost eight months in. At first, I thought this autoimmune thing was a temporary -- not chronic -- result of over-drinking and under-sleeping. And over-stressing about the next phase of my life. Probably true. All of the above. I went to a dermatologist and got some disgusting steroid cream to quell my disgusting affliction. It cleared. I was relieved. Until it came back with a vengeance and became something I had to accept and conceal and, because I'm a woman with a certain-sized ego, reveal its delineation before coming into bare-skin contact with anyone of crush-worthy magnitude. I've felt the need to clarify that this thing is new in my life, that I'm normally The Girl With Really Pretty Skin so as never to be The Girl With Psoriasis. But context is context and people are defined at specific moments in time more than the narrative they project onto the histrionics of their lives. So my conversations and explanations were, quite literally, in vain. I cannot control people's perceptions no matter how hard I try.

This morning the girl practicing yoga next to me had a serious case of psoriasis. Wearing short shorts and a t-shirt that crawled up to her sports bra during down dog, I was instantly familiar with her flawed skin: huge patches on her elbows and knees and polka-dot throw-up splotches all over her flabby belly and pale shins and tone-less arms and cellulited thighs. For the record, her case is way worse than mine (paging Narcissus). My initial impulse was empathy -- an emotion that, unfortunately, generally alludes me. I used to view flaws as something against which we should fight as opposed to something that we should accept. My next reaction was reverence for her bravery. I'd never be so bold as to expose my spots for the world -- or the yoga room -- to see. I so fiercely fret judgement and coming across as less-than-perfect that I'd never fathom throwing an extra log into an already-lit flame. My final feeling was anxiety, so much so that I couldn't maintain my balance in the easiest of poses. This girl has no doubt had psoriasis longer than me and, in an inevitable amount of time, I will become her. Or so I deduced. She is an exaggeration of everything I fear about myself, down to her extra weight and awful skin. I was staring into a funhouse mirror and, for the first time ever, understood the delusional image I've created of myself, which, in turn, debilitates me and makes this thing I cannot control way worse than it is. If I am Narcissus, she is my distorted reflection. This is the opposite of falling in love with oneself, yet this is still a drowning of sorts.

When completely outside of yourself, you never see things as they actually are. Something is always magnified. It's as if the person staring back at you isn't really you, but a more grand or repulsive image to which you cling. You extrapolate meaning based on perception to better equip yourself with the tools necessary for survival. Or else you just wallow in self-love or self-loathe. The incessant need to editorialize is counterproductive considering we cannot shape other people's opinions and, even if we could, what would it matter? We'd still have to contend with ourselves, which is the hardest part. And therein lies my contraction: I perform through the lens of confidence while secretly feeling like the girl next to me in yoga. This juxtaposition is exhausting and I won't accept it any longer. Fortitude, after all, cannot be feigned through an inflated sense of self-worth, regardless of what we proclaim otherwise.

The First Kiss

2011-03-08T14:22:00.000-05:00

I met my first big love at a bar. I spotted him across the room and, with the confidence only a twenty-one year old can muster, sauntered past him more times than necessary, batting my eyelashes with a "come hither" stare. Alas, there was no hither. I wasn't deterred. Once the bar closed and everyone was outside smoking and waiting for the next thing to happen, I saw him talking to a mutual friend. I walked over and started an asinine conversation. He laughed at my casual attempt and, instead of letting the blurry line of desire unfold, instantly introduced himself. We went to some stupid after party at some grungy East Hollywood apartment and didn't stop talking until five in the morning. We exchanged numbers and parted ways. Even though the sparks were palpable, we didn't kiss. We barely touched. And that was that.

Armed with the phone number arsenal, I sent him a text the next day. I was at another stupid bar and wanted him to meet me. He didn't. The same thing happened the next night. Under the artifice of a first date, we made a plan for the following Monday. I ran into him that Sunday. I was impatient. And a little drunk. So I said I had to pee and didn't want to wait in the bathroom line. We walked to a vacant lot and I popped a squat (the impetus of romance?). Then the fireworks started going off. Literally. It was the Fourth of July. We were quiet as we sat on a concrete curb, watching the sky turn from red to smoke, from purple to haze, from orange to a thicker-than-normal smog. The setting was ripe with romance -- almost too ripe, almost a little too Danielle Steele -- and I decided I couldn't let the grandiose go without actualization. I couldn't wait for tomorrow or the next time or the time after that. I took matters into my own hands or, rather, my own mouth. I kissed him. The sky was on fire and so was I. It was awesome.

After our breakup some years later, kisses became less cavalier. They were rarely loaded with tension lasting longer than a few hours. Everything was really easy. You meet someone, you like someone, you kiss someone, you sleep with someone. And then, more often than not, you move on. Nothing loss. Very little gained, save for a calloused experience that makes the speed in which the next romance unravels all the more rushed.

It is easy to get swept away by the physicality of intimacy when everything else moves with such a forced velocity. I'd like to think that I'm quick with my tongue so as to not waste precious time. This is a lie. We've all been there and have done that, so the waiting to be there and do it again seems less necessary. We know how the story goes, so we deem it ridiculous to pause and consider the consequences of our actions. But then everything just gets muddled in the sticky space between getting to know someone intellectually and getting to know them biblically. Conversation is replaced with consummation until you forget what you had in common beyond the shapes that your bodies make. Plus, for me, after a short while, I'm tired of talk. Less effort is required with eyes closed -- or half-closed -- and, more often than not, I find most people sorta dull sooner than I should. Thus, I'd rather we just shut up and go at it, lest I have to fill another awkward silence with a boring story.

Call me a reclaimist or an idealist, but there's something to prolonging pleasure, perhaps because it normally only happens with someone you really like. Most men (yes, this is a gendered generalization) move really quickly, an action that stems from conquest more than heightened romance. However, it seems, the ones who are actually worthy of everything that you want to give, tend to take their time. This is a double-edged sword: we doubt the intentions of the other person when they don't proceed according to a specific haste to which we're accustomed. Thus, we start second-guessing their interest and perform sexuality with a chest-out, hips-sway projection so to make sure that our attraction doesn't go unnoticed. Or else, after spending a relatively platonic evening together, one where chivalry takes precedence over chauvinism, we walk away with furrowed brows over why they didn't pounce when we were belly-up and sans-resistance even though, if we really thought about it, we'd know it was a result of that ever-elusive quality called respect.

While it is good to explore the nuances of someone's personality before bending over backwards in locked-lip passion, there is, still, most certainly an equilibrium that must be established. If you linger too long, passion is replaced with friendship. Period. No turning back. No one wants that (unless they do?). If you move too quickly, passion is replaced with passivity. And, again, who wants that? It's all about cultivating balance, which just may be the hardest part. No one likes to wait, but, maybe, there's something to it, even if it's relatively abbreviated in the grand scheme of things. After all, once everything starts, there's really no stopping. Might as well let it build for as long as you can stand (which, for me, might only be a week...tops).

Coming to Terms

2011-03-04T14:40:00.000-05:00

Growing up, I hated Florida. From the weather to the culture to the politics to the people, it was all bla. I couldn't wait to leave. And so, post-college (some things still mattered), I moved to Los Angeles (with its own heap of steamy shit, no less). Every time I'd get off the plane at Tampa International Airport -- to see my mother for some holiday or wedding or whatever -- I was instantly grumpy. Everyone waddled with the extra weight of dining at chain restaurants and the weather, even in its chilliest incarnation, was terribly humid. And this is from where I came. This was, still, a source of my identity and that, quite frankly, killed me. I'd try to enjoy regional cuisine and the luxury of my family's backyard, but it was all in vain. I did, after all, live in California, what with its plentiful beaches and blue skies and fresh seafood, and, thus, Florida offered nothing other than a poor man's version of what I had out west. Then I moved to New York. Then I experienced my first winter. Then everything changed.

I'm writing this in Florida. It's early March and in the mid-seventies and super sunny. I'm sitting outside in a bikini, drinking iced coffee and smoking a cigarette. The wind rustles through palm trees and there's a faint trickling of water in my mother's lagoon-style pool. And, for the first time in a long time, I'm happy in this suburban sprawl. What I could never appreciate as a teenager with something to prove beyond the confines of Florida's mediocrity has given way to the weather. The misery of a New York winter has made space for something a little more sedate and, for that, I am grateful.

Maybe this is what growing up looks like. Instead of clinging to the antithetical, I can now, like my dog laying belly-up in the sun, bask in the glow of the simple life. I no longer need to be doing something to be satiated. I don't need to fight against the current of Florida's culture, proclaiming transgression as if it were a clipped-out coupon of my identity. I can finally accept that my rearing-years are long-gone and, as such, Florida is not an enemy against which I must fight. I can finally relax and enjoy the respite of my release.

I grew up really religious. I prayed every night and could easily drive myself into a tizzy when casual thoughts turned to the contemplation of eternal damnation. Then Ani Difranco and academia happened. And that was that. I wasn't an atheist, per se, but I was pretty damn close. Then yoga happened. At first, I couldn't even muster an ohm. It seemed so ridiculous. I'd keep my eyes open and look at all those silly hippy-dippy types singing off-key. I'd never be one of them, I thought, I'm too smart. Yoga was exercise, an easy way for a flexible person to work up a sweat and gain a few muscles. Until it wasn't. Ohm-ing started to feel good. Really good. Then chanting happened. No way, I thought, not in a million zillion years. That's way beyond the limit of my intellectual leaning. I might as well run away with a Pentecostal preacher. Then I did a yoga teacher training and viscerally -- yes, viscerally -- experienced the transcendent power of chanting. I'll never forget my first time. It was the middle of the night and I was driving home from work. For some reason (the specifics, of course, elude me), I was in a foul mood. It was probably about a boy or, maybe, about my general disdain over the unfolding of my life's narrative. I tried listening to my favorites songs. It did nothing. I tried crying. I had no tears. Okay, I thought, let's try this chanting-as-mantra shit. I starting singing the Gayatri Mantra. Before I knew it, I was in my driveway and had parked my car, but I couldn't stop chanting. So I didn't. I stayed in my leased Prius (yet another projection) and maintained my off-key singing (yes, I had become just like the other assholes). Twenty minutes later, I walked up the stairs and did my nightly, pre-bed routine and felt really fucking good -- better than any residual effects of drugs or drinks or late night snacks. This thing worked. The cynic in me temporarily subsided.

Still, in the years leading up to the now and despite my yogic predilections, I've always felt I had to proselytize my anti-establishment ideologies. It was not enough to live a certain way. No. I had to polysyllabically verbalize my current state lest someone might confuse me with every other sap taking the most commonly traveled route. But here's the thing: there is always a struggle and a need to perform when the external takes precedence over internal leanings. That's the trappings of youth. We think we have to fit some predetermined mold of cool or smart or whatever instead of simply accepting our idiosyncrasies. However, it is our dorky passions that make us more appealing to anyone we meet of similar character. Thus, I'm fervently trying to reveal the most candid me -- all of things that make me who I am -- so to be an authentic expression of who I hope to be.

This is not to say I've reclaimed the residual sentiment of Christianity or that I'm packing my bags and moving back to Florida. No. It's a little -- or a lot -- more convoluted than that. Instead, I want to allow my journey to serve as a story. I am no longer ashamed or embarrassed by the girl I was or from where I came. It is those experiences that have shaped me into the woman I am today. It is those very things that make the realizations of my desire a little -- or a lot -- clearer. It's kinda like dating. You have to weed your way through a lot -- not a little -- of scumbags and douchebags and every other derogatory bag before you finally realize with whom you think you might want to share your life. It is the information harvested and stored in the roots of yourself that informs every other decision. You can only sleep with so many assholes before you realize that maybe, just maybe, there's something to the nice guy. There's something to someone with whom you feel comfortable enough to share your most intimate, unhinged self. Coming to terms with your core takes confidence. And conviction. And sticking to your guns, no matter how much they mirror the nineteen year old version of yourself that you've been trying to ignore for the better half of a decade.

The Power of the Delete

2011-02-28T13:27:00.000-05:00

Okay. Let's see how many examples I can muster.

1) A friend was recently bummed out by a dude. Common story. All things were going swimmingly well. Until they weren't. Twenty thousand daily emails and great sex turned into polite texts and canceled plans. In a desperate attempt to understand the shift (which we now know -- according to a recent diatribe of Yours Truly -- is a fallacy), my friend started rereading their accronym-laden exchange, hoping to decode his behavior amongst the polysyllablic ramblings of an iPhone. This was her nightly lullaby (alibi?): instead of catching up on old New Yorkers or finishing freelance projects, she'd lay in bed and try to understand -- via misspelled words and fragmented sentiments -- why and when and how he lost interest. Her behavior veered on obsessive. There was only one solution for sanity's sake: delete the damn conversation. She did. With much chagrin. Mind-numbing hours were instantly replaced by brunch and bike rides.

2) Another friend was not-so-recently bummed out by a dude (the beginnings of a trend?). He was a prick from the get-go, but no matter: the sex was out of this world (men are from Mars?). Like an addict, she kept going back for another hit (pun absolutely, unabashedly intended). He'd blow her off and then he didn't. She'd be available and then he wouldn't. Finally, after enough was really truly seriously enough, she deleted his number. She said it was her own private "fuck you," as if screaming the words with a sore throat: no one else heard the exclamation, but it nonetheless resonated.

3) And another friend was recently, if not bummed, then definitely fed up with a lame dude with a habit of dating nineteen year idiots (no offense to all you awesome nineteen year olds). After putting up her fair share of ridiculous behavior, she deleted him on Facebook. Perhaps this is the most show-y example, but it still meant something. She didn't want to waste time looking at his page and wondering who some new friend was, so she took matters into her own computer. He emailed her almost instantly -- hey, where'd'ya go? -- but they never went out again.

4) And then there's me. I was recently involved in an every-other-night-ish late-night text-exchange with someone who lives across the country. Instead of actually engaging with people in front of me, I'd go home and text to my heart's content (or until one of us fell asleep). This normally occurred when I was either bored or drunk (or a combination of the two) and, as a result, the candor of my messages definitely teetered on too much. It is easy to project sentiment when someone lives so far away because nothing is really at stake and everything can be interpreted according to a response. Sick of my morning ritual of embarrassment for my veracity, I'd delete his number and vowed to never start another conversation. But then, after a day or two, he'd text me and all problematic behavior would be restored. So the cycle continued. If I was particularly bored or exceedingly drunk, I'd find the internet message where he gave me his number and justify re-saving it into my phone. Until I went too far. Again. Then I had the gall to delete not only his number, but the message containing his number. Now I only have to figure out how to remove someone from Gmail.

The bottom line of these stupid stories is that, quite frankly, when you feel the need to delete, there is probably a reason: something is unrequited. If everything was going according to the grand plan of whatever, there would be no impetus to act with a fists-in-the-air conviction. You would not need to passively proclaim righteousness to an empty auditorium. Still, though, it feels really good, like you're doing something instead of waiting for something to be done -- or not -- to you. There is no benefit in baggage, be it of the emotional or emoticon variety.

Then there's the other thing: the backup plan. Sure, we might concede to our friends' advice and delete the asshole's stored info, but, so often, we have the number scribbled down on a piece of paper with other (actual!) important information, like our internet passwords and social security numbers. While we let defiance reign momentarily supreme, we still know we can contact the person if we (legitimately?) must. So, with that, delete every last backup plan.

I used to think that saving things -- love letters, college papers, concert ticket stubs -- proved they actually happened. Such is the justification of clinging to past tense texts and emails. Now, however, I realize that no matter the form of these relics, their relevance remains. Memory always surpasses the specificity of evidence. Thus, if anything is causing an undoing, get rid of it. There's no need to wallow or revisit the sensory-loaded when everything has already taken shape in our conscience.

It may reek of dramatic flair, but deleting is simply a way to regain control over compulsion. You may have enough composure to not send drunken texts, but what of the added-up hours spent reading between lines? You may have enough foresight to never see the person again, but what of the time spent looking at last night's photos? You may justify your behavior as it relates to your desire, but what of your dignity? Thus, the power of the delete lies in respecting, if not yourself, than at least your time. And that, my friends, is worth everything, even if no one else knows about your own private proclamation.

PS This post cannot be tucked away in the Doesn't Being Single Suck? file of life's tricks because, no matter one's romantic status, there's always the possibility of an Achilles heel and bad decisions. Take it from someone who knows. And has heard.

PPS No iPhones were harmed in writing this blog.

Discretion Does It Better

2011-02-25T11:37:00.000-05:00

I've never been one to bite my tongue. Quite the opposite. I stick it out. 'Far as it'll go. I'm normally the one who says too much, gushing over every last nuanced thing and wielding words with the reckless abandon of the emotionally unhinged. I don't mean to be this pedantic; I'm just often so overwhelmed by feelings that I think I have to share them. So I do. Then, before I realize the hypnosis, I'm locked in a spiraling exchange where all that's discussed is mutual admiration. Conversations about ideas and art and sex and wine are replaced with omigod you're so wonderful and omigod that was the best sex ever and omigod I'm totally crazy about you. I try to catch my breath and compose myself, but, usually, it's too late. The jig is up. My intentions are revealed. Someone is over it and it's time to retract. Or, at least, tighten the reigns for the sake of everything fascinating.

Despite the ticking clocks and sagging skin and more heartbreaks than hellos, we have all the time in the world. There is, really, no reason to rush things. Assuming that most of us actually want to be loved in a long-term meaningful relationship, it is in our best interest to let romance unravel slowly and naturally. You can't really know someone after, say, a month no matter how much you convince yourself otherwise. You only know the ideal version of the person. Everyone puts their best face forward in hopes that someone else will like them. Thus, compatibility is often overshadowed by desire and longing or, more cynically, boredom and loneliness.

No matter my best intentions, I'm always the first to say I Love You. Every time I'm on the verge of expressing sentimentality, I make a private pact with myself that I will not be the first to say it. But then I cave. Verbal vomit. Can't hold it in. Don't want to dry heave my truth. We all know when it's going to happen. The spoken cues slip from our lips and everything becomes about love: I love this song; I love creme brule; I love (kissing) you; I love (spending time with) you. You get the point. I become overwhelmed. Or maybe I just don't know what else to say. Say we're in bed and I'm relishing the rush of serotonin. I start to cry (sap that I am) and, instead of properly calling a spade a spade (this is my brain's natural chemical occurrence), I deign it appropriate to forgo my mind's prudence to my heart's projection. And then, just like that, the romance is over. All the building and budding has quelled under the weight of the wordy climax. Before you know it, you're eating takeout in bed and watching reruns of The Nanny and fantasizing about an affair. Or maybe that's just me. Maybe I'm addicted to the rush of potential versus the calm of actuality.

Discretion is tension's mistress. If we all know that, sooner or later, we're going to be locked in the humdrum of monogamy, why don't we cling to courting and dating and not stating every emotion we're currently experiencing? No one needs to know your every soliloquy. Reading between the lines of longing is, as Harold Pinter says, "the weasel under the whiskey cabinet." Going for the whiskey is easy. We know where it is because, quite frankly, we planted the seeds to quench ourselves long before we were ever thirsty. Still, though, it is in the unexpected where all things interesting reside: thinking we want one thing and finding something else entirely. It is saying something while not saying a million things. It is subtly. I guess, to break it down more clearly, I want my love affairs to be a little more Pinter and a little less Shakespeare. That, I know, must stem from heeding my own advice.

Regardless of how it may seem, I am not a curmudgeon. Falling in love is awesome, but there's no need to rush it. Someone force-feeding fondness only makes you gag on the fullness of the sentiment. It is all that's unsaid -- the subtext of a stare, the restrain between bodies, the days spent apart -- that makes the whole love thing worth a damn. Plus, everyone loves a good game of Mad Libs, no matter if the blanks to be filled are your own predilections.

Dredging It Up

2011-02-24T16:02:00.000-05:00

For the past year and a half, I've been writing a book loosely based on my (relatively) insular experience in LA. I gave myself a year to accomplish this task. I finished the first draft in three months. As my own personal narrative goes, there's something so romantic about writing a novel. If nothing else, it makes for easy cocktail party conversation:

What do you do?

I'm a writer.

What do you write?

I'm working on my first novel.

And, instantly, just like that, I'm interesting. However, the disconnect between writing a book and editing a book are huge. All the listless hours I've spent writing without objective, allowing a story to shape itself into something coherent and, hopefully, captivating, are a thing of the past. Now I spend hours staring at the brick wall in front of my desk as I deliberate between punctuation and pontification (and, obviously, alliteration).

I have a friend who has been kind enough to read many versions of my book (and, let me tell you, there were some very...flawed versions, like the one where I thought I was the reincarnation of David Foster Wallace and, as such, should utilize footnotes accordingly). He said that my current drafts are less angry than the previous ones. Where, a year and a half ago, I was still deep in the shit of the story, I now have had the preciously unfeigned gift of time to dissipate attachment, allowing myself to tell the best possible story instead of passively projecting resentment to an otherwise apathetic audience. Proving something, be it disdain or dismay or disappointment, is counterproductive for the creative process. Artistic license should always reign over personal vendetta.

There is, however, a particularly upsetting, based-on-real-life instance that always slays me. I don't want to get into the specifics, but it's something quite devastating. And true. Think death, but darker. Think suicide, but more sinister. It is the crux of my story and it has to be there for climax's sake. This event is something on which I do not like to dwell and about which I choose not to think. I'd much rather have it tucked into the crevices of my memory, only to be mentioned when I'm drunk with one of my best friends and we've reached maximum capacity of boy- and yoga-talk. Ideally it'd be then, and only then, when I'd allow the tears and the what-ifs and the remember-whens to surface. But I can't. I have to face this thing on a weekly basis, numbing it down to something shocking instead of something that, unfortunately, occurred.

Maybe this can be a metaphor. There are things in our lives that we want to forget --heartbreaks we wish didn't happen; hindsights we wish we would've known, deaths we wish we could've prevented -- but we can't. Instead of booking a ticket to a faraway destination when life gets tough, perhaps there's something to simply stopping our biological fight-or-flight mentality. Escapism is just another destructive symptom of the same disease. We can only hope to heal from life's unforeseen cuts and bruises when we put the breaks on the autopilot and deal with things we try to forget. Then, and only then, can it be a story we tell instead of dormant ache in an otherwise healthy narrative.

The Fallacy of The Shift

2011-02-23T10:53:00.000-05:00

My friends and I have been, if not obsessed, then more than a little curious about that moment when someone stops liking you. We call it The Shift. It happens, seemingly, so suddenly. Everything's moving right along at just the right speed (or way too fast, even for the pedal-pushing left lane) and then -- BAM! -- it crashes and dies and you're dead on the side of the road with a mild concussion of confusion. You start re-reading every text exchange, decoding every email emoticon, replaying every conversation so as to, if not accept, then at least understand the instant when it occurred: where you flubbed, what you did wrong, was it all in your head, et-fucking-cetera.

Now, though, I'm rethinking this notion of The Shift. It's a fallacy, an excuse, an easy pinpoint on an otherwise deflated balloon. It only seems like a shift to us (the ones feeling duped) because we weren't expecting it. And because we're not mind-readers. We were so caught up in the isn't-this-grand, creating-it-alone mentality that we concocted a happily-ever-after that the other party involved just kinda went with out of curiosity or boredom or, perhaps, something sorta like compassion. In our over-achieving, hyper-perfectionists way, we crave to know The Shift because it provides something concrete on which we can work and fix and mend so as to become a better -- albeit watered-down -- versions of ourselves and, as such, construct future desire accordingly. This, I tell ya, is bullshit. And here's why.

There is never a shift or a fatal flaw or a something that can be changed. It's the whole package. No one's perfect. We all know that. Major duh. We meet people and they pique our interest for a myriad of reasons. Maybe they're super hot but they don't shut up; maybe they're not super hot but they're really very smart; maybe they have the emotional maturity of a toddler but are a great lay; maybe they do too many drugs. Whatever the case, we see the red flags from the get-go. Still, we're curious and we entertain the idea because, fuck, why not? You forgive someone else their flaws because maybe, for you, it won't matter. So you hype up the good and ignore the not-so-good as it relates to compatibility. Then, like a slow sink leak that turns into a full-fledge flooding of your kitchen, you can't ignore it anymore. You gotta get the buckets and towels and clean the mess up. If only you listened to the perpetual drip and dealt with the damn leaky faucet in the first place, you wouldn't find yourself knee-deep in puddles and projections.

I applaud people who are honest enough to end things, no matter how much it temporarily sucks. Too many of us get stuck in relationships that are less-than-ideal -- be it out of loneliness or apathy or sense of responsibility -- and then, before you know it, you're wearing white and walking down isles and making babies because that's what's expected of the trajectory.

You gotta stay true to your desires. A friend said recently that courting in New York is akin to speed dating. We rush in and rush out with the same velocity. Everything moves super fast so to keep up the pace with the city. And that's fine. Who wants to waste time? You learn very quickly what you want and -- more importantly -- what you don't, so you can weed through the masses in between manicures and Momofuku dinners. Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe everyone in New York has the same fatal flaw: the roving eye. There could always be someone better around the corner, so why settle for less-than-amazing? If we lived somewhere a little more suburban, then this person might be perfect. But we don't. So they're not. And that's that.

The Go-To Person

2011-02-23T00:25:00.000-05:00

While locked in the sexual rut of monogamy, we all, at one point or another, need something a little more spicy than the familiar. Be it in the form of a favorite porn star or the unrequited love of a baseball player or a super secret crush, there's always a mental rolodex. Whatever. No matter. Normally this projected person is someone a little more grand than the person with whom we're making all sorts of sweaty shapes. Granted, no one needs to know specifics, but it's in the specifics that reveal, well, everything.

Last night, over a really great meal with really great friends -- one that, two bottles of wine later, lead to the unabashed and candid conversations that plunge friendships beyond how's-your-day politeness -- we got to talking about sex, generally and orgasms, specifically. The notion of "good sex" was brought up and I started thinking about how, in our twenties, we all think we're experts. Over brunch the day after a hook-up, we discuss in dreary-eyed detail the specifics of our conquest because, well, everyone loves a good story. However, what do we really know? As you start racking up numbers, you realize that the sexual experience with Person X is generally pretty similar as it is with Person Y. The impetus of the fun is more rooted in how you feel about a person than how that person actually performs. We forgive small penises and premature ejaculation because everyone deserves a little love.

This got me thinking about missionary. Sure, every woman likes to be thrown around a bit, but more and more I'm realizing that most of us actually really enjoy the standard dude-on-top thing. Again, whatever. No matter. We divulge the less pedestrian positions so to suggest our sexual willingness and to make our own prowess more titillating. Still, after a few years of doing the same person, I find (because I ask!) that most couples' bedroom antics mirror what we see on network -- not cable -- tv.

But I digress. Back to the night with my friends. While the three of us generally exhibit the same sexual sentiment, there was one interesting disconnect. The most innocent of my girlfriends (the one who, when I revealed how long I held out on sleeping with someone, feeling righteous in my week-and-a-half wait, rolled her eyes in faux-shock) said that, while bored in her last long-term relationship, she'd imagine fucking a really ugly, fat, burly dude. My other friend (the self-claimed blow-job queen) and I were, if not initially appalled, completely flabbergasted. And then she explained. Her ex-boyfriend was quite cute and, as is often the case, a really boring lay. Pretty people often feel, albeit subconsciously, that they don't have to try as hard. Scratch that. Pretty people often don't have to try as hard. They're used to people wanting to bed them and, as a result, have no sense of what it takes to give a prize-worthy performance. So they just lay there, getting things done to them, while the ugly and the fat and the flawed have to hone a skill-set beyond physicality. My innocent friend was onto this, even though, at that point, she had never slept with gnarly dude. She said that when her then-boyfriend wasn't going to make her come, she'd imagine all sorts of nasty things with someone she'd never do in "real" life. And it worked. Without fail. Always. Home-fucking-run.

Perhaps this is why us gals get sexually-better with age. Although a forty year old woman can be completely stunning, there is still the absence of youth in the beckoning of age and, as a result, the amount of men who want to sleep with her will naturally -- even if only slightly -- diminish (who doesn't love the taut ass of a twenty year old?). So, instead of thinking someone is so damn lucky to be with her, she learns how to screw based on what she likes, which, in turn, makes her all the more captivating and the recidivism rate all the more higher. Sex becomes less of a performance and more of an experience.

Even though it's totally great, monogamy often becomes the syndicated version of your favorite show, one that you've seen the rerun of so many times you can quote along with the characters. Thus, every once in a while, we need to employ the whimsy of fantasy so to not change the channel, as it were, of what we know and have and intellectually want. How we choose to romantically represent ourselves in the public sphere should have no bearing on the privatization of things (paging the oft-common rape fantasy). Infidelity is a gnarliest of all gnarly motherfuckers -- what with its sniveling tail-between-legs callousness -- so, sometimes, you gotta do whatever works to stay present with the person you love. Or else maybe just tell them to pull your hair. That also works like a dream. So I've been, ya know, told.

Shadow-Lurking

2011-02-21T13:29:00.000-05:00

I am not proud of this.

Some time between nineteen and twenty-one, I ended my first very serious, lost-of-virginity, three-plus year relationship. I was in college and kinda square (i.e. perpetual straight-A student involved in a plethora of after-school, academic-based activities, i.e. editor of the university's literary magazine, i.e. French club, i.e. plays, i.e. et cetera). Then I caught the party girl bug and started going out every night, making out with random bearded boys and racking up my fair share of sexual (mis)adventures. Dancing and drinking became my favorite past time, coupled with, of course, the juxtaposed rigor of academia (thankfully, for my degree's sake, one can't completely dispel former learned behavior). Most of these minor "relationships" were unrequited on one of our parts. Such is life. However, and here's the rub, when the dude wasn't feeling what I thought he should most definitely be feeling (I'm a catch! Look at me! Lucky bastard!), I'd get a little nuts. And so the story goes.

It mostly happened on Sunday nights. Since there were no fun clubs or whathaveyou to attend to on that sleepy shadow-of-a-day, my best friends and I would drink cheap beer and smoke cigarettes and watch whatever HBO show was premiering. Cut to, say, around eleven at night. We'd be slightly tipsy and ready for attention and, thus, do what any bored nutso would do: dress up in ridiculous, nonsensical outfits and wigs and sunglasses (yes, sunglasses) and drive around town, namely to our crushes' houses. We'd never go so far as knocking on their doors. No. Instead we got off on window-peaking, maybe while the particular dude-in-question was cooking shirtless in their kitchen or typing in their living room or (god forbid!) making out with someone on their couch. Once our voyeurism was actualized, we'd drive away giddy with the terror of being caught. I am not at all proud of this behavior, but, like a badge of mistakes and missteps, it's nonetheless relevant.

I moved to California after college and, almost immediately, fell stupidly in love. I became the indignant asshole who thought she had it all figured out. I felt bad for my single friends and their silly ways, but was still not cured of my unhealthy compulsions. One night during some dinner party with a whole host of people I barely knew, I found respite in my boyfriend's bedroom, his cellphone teasing me with its trust a mere arm's length away. I buckled and, before I knew it, was deep-down the rabbit hole of his amorous texts with former flings. Though these messages were taken completely out of context, I was too overwhelmed by their sentiment to notice time and date and that they had since ceased once we proclaimed monogamy. My boyfriend found me a sobbing wreck in his bed and, instead of scolding me for my aberrations, forgave the snoop and comforted my craze. The next four years were a perpetual test of my indiscretion that I often failed. I have never and will never go through someone else's things again if only because (but not only because!) when you look for something, you will definitely, without a doubt, find something, no matter if said something is completely irrelevant to everything else. I've stuck by this rule, perhaps because no one since seemed worthy of the super secret spy. And, believe you me, I've had many opportunities, alone in apartments with computers and love letters and underwear drawers. But I approach privacy with the reverence of its return. Plus, I've learned that the imagination is capable of crazy jumps of logic and who has the emotional energy for the result of such a search?

I've started dating a dude who is totally rad. He's gorgeous and crazy about me and communicative and available. And smart. And good in bed. Basically, he's the kind of guy us girls always wish we would meet, but never do. Until we do. And then we figure there must be something wrong with them, some fatal flaw like fucking tranny hookers or schizophrenia, because, god forbid they could actually genuinely like us. So we start doing research, asking friends about the dirty details that could've lead to an undoing. Nothing save for typical boy behavior turns up. But we're not yet quenched of our delusions.

This morning I noticed the new dude left his cellphone at my house. There is was. Right there. On my dresser. All of the answers to all of the questions I don't know how (or what) to ask were available with one unlocking. But, as familiar the old behavioral flare-up was, I didn't do it. I didn't even touch it. Or move it. Nothing. Everyone should be allowed their privacy and their past. I don't think I really understood this when I was younger because, quite frankly, I didn't yet have the loaded romantic history that I currently have, full of fuck ups and failures and residual flings.

Perhaps the rush of Figuring It All Out only happens when there's an inkling of vulnerability. Instead of truly believing what someone says, we're terrified of being duped and, as such, approach trust with a grain (or beach-worth) of sand. The risk of heartbreak and devastation is debilitating, especially after it's been experienced a few times. I guess that's just part of the fucking journey. In order to really fall, you gotta be okay with bumping your head or losing a limb. Here's to hoping. Any day now.

The Moment After

2011-02-07T11:10:00.000-05:00

It's just another extension of boredom. Or maybe it's like a shot of espresso. Or a pep talk for the body via blood flow shift. Say you're on a deadline or you don't want to eat dessert or you need a nap. Any which way. You have to make it through a few more mundane hours. But you can't. So you excuse yourself from the room and take matters into your own hands. Or, if you're really lucky to work from home/live alone, you just walk to the bed. Or the couch.

You shape your body as you deign necessary, maybe in ways far too candid to ever display in front of someone else's fluttery eyes. You sweat a little, moan a little, arch your back a little. You ebb and flow and wax and wane and crest and break. You're completely engaged in the moment until it's over and all that remains is the heart-racing, limbs-tingling residual. Then you put your pants back on and resume your day as if nothing happened, no matter the flush of your cheeks.

I find this interlude so interesting. It's as if time is suspended for a moment, as if you're high on anesthesia, as if you've been staring at the innards of a spiral for too long, trancing out on its hypnotic effect until you come to and have no recollection of the time you spent splicing into yourself. It's not so much that you forget what happened, more that the specifics of the circumstance have no obvious influence on the rest of your day. The act is private and intimate and irrelevant to everything else that you have to do. You're completely present because you have to be in order to get the deed done, as it were. Anxiety gives way pleasure and only feeling remains. So you carry on -- just like that, right there, don't stop -- and then you stow away your props to their upright and locked position.

Sanity relies on release. If we're too tense, we can't concentrate. We lash out and lose focus and make mistakes. Everything needs a climax, sometimes quite literally. With just a five minute pause to unload all that's built up, we can better complete the tasks that define us in other, more PG-rated instances. It's like a splash of water to the face, a recharging of batteries, a speed session with a therapist. If nothing else, we owe ourselves at least that much.

Life is full of little vignettes, some of which we relent over and some of which we forget. But it doesn't have to be that way. With a bit of determination, the abstract could more closely mirror the realtime focused present-ness of masturbation. Instead of shouldering the weight of experience to an obsessive degree of analyzing, we should try to move on and zip up without considering the meaning in the grand scheme of things. After all, it probably means nothing. Or maybe it means everything. Who cares. Over-thinking only distracts from really living. Doing the next indicated thing is far more productive than dwelling in a feeling, no matter said feeling's tipping point of this and that.

Tall Order Integrity

2011-02-05T13:15:00.000-05:00

In a society over-wraught with self-help jargon, the notion of "integrity" has become something of a catch phrase. We're told to live with integrity, approach relationships with integrity, end relationships with integrity, judge others based on their integrity. Bla bla this, bla bla that, bla bla integrity until the cows come home. The word itself is so overused that it's difficult to remember its relevance in the first goddamn place. However, and despite my deep loathe of jargon, there is definitely value in the concept of integrity if we choose to acknowledge it and, equally important, the lack of it.

I traveled a lot in the past two months. Hating the idea of leaving my apartment empty (see also: paying rent sans occupation), I decided to sublet. The idea of this alone was enough to give me hives. I'm extremely obsessive-compulsive. Anyone who has ever been to my place knows the nuances of my disorder: my closet is color-coordinated; my dresses hang in the same tag-facing fashion; my underwear are placed according to type (black/nude/thong/lace); my bed is always made; my dishes always washed; my floors always cleaned... You get the point. There is no chaos or clutter (I have enough of that in my mind!). There is only order and organization. Thus, finding someone I could truly trust amidst my stuff was scary. But I did. After I returned from the first leg of my trip, I found some things in disarray: a broken wine glass, a weird little blemish on my comforter, a deodorant stain on my dress. Then I noticed my favorite sunglasses were gone. When I asked my subletter about the missing sunglasses, she apologized and said she took them by mistake. No biggie, I said disingenuously, Just make sure you take good care of them. Knowing my passive-aggreessive tendencies (holding anger in until it irrationally explodes out), I decided to express my frustration with my subletter-friend. I told her that, perhaps, subletting my place does not mean wearing my clothes. She agreed. We moved on. Then, while on the next leg of my trip, I saw a photo of her on Facebook (I know, I know) posing in a particularly expensive pair of my shoes. I confronted her about the image and she, again, apologized. I, again, accepted. I requested that she not wear my things without first asking. She agreed. We moved on. I returned to my apartment and it was almost as I had left or, at least, I had accepted its slight disarray (my OCD shouldn't override other people's consideration). Now to the straw, as it were, that broke the camel's back. I took one final, rather spontaneous trip to California. My subletter, again, needed a place to crash. I was grateful for our arrangement and readily accepted her monetary contribution, thinking all was cleared and all would go well. I had dinner plans with a friend on the night of my return from the West Coast's warmth. As I searched my closet for a particular dress I wanted to wear, I noticed it wasn't there. I emailed my subletter. Oops, she said, I accidentally packed the dress with my things. She said she'd return it over the weekend. I was peeved over this broken trust, but resigned an outburst nonetheless. Then, the next night I looked for my favorite pair of jeans. They weren't in their drawer or the hamper or anywhere else. I sent my friend a text inquiring of their whereabouts. No response. I decided to wear my super-warm Wolford tights instead. I pulled them out of their specific place in their specific drawer and found them (and, subsequently, all of my tights) damp. She had apparently worn them, washed them, and put them away without informing me (which is pretty gnarly considering, well, tights are, well, intimate apparel). Now it was twenty-eight degrees and I was without my favorite jeans or a single pair of stockings. If my anger was a tea kettle, it was officially whistling. As the saying goes Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me, but what happens when you're naive enough to be fooled thrice?

Integrity is an elusive, albeit concise, motherfucker. It is defined as a "firm adherence to a code of especially moral or artistic values" and who doesn't want to have that? We all make mistakes. That's a given. I've definitely done my fair share of apologizing for some stupid, drunken decisions as of late, but how we handle ourselves after our fall from grace defines our compassion and respect for others. No matter the superfluous specifics of a current affliction (such as the relative meaninglessness of clothes and whatnot), the acceptance of our errors should serve as a behavioral wakeup call and allow us to alter problematic aspects of our character.

As if it can undo wrong-doing, we too often live for the apology. Everyone is forgiven a fuck up, until they're not. Until it happens so much that fuck up becomes status quo and you're the idiot in the abusive relationship justifying another black eye, so to speak. We should all strive to live in a state of integrity, if not out of altruism, than at least to avoid asshole-status by others. Plus, it beats the hell out of reconstructing the trust that we dismantled in the first damn place.

Baby, You Can Take My Train

2011-02-04T12:02:00.001-05:00

Anyone who knows me knows my disdain for Los Angeles. While it's no one's fault, really, I'm happy to have rid myself of that culturally-vapid city. This is especially true in terms of The Car. There is nothing more isolating, more mind-numbing, more time-wasting than the hours spent foot-on-brake alone on the way from A to B, then from B to C, then back to A, then again to C with, maybe, a little D thrown in for good highway measure. It's exhausting. By the time you've run a few errands or have gone to a few meetings, you're ready to pop in a movie and call it a day, dreading the next zip code haul when you have to meet your friend for dinner across town. Though you may relish in your solitude, the car isn't exactly ideal alone-time. You can't read a book or think about life or have a meaty conversation with your mom because, well, you'd crash and die. Thus, you live your life for the superfluous: a few good songs, maybe an NPR show or two, a quick rehash of someone's last night -- anything to occupy the minutes (hours?) spent exacerbating your carbon footprint. However, I've found, there is one plus-side to the car-ride: it gives you a late night easy out.

It happens to the best of us. It's the make-or-break hour (two or four in the morning, depending on your timezone) and it's time to go home. Maybe you're on your second beer with your best friend at some bar where you've been eyeing some cute someone across the room. At about an hour before closing, you (they?) go in for the kill. The conversation is flirtatious and fun. Maybe this is The One (if such a person actually exists beyond the construct of romantic comedies). Or, maybe, you're on a really great first/second/third date with someone you met the previous month. Whatever. The lights have begun their slow ascent on. It's time to go home. You have to wake up early. Or maybe you don't. Maybe it's the weekend and you have no plans. No matter. They ask if they can go home with you, or if you want to go home with them. Regardless of your desirous leanings, you know it's a bad idea, but you could never be so candid. You feign an excuse. Or you don't. More likely you don't. Then, six hours later (if you're lucky to have slept!), you wake up in bed with someone you barely know and you're ready to peace out (or have them peace out without so much as a morning's brew or a slew of dirty kisses). This again, you think, was this really necessary? You're not a prude, but you know this isn't the way to start anything meaning (or not). But you did and there you go.

Here's the half-court slam-dunk for LA: it is so much easier to remove yourself from the aforementioned situation. The car, with its designated driver implications, never leaves you on foot and alone. We tend to travel in packs. We tend to spend the night with friends. We tend to shape our evening around parking. It is, subsequently, way cheaper to valet as a group. Thus, regardless of our wanted autonomy, we ride together and we leave together and we discuss the night, over a bad idea hangover burger, in realtime together. This is not true in New York. No matter the density of your specific neighborhood -- what with four friends in a two block radius -- it is always easy to sneak out with a hook up, knowing full well that everyone will find their own way home.

The justifications are abundant. Maybe your date lives a borough away. Maybe you don't want to walk to the train or pay for a cab. Maybe it's snowing. Whatever the case, you fold. It does, after all, make logical sense to travel together. It is, after all, really late and who knows who is lurking around alleys, waiting for the next prudent girl wearing headphones and an indigent smile. Plus, you really kinda actually like this person. Why not explore the geometry of your entwined bodies?

Grow a pair, you snarl, it's not really that difficult to say no. And you're right. It's not. However (and antithetical to my previous diatribe), New York can be quite lonely. Even though we're constantly surrounded, we're simultaneously looking for the next person with whom to have brunch or to spend a lazy Sunday afternoon. Thus, gracefully excusing yourself from party-ending advances is not only a skill, it's an act of willful defiance. But it can be done. As easily as you can say in LA, I gotta take my friend home, you can just as soon say in NY, You got yourself here in the first place, figure out the rest. I mean, what if you didn't hit it off? Do you really think they wouldn't schlep across town, absolutely relieved that the night has ended? No way, as they say, Jose.

Shopping Strike

2011-02-03T16:02:00.000-05:00

I haven't shopped all year. Big deal, you say, it's only the beginning of February. True, I agree, it is only the third day of the second month. Still, this is a small feat considering I've spent an aimless week in California and a listless week in Florida. Normally when antsy, I find solace in some clothing store or another, no matter if it's a lingerie shop or a high-end boutique or a local Goodwill. It's something to do, some residual hunter/gatherer mentality born out of boredom or a contrived necessity for new socks or new yoga clothes or whatever. It passes the time between meals and relieves me of the conversations I don't want to have, of the writing I don't want to do, of the cyclical thoughts I don't want to rethink. Shopping has become a crutch, a really expensive, mind-numbing crutch.

The temporary fix of consumerism is troubling. Instead of dwelling in whatever residual pain plagues our lives, we turn to the ultimate external distraction: the power of the new. If we can buy a new dress or a new bra, then maybe we can feel better about ourselves, albeit momentarily. It is the ultimate distraction, absolving the search for a better, more ideal version of ourselves. The constant droll of popular culture only adds to this affliction. We're told through a myriad of indications that we need the current to keep up, no matter the specifics of our monetary capabilities. We're programmed to believe that we're never enough, that the essence of ourselves must be manipulated so to properly perform desire. But, really, it makes no difference how you clothe your body or if you buy the best mascara. Style transcends the construct of fashion. Style stems from taste, not a maxed-out American Express.

If the root of fashion is creativity, then why must we rely on someone else's opinion to shape our aesthetic? It's never authentic. Or interesting. How people put together what they already own is far more fascinating. Another striped shirt or expensive pair of jeans simply distracts from the fundamentals of attraction.

I'm making a pact with myself: I will not shop all year. There is no Shiseido lipstick or Yes Saint Laurent shoes that will make me a better person. Quite the opposite, actually. I'm fortunate to have a closet full of forgotten items, but it is irrelevant. I wear the same stupid pieces over and over again. Perhaps removing the clatter of the perpetual purchase will allow me to reinterpret all the tailored fabric at my disposal. Or, maybe, it'll force me to unpack the reasons why I cling to commerce. No matter. I've made a decision and I've put it on the internet, thus it must be true...

Absolutely Amazing

2011-02-01T09:28:00.002-05:00

The scene was ripe for honesty. My best friend, who I've known for a decade and only see a few times a year, was a rickety table away from me at a decent Los Angeles restaurant. Half a bottle of wine consumed and stomachs still empty, I asked the question we're all afraid of the answer: what's wrong with me? This inquiry wasn't irrational or rhetoric. There were no tears or pending heartbreak, no strewn empty containers of Ben and Jerry's or six cocktail stumbles to the bathroom. It was more of an I'll show you mine if you show me yours confession, hoping to get to the cause of compulsion from someone who genuinely knows me beyond performance. She cocked her head in a Whaddya mean? expression. Like what do I do without awareness, I said, What's my fatal flaw? Um, she said. I'll go first, I said, hoping to dispel some of honesty's pressure. After a twenty minute diatribe about her complacency, it was my turn.

You give people you've just met too much credit, she said. You think they're great before they prove it. I mean, how can anyone be so amazing when you don't even know them? This isn't limited to dudes. You do this with new friends too.

She's right. It's true. I do. All of the above. Over and over again. Despite a lifetime of happenings to test me otherwise.

I've never considered myself an optimist. Quite the opposite, in fact. I perpetually live in an if something bad can happen, it will mind frame, always saying shit like, knowing my luck and whatnot (no matter that my luck is pretty damn fortunate). But, for some reason, when it comes to people, I'm so willing to forgo foresight in hopes of significance. I want to believe that this new person will be so wonderful that I purge all hints and time-lacks suggesting otherwise. Until, as is often the case, I'm disappointed when they don't live up to some constructed expectation.

The narrative normally begins with the same injected enthusiasm: Omigod, I just met (fill in the blank) and I know I've said it before, but I really mean it this time, we're just alike, it's uncanny. They're amazing! Suffice to say, regardless of romance or its platonic counterpart, I fall in love really fast. Like everyone else, I'm aching for connection so much that I'm charmed by other people's potential. I find affinity everywhere, from the way we view the world to our favorite fashion designers to the cigarettes we smoke to the fact that we both cook when we're creatively stifled. My narrative, as it were, is always open to the tabloid magazine's "Stars, They're Just Like Us" page.

This perpetual projection begs the question of how many people can be just like me? And, if we're really the exact same person, is that such a good thing? Isn't it in our differences where we learn and grow and expand the horizon of ourselves? Before beating myself to an idiotic pulp, I must confess that I really believe it when I say it. I really do think that this new person will be the person to, if not complete me, then at least shape my life more thoroughly. I'm hopeful and excited of the possibility; yet, after years of clinging to commonality, I'm beginning to realize, if only for the sake of silencing repetition, that some things are better left unsaid.

It's a process of elimination. In the various ways that we're all uniquely human, we're also stupidly the same. So, I suppose, instead of getting pissed off at myself when I realize that I don't actually care if someone is as cynical or smart or anxious as me, I should allow these love affairs to hold a mirror against the aspects of myself which need some work. It's no one's fault but my own. I take full responsibility because, after all, everything worth a damn needs time to flourish beyond a crush. We're all more charming versions of ourselves when we first meet someone else, saying things (that we probably actually mean) for a nod's sake. However, it's after the veneer fades when we finally learn if the inevitability of differences can sustain the weight of similarity.

The External Compliment

2011-01-29T11:09:00.000-05:00

I grew up believing I was the prettiest girl in the world. This, I thought, was not someone else's formulated opinion; this, I thought, was a pure and simple fact, like popcorn scented dog paws or the five food groups or the times tables up to twelve. The moment of this delusional epiphany still resonates. It was early morning and I was running late to school. Perhaps it was the desolate hallways or the very beginnings of puberty, whatever the case, I was certain without a hint of irony that I was the prettiest girl in the world. I started mantra-like repeating I'm pretty I'm pretty I'm pretty in different intonations, shocked that I had never realized this perceived-as-objective truth prior to this significant second. It was like one's first fucked up existential-in-the-mirror experience, when you're fifteen and stoned or drunk or whatever. You look at your reflection and are surprised by the candor of yourself. You have to repeat I'm me I'm me I'm me at the squinty-eyed, red-cheeked idiot grinning back at you, Hamlet you, as if repetition served any purpose other than reinforcing intoxication.

(Who am I kidding, this happened to me last week.)

My prepubescent egomania was an innocent result of unabashed parental projections and, as such, I didn't understand the notion of the subjective. Add to the mix the oft-overweight and slight-inbred look of many in my small Florida suburb and it wasn't too far-fetched to deduce that maybe I actually was the prettiest girl in the world. The odds were totally stacked in my favor. Until they weren't (big fish/small pond versus its opposite).

The specifics of my beauty were irrelevant at this early nineties moment of look-consciousness. My hair was undoubtedly frizzed beyond curl-recognition, my socks definitely didn't match my cotton-blend shorts and my purple Jansport was precariously placed on one shoulder as I swaggered to Ms. Odum's classroom. But it didn't matter. This new feeling transcended my external self. This new feeling was the birth of confidence. Pure and simple.

But here's was happens. After years of compliments based on accidental genetic composition, you begin relying on the praise that was once only an extension of your ego. You begin brushing off people's sincerity. You crave the interesting. Someone saying you're beautiful is boring. You've heard it too much. Compliments cancel out each other. Even when people don't say it, you know they're thinking it by the way they stare on airplanes or attempt eye contact in coffee shops. You want to hear something else, something you haven't heard, something more specific. Not about your pouty lips or your soft(est) skin or your tiny waist, but something you never realized about yourself. Until you do. Then you expect everyone else to notice that nuanced thing. Until they don't and you think you lost that very thing that someone else said they saw.

Maybe your lips shrunk or your skin scaled or your waist grew. Or all of the above. That is, after all, what it means to get older. Then you start seeing the way other people's beauty is regarded in the world. You're no longer the focal point and, as such, notice heads whiplashing toward a new crop of nineteen year olds, heads that used to crack-neck your way. And there's the rub. You never know the power of your own beauty whilst in the thick of it. You're utterly oblivious. Until you're not. But, by this point, you've binged on the empty-calories of the compliment with such regularity that you feel the ache of the lack of something that used to be irrelevant to your existence. Until it isn't. Until confidence is hijacked by a sense of providence or, perhaps, something uglier and less romantic, something like self-loating (another extreme of the same affliction) when validation isn't verbalized.

So you search for all forms of that vein-smacking quick fix -- be it in a stupidly attractive man who teeters on retardation as much as handsomeness or the unbiased stares that a pushup bra perpetuates -- anything to get that addictive rush of self-love that leaves you feeing hollow again in no time. Then, before you know it, you don't even recognize this new version of yourself, plagued by wisdom and self-doubt. All you want to hear are the pedestrian projections of your youth. And you do hear them, but, for some reason, you no longer really hear them or, rather, you no longer believe them. You've learned that they are so often plagued by an ulterior motive. Suspicion is healthy until it isn't, until it disrupts the very essence of what made you great in the first place.

For me, specifically, it went even darker than that. Take an experience with a lover. If he said XYZ about me and/or my body, I carried the compliment around in my ever-expanding arsenal of awesomeness. Then, say, a few months later, I'm with another lover and they fail to mention what my previous lover emphasized. Instead of shrugging it off as different people's different tastes, I assumed what was once highlighted had since diminished. My rational mind knows this is completely ridiculous, but, in the moment of passion and vulnerability, I can't convince myself of logic.

Everybody is somebody's hyperbolic something. And that's great. Hopefully we're lucky enough to love someone who we think is the most stunningly attractive person on the planet, no matter their big nose or scrawny legs. Maybe our kid is the smartest four year old ever, even if she doesn't know the conjugative difference between him and he. Perhaps our friends are prettier and funnier and cooler than your friends, despite having the same exact CarrieMirandaCharlotteSamantha experience as the girls three tables away. Regardless. Superlatives are wonderful, but you gotta find your own -est before any other -est matters. You can't dwell in the fact that there will always be people prettier and smarter and funnier and cooler than you. That's about as debilitating as pondering the meaning of life. Embellishment doesn't have to be a bad thing. Quite the opposite. Embellishment allows us to situate ourselves in the little nooks of our lives.

We can never fully regain the confidence of youthful ignorance, but, hopefully, the memory of the feeling can squander the short-lived high of the external compliment. Everything is fleeting. No amount of praise will ever honestly resonant if we don't already believe it ourselves. Thus, regardless of the specific merits of our current state, maybe we should combine the mantras of our overly confident nine year old selves with the drunk-in-the-mirror current incarnations so to settle the superficial struggle once and for all.

Not A Nine Hundred Number

2011-01-22T16:56:00.000-05:00

I made a date with a boy a few Fridays ago. We didn't know each other's phone numbers or past tenses or future plans. We set the time and the place on the Tuesday prior. And so it was. And that was that. There were no I'm running twenty minutes late texts or Are we still on emails or Can we raincheck phone calls. It was refreshing, like pubic hair, like The Morning After cup of coffee, like someone not turning out to be an utter asshole. Sure, relying on civility has in its subtext the possibility of rejection or rescheduling (or a cocktail of both!), but we rolled the die (call us crazy!), trusting that the other would remember the specifics and show up, if not from excitement then at least from a Do Unto Others residual kindness. And so we did. And on time. And that was that.

This making (and keeping!) a plan made me nostalgic for the decades before cellphones callused the sacred/simple act of sticking to one's word; for a time I never really experienced as an adult; for a generation whose chivalry dictated motives more than a pants-swelling situation. It was old-fashioned and romantic, like honesty, like opening a car door, like not fucking on the first date. And so it goes. And so I'm pleased.

Let's cut to the typical. To the boring. To the absolute antithesis of the aforementioned days-scheduled date and all of its implications. Let's cut to Saturday night. Saturday nights tend to dish out a consistent three course meal of the same old shit. Cover your nose. And your mouth. As such, I usually don't make constructed dates on Saturday nights. I normally have dinner with my dear friend who lives (like me) in the shaggy-haired/tight-jeaned/perpetually-unemployment vortex of a specific Brooklyn zip code. We normally explore said zip code because, after all, the only thing worse than having high expectations on a Saturday night is having high expectations on a Saturday night...in the city. So we get accidentally drunk on sugary cocktails after having an elaborate meal at some renovated restaurant in our trendy neighborhood. It's wonderful. Or we stumble into some disheveled bar where we undoubtedly run into some stupid person who has previously caused some form of our undoing. Regardless. The night always ends with the two of us back at my place laughing and snacking and who-knows-what-else-ing. Texting. Yes, that's what-else-ing. Texting. Or, rather, me ignoring these text(ing)s. Flattering? Kinda. Annoying? Absolutely.

Okay. Here it is. It's not novel or flattering or personal. Dudes. Fucking dudes. All dudes start (end?) their text-game on Saturday nights. You might not hear from a particular fix-foot-something fuck for a week and then -- BOOM! -- they get the confidence of whiskey and amphetamines and it's on like Donkey Kong. As soon as the clock strikes eleven at night, dude after dude (ding-dong after ding-dong?) starts -- what're the kids calling it? -- "hitting me up" until, let's say, three in the morning, once I've finally typed as many OMGs and LOLs as I can straight-faced muster and I fall asleep, alone. I have to turn off my ringer so as not to seem like a personal douchebag call service. It's as if all the lame dudes who don't have enough gull or scrotum to ask me out pow-wowed prior to plan their collective blabbering in the same casual show:

where r u

come meet me

im in bk

whats up girl.

First of all, nothing clams me up more than improper grammar and misspellings, no matter if it's under the acceptable guise of text lexicon (texticon?). Any dude who would ever have enough Google-patience to woo me should really know (at least!) that much. Second, that's all you have to say? Really? Am I supposed to catfish your bait that easily? All you need to do is make the faintest suggestion of something and I should start hailing cabs and contemplating positions? Really? No. Not gonna happen. Sorry buddy. Now to the question that I'd never ask these stupid men (out of genuine apathy, not the self-consciousness that normally afflicts me): On who does this middle of the night expression work? Apparently it works (more often than not?) or else they'd've since abandoned tactic.

Perpetual club culture makes this behavior all the more forgivable, albeit unfortunate. No one dates anymore. It's really expensive and who wants to spend money on someone they just (probably) want to bed? Everything exists under the facade of nonchalance. Fuck that. I hate talking on the phone more than any other social activity and, more likely than not, if you call, I won't answer, but, still, the attempt doesn't go unnoticed or unappreciated. Take a risk. Grow some balls. We're not friends if you want to sleep with me, so don't disguise your true intentions in casual discourse and bullshit banter.

But what of the root of this problem? Was your game so fault at whatever club you were at that you expect me to be your consolation prize? No. You want me to hop on a train and drag my (drunk) ass to you for some misguided expression of companionship? No. If you want to see me, you make a plan with me. It's that simple. If you're too damn cheap to even suggest a woo and, instead, think I should suck your coke-cock and peace out by brunch-time, then we'd probably never work in the first place. And I really hope I can get a collective Amen! from all my self-respecting sisters. Regardless.

Like many other young feminists trapped between the awesome theory of autonomy and the boring actuality of desire, I pretend to be so transgressive. It's (mostly) a lie. There. I said it. Exalted sigh of relief. Here goes more. After a handful (and counting?) of one night stands, it stops being fun -- not because you don't like sex nor because you think it should be a grand gesture of meaning, but because you've begun digging yourself a little more than all these jerks do. And maybe they're not jerks. Maybe they're just sad and lonely and aching for a Sunday Times reading-in-bed buddy. (Don't believe them if they tell you that's what they want. Actions v. words, my lady friends, actions v. words. But that's another story.)

Here's my new bottom (pun to your heart's desire) line: I will never ever ever ever ever meet you post-middle-of-the-night-unsolicited-text. Period. Don't bother. Seriously. You want it? Work for it. Hard. Nothing's going to happen without some sort of sun-still-shining display. This may be old-fashioned and romantic, but, like I said, Do Unto Others. And that's that. End of story.

Lost In (A Lack Of) Translation

2011-01-13T14:32:00.000-05:00

Goody-two-shoes clacking, I was the president of the French Honors Society in high school. As such, I had to give many a speech in french and, thus, perfected the accent down to the phlegmy r and oft-silent s. Forever the grammar geek, I could conjugate the shit out of verbs and spell even the most nuanced of nouns. I took years of advanced French classes in college and prided myself on my cocked-head translations of the foreign tongue. I loved the language, the fashion, the culture -- all of it. If ever the political climate of the States exceeded my patience, I'd become an ex-pat in Paris. Hands down. Flag raised. Citizenship denounced. However, when I finally went to France -- some six-plus years post-university -- I found myself forgetful and floundering in the embrace of a dialect I used to know so well.

Upon landing at Charles de Gaulle, I thought I had it in the bag. Numbers and adjectives I had since forgotten started flooding my mind as I walked, luggage-in-tow, through the baggage claim. I remembered the most pedestrian of questions and was excited to actually speak to someone other than myself. Then something happened. As I purchased a pack of cigarettes, I couldn't recall a single french word; my brain went blank and I simply pointed and spoke in English. As quickly as my memory caught up to the time zone, it just as quickly faded from verbalization, leaving me to perpetuate the Asshole American stereotype.

I practiced my french with the cabby on the way to my friends' place. He said I spoke quite well and that I'd pick up the rest in a jiffy. He was terribly wrong. By the time I tossed him too many euros and walked up the three flights of stairs to my friends' apartment, I might as well never have uttered a single french phrase. My friends had been living in Paris for over a year and, consequently, I left the ordering and the talking and the interpreting to them. I was mute with anxiety, fearing the clumsy mutilation of my faulty accent and limited vocab. Considering my dad's girlfriend is from France and that I lived with a french man for two years, there is no excuse for my silence. But there it was, miming its way through the streets of Paris.

Under the guise of really good food and a bounty of wine, I accompanied a new friend to a dinner party on my last night. I knew not everyone spoke english, but I didn't mind. I had been in France long enough to again regain an understanding of, if not the language, then at least the rhythm of said language. I figured this was my time to shine. If not now, then when? So I prepared my tongue with a bounty of je m'appelles and was ready to prove my competence. Buried yet again under the weight of fear -- of what? -- I couldn't talk. I buckled. I failed. I clutched to my wine glass and followed my friend around, nodding and smiling accordingly, all the while typifying the quiet girl cliche that I loathe.

I'm normally really good at the gab. Put me in a room full of strangers and, no matter my dormant shyness, I will woo them within an inch of their lives. Maybe the initial charm will fade, but, still, I run against the wind of my apathy and self-consciousness. I'm quick to converse, if not for my want of connection, then at least to not be the mute idiot staring off into space and reading book binds. I broach topics and ask questions, knowing full well that everyone loves to talk about themselves more than anything else. Sure, this may be a front, but it's gotten my this far thus far (how far?). After my friend and I kissed the cheeks of the dinner party's hosts goodnight and walked back into the snow, I couldn't stop wondering about the impression I left. I know what it's like to have silent-girl-guests at dinner parties. No matter how much they try to project a passive intelligence and voyeuristic observation or, simply, hungover sleepiness, they still aways seem boring and disengaged. And, for the first time in my life, such was I. Quelle horreur.

I'm interested in senses. Blindness has been an obsession of mine for a few years, specifically the way sexuality is shaped without sight. We place so much importance on the visual and, from that initial point of contact, deduce a whole host of desirous implications. But what of speech? Where would we be without the tete-a-tete? Sight might serve as a diving board for other things, but nothing is realized without an interesting back-and-forth. Everyone knows the importance of communication in relationships, be them work-realted or romantic or otherwise. Nothing meaningful spawns without a foundation of verbal connection. More than an ideal physique or facial symmetry, who we are is shaped by what we say. It is this fodder that forms the everlasting second impression, one step beyond the performative bore of beauty.

Perhaps this illustrates how I much (too much!) I rely on discourse. Instead of trusting my own accidental idioms and quirks, I force linguistic competency out of fear of becoming just another girl packing looks as opposed to substance. Regardless. I'm not Cher and there's no time I can turn back, but, next time, I will at least try my hand at foreign expression. If not for pontification's sake, then at least out of reverence for the attempt.

Backing Off The Front

2011-01-12T17:49:00.000-05:00

No matter how much we try to veil it, us women put so much effort in the going out. There's the shower and the makeup and the hairdo. There's the changing of clothes and wearing of belts and choosing of shoes. There's the where we'll go and who we'll meet and what we'll drink. It's very calculated. And rarely spontaneous. We want to be perceived in a certain light so others will regard us in our most ideal state. This is, at best, a fraud. While locked in our homes on a Tuesday evening, we're lucky if our pajama pants match our ex-boyfriend's stretched-out spaghetti-stained shirt. We've made progress if we're wearing our contacts instead our finger-smudged glasses. We're really going somewhere if our hair isn't piled on top of our heads like Pebbles. Trust me dudes, more often than not, it's a bad scene. I've decided to thwart, at least temporarily, this behavior, both the latter and its former counterpart.

As a result of working from home, I've realized I'm much more productive if I transition from popcorn-eating casual to laptop-writing attire. The shift isn't grand; I'm not wearing fancy shoes or ass-clinging Spanx, but I'm a making an effort, albeit subtle. I don't need to change my clothes to walk downstairs and buy brown rice from the sushi restaurant across the street after I burned my home-cooked attempt. I don't have to yell "hold on" and scurry for a shirt when the UPS man knocks on my door in the middle of the afternoon. I don't have to make an excuse as to why I can't meet my friend for coffee in fifteen minutes. I'm ready. Always ready.

While this may seem counter-intuitive to my initial diatribe, it isn't. Allow an example to illustrate my point. Last night was supposed to be mellow. I rushed home after yoga to meet a friend at my place. I quickly changed from my gross leggings to a stupid dress without a moment's pause. I didn't shower. I started cooking. After a bottle of wine and an amazing roast chicken, my friend and I felt antsy for socialization. It was really snowy and, we figured, what better way to experience the weather than with others? The cold is a great equalizer: if you make too much of an outfit effort when the degrees dip, you look silly. So. I did nothing. No shower, no mascara, nothing. I put on a coat and a scarf and was ready to go.

The root of the display is often male attention. Whether coupled or not, we think we'll be more desirable if we disguise ourselves accordingly. This is never the case. When we look our "best" we're too aware of our perceived hotness and the attention we should be garnishing that it's difficult to relax. So we perch and pose and wait, barely engaging with anyone beyond our reflection. Last night was different. I had nothing to show besides myself and, as a result, the admiration happened ten-fold. It was me out there, not the "beautiful" version, but the real rendition. Freckles and all.

A male friend once said that women have it better. While men are locked in their looks with very little room for improvement, women can utilize secret weapons in the fight against flaws: if we're particularly tired, we put on concealer; if we're looking fat, we wear a shapeless dress; if we're feeling saucy, we stain our lips red. If a dude ever participated in these ceremonies, he'd be viewed as affected and ridiculous, not to mention a drag queen and cross dresser. All of these tools, however, project an artifice while masking the things -- physically and otherwise -- causing our particular undoings. I find this unfortunate. It is far greater entering the social sphere without the things to which we cling. And, after all, we never really look that different, no matter the magic wands we use or the push up bras we wear.

Don't get me wrong, dressing up and looking pretty is fun. Really fun. But, more often than not, that fun is married to obligation and insecurity as opposed to actually really wanting to wear a certain pair of shoes or a particularly flattering skirt. In order to better understand the root of our display, we should practice genuine moderation. Get decked out and dolled up sometimes. Stain your eyes smokey and part your hair sideways because the mood strikes you, not because you're afraid of yourself sans camouflage. It's the messy hair and chipped nails that make us far more fascinating than synthetic perfection. Living exteriorly unhinged forces us to explore ourselves with an authentic expression, which is always the goal in the first cloaked place. Plus, everyone looks better naked and sweaty and with a sleepy morning face.

(Lions And Tigers And) Bears (Oh My!)

2011-01-11T20:40:00.000-05:00

I sleep with a teddy bear. There. I said it. Moving on. Or not. It's scruffy and cuddly and looks well-worn. Every time people see it (Which is, mind you, only when I'm surprised by a knock at the door or a date with a boy. I normally have enough foresight to hide it before any planned arrivals.), they assume I've had it since I was a baby. Not true. I got it, if I recall correctly, when I was twelve, much too old to cling to anything stuffed and inanimate. Nonetheless.

While I really only wear dresses and quite love the highest of heels, I don't fancy myself a girly-girl and I especially don't fancy myself as the type of woman clinging to lollipop-sucking, knee-high wearing constructs of childhood. I don't speak in baby voices nor do I skip-to-my-loo. I like sleeping alone and am not afraid of the dark. I don't need to be tucked in and I can take care of myself in my most decrepit hour. I'm serious, rational and (dare I say it?) smart. But, still, there it is. Every night. The manifestation of cozy rocking me to sleep with its malleability. I like the way it feels in my arms. I would clutch a pillow if wasn't for its bulk. I would hold my own chest if it wasn't for the awkward placement of my arms and the cramp in my shoulder come morning. There is nothing more soothing than my bear.

I used to live with a man much older than me. Every night, after I brushed my teeth and turned off the lights, I'd sneak into the hutch next to the bed and dig out my bear. I didn't want him to see it or know I needed it. I didn't want to perpetuate our age difference with my crutch. I used to live with another man much closer in age. We had the kind of relationship where nothing was off limits. He knew about the bear and, instead of reducing me to this or that stereotype, saw the virtue of its comfort. He became a convert and started sleeping with the bear of his youth. I'm sure we looked ridiculous: two intertwined adults snuggling with stuffed animals. But we didn't care. We didn't have a mirror over our bed or a camera recording our rest. This was intimacy actualized, pure and unabashed.

I used to travel with my teddy bear. No matter the length of a stay or the origin of destination, I made room in my suitcase. I couldn't rely on hotel bedding or my sleep schedule. This often presented packing challenges and concealment attempts, but oh well. I knew I'd rest better if I had my homey companion. I've since ceased this behavior, not for embarrassment's sake, but for minimalism's cause. I also no longer vacation with blow dryers or toiletries.

My friend says I shove the bear into the nook of my life so to not reveal a dormant, ever-present vulnerability. I think she's right. I have a reoccurring nightmare that scares me awake. I could be anywhere -- a restaurant, the airport, a bar -- when I realize -- oh shit -- I have my bear with me. I don't have a piece of luggage or purse large enough in which to shove it. I'm stuck holding it, exposing the very essence of my softness. This is analogous to the teeth-falling-out dream, revealing a part of oneself kept hidden from the rest of the world. We all have secrets and shames; I suppose mine is just a little cuter than most, making it much worse than most.

I pretend to be tough but, really, I'm a personification of contradiction. I walk down the street in the middle of the night wearing a Don't Fuck With Me scowl, all the while gripping the spout of my mace. When I meet a man of interest, I'm dismissive and scoff at his motives, reducing him to just another dude who wants in my pants (which is probably the case). I brush off heartbreak with indifference, rejection with confidence, headaches with aspirin. I'm calloused and calculated, strong and steady, apathetic and unaffected, and an absolute liar.

No longer will I stifle these parts of myself. Vulnerability doesn't have to be scary. Quite the opposite. Vulnerability is refreshing. Living in a bubble of false pretense only muddies the water of true intention. Who cares if I like to hug a bear? It doesn't make me any less of anything. Perhaps, rather, it makes me a little more of something else. This is not to say I'm going to walk the world with my heart on my sleeve and a bear in my arms. I'm just no longer interested in concealment, no matter the judgement that surrounds my supposed flaws.

And, yes, the bear has a name, but I'd never reveal as much. Some things are sacred. And utterly, utterly ridiculous.

Feeding The Bullshit Meter

2011-01-10T16:26:00.000-05:00

I love speaking in subtext. The space between what-is-said and what-is-intended is the crux of flirtation, the building blocks of romance, the beginnings of a smile. It is where we learn, sans exploitation, what others are thinking and feeling about us. Every little suggestion of something else hints at the very loaded gun of desire. Whether we choose to point its rifling at another heart or our own is simply a matter of trigger.

With that, there's also something very creepy about the candid. I take that back. The candid in and of itself isn't creepy, it's awesome, but, rather, the reaction of said expression can be very disturbing. Take this blog for instance. I am nothing if not candid in my diatribes, so much so that a friend recently said when he reads my posts, he feels scrupulous about my (in)discretions. Then he reminded himself that I am an autonomous being and can say anything I so choose. Plus, he continued, it is more blush-enducing for him to read my thoughts because he knows the root of my revelings while other passive people do not. However, I've recently learned, they can easily figure it out: the reveling, that is, not the roots.

As if it isn't obvious, I've spoken to specific people in this blog. Whether a former lover or pissed off friend, I've played with the passive aggressive to quell any sense of wrongdoing and whatnot. From craving the grand gesture to (over)using certain polysyllabics, I've made obvious my personal struggles and romantic longings. Call it naivety or insecurity, but I didn't think this could ever shape itself as fodder.

There is always the possibility of consumption and manipulation when you're blunt in the public realm. You reveal yourself with such a candor that you momentarily forget someone else could be taking notes and shaping themselves in a way that you will find endlessly appealing. This is another form of veiled narcissism. Before you know it, you're falling in love with yourself, oblivious that the pickup lines and amorous leanings of your wooer are actually an extension of your own predilections. When you want something bad enough, you're a little deception-blind and, as an unfortunate result, are quick to call something Sincere when it's really something else entirely. Plus, the person who you hope decodes your outbursts never does, it's always someone else entirely. And that's how you're fooled. And there's the rub.

Hiding behind a veneer, no matter how beautifully prudent the specific mask may be, is boring. And inauthentic. You gotta say what you wanna say, how you wanna say it, no matter if people are gonna take it and shape it to their own dick-wagging benefit. These are the opportunities to polish the lenses of your x-ray glasses and replace the swoon with a healthy dose of skepticism. Maybe it doesn't have to be a bad thing, this artifice. Maybe after you've honed the skills of bullshit detection, you can see things a little more clearly. Maybe, instead of relying on fun-house mirrors so perfectly distorted, you can take this time to fall a little more in love with the nuances of yourself. That is, after all, what you were doing in the first performative place. That is, after all, the launching pad of everything else.

Or maybe I'm wrong. Maybe we should all just learn to shut the fuck up. In light of some recently developments, this seems to be the consensus.

Revelation Proclamation (Or, Sometimes It's Smart To Do Something Stupid)

2011-01-09T07:56:00.001-05:00

It never happen in real life, only in bad scripted shows where The End is spelled out by the first commercial break. It's the kind of thing that follows stumbly half-sentences of Wouldn't it be weird if and Maybe tonight we'll, but you stop yourself because you know it sounds silly and you're prone to your fair share of silly. So you do what you do: play music and take a shower; dance in your living room and dry your hair; lip sync for your mirror and choose an outfit. Then you walk to the bar around the corner, bundled in your favorite scarf and the gloves without the finger-paws. You decide that this night will be fun no matter what. Fun can be simple and blackened catfish sandwich delicious. Fun doesn't have to shape itself in the destructive.

It's early and the bar is crowded. You're in the middle of the main room holding a heavy coat. You scan your surroundings with a single person's fervor, sure of the beer-clenched prospects in your periphery. After a bout of obsessive compulsive behavior that made a loved one tell you that you need therapy (literally), you feel better. You feel like yourself again. You feel like you have nothing to prove. Until you do. And then you do.

You look toward the bar and pause, whispering to your friend, Is that...?, knowing full well the question is unfounded because you've imagined that very person in every nook of the city, only to be relieved by the tricks your mind plays on your eyes. No way, you say. You've seen mirages before. So you stifle your expression and cock your head. And then you realize, just when you think your life couldn't get anymore ridiculous, it does. It can always get more ridiculous.

This is your turf, this bar, this is your borough. Nothing was ever so serious to be divided by districts but, if it was, you would have won. Hands down. Deliberation suspended. On to the next trial. But it was never discussed, this bar, this drawing of lines in snow. So there you go. And there he is. With someone else. And you were still, not grieving, but bruised from a blow so shocking you didn't even think to duck.

Everything starts spinning. Your hands start shaking. They start kissing. The assaults you imagined -- physical and otherwise -- have no chance to weave themselves into actualization. You have to think on the spot. You've never been good at that. There are two choices: the highroad or the u-turn. You choose the latter because, at the very least, it's another story in your already loaded arsenal. You walk to the only empty space at the bar, right next to him. You lean against leather and flirt with the bartender. You order. You wait. You look in every direction except to your left where he's cowering behind his hat. You feel a tap on your shoulder. You turn your head in a slow-motion response. Hi, he says. You nod. I'm sorry, he mouths. You nod. There's nothing left to say. At the moment. This was the closure you wanted. The end. You strut away, take off your sweater and put your hand on your hips. As if posing was a response. As if half-naked was the cure. As if a leg lean could change anything.

Three drinks later and you're propped against a wall. Your focus is fuzzy. Your balance is non-existent. He scurries past you like a dime-a-dozen subway rat. You hand your beer to the nearest stranger and follow him outside. Did you really think it'd be that easy, you say. No, he says. You ask him her name. He tells you her name. You ask him why. He doesn't tell you why. Was there a shift, you say. Yes, he says. When was it, you say. I can't tell you, he says, I don't want to hurt your feelings. You're masking chauvinism in chivalry, you say. And you finally see for what he is. And you finally know he's full of shit. And you finally don't care. There is no fatal flaw other than your naivety. With a Fuck You and a smile, you walk away, feeling only slightly like an idiot for falling for an imbecile.

V(oyeuristic) You (dot com)

2011-01-08T17:39:00.000-05:00

Here's a funny story. It's early the morning. I'm wearing sleep in my eyes and a beanie on my head. I haven't brushed my teeth or made my first cup of coffee. But I have work to do. I start digging in the ditch of Gmail, searching for some ancient email, when I see a link under the chat icon of someone I used to date. I've seen and clicked on such links before, often leading me to a self-promoted website or whatever. No big deal. So I click and wait. Instant distraction. Something resembling Vimeo begins to load. I read what's on the page, passive voyeur that I am, and then, just like that, my ex's face appears. He's typing at work. He's looking into his computer. He's staring right at me. Unaware of the repercussions of this accidental connection, I duck for cover and disconnect, hoping that my five second scan will go, if not unnoticed, then at least brief and fleeting (like the relationship?). I look in the mirror and analyze my reflection. Not good. I open Photo Booth to see the real time representation of my face. Bad angle. Shitfuckpiss. I spend the rest of the day curling my lip over curiosity; it might not have killed the cat, but it definitely made her hair stand on its end.

So then I do what any nutso would do: I ask my friend to join this site, this vyou.com. Even though she hates engaging in the internet realm, she agrees. She's a trooper. After a glass of wine and a shower, I finally find the courage (the makeup?) to go on the website again. I see other people starting at their screens, their image looping as they wait for someone to ask an asinine question. Still not convinced that these strangers don't see me, I start waving like an asshole to my laptop. No one waves back. I'm relieved. Then I notice that the little green light next to my computer's camera isn't lit. I'm in the clear. I log back on to Gchat and, with more caution ever needed for the internet, click the link again. I see my ex's face again. This time, though, I stare and browse and watch, feeling slightly sick and dirty, as if peeping through a roommate's keyhole while they have bad sex with their boyfriend.

VYou (dot com) "brings conversational video to the world of online Q&A," allowing its users (and perusers) to ask questions to random people. You can pose a myriad of inquiries, ranging from the romantic to the professional. In my pithy exploration, these questions are pretty stupid and insignificant; however, it allows the answerer to pucker their expression perfectly as they pontificate about the pedestrian, feeding their ego little morsels of importance and relevance. Is this really necessary? Doesn't the internet already provide enough opportunities to dwell in our inherent voyeuristic tendencies?

Wasting time is easy. It isn't a skill anyone needs to hone. We're all pros. How many times have you found yourself accidentally lost in someone's Flickr photo album until, after an hour or so, you think, what the F am I doing with my day? There are so many thought-provoking and news-based websites, but they get boring; you can only read a handful of NY Times articles before you start seeing pixels and line breaks. Then, in a desperate attempt for connection, you're off to Foursquare or Facebook, having emoticon-laced conversations with people you'd never ask to dinner.

Even at our most ideal selves, we're all a little nosy and can easily engage in the gaze. Locked in the movie theater of our lives, there is a sense of ease: no one sees us in our private realm and, as such, we can project any image we choose. Perhaps this is the allure of internet dating. And Chatroulette. And instant messaging. And VYou? As long as we're not totally satiated in the flesh of things, we can always stumble upon some site to activate our Super Secret Spy mentality. This is tricky post-relationship and VYou definitely takes the surveillance cake of awfulness. It's difficult enough to get over someone when we can analyze their Twitter feeds and Facebook statuses and blog postings, but now that we can actually see that someone talking in "person" how are we ever supposed to forget? It's like listening to a single sad song on repeat: you know it doesn't help the cause, but you can't stop -- it feels so destructively good at the moment. Are we really supposed to have enough self-control to not, ya know, check up on people? That seems like a big stretch, even for the most restrained and rational. Or maybe that's just me. It could definitely just be me.

With that, let us hope VYou doesn't tell its members who clicks on their profiles. And how often. There has to be compassion somewhere in cyberspace.

Snowy Brooklyn Morning

2011-01-07T11:21:00.000-05:00

Every morning while still groggy with sleep and residual dreams, the first thing I do is open my blinds. Because of the precarious way in which I installed said blinds, this often leads to a crashing-down instead of a pulling-up. Nothing says "good morning asshole" as much as a tangle of string and a bombardment of vertical fabric falling on your head. Today, though, the ritual was much softer. Upon exposing the scene out of my window, I was overwhelmed by the downpour of snow. My fire escape was covered; the restaurant below was blanketed; the cars across the street were buried. It was so gentle and quiet, as if moving in slow motion: an unexpected surprise on an otherwise sedate sunrise.

There's no aural indiction of snow. It's sneaky, this atmospheric element. We rely on forecast and foresight to predict its arrival. We feel the cold air on our cheeks and see the swelling of clouds anticipating a burst. And then it does. And then it comes. And then it's silent.

I grew up in Florida and, as such, am all too familiar with the threat of thunder and the clank of rain. You tuck yourself in under the covers -- the burden of your body slowly subsiding into the mattress -- and fall asleep. Then, without warning, you're thwarted from REM by the bombardment of a storm. The wind wails and the thunder cracks and the rain pours as you throw a pillow on your head and begin the fitful dance of the toss and the turn. It's fruitless. The sound of the storm is threatening, like a train off its tracks, but it happens so frequently that you've learned to deal with its intrusion. It's like the loud girl at the party. You're trying to have an intimate conversation with an old friend and all you hear is the performance of her cackle. You trip over syllables and small talk because her voice takes precedence over everything else in the room. You move to another room, but you still hear her residual candor. You want to tell her to shut up, but you don't. It's fruitless. She has something to prove in the pound of her voice; nothing you could ever say would ever change that.

Perhaps in reverence of my childhood geography, I more often than not behave like rain. With clatter and commotion, I'm quick to project a point or make a romantic misstep under the guise of speaking my truth. I need to be noticed, afraid that if I'm silent or subtle I'll get lost in the mix of life. I speak with a broken record redundancy, hoping to be heard the third time around. I'm relentless and anxious, constantly trying to prove myself against my perceived inadequacies. I'm sure it gets annoying. Like rain. I'm sure people just want to fall back asleep.

Though more visually pertinent with its whiteness and whatnot, snow storms are sophisticated. They're the strong, silent types with whom you want to engage. Even with (or because of?) its flurry and chill, the snow serves as an analogy of what I want to be. It is present and relevant and makes an impression, but it doesn't force its agenda. It may momentarily shock you and you may have to alter your course, but, still, it never leaves you soaked. Or irate. As palpably as its powder clings to your clothes and sticks to your hair, it just as soon melts away without you having to shake it off like a post-bath dog. It makes its mark on the sidewalk and in the trees. You might step in its slush or curse at its cause, but you nonetheless remember the delicate moment of impact. It's too calm for a grudge, too beautiful for a scowl. It is the weather-equivalent of subdued strength which is, after all, the best kind to have.

The Ex Factor

2011-01-06T00:25:00.000-05:00

There's always a moment. You don't notice it at the time. You're thinking about something else, like the awkward brushing of thighs against you and your crush. Maybe you're wondering if your pork pie hat looks stupid (probably does). Or if you have a piece of parsley in your teeth (probably don't). Or what you're going to say next in this room full of strangers. You couldn't care less what they think about you; there is, after all, only one person in the room you really really really want to impress. So, instead of listening, you're busy calculating.

Let's be specific, shall we? Say you're at some mediocre writer's apartment. You're supposed to feel a pang of misplaced jealousy for her success (you do, of course, you're human, but, really, you forgive it because she's polite and unattractive and offers you wine out of a glass). The conversation is thick with pretense. Everyone is really smart and quick to say how much they hate this or that construct, this or that magazine, even though, secretly, if they could exist within those paradigms, they'd be ecstatic for, at least, a hiccup's worth of time.

They're talking about nothing, but they're nice to you. Really nice. They like you. You fill in silences with polysyllabics so to not reveal your true intention of wanting to be alone with the one who's making your body quiver with potential. You could never say as much in public. There are social requisites; everything has to be guarded and cautious. So, instead, you let the verbal diarrhea go on for as long as it has to.

Then the moment of twenty-twenty hindsight truth occurs. You're still talking about nothing -- bla bla big words bla bla -- and then the discourse gets sticky, but only slightly, like used tape sticky, not bubble gum sticky. Maybe someone brings up age. This tangent is innocent at first, so much so that you can't even recall its nucleus. Maybe you were discussing the year you graduated college or the first time you had sex. Who cares. Everyone reveals their age. You include yourself in this superficial chat (one step closer to intimacy than weather remarks). I'm twenty-eight, you say. You're proud of the decades and the wrinkles and the change of your body's shape. You're a woman. Roar. Then you notice, but don't obsess over, the exchanged eye contact and slight smile among the others in the room. You wonder about this, chalking it up to the lame fact that your crush's most recent heartbreak was young. Moving on. His friends probably told him to date a girl his age. Okay. Just by virtue of years, you have the upper hand. Until you don't. Until you realize, a month later, after a mutual swooning of epic proportions, that the knowing glances actually revealed that your particular someone-in-romantic-training isn't over their particular someone-of-zygot-age. And here, all along, you thought it was about you (narcissistic you). Get over yourself. It's never about you.

In all my years of self-involved blogging, I can't believe I never wrote about the ever-elusive, ever-present ex factor. No matter if she's homely and chubby or young and boring (or all of the above), you find yourself envying her for the one stupid thing that she has over you: the unresolved affection for the amazing idiot you're falling in love with. She's no one you'd ever notice -- not for malice, but for the way she easily disappears into a room -- but, still, like chipped paint on an expensive hotel wall, you notice her. She's not like you with your quick to laugh and quicker to pose persona. No. She's simple, or so you've deduced. Taken out of context, you might actually like her, if not for the amazing idiot who has won your projected desire. You probably have some things in common, if not only the amazing idiot who has won your projected desire. This is a competition you never thought you'd have. You're too old for this. You're genuinely not interested in this. You've dealt with this when you were twenty-one and nosy. At least, then, these exes were older and interesting. At least, then, your intimidation, though warped, was slightly warranted.

You approach love with caution after your first heartbreak. You start slowly, first by accepting that you're great (everyone's great). Then you allow yourself to believe when they say they're wrapped up in everything about you. They want to kiss you every second. They want to see you everyday. It feels so good, this falling, so you scoff at your cynicism and replace it with honesty. You begin removing every fence-panel surrounding your heart until you're exposed and vulnerable and ready. Really fucking ready. So are they. Until they're not. Until they've replaced pet names with surnames and dinner plans with work obligations. You didn't see it coming, not with this one: this one really had to work for your devotion, this one was different. And then the barrage. This person tells you they're not over their ex. Bingo, you think, you knew it. You remember the moment at the mediocre writer's apartment. You should have said something, but what? You want an explanation; you get a labyrinth. It's not you, they say, it's me. Gimme a break, you think, that's never the case. Until it is. And, sometimes, it really is.

I used to want to unravel my current love's old loves to understand the way they shaped trauma into triumph. If I could just decode their past tense then maybe we'd be skipping down a gold-plated path to future bliss. Not true. I, too, had been hurt once upon a time and I, too, had struggled with rebuilding myself, but I got over it and I got better. It's not perpetual, this affliction, it's a choice. You choose to either dwell or not. Why people so often choose the former is a total mystifying bummer. Until it's not, but who has the patience to wait for that?

(Too Much) Release

2011-01-05T11:05:00.000-05:00

The other night, after the great social equalizer of a bottle of wine, my friend revealed that she cries when climaxing. This only happens after masturbation. She said it first began a couple years ago, post traumatic breakup, and that, once the tears start, they don't stop. It's not stifled, this outbreak, it's a full-fledged sob session. I told her maybe she should buy stock in Kleenex because homegirl likes to come everyday (who doesn't?). To make matters worse (or better?), she recently experienced her first orgasm with someone else and, although she's addicted to the sex, it still hasn't quelled her private release. I asked if she's quick to cry in the rest of her life. No, she said, I tend to bottle up my emotions. Ding ding ding.

While the cause of this is simple in its deduction, I was nonetheless fascinated. We fight against ourselves so often. We don't want things to affect us and, as such, we pretend as if we're above feeling a whole spectrum of human emotions. Whether we're lonely or bored or have unrequited love for a whole host of people, eventually the damn thing will come to a head. And there's no better forum than orgasm to reveal true intention.

Bodies don't lie. While you may navigate through your day under the repetitive notion of I'm Fine, if something is going on with which you're not dealing, it'll be revealed in other ways. It's like staying up too late drinking every night. You think you're young and forgive yourself of your restlessness, but sooner or later you're going to break out in a rash or a hive or some dormant autoimmune disorder you didn't even know you had. This is your body telling you to refrain after you've convinced your mind otherwise for so long. You probably stop for a while -- for healing's sake -- then, before you know it, you're locked back again in the destructive behavior that got you there in the first place.

But what of how this affects orgasm specifically? Coming -- like crying -- is an intensely personal act. Whether you need your legs tight together or wide apart, your back arched or thighs clenched, your eyes closed or hair pulled, everyone has their own performance surrounding orgasms. It's intimate, this expression, and can take more than a minute before you feel comfortable letting someone else see you at your most vulnerable. Like crying. No one likes being the asshole with wet eyes. It's embarrassing and awkward, no matter the context. There's often an apology on the cryer's part, justifying their tears with an I-Normally-Never-Do-This. Or maybe you feel weird needing support from someone else. You tend to be a listener, a giver, a swallower, not a talker or a winer or whatever. You don't want to need anything so instead of allowing this outbreak, you stifle everything as long as you possibly can.

There needs to be patience when considering a lover's climax. It takes time and trust. You gotta feel like the person doing the work wants the job. You gotta shut off your brain and stop wondering if they're bored or antsy or grossed out. You gotta just feel and let it happen or, as we all know, it'll never happen. Add to the mix that most people are so anxious to make you come and your brain starts spiraling with thoughts of ex-girlfriends and inadequacies. No one wants the pressure of ceremony's conclusion.

Asking a lover Are you gonna come? Are you gonna come? just makes matters worse. You become the person staring at someone crying, waiting for an explanation or an end point. This only makes it more difficult for the afflicted party, as if their release is unjustified or ridiculous or, in the case of coming, laborious.

I wanted to tell my friend that I'm there for her, that I will wipe her hair from her face and dry her eyes if she ever needs to cry. But I didn't. She knows that. Some hurt runs deeper than we can control and some things have to be dealt with in ways that seem unsettling. Again (noticing a pattern?), this is similar to the big O. It's going to occur as it will and nothing anyone says or does changes that. Thus, we just have to let it ride. All of it. Crest out our shit until it finally breaks and we can revel in the bubbling-over of things happening on to surface of other things.

Smoke Screen

2011-01-04T09:07:00.000-05:00

My friend has a friend who met a dude. They hit it off famously with an instant connection lending itself to hackneyed expressions of love at first sight. There were no games, no concealment, no anxiety. They started dating. They fell in love. They shared a toothbrush holder. They used the pronoun "we." Bla bla bla. If this was a romantic comedy, he was two months away from a Sunday afternoon Central Park marriage proposal, once the snow had settled and girls could go tight-less. Until something shifted. It started so subtly -- like deep sex with barely a hip thrust -- that an outside observer wouldn't notice a thing -- save for closeness and a sweaty temple -- but my friend's friend felt something lurking. After a week or so of said shift, she called out her lover on his behavior. Yeah, he said, I don't think we should see each other anymore. Let's talk about this later, she said and went to work. Upon returning home, there wasn't a trace of her lover. His razor and face wash were gone. Books were returned. Drawers were cleared. Of course he'll contact me, she said to my friend, he can't just disappear. Of course he will, she said, there has to be an explanation. But there wasn't. My friend's friend never heard from the dude again. It was as if she had imagined the entire relationship.

While all break ups and endings are upsetting for a myriad of reasons, this particular happening is the most disturbing. It's the feeling of being utterly duped. It makes you doubt the entire root of romance, as if you were just living for projection. It makes you Nancy Drew for clues that you hyperbolized the entire relationship and, what's more, probably caused its very undoing. It's enough to drive the most rational mind insane. Someone else's cowardliness, however, should have nothing to do with your conjecture.

Unlike other smaller cities where you're bound to run to someone at the grocery store or on the street, New York is unique in its seclusion. You can easily meet someone out of the context of your life and, as quickly as you thought how-did-I-ever-exist-without-this-person, you can just as soon never see them again. This is quite convenient for the asshole-in-question (of whom we've probably all been at some point). With the potential for random encounters out of the equation, you can easily blow someone off without so much as a decency's pause. There are no consequences or clarifications. Removing someone else's feelings from your consciousness is as easy as deleting a contact from your iPhone. Accountability is for suckers.

This seems to be the curse of New York. With the construct of romance regularly perpetuated through a bombardment of cinematic and narrative representation, everyone thinks (at least for a fleeting moment) that they want to experience the city through -- and with -- the lens of a lover, especially in winter with its suggestions of hibernation and whatnot. This ailment isn't seasonally limited. Parks and museums and restaurants lend themselves to coupledom. This is a city where people are quick to fall in love and quicker to co-inhabit, if not for romance, then at least for rent stabilization.

Perhaps New York is better when navigated alone. When you experience the city sans significant other, you can consume its nuances with absolute precision and resolve. No one gets in your way -- professionally, romantically or otherwise. But what of all the vanished ones? Chalk up enough affairs and you're bound to be bombarded both with the blessed ones who left you and the bummed-out ones who you left. What was once an easy out becomes a mine field of fuck ups and lack of follow-throughs. Still, it doesn't mean we should stop trying. Hand-holding and pining and tripping over grating, unfortunately, feels really fucking good.

Boy Friends

2011-01-03T10:32:00.000-05:00

It more than likely begins as a romance. At some point, he was probably the person for whom you were pining during the lonely months of a year or three. Then there was a shift, probably after you slept with one another a handful of times and, though it was pretty great, there was always something lacking, whether it was a morning routine or a mouthful of secret kisses. He became the person you called when someone stood you up or you were drunk at a club. He never rescued you, per se, but he never denied your request for a hangout session. You stopped moaning with him and started watching reruns in bed, laughs exchanged and legs intertwined. It felt good, like replacing question marks with exclamation points. And everyone loves the emphatic. Even when you act like an asshole and say things like, when are we gonna realize we're soul mates, he never judges you. Instead he just shrugs it off as another quirk in an otherwise contained persona.

Or maybe you dated him for half a decade. In that time you had no desire to project emotional intimacy on anyone else. You were completely satiated in candid discourse and though you ultimately realized you viewed the world quite differently, he understood the roots of you more than any other human. Maybe he still does. Even though years apart have disentangled your experiences, the lingering essence of your twenty-two year old self still stands and he is the one person who finishes your sentence more quickly than you can. And he is still the only person (besides your parents) who you will always answer the phone for. Always.

Or perhaps he's gay, but not your "gay best friend" because that's reductive and you've never fancied yourself a hag, fag or otherwise. Maybe he has disappointed you more than any other man during your ten-year platonic love affair, but you never held a grudge (and you love a grudge). You remember those nights in college, chain smoking in your bedroom between the hours of stars and sun, where you both sighed over unrequited emotional longings. You had the conversations of the not-yet-jaded: full of potential and recently-learned polysyllabics. He's probably seen you at your very worst, riding shotgun in west Texas at two o'clock in the morning, clinging to your mace and crying because you just knew you would be murdered if the U-Haul caught a flat tire. Now it's become a funny story you tell at dinner parties and dive bars.

So you have this arsenal, created over a slow rise of time and tears, and you're so grateful. No matter if they're in Hawaii or hungover or have just moved in with their new girlfriend, if you need them, they're there (There There). They let you gush about new love and heartbreak and ask questions with a redundancy that is unbearably exhausting. And you're so grateful. They respond to you in jest and never tell you to chill the fuck out and get over yourself. Instead, they ask more questions and want more details.

You notice another pattern. These are the only three men with whom you've ever shared a bed after the subtext of romance has subsided. Maybe that's what makes these relationships so unique. While you have other men in your life you love with an unabashed fervor, you could never really cuddle with them. Intimacy is not easily feigned.

The union of women is ridiculously important. We all need girlfriends with whom to share clothes and Fuck Hims and middle of the night kale salads, but it's the relationship with boy friends that supplies a perspective to which you're oblivious. Just when you think you have all men figured out and you've clung to games and passive aggressive behavior, they wipe the smug right out of you. They don't give the same advice as your female friends, but they forgive you when you fuck up just the same.

I used to think that men and women couldn't be friends, that there was always a subtext of sex lurking in the shadows of conversations. This is simply not true. Maybe you have to share your naked bodies or a gender preference before the distinction is made, but it can absolutely be made. And, for that, I am so grateful. So ridiculously grateful.

Beat Me Up, Scotty

2011-01-02T20:17:00.000-05:00

Everyone loves it a little rough sometimes. A slap here, a choke there, maybe a clasp of hands above a head or an explicative that would otherwise solicit a middle finger response. Living in a world full of social expectations and polite conversations, masochism is a natural counter response. Desire shouldn't have implications outside of bedroom antics, but often it does.

I have a friend who works as a dominatrix. This progression was slowly realized. At first her Dom persona was simply a thing to explore a fetish in the private and personal realm, but then she accepted that she has a specific skill set on which she could capitalize. She was weary about this transition -- professionalizing a hobby often removes the joy out of the play -- but, ultimately, she realized her sadomasochistic work beats the hell out of a corporate nine-to-five. So, now, she tickles and whips and knocks on the teeth of men who get aroused by restraint. And don't they all.

I've never been the "nice girl". I'm the person who doesn't answer the phone when you call; cancels plans at the last minute; laces up her boots and leaves before you've brushed your teeth; leads you on with a fervor disguising itself as altruism. Post heartbreak (the most important thing to ever happen to anyone!), I've taken comfort in the callous. There's too much potential for doom that I don't even want to tempt its dark cloud. So, instead, I employ restraint with the best of them because, really, I'm terrified of my own emotional masochism.

Then, something changed. Like an outfit that isn't really your style, I decided to try truthfulness on for size. It fit like an overpriced, perfectly sculpted pair of gloves. I was weary of my frankness at first, learning (by trial-and-error) that it is far better to say less and act more than it is to actually tell someone how you really feel at a given moment. Until you can't. Then the unspoken-ness explodes like a shaken Coke can at the bottom of your purse. Nonetheless.

Instead of the roundabout ho hum of courting -- and all of its performative malaise -- I began (and please excuse the Oprah diction) living authentically and saying what I actually felt as opposed to second guessing my genuine expression. There is, after all, nothing to lose. If you say what you're thinking and someone recoils, then they probably weren't right for you in the first goddamn place. This is a slippery slope. What starts out as honesty can quickly snowball into saying too much too soon and ultimately leads to a bad bout of verbal vomit. Where's the damn Pepto when you need it?

Counter me as much as you like, but all men love The Bitch. The meaner and more distant you are, the more likely they are to pursue. Perhaps this stems from the hard on of the chase-and-conquer mentality. No one likes passive prey. It's boring and easy. People so often loathe themselves with such an unconscious intensity that, if you express interest, they're gonna wonder what's wrong with you. (I wouldn't want to belong to any club that would have me as a member...) How damn reductive.

This is a two-way street. We've all heard the cliche of nice guys finishing last (if only us girls could be so lucky to have someone finish last!). Still. That does not negate the statement's validity. But what of the nice girl? What of the girl who responds to a text in less than thirty minutes and tells a boy who persists with embarrassingly, unnerving passion that, yes, she too is interested in post-coital implications and birth control pills? This is, after all, what he wanted to hear the entire time, no? Yes. But when you allow yourself to swoon, you lose the intrigue of the chase and you're often reduced to Just Another Girl clinging to the idea of True Love. Gag me (Pretty please?).

People want someone to be mean to them. Unfortunately. They lift their own arms in a passive embrace, hoping that you'll be the one to symbolically (and literally!) tie them up with your asshole-ness. It's so terribly boring. I'd rather save my reduction for sweaty bedroom scenes. Anything else just exposes a lack of self-confidence and there's nothing less sexy than that.

With that, I'm not knocking on rough. Not. At. All. But it doesn't also have to be the rub.

Picturing Taking

2011-01-02T11:34:00.000-05:00

I've only ever made one new year's resolution that I've kept. Five years ago, my then-boyfriend and I decided we would never again drink Charles Shaw wine (or, Two Buck Chuck, if you're so inclined). The reasoning was simple: why consume shit when for, literally, another dollar or two you could be drinking something, if not divine, at least decent. Plus, I'd rather drink vinegar. I quite like vinegar.

Resolutions are ridiculous; they're boredom's favorite past time, a way to set a date that you don't really want to go on but aren't committed to the cancelation (perhaps nothing else will come up?). So you makes plans to actualize a superior version of yourself. It all goes swimmingly for, maybe, a month or so. Then you get swallowed again by your life and your ways and your idealized self starts doggy-paddling back to the familiar until you're no better than you were the day after Christmas. You'll try again in eleven months. You'll fail again in thirteen. And so the pattern continues until your crusty with experience and lack of follow through. Still, there is something romantic about the gesture.

This year I'm making not so much a resolution as a pact with myself: I want to take more pictures. Although the intention would suggest otherwise (I always carry a camera), I'm the worst photo-documentor ever, save for a slew of drunken self-portraits and out-of-focus friend shots. The root of this ailment is a little trickier. While organizing my photos (perfect airplane activity), I realized I had very few pictures from 2010. This is a great irony -- and greater tragedy -- considering I did and saw and participated in some of the most gluttonously grandiose things of my life. I had the adventures and dinners and dwellings of fairy tale proportions and have nothing to show for it besides a stale narrative of epic, script-like anecdotes.

2010 was like a shadow: you know, if the light hits just right, that it's there and it's real, but, as the sun changes its direction in the sky, you lose sight of the shadow's projected permanence. Then, as time keeps on its constructed path, memory becomes a little cloudy until, before you know it, it's downright foggy and not even your symbolic hazard lights could navigate you through the haze. But then you gotta dig a little deeper: why were you so unwilling to snap a shot in the first place?

I justify my anti-photo-taking tendencies as a way to be present and not self-reflective. After all, taking a picture of a really amazing scene is never as consumptively pleasing as simply enjoying said scene. However, that's also an excuse. Even if something isn't as beautiful when it's digitized and downloadable, it still serves as an impetus for recollection, which is more significant than clinging to the weather-worn hems of pixel-less nostalgia.

Pucker Up Sucker

2011-01-01T05:22:00.000-05:00

It starts out sober. He's the cutest person at the party and you have something to prove. You open a bottle of shitty champagne -- cork popping, bubbles spilling -- and start drinking out of a plastic cup. You find comfort in pretzels and conversations. You ask questions. You talk about anything: the holidays, their job, your outfit. You look over in his direction. A lot. You have a certain something with eye contact. Or so you've been told. So you use what you think is an astrological predilection. It's reciprocated. You get a little drunk. It feels good. You forget about everything else and are, briefly, suspended in an idea. And then the moment comes at midnight when everyone locks lips with the person they love. You watch the tv because there is no one for whom you like enough to bed backwards in a grand gesture. Then you're inches away and the air is thick with almost-contact and half-smiles. It's now or never, as they say, now or never. Might as well be now.

He asks you your name. You tell him. You know he'll forget in five minutes. You've already forgotten his name beyond its biblical implications. But the dance has nonetheless begun. You excuse yourself to the kitchen, knowing full well you can't really engage with only a sip left of booze and before you check your phone one more time to make sure it's silent and bored. It is. So you go back, but he's not there. Until he is. He tells you you're beautiful. A lot. It's the repetitive discourse of the drunk. You allow it because it validates everything and that's exactly what you need. At the moment. You know he's nothing that you'd ever really want in a happily-ever-after, but it doesn't matter. He tells you you're funny. You know that means he's blitzed (you're not that funny); you don't say as much.

You let him escort you to a corner where the geometry is harsh and defined and void of other people's stares. He's a broken record, but you don't mind the redundancy. At the moment. He says he wants to kiss you. You smile with your mouth. Your eyes are vacant and apathetic. He only sees your mouth. He leans in and you don't back up. You let him kiss you. He is, after all, the cutest person at the party. He has, after all, been licking his lips for the better half of the hour. He tastes sweet, like Lambrusco and grade school cologne. His tongue is awkward, but so is yours. Still, you manage. It's like riding a bike, this kissing thing. You just lead with a pedal-push of longing and he catches up. It feels good, like riding a bike with your hands off the handlebars. Time becomes a thing for watches and props, but not for you. You perform with the best of them: biting and moaning and arching as if for a grade. You've always been a straight A student, always been better at things when there's an attachment to the outcome. It's not bad, this kissing, not at all. However, it's not honest, this kissing, not at all. Still, you've been here before and you know what you're doing. Or so you've been told.

The narrative shifts. He asks you to go home with him. You know that he is post-relationship and starving. You have a condom in your purse (perpetually prepared), but you'd never reveal as much. You tell him, between spit-swap and sloppy syllables, that you want to go home alone. He doesn't hear you. He keeps on kissing you. It feels good.

You have nowhere to go, but you walk away. He follows. You've become his antidote. He brings you into the bathroom. He locks the door. This, you think, is the instant to prove yourself against yourself. You're always aware of every implication. You should do something to shock even you, give yourself a story to tell girlfriends over mimosas and poached eggs. But something holds you back. As always. You wonder if it's fidelity. Or apathy. Whatever it is, you excuse yourself from the room and request he pee in privacy. You have no interest in his penis. You'd only judge its size and be disappointed, no matter the specifics.

He seeks you out again. You kiss him again, not caring who's looking. Your eyes are open -- not out of passion, but out of curiosity. This is me kissing, you think, Gustav Klimt you. Everything is splattered and mosaic. You remember the college poster you had above your bed, before your taste knew better.

Your friend finds you and gives you the vocal equivalent to a pat on the back. You still have it, she says. But I don't want it, you say. He hovers in the doorway, waiting to see if you will indeed follow his lead. You don't. He leaves. You're relieved. He comes back. You pretend to be sleeping on the love seat making a mockery of your union's lack. He sits next to you. You say you're tired, but really you're just tired of kissing someone who means nothing. Still, you take solace in the fact that you proved something, no matter how superfluous and how much you've projected your desire for one thing onto the body of something else.

Kids At The Airport

2010-12-30T18:44:00.000-05:00

Preface: I apologize in advance for the insensitivity of this posting. I mean no offense to those who are pregnant or parents. Especially my friends. I love your kids. I mean it.

I'm sitting at the airport (new favorite hangout?) watching families straggle past me. It's the week between The Christian Holiday and The Drunkest Holiday; the halls are decked with residuals of weather-ravaged travelers. There are kids everywhere. Some kids are cute with cute parents. Most are ugly with uglier parents. Skinny kids. Fat kids. Sick kids. Asshole kids. Skip-to-my-loo kids. All the parents look exhausted, as if they heard too many times from their jerky teenage daughter that they don't dress cool enough or that they wanna be with their friends instead of their (kinda hot) dad. At this moment -- though I'm oft on the fence with this one -- I am so happy to be solo and sans genetic extension.

Everyone knows the glorious things you gain (weight?) when you take that final fuck into parenthood. One friend said that women regret never having kids, but women never regret having kids. Hmmm. Okay. Maybe. More often than not. Sure. But maybe, also, moms aren't allowed to admit disdain, especially in a society that views postpartum depression as constructed and taboo. Regardless. What of all the things you lose (beyond sleep and sanity)?

One of the biggest bummers: You can no longer live streamlined. Jackets and snacks and untied shoes stack on scruffy carry-ons embossed with the image of some stupid cartoon character smiling "Bon Voyage!" next to its waving arm and shit-eating grin. You become a receptacle for someone else's snotty kleenex and discarded bubble gum and piss-stained panties. Granted, these airport pack rats probably lived cluttered before zipping around the terminal with a Hello Kitty backpack and a retractable stroller, but still, it gets worse. I'm sure of it. It has to. It's the law of physics. Or, if not physics, than averages. Or accumulations. Yes. The law of accumulations.

Another resignation: The lack of spontaneity. Spontaneity becomes a thing of the past, something you remember doing (???) or having done to you (!!!) once upon a time when you were unhinged and imaginative. (Remember that one time we did that naughty thing? (God help me.)) From school holidays to kid-friendly retreats, everything has to be planned and packed and calculated and considered. The notion of "vacation" is a farce. Parents are really just shelling out too much money to act as 'round-the-clock entertainers for an ungrateful, impatient audience of half-wits.

Lest we forget the very thing every intelligent person has to repeat ad nauseam before procreating: My kid will be different. Sure it will. Of course it will. Maybe (especially) to you, but not to the passive observer in the airport. Everyone else sees tantrums and tears and bad jeans (pun absolutely intended) while you see beautiful curls and genetic hierarchies and ripe potential. But, of course, there is a difference. When your clued-in kid becomes an adult, it'll probably be someone you want to know and not some derelict ne'er-do-well dragging a fresh-outta-the-oven offspring around the airport like a reluctantly-leashed animal. (Full circle?)

Maybe I'm too cynical. As soon as there is a glimmer of a possibility of potential monogamy in the horizon of my life, I start rejecting the entire notion of procreating. Biologically speaking, it should work the other way around. I should want to spread it, as it were. But I don't. Not. At. All. I used to shudder at the notion of marriage, but now I guess I can kinda see the benefits and, as such, can slightly romanticize the idea of having a (never ending?) fuckable teammate, so to speak. Maybe I'm coming around. But kids. Oh man. Kids are something else entirely. Kids are, simply put, an extension of the ego. I mean, really, who is any to think they're so great that they need to bless the world with another smaller version of themselves? Get over yourself. And get out of my way. And here, all along, I thought I was the massive egoist.

The Airplane's Calm

2010-12-29T04:03:00.001-05:00

I'm terribly uptight. And controlling. And obsessive.

(Charmed?)

It's really unpleasant. So often (see also: always), I wish I could just go with the proverbial flow, relax a bit and let things take shape as they so choose without my rushing the unravel. Alas, I can't. I'm like the asshole dancing off-beat in the background of some stupid party: I'm trying, I'm really fucking trying, but the beat just eludes me. Period. It's the feeling of perpetually clenching your fists: sure, your knuckles will turn white, your nails will crack palm-skin and you'll eventually have to release your grasp, but, still, you go back to the grip. The muscle-memory is so damn reflexive and comfort is, after all, familiarity's favorite bedfellow.

The only time that I'm (temporarily) cured of my tyranny is on airplanes. As a passenger without the slightest clue of air traffic control (let alone how to flush the inflight toilet half of the time), I can finally relax. If the engine fails, what can I do? If a bird loses its direction and flaps straight into a propeller, what can I do? If the pilot decide to go all kamikaze and nosedive us, what can I do? If there is a bomb on board or some cartoon character terrorist sitting next to me, (again) what the fuck can I do? Absolutely nothing. And, for some reason, on airplanes, I accept this helplessness. Airplanes are the literal manifestation of my not being in control, of relinquishing responsibility to someone else (who I'm sure has clenched his/her fists once or twice) and it feels really damn good.

Maybe it's because everything else seems so small when closer to sky than land. You see shapes and geometry (The Big Picture) instead of nuances and projections.

Maybe for a minute (or a few oceans) you actually understand the irrelevance of everything going on down there. The world is a hum-drum exhale of accomplishments and disappointments all mashed up into (mostly) bad sex and missed phone calls, with the occasional amazing moment floating in with cloud-speed (make the weather what you will).

Maybe I'm actually genuinely only present in my life when on airplanes, no matter whether I'm sleeping or writing or reading or watching some god-awful movie for which I should be knighted for sticking around 'til the credits.

Or maybe not. Maybe I'm too altitude-drunk to have a meaningful experience that could ever extend beyond the smell of stale coffee and other people's farts. Regardless, for those few hours whilst inflight and in bliss, I can't help but smile at the beauty that is my surrender. Now the trick is to translate this insight to the rest of my life, once my ears have popped and I've hailed a cab.

(Any day now?)

Solidarity

2010-12-23T09:17:00.000-05:00

I'm trapped. In Paris. At Charles de Gaulle. By myself. Well.

I got to the airport without a hitch which, considering my anxiety-ridden morning of phone calls and meet ups with strangers who speak other languages, as well as the sleet on the street and my unwillingness to pay for a cab, is an accomplishment in and of itself. (Though now, as a result of my indulgent shopping spree I will be, for the next six months, exclusively wearing Parisian fashion circa Anais Nin, what with black knee-length lace-y things. But I digress. This isn't about my cavalier spending of money, all the while forgetting the euro-to-dollar ratio. No.)

As is often the case when I do anything "without a hitch," a hitch knocks the smug right out of me in a way my over calculated/obsessive compulsive brain couldn't consider. From the tricky trains to the thieving locals, friends told me to be sharp on the way from the RER to CdG. Okay, I thought, no problem. I look tough (unbathed?). I did my research. I can figure this out. I did, after all, navigate around New Jersey and that's way scarier than the outskirts of Paris for Chrissake (coincidentally, this was the last time I did something "without a hitch" which turned into me being lost on the Turnpike for over two hours). This will not go down like that time, I mantra-ed. And just like that, I arrived at the airport with hours (-ish) to spare. Awesome, I thought, I can get a baguette. Then I went to Air France's Terminal 2. Total chaos. Whatever, I thought, there's no way this mess will affect my measly flight from Paris to Geneva, I'll still have time for a baguette. Cut to almost twelve hours later and I'm still here.

Without a hitch.

(Very) long story short (because the specifics are not the purpose of this diatribe), all outgoing flights from Paris were canceled due to some minor snow flurries and dark clouds (quelle horreur!). Cut to me crying in lines (French men seem to fold in front of an American girl -- this one, at least -- with tears in her eyes), in bathroom stalls, in elevators after walking too many times down the same escalator (varietal crave). Cut to me getting drunk on bad Bordeaux at an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet (which actually had pretty good pistachio macaroons and chocolate mousse) at the airport's totally-booked Sheraton hotel. Cut to me stealing a hotel-guests-only bathroom key and sharing it with the equally-haggarded Spanish couple sitting next to me in this dank almost-bar with low ceilings and a security guard all too ready to say "excusez-moi, mademoiselle" if one so much as thinks about getting comfy and horizontal and (mon dieu!) closing one's eyes for a few minutes.

Pure class. But let's back track.

After the third hour or so in a line (to nowhere?) to solve absolutely nothing, people started getting edgy and hostile. Never wanting to be a sheep (or schlep!), I might have cut a few lines and zigzagged from the check-ins- to the drop-offs to the customer service lines. It was to no avail. Granted, talking about airport delays and whatnot is pretty close on the spectrum of No One Gives A Fuck as, say, having a cold. Everyone has had colds, but finding actual empathy as opposed to performed sympathy is, if not impossible, damn near close to it. How many times have you been annoyed by a sneezing coworker or a coughing friend or a sniffly middle-of-the-night lover? A lot. Yes. However, it is far worse a feat to be the coworker or friend or lover because of the awareness of the annoyance. And so it is with airport delays. But I digress (again). Back to the point. People were irritable. Everyone thinks that their specific circumstance warrants Special Attention. No one thinks that they'll be the ones who won't be able to purchase SNCF train tickets from the automated machines, especially after huffing and puffing and cursing while waiting in that very line of ten people for two hours. But, sometimes, after many weary hours in one foreign location with no solution -- only consolation -- we realize we're not that unique in our frustrations. And, just like that, the sneers are replaced by shrugs and half-smiles and camaraderie. It's lovely.

I'm never one to talk to strangers (my parents raised me well!) especially when they, more likely than not, speak French but, here, locked in my solitude and exhaustion, I'm craving connection with anyone else who has had One Hell Of A Day. The desire to bond over shared misery is alive in faces everywhere: the woman brushing her teeth in the paper-less bathroom; the classy-looking man wiping (what?) tears from his eyes while talking to his (what?) wife on the phone about (what?) some holiday plan he missed; the dozen-or-so people sneaking sleep, head tilted and neck stiff, from the Sheraton security guard; the fat man traveling with two dogs (he wins the You Have It Worse Than Us prize). It's just all so awful and we're just all so stuck. iPhones are plugged into every available electrical orifice. Wifi codes are passed out like jello shots at frat parties. TV cameras crowd the already-crowded corridors for a glimpse of this slightly post-appocolyptic setting.

And my back really really hurts.

There's a (false?) feeling of safety in these circumstances. The airport has seemingly been transformed into some distant cousin's humongous and tackily-decorated living room: you feel totally safe going into the kitchen for another eggnog without your wallet or leaving your cellphone on the dining room table when you pee. No one's going to take anything. Duh. Perhaps this is utterly naive and two sentences away from robbery. Nonetheless. I've left my shit all over this place and nothing's missing. We've got each other's backs (against whom?).

It's funny (or whatever) that it's in these moments when I look around and really feel at home and as one with my fellow humans. We all have places to be, people to love, things to do. But we can't. None of us. We're all chilling in purgatory without the fun of the sin that got us there in the first place. It's Us versus Them but the Us and the Them has changed. Or, rather, has been momentarily suspended. Normally all of these unknown people would be my Them's (so to speak). And I'd be theirs. Right now, however, we're in something together against all of our normal Us's. Family and friends are irrelevant if they're not here. They can't understand this awful afternoon. They're too busy putting babies to bed or reading the newspaper in their underwear or cooking a creative dinner out of random leftovers.

With that, I have about another hour-and-a-half until this weird half-bar that isn't serving closes and I have to find a new nook for the next five hours before getting on another train and then another and then another to finally get to Geneva to eventually get to Evian to ultimately feel bored and settled and satiated with a new thing about which to bitch. Actually, I'm not feeling confident about my morning's travels and maybe it's better that way; maybe I'll actually get there.

(Post Script: I did get there, after being delayed for another few hours on the train.)

'Tis The Season

2010-12-07T13:55:00.001-05:00

I'm going to France for the rest of the year and, as such, will be very disengaged from the internet (and this blog). See ya in 2011 for lots of self-involvement and whatnot.

(PS That is an actual photo of where I'll be half of the time.)

Agita

2010-11-29T11:39:00.000-05:00

For someone so egotistical (yes, it's true), I've always been surprised and cynical about actors who say they can't watch themselves on the big screen, dashing out of premieres post-red carpet sales pitch and pre-retouched closeup. It always seemed like something one says to sound humble and unaffected when, really, if one was actually so humble and unaffected, one would have probably chosen a different career in the first place. Isn't the icing or the climax or the point to, one day, after the gruel, finally see the finished project and sigh with relief (if not because said project was particularly good then because, at the very least, it's over)?

Years ago, I had a bout of the cringe-worthy while watching myself on a (totally amazing) television show. I remember being in a room full of friends celebrating my role on the final episode of what would turn out to be the final season. The second I saw the familiarity of my own face, I panicked: instant sweating, heart racing, cheeks reddening. To make matters worse, one friend kept pausing and rewinding a particularly intense scene, pinpointing the artifice even more (as if this disconnect wasn't obvious enough, what with me being in the room with a stomach full of termites (in these moments, there's no romantic butterflies)). A part of me wanted to be alone and incessantly study the minutiae of my two-bit performance while another, more invested-in-self-preservation part wanted to ostrich between couch cushions and red wine.

Now it happens more subtly, albeit more sinisterly. Every time I write something for the public realm (this blog notwithstanding, but on the bottom of insignificance's totem pole), I cannot read my writing. Even though I'm terribly critical of my polysyllabic pretense -- self-editing to a fault -- it's as if I'll read a week-old (month-old/day-old/hour-old) version of myself and shudder, "What the F was she thinking?! Idiot." Fortunately, this rarely happens; the weeks-younger version of Sarah is surprisingly similar to the current-day incarnation. Still, I can't stop. This phenomena isn't limited to "professional" writing; I also doubt the five-minute-former version of my text and email self. As a result, I rarely save typed conversations (especially those sent between the hours of eleven at night and three in the morning). I'm debilitated by my own pontification. When reviewing my published work, I cannot concentrate on anything other than the possible (mis)perceptions of my literary persona. It's exhausting. Just sitting here writing this causes me so much anxiety (yet another extension of the good ole ego) that I want to stop...

...mid sentence. (Maybe that's the exact cuteness I should avoid so as not to later curl my lip at myself, however foresight was never my forte -- even now, when drooling in the self-referential.)

So, I get it and I accept it and I hope to move past it. It's invasive to "see" any manifestations of yourself or your art in the public realm, ripe for scrutiny that you're an asshole if you acknowledge.

The Kaboom Of The Crush

2010-11-26T20:32:00.001-05:00

It happens so simply. You barely notice the person. They're not cute enough. (Wait. Maybe they're cute enough considering "cute" is such an abstract and subjective projection that normally means nothing beyond a reductive first impression otherwise avoided if you weren't such a particularly smug and self-important asshole.) Continuing. You barely notice the person. They're not cute enough (Already dissected that one.) or tall enough (Because you're such a height elitist and don't notice anyone under six-two. Let's be frank: this is your problem, not theirs.). Moving on. (Or, rather, starting again.) You barely notice the person. They're not cute enough (check?) or tall enough (check!) or they don't ignite that initial spark that sends you into a tizzy for weeks (days?) until the wave crests and breaks and you're utterly, unbearably bored and pretending that your phone is perpetually dead and unanswerable just to avoid two minutes of awkward conversation where you say (not text?) that you're just not that into it (them?).

Nonetheless.

It happens so simply. You don't mean to get the crush, that unscratchable itch in the middle of your back when you're alone with only a wire hanger and cortisone cream. But then you do. Maybe they're more considerate than is ever warranted in normal interactions, buying your drinks or whatnot. Who cares. Maybe they touch your leg more often than is necessary (it's never really necessary). Who knows. Whatever the case, you wake up and realize you're in. Deep. You talk about it to your friends in between funny faces and easy outs, hoping they tell you you're being -- as is often the case -- utterly ridiculous. But they don't. They get it. This time, anyway, they absolutely get it. They totally get it. This must be a setup. This has to be a setup. It never works out this easily, what with a history of slap-thigh intuition I-told-ya-so's.

Maybe you get drunk (Who doesn't? A glass of wine and you're ready to reveal it all!) and feast on your crush in the virtual realm until your laptop's battery dies and every nook and cranny of his internet persona is thoroughly digested. Then you realize (Shocker!), "Omigod. I'm right. This is perfect. This crush will actualize itself in a way that never ever happens." And you think, "Geez, I've felt this very way about so many people before that no one is going to believe me this time." And you're right, they won't. Justifiably so. You gotta earn that belief, not just spit it out because you think the idea of something could outweigh the substance of something else.

It's the unanswered questions that allow the crush to manifest. It's the possibility of something you've more than likely created in your own brain that could never actually fully sustain the weight of your imagination, no matter if you know that their sexual transgressions match your own. It's the feeling of possibility, untarnished by bad breath and specific quirks that will undoubtedly occur once monogamy happens again in your life. So. Wait. Crush it out. They're probably not as great as you think they are. But, (fuck!), what if they are? That's what keeps you coming back for more bad prose, no?

Yes.

The Evocative Nature of Smell

2010-11-22T11:00:00.000-05:00

Located two doors down from my Brooklyn-based yoga studio is the Mast Brothers Chocolate factory. The aroma is infectious: think coffee, but darker; vinegar, but bigger; chocolate, but richer. It smells better than anything I've ever tasted. Like any addict, I slow my stroll in front of the building, hoping for a quick fix before bending my body into the most unnatural of shapes. Then, post-sweat, I linger for another moment and peer in the window, envious of every apron-clad employee, as if their nostrils were, simply by association, more evolved than mine.

Of all the senses, smell is the most elusive and, as a result, easily undervalued because of its relative superfluity. Unlike sight or sound or, to a lesser degree, touch or taste, smell is a luxury: it is what we spray on our body to heighten appeal; it is the way we experience an amazing glass of wine; it is how we wade through the pool of potential lovers. Granted, there are other initial indicators that relate to desire; still, no matter how attractive we find a person's physique or the sound of their voice, it is ultimately their smell that tells us whether or not to proceed. The fight against pheromones is futile at best.

When fully engrossed in the scent of someone to whom you're particularly attracted, even stench can be reinterpreted. I remember, very specifically (and this might sound totally gross), having a debilitating crush on someone in college. One abnormally chilly night, he game me his coat and I slept with if for months. All of my friends were completely appalled by this ugly jacket, what with its rips and tears and stains; they made fun of my attachment on a daily basis. However, to me, its pungency was irresistibly intoxicating. This may have been an expression of displaced longing, yet it still speaks to the general power of pheromones.

There has been a lot of research on this very subject, suggesting that those whose pheromones excite us is a biological response to our genetic compatibility. Certain people smell particularly great as a way to articulate reproductive success. Of course this theory leaves out our LGBTQ brothers and sisters, but it is something to consider nonetheless.

Last night I dreamt in scent. While quite stimulating for a myriad of reasons, dreams are often void of smell. Sure, they are ripe with sensory-overload, but fragrance often gets the short end of the proverbial stick. I know no one cares about other people's dreams (unless, of course, they say you were in said dream), so I will try to keep this as general as possible. It was about a person I barely know, someone I've most certainly never been close enough to smell and to whom I question my attraction entirely (he does not embody the typical manifestation of lust), but my dream of our love affair was absolutely tied to how he smelled. I remember smelling his breath -- perhaps the most intimate and vulnerable of sensual experiences -- and being okay with its specificity. Every time we spoke, I could smell him; it wasn't unpleasant, but it was present. I wonder, though, if this something I was actually experiencing (doubtful) or if it was my projection onto a speculation. I'm sure it's the latter as we cannot literally smell in our subconscious. Or can we? I don't know. Probably not.

I pride myself on my sense of smell. I can detect nuances and details with the best of them. Whether delectable or not, I'm the first to notice any odor wafting around a room. Perhaps this is an extension of my obsessive compulsive tendencies. Similarly to a cluttered apartment, if a smell invades a room, I'm instantly aware and quick to decode its root. (I feel sorry for any future children trying to sneak a cigarette in my presence.)

You cannot, as it were, bottle fleeting fragrances. The artificial incarceration of perfumes and potpourris and candles, while pleasing, can never be as gratifying as the spontaneous smelling of something, no matter how floral or fart-y it may be. Scent is location- and person-specific. Everybody interprets it according to their own projections and preferences. It is the actualization of a moment and, as such, it is the most evocative of all the senses, capturing what is otherwise ephemeral and transitory. And, considering the charm of Mast Brothers Chocolate, it keeps me going back to yoga.

Some Thoughts On Procrastination

2010-11-19T09:44:00.001-05:00

Call it what you will -- dawdling, delaying, dilly dallying (my favorite) -- we all do it. In fact, I'm doing it right now. Well, actually, I was doing it two seconds ago, before I clicked onto this tab for this blog to write this post. I have -- depending on who's counting -- four writing jobs I must finish -- or want to start -- before the food-coma-unbuttoning of the holidays begins. What was I doing just a few short seconds ago, you ask (or not)? Menu planning. That's right. I was looking up a myriad of recipes for homemade cinnamon ice cream so I can tweak and toddle with my own interpretation because, geez, I couldn't simply blindly follow someone else's recipe or, gasp, buy something from the store. No. I need to make my own ice cream, wannabe kitchen virtuoso that I think I am. Next up: walnut tart recipes. Then I'll have to order five bottles of Lambrusco before the end of the day to guarantee that they'll arrive in time for Thursday's feast. Followed by, I'm sure, a search for clever Thanksgiving leftover recipes because, I mean, who has time to do that on Black Friday? Shouldn't I start a virtual bookmark tab entitled "Thanksgiving" so as to stuff all the waste of time in one defined space? Yep, I should or, rather, have. I made that tab two months ago.

I recently read a New Yorker article about procrastination and, as often is the case when dealing with such universal topics, had to chuckle out loud with its relatability:

A similar phenomenon is at work in an experiment run by a group including the economist George Loewenstein, in which people were asked to pick one movie to watch that night and one to watch at a later date. Not surprisingly, for the movie they wanted to watch immediately, people tended to pick lowbrow comedies and blockbusters, but when asked what movie they wanted to watch later they were more likely to pick serious, important films. The problem, of course, is that when the time comes to watch the serious movie, another frothy one will often seem more appealing. This is why Netflix queues are filled with movies that never get watched: our responsible selves put "Hotel Rwanda" and "The Seventh Seal" in our queues, but when the time comes we end up in front of a rerun of "The Hangover."

Truer words have never been spoken. Considering this specific example, the amount of times I've browsed and added movies to my Netflix queue, only to receive them in the mail and decide I'd rather watch reruns of 30 Rock is astounding. But, instead of thinking this is the Human Condition, I feel like a pretentious moron whose projections of herself are slightly (very?) unaligned to the actualities. Granted, I'd be far more interesting if I delve into the deep waters of the film canon but, really, most of the time, I just want to be momentarily entertained. And distracted.

Another example that I had to circle and underline and asterisk (Yes, I'm serious. I mark up magazines):

Lack of confidence, sometimes alternating with unrealistic dreams of heroic success, often leads to procrastination, and many studies suggest that procrastinators are self-handicappers: rather than risk failure, they prefer to create conditions that make success impossible, a reflex that of course creates a vicious cycle. [...] Procrastinators often succumb to this sort of perfectionism. Viewed this way, procrastination starts to look less like a question of mere ignorance than like a complex mixture of weakness, ambition, and inner conflict.

This is, yet again, another concept with which I (and, probably, you?) struggle. Though it may seem paradoxical and intangible, the fear of success is definitely a palpable anxiety. We know we have to complete a certain amount of tasks to advance our career objectives (be them what they may) and, instead of just doing the damn work and reaping the rewards sooner rather than never, we concoct a myriad of distractions that take us so far off course we forget our initial path. Then (fear of all fears), we'll look back on our lives and curse the invaluable time we wasted ("If I could turn back time..."). The root of this fear is even stickier. Do we really disrespect ourselves so much as to not live up to our full potential? Or are our desires a little simpler than we wish they were? Maybe we know in our guts that artistic expression is nothing more than masked narcissism and, at the end of the day, doesn't really amount to much. Maybe experience is more important than accomplishment. Or maybe the inevitable possibility of rejection is too debilitating for most people to handle. Thus, we organize our desk drawers and watch You Tube clips when we should be doing something that would deem us Meaningful and Relevant to future generations.

With that, I have to take my dog to the vet now; yet another task I've been postponing since September.

To read James Surowiecki's full New Yorker article on said subject: http://www.newyorker.com/arts/critics/books/2010/10/11/101011crbo_books_surowiecki

Otherwise Engaged

2010-11-18T16:29:00.000-05:00

When I was in my early twenties and heard the news of friends getting married, I scoffed and shrugged and raised a suspicious eyebrow. Of course, I also participated in the elation (I'm not a total jerk), but lurking just underneath my well wishes was my judgement. These friends were -- in my academia-encrusted opinion -- suffering from a consumeristic, heteronormative, constructed desire with marriage simply being the next Thing To Do in life's predetermined procession (say that five times fast). Didn't they know that -- at some point or another -- they would crave the reckless abandon in which I was living and embark on some office affair with a similarly-afflicted coworker? Didn't they know that -- after, if they were lucky, a few decades -- they'd call me crying over their sexless marriage and misbehaved kids, stuttering "What happened to my youth?" between sobs and a newly-acquired smoking habit? Didn't they question the root of their suburban and, quite frankly, pedestrian longings? Didn't they want to create art and travel the world and have spontaneous experiences and bullshit jobs? Didn't they have intellectual curiosity or, at least, if rigor wasn't their forte, sexual curiosity? Marriage, to me, symbolized the destruction of self-identity and who the hell doesn't want to dwell in oneself at twenty-two?

Now, though, it's happening more and more and my cynicism has faded -- albeit slightly. I'm no longer a spring chicken (fledging hen?) and marriage doesn't nearly come as such a shock. We are, after all, in our late twenties and that is time when the dust of youth is supposed to settle -- albeit slightly. My arsenal of single friends has given way to coupled or on-the-verge-of engagement or planning-their-wedding friends. Now, at twenty-eight, I'm the odd (wo)man out.

Maybe big city living is partly to blame. Most of my Florida peers have already crossed the threshold (what else is there to do?), but now, many of my LA- and NY-based friends are joining (or have joined) the club and it is no longer a shock. The time is ripe with house-buying and baby-making; gift registry and travel arrangements and bachelorette parties (oh my!) are on the horizon. It's particularly provoking when women who were once my best friends and partners-in-crime have replaced our scandal with something a little more sedated. Nothing stays static and, I suppose, this is yet another example of the evolution of friendship.

I'm drowning in contradiction. There's the intellectual side of me that wants to cling to frivolity and strut through the world with a gaggle of single girls, even though the subtext of our going-out and getting-ready is married (no pun intended) to looking pretty and finding a partner. Every future mate becomes a potential Ever After and, while that might be terrifying, it's something to consider nonetheless. Then there's the hyper-sentimental side of me that cries in romantic comedies and is the first to lip-quiver at a wedding, even if I barely know the bride and groom. It's that dichotomy that keeps me confused, making grandiose statements such as "I never want to get married" all the while secretly craving the romance that precludes bended-knee passion.

And then, lurking in the corners of theory, is my political self that wants to reject the entire institution of marriage. It is oppressive and exclusive and bigoted, not to mention the obvious fact that most marriages end in divorce. Everlasting monogamy seems kinda archaic and, well, pretty boring. However, it takes a particular breed of Scrooge not to indulge in someone else's projected romance. So, for the time being, I'm going to actively replace the This Will Never Work with I'm Genuinely Happy For You. Until, of course, I have reason to change my tune.

The Mistress Speaks

2010-11-17T10:48:00.000-05:00

So, I'm doing my morning Huffington Post browse when I see, on the front page, something to the effect of "Arquette's Mistress Speaks". Being, unfortunately, slightly susceptible to celebrity gossip (especially when it deals with debauched nightclub happenings), I click on the link and barely read the article about the "actress" (see also: cocktail waitress) with whom he had, as she describes, "quick and painless" sex. There is also a self-taken, arms-length-away photo of the two of them, eyes squinty from booze or banging (who can tell?). Let her fifteen minutes commence.

From Ashton Kutcher to Tony Parker to (duh) Tiger Woods, every single girl who has ever had an affair with any celebrity is now quick to cash in on the details, as if their copulation was novel or special. They expose embarrassing details and text messages and cellphone photos without hesitation, all the while unmasking the truth of their intentions.

I'm so sick of this vicarious fame. It is beyond pathetic -- even worse than the plethora of reality show stars popping up like pimples on a post-makeout chin. Granted, affairs are awful and the men who participate should be held accountable, but these leech-like women are just as lame. It's as if they hit a certain age when their careers aren't going exactly as they had imagined (back when they were a big fish in the small pond of Boise or Boca Raton), so they spread their legs as fervently as men spread their seed (win-win?). This is the casting couch of the twenty-first century, where every single woman with a story to sell thinks it'll bring her that much closer to Oscar. Or a regular feature on Extra. Or (worst case scenario?) a blurb on Huffington Post.

The scarlet letter has become chic.

It All Comes Down To Taste

2010-11-16T16:37:00.000-05:00

Like many a food purveyor, I grew up a finicky eater. I thought my taste buds were The Way, The Truth, The Light and that anyone who argued for the case of, say, mushrooms or raw onions was just plain wrong. Growing up in suburban Florida only added to my palate's limitations: vegetables came in a can, fish in a stick, Chinese in a box and Italian in thirty minutes or less. It wasn't until my parents divorced and I was a bitchy teenager that my culinary horizon ever-so-slightly expanded. As a result of my mother hanging out with "cultured" lesbians, she suggested we try ethnically-diverse cuisine. The first time we went to Tampa's only Ethiopian restaurant, I was hesitant and argumentative. We were with a group of her friends, though, so I performed maturity between my scowls and rolled eyes. Alas, and despite my antagonism, the food was awesome. This first bout didn't open my mind as much as it gave me bragging rights at my performing arts high school because, after all, cultivating cool is the full time job of adolescence.

It was my becoming a vegetarian (I am no longer afflicted) at fifteen that forced me to rethink my relationship with food. Without providing the specific histrionics -- including a fervent hatred of tofu for many years until i finally had it fried at a trendy Pan-Asian restaurant in my college town -- I am now, presently, obsessed with anything thoughtfully prepared. Food is the most accessible art form, one that can be actualized more quickly than any other esoteric creative endeavor. This became apparent during pithy bouts of writer's block where I'd have the overwhelming desire to bake. I wouldn't even eat my cookies or brownies or whatever chocolate-laden deliciousness I concocted, I just needed the extraction of the expression.

I love food and, despite my aforementioned pickiness, have always loved devouring dishes. I am compulsive: the first to finish a glass of wine, a plate of food, a shared dessert. If there is a buffet-style meal, I'm ready for my second plate before everyone has sat down. However, approaching cuisine from a more thoughtful and deliberate stance has allowed me to replace compulsion with precision. I want to really experience what I consume, not just shovel it in between the small talk of This is so delicious and Of course he is going to call you.

Whether relating to music or fashion or film or books, taste dictates the construction of cool. Yet, in its purest sense, it is only an opinion that doesn't have to cling to a hierarchical entitlement outside of its specified context. Taste can simply be what we like. But it isn't. Taste is how what we like shapes who we are. It is an undeniable vortex. It is manipulative, yet malleable. Subjective, yet rooted in some mutant form of intellectualism (people unequivocally think their "taste" is, if not obviously "smart," then at least ironic or informed).

Now, nothing pisses me off more than a bad meal. Beyond being a waste of money, it is a waste of an experience. As with everything relating to taste, what we eat should be tied into who we are and how we view the world. Simply snacking for sustenance is boring and thoughtless, just like listening to the radio or watching a really bad movie: it might be momentarily amusing but, beyond that, it's an utter waste of time.

Tripping Through Nostalgia

2010-11-15T11:44:00.000-05:00

I had less than five hours of sleep the night before last (perhaps that explains the slightly sardonic tone of my previous post?) and felt the heavy-lid of sleepiness by seven o'clock. It was the kind of evening where I didn't think I could make it to eight. Until I did. Then I got lost in the malaise of internet nostalgia and was up until my laptop died, turning my thighs red from its residual heat.

It happened subtly at first. After having a conversation with an old friend, I began reading antiquated messages and searching for the virtual clues of misplaced longings. Then, once partially satiated, I did something I haven't done in a long time: I logged onto Myspace. The intent perusal of that archaic site left me, still, feeling unanswered (to questions I didn't even know I was posing) and I found myself digging through the paper-crumbs of usernames and passwords until stumbling upon a much younger version of myself: the Sarah represented on Friendster. I was reminded of interactions so foreign they seemed to have happened to someone else. I discovered profiles of people who have since died and who I haven't thought about for years. I read an exchange of yet another former lover who I haven't spoken to for close to a decade, leading to an internet search of his whereabouts. Once I decoded the clues of his current state, I was finally ready for bed, what with a spinning brain and satisfied grin.

Time is funny in the way it trickles on. What was once so important and present becomes nothing more than a staircase on which we stack the story of our personal narratives. Even if we can't remember the specifics, they're somewhere deep in our subconscious, informing our daily decisions and calloused interpretations.

Granted, this was an abhorrent waste of sleep, yielding only the menial as opposed to the meaningful, but I couldn't stop myself. I was belly-up in past tense and totally intrigued. Only when gripped by fleeting sentimentality does this (quite literal) isolated obsession make sense. Allowing a pause for internet nostalgia caused other relatively asinine details to surface, from the floral design of my college comforter to the toiletries that hung in my shower. This minutia, not capture in photos, can only be crevice-shaken when your mind is a little less alert than normal.

These old social stratospheres are an emotional landfill, harnessing a time where testimonials were written in third person and full disclosure wasn't discussed in the media. I know many people who have since deleted their profiles from these prior sites, but I'm happy I haven't: they are the crinkled love letters of the computer age and, just as we cram little trinkets of our tangible lives into attics and garages, so too should we stash the memory of our cyber-selves in these dormant websites. There is, after all, no harm other than a next day of dark circles and elusive yearnings.

Shit Talk

2010-11-14T12:50:00.000-05:00

Just as you can be sure that someone, at some point or another, has sneaked a pee in a public pool while you swallowed water doing laps, so too can you have faith in the fact that, at some point or another, someone has talked shit about you. We're all guilty of it. No matter how much we love the victim, something will inevitably piss us off to the point of sneering and judging.

The preface is always something lame --

I really love her but...

I would totally tell him this to his face...

I normally never say these things...

-- however, whatever the specific excuse, before you know it, the bounty of the shit storm starts its pour and you're blabbering to anyone with an ear and a blank stare, all the while trying to justify the gossip under the pretense of something else, like your unappreciated empathy or their bad decision-making.

Let the record stand: everyone I have ever loved has been a recipient of my shit talk. I've brushed through flaws with a fine-tooth comb, searching for the flea bites in my friends' lives. Maybe I'm an asshole, but I'm honest. And I'm realistic. Just as I admit my holier-than-thou attitude toward others, I know that they too have expressed their disdain about me. It's inevitable. No one, after all, is perfect. We all make stupid choices or gain weight or act obnoxious after a third dirty martini. We provide the fodder for others because, after all, it's impossible to stay stagnant in superiority.

My first realization of this came after a particularly crushing breakup. I was the smug coupled person who thought every one my single friends were idiots. Thinking I had figured out the happily-ever-after game, I'd curl my lip when a girlfriend would call a boy who obviously didn't like her. I mean, c'mon, it was obvious. Let it be. Dudes are simple, if they like you, they let you know. It's not rocket science, it's hormones. Then, after I was left devastated and wailing myself to sleep like a colicky baby, something shifted. Maybe I didn't have it all figured out. I too was capable of the flounder. But that didn't stop me from finding other things about which to whisper and sneer. It never ends.

More often than not, the impetus lies in our own bruised ego. Someone does something -- unbeknownst to them -- that hurts our delicate little feelings and, instead of simply saying, "hey, you hurt my feelings", we recoil and find a friend who could possibly share our sentiment. This is a slippery slope because, sooner or later, you're gonna piss off your partner-in-crime and they're gonna say to the initial offender, "hey, you know what (your name here) said about (XYY)" and then you're left grasping your fingers on the edge of the Why-Can't-I-Just-Shut-The-Fuck-Up cliff.

I could say that we should start loving one another and cease our shit talk, but we all know that's damn near impossible. We're always going to get our feelings hurt and employ passive aggressive strategies for dealing with the pain of unrequited desire. But maybe, just maybe, we should pause for a second before vomiting assessments.

If we stop expecting people to live up to our projected expectations of their lives and forgive the mistakes they make simply by being a human being, then perhaps we can put a pinprick in the shit talk balloon and listen as the air slowly starts to dispel. Maybe then our conversations will be more interesting than bad plastic surgery and small penises.

Beyond The Friend-Crush

2010-11-13T14:44:00.000-05:00

It happens all the time. You meet someone somewhere and instantly hit it off. You make plans for dinner and aren't worried about awkward silences or what you're wearing. You drink weird fruity cocktails in the afternoon because it's spontaneous and silly. You have the most fun eating ice cream in their bed while they surf the internet. You confide in them with a fervor that could seem unfounded since you haven't established a context of trust. And all the while you wonder how you've lived for so long without this new friend. It's effortless. It's fabulous. It's perfect. In no time, they'll reach Best status and you'll add months (or years) to the story of your union. Until something changes. And something almost always changes.

It's not as dramatic as when you're in grade school and friends are more fickle than a boy first learning about boners. No. More often than not, these friendships are forged when you're single and have the time to invest in someone other than a lover. So you enter a platonic relationship with your new buddy; the desire for intimacy is palpable and we have to get it where we can. Then, when one of you becomes coupled, the friend love affair fades as love affairs tend to do. One of you is left pining while the other is cooking paella with their new significant other. Then, slowly, you stop talking everyday until the friendship shifts into the past tense of a good time and momentum has been replaced by memory. When you finally see each other, probably in a group gathering, you talk about how things were to an audience that really couldn't care less. Before you know it, you've forgotten to call them on their birthday and, although it pangs your heart just a little bit, it's okay.

There are, if you're lucky, one or two people who slip through the cracks of this common occurrence and become the friends who stand the grandiose test of time. More often than not, this happens after some big dramatic fight (or two) where you don't talk for months or more. Maybe you genuinely hate their new boyfriend and try to tell them as much (always a bad idea) and they pick the dude over you and you're left out of the unsustainable threesome. Or maybe this friend is someone you've known since you were a toddler and, although your exterior lives are quite opposite, there is still a love that eclipses booze and beauty and biography. These enduring friendships transcend fleeting romances, either of the friend-crush or boy-crush variety, until, one day, you look back through the dust of your life and realize that they're still there, caring and interested and empathic to your career shifts and amorous turns. This is the impetus of a lasting friendship.

True friendship is earned. It is not constructed under the false pretenses of boredom or misplaced longings or a shared interest in fashion or boys in rock bands. True friendship surpasses all the other relationships that will undeniably end. It is an unconditional love that cannot be feigned or forced. True friendship is there for you in the middle of the night, through thick and thin and all those other cliches that have merit somewhere in narrative of our lives.

I normally don't like to end on such a contrived, hokey note, but if you have a friend like this, tell them today that you love and appreciate them. Tell them that your relationship is substantial and meaningful and that, no matter the weather of your accord, you will always be there for them because, ultimately, they are more precious than anything else in the entire world.

The Death Of The Card

2010-11-12T14:29:00.000-05:00

Growing up, cards were always my thing. Birthday cards, holiday cards, thank you cards -- you name it, I wrote it. And wrote it well. And wrote it long, often having to turn to the card's ass (if you will) and continue my scribbled sentiment next to the bar code and price tag. I've hated Hallmark's hackneyed prose for as long as I can remember; they never properly express emotion beyond couplets and bad iambic pentameter. But, still, it was a starting point. At the very least, one could underline the relatively meaningful phrases with such a fervor that the recipient would get the gist.

I remember going to stores with my grandma. She would peruse the card section for hours (I am not at all being hyperbolic), choosing the perfect greeting for every milestone. She had a whole drawer dedicated to these purchases. What she lacked in pontification, she made up with illustration and thought clouds. And, if you were really lucky, she'd glue your photographic likeness over the generic images. Sure, these cards were silly, but they were also memorable.

In this virtual age of Facebook and email and text messaging, the ceremony of letter-writing is a lost art. What used to be something special is now nothing more than an afterthought, no matter how much you try to make it seem otherwise.

Last week was my birthday and, even though I appreciated the warmth of a Facebook wall posting as much as the next sap, I can't help but miss a time when more thought was required. Everything has become so casual, as if we don't have enough time to get our hands ink-stained with specificity. Sure, the performativity of a Facebook posting is fun: you get to prove to the world that you have lots of "friends" who love you, counting posts like candles, but there is something undeniably sacred about about squinting to decipher actual handwriting postmarked to your actual address. It's a small gesture, but a meaningful one.

Concerning the cards and the gifts and the dinners that I did receive, I'm now in the tricky position of the response. I still have a pile of thank you cards collecting dust on my shelf, but it seems too formal and old fashioned to indulge in the formality, especially considering I see most of the people on a regular basis. Would I mail a card and wait? Should I forego the postage fee and simply give them the card at our next brunch date? Could I just text them my gratitude and call it a day? Maybe I should just email my appreciation but, despite the alluring nature of email's immediacy (no spelling errors, no postage, no mailbox), it is also terribly impersonal, perhaps even more so than a bad Hallmark poem.

For The Love Of Solitude

2010-11-11T19:19:00.000-05:00

In preparation for the gluttony of the holidays and in an attempt to detoxify my birthday out of my liver, I've decided to do a cleanse. No booze, no coffee, no sugar, no gluten, no soy (no joy?). I'm on Day 4 (out of 7...or 10 (I'm still deliberating)) and am utterly antisocial. And it feels really great.

Normally, by sunset (which, now, thanks to the turning back of the clocks is, in New York, 5 pm), I've spent my day doing yoga and writing something and wasting time and, as such, am ready to go out and have a conversation with someone other than myself and my dog. I crave community and connection and a glass of really good wine with some really good friends. It's easy to convince me to socialize because, after all, writing is a type of voluntary isolation. This is a slippery slope. What should just be one glass of wine and an early bedtime often turns into a bottle of wine (or two) and a stumble to my front door after going from restaurant to subway to bar to cab to club to cab to home. The next day heeds the aftermath of my decisions, what with a later-to-rise wake up call and a less-than-productive workday. And so the spiraling begins.

After twenty-eight years of having roommates or co-inhabiting with boyfriends, this is my first time living alone. Perhaps that's part of the problem. Normally, I choose to shape my schedule around someone else, stopping working when it's time to cook dinner or watch a movie or whatnot. There are no longer such parameters and, as a result, I am accountable to no one other than myself. This is, of course, very liberating, but it is also quite lonely. Lately, it's been even worse than that. I am so bombarded with work I have to do that I instead decide to do none of it. Looking at the computer just makes me sleepy. I've become the afternoon go-to for all of my friends. Lunch on a Tuesday? Why not. Happy hour on Wednesday? Of course. MOMA on Thursday? Might as well enjoy the benefits of my metropolis. Then, before I know it, it's the weekend and who works on the damn weekend? I've forgotten how to say no, how to stand up for myself and my own responsibilities, thinking that I'll complete tasks tomorrow, until tomorrow comes and there's another great (or not) thing to do with someone else.

Balancing work and play as a freelance writer is tricky. I create my own schedule. I am not chained to the hems of an hourly wage or confined to thirty minute lunch breaks. I have the luxury of time on my side (a commodity that is not lost on me). The challenge is not living as if in a state of permanent vacation because then it becomes the common instead of the reward.

Thus, feeling this perpetual itch to be surrounded by others, I'm doing the only thing that makes sense: complete and utter isolation. Sure, I could get tea in the afternoon or choose to drink sparkling water at a nightclub, but that would just defeat the purpose. This is a test of my willpower and so far, so good.

That's the metaphoric beauty of a cleanse. If you can remove ego (flatter belly, thinner thighs, clearer skin) out of the equation, then you can begin to break habits. Substance is simply a byproduct of something else lacking in your life. That's when problems manifest and your identity ends with an Anonymous. Plus, it's really great to settle into the intricacies of yourself and realize your own desires and downfalls. Then and only then can you truly enjoy the respite of the release granted from a giggle with a good friend. Furthermore, it feels really fantastic to say "no" sometimes, if not to others then at least to yourself.

Demystifying the Boogie Man

2010-11-10T10:44:00.000-05:00

Television may be a cure for insomnia and monogamy, but as a catalyst for epiphanies and personal growth, well I'm not gonna find that on Dr. Phil or The Biggest Loser. Sure, I might learn how to make a parsley-covered beef and pineapple skewer from Giada or how to diagnose a disease the affects only two percent of the world's population on Discovery Health, but that's about it. Normally, tv is relegated to escapism and projection and boredom, a way for us to generally envy a select few whilst simultaneously feeling better about ourselves for not having the problems afflicting the rich and famous. This, however, has not been the case for True Blood.

The artistry and amazingness of the show aside, True Blood has redefined my relationship with the nightmarish Other. I've gotta give it up for Alan Ball. Not only was he able to make me stare at death in its most pale-faced specificity with Six Feet Under, he has now completely demystified another terror: the Boogie Man. Sure, we're eclipsed in a vampirish trend as of late, one that has sparked the sexual imagination of every teenage girl this and that side of the Mississippi with Robert Pattinson's interpretation of the the undead, but True Blood is something different.

I obviously don't believe in the supernatural predilections portrayed on this HBO drama, nonetheless, the explicit portrayals of Ball's protagonists has transported my imagination into something shaped closer to reality. Alexander Skarsgard's Eric illustrates this shift more than any other character.

Once upon a time, when it was dark and I was alone, I could easily freak myself out. My rational brain knows that ghosts and goblins and vampires and demons are a religious construct existing only to secure faith. If there is the slightest chance of their existence, we are more likely to cling to Christ to save us from the downfall of their undoings. This idea quite literally haunted me as a child. I would often think I heard the trumpets and choir-callings of the Second Coming to the point of fearing that I'd be the only one left. I thought I'd wake up and find my parents and neighbors gone, having ascended into some fictitious realm with me alone to dwell in the downpour of frogs and whatever other travesties were undoubtably coming my way. I'd pray in these moments. Or, when alone in my bed and feeling some sort of macabre presence (unable at this time to articulate that it was my own marbles atagonizing me), I'd think the devil -- red horns and all -- was lurking somewhere in the crevices of my room. It took every ounce of courage I could muster to repeat "I rebuke you Satan in the name of Jesus Christ" ad nauseam until the anxiety wore off and I could finally fall asleep (a counting sheep of sorts?). My imagination held me hostage. I knew nothing was out there, but still, what if? The power to invent something chilling was alive and well. That all changed with True Blood.

Granted, the characters are definitely capable of serious harm and danger (what with the thirst for human blood and all), but because they are depicted down to every nuance of self-exploration, they become relatable and -- for lack of a better word -- humanized. Plus, they're unbelievably sexy. I mean, who wouldn't crave connection with Eric or Bill Compton, even if it meant sacrificing a little life force? That's yet another genius of True Blood. While most other popular culture representations of vampires rely on stereotype to advance their objectives, the

characters on True Blood exist carnally. Their ravenous appetite is the personification of lust and, therefore, must be quelled by people unnerved by their own desires. However, for me, this insatiable need for connection is the very thing that quelled the grips of a lifetime of unease.

As the third season of True Blood was drawn to a close and the characters' motivations were revealed beyond their monstrosity, there was nothing left to fear. Vampires are, as it were, just like us: struggling to defend honor and do the right thing, no matter how twisted their "right" may be to the human race. Now (and I'm being dead serious here), when I'm alone in my bed and creepy thoughts trickle into the folds of my mind, I think of Eric and I feel better. He wouldn't let anything harm me. He wouldn't choose to terrorize some silly girl with no malice against his happenstance. I know this sounds super-weird and slightly disjointed, but whatever works, right? Right.

The World Wide (Dating) Web

2010-11-09T14:46:00.000-05:00

About a month or so ago, after settling into my new home in Brooklyn and realizing that this is my first time not working in a highly-socialized realm, I did the unthinkable (to me): I joined an internet dating site. I had teetered with this idea the way anyone who will inevitably do something teeters. Similarly to therapy a few years ago -- when I thought I was smart enough (i.e. sane enough) to figure out my own problems and, as such, didn't need to spend money to pontificate the asinine happenings in my life -- I dissed it publicly and endlessly until, well, I caved. It's like the forth grade boy who picks on his pretty classmate; we all know he has a crush on said classmate and if he could just be honest instead of pre-pubescent, truth would reign over tears. But when are we ever so honest with ourselves? Instead, we pick and pick and pick until we're scabby and bloody and a less authentic version of ourselves.

Internet dating seemed like a hub for trolls, full of people who were too socially-awkward or too unbearably ugly to meet people in Real Life. Internet dating is not, as it were, a place for the relatively young and attractive and successful to meet prospective mates. I should be going to bars, to coffee shops, to museums, anywhere where there's a mix of people beyond everyday encounters. I should smile at people in yoga, not wear headphones on the subway, go to dog parks on Sundays, anything that was out of my comfort zone. I should give friends-of-friends the time of day and maybe, just maybe, something natural would bloom or, if I was really lucky, blossom. That was my narrative and I was sticking to it. Until I didn't. Reveling in the distraction from things I actually had to accomplish and craving some sort of attention outside of the laborious process of book-editing, I thought, Why Not? Not to mention (but I'm mentioning), all of my coupled friends who I hypothetically discussed a projected internet persona were envious of my prowess, wishing that they too could meet someone without a shared history. So I created a profile and chose the most flattering of photos and -- poof -- I was an active member of an internet dating site. Within minutes, my ego was swelling.

Before delving into nuances, I have to properly articulate my hesitation (which I also, perhaps more succinctly, expressed on my profile). The main thing that gave me pause was the artifice of the first impression. When you meet someone in Real Life, there is a spark initiated by eye contact. You instantly know if you're interested in someone based on the way they carry themselves in the world. It is visceral and indescribable. Then, after the carnal moment gives way to conversation, you can (more often than not) decide that you don't like them. Or, if you're really lucky, that you do. Internet dating provides no such out. Perhaps it's a little more animalistic than that. We all enjoy the hunt that makes the reward of the conquest so much more intoxicating. Regardless of our specific rhythm, it's a dance in which we all know the moves. Letting things heat and rise to a boil is what makes us keep going back for more, despite the prudence of heartbreak and rejection and middle-of-the-night phone calls. Therefore, regardless of my general providence, I let my desire for something different overpower my instinct.

At first, I answered the bounty of bullshit questions with a politeness I'd never bestow onto strangers in Real Life. Then, if after a few message exchanges, it became obvious (to me) that I was not "feeling it", I simply stopped responding. This seemed easy and fun and an utter waste of time. Plus, I never felt so pretty: every few minutes, someone new would be winking at me or messaging me or adding me to their favorites. I was really something, I thought. My arrogance was, no doubt, at its tipping point. There were a few dudes who I found witty and cute enough, but they weren't messaging me. So, after sharing a bottle of wine with my best friend, we decided to message the ones we (it became a collective) liked. Then we went to bed and waited. By the time we woke, the majority of them had responded.

Let the games begin.

I instantly projected a fantasized reality onto all of these men. I forgave their flaws and loved their hyperbole. My best friend and I assigned nicknames and started setting up dates for that week (the sooner the better, considering everyone's internet attention span -- or lack thereof).

The first date was like all first dates: terribly awkward. I chain smoked and waited for Dude #1 to arrive at the cute wine bar around the corner from my friend's house. I didn't hear a single word he said for the first thirty minutes (first glass of wine). Instead, I was discerning if I could actually like this guy, despite not really looking like his photos and having a laugh that reminded me of one of Snow White's dwarfs. I wondered if he liked me because, after all, you want to prove to yourself that you're something they need, no matter if the attraction is a one-way street. I thought about angles and lighting and all the things you don't think about when someone sees you before a photo of you. After the first bottle of wine, things got easier. Even though I was ready to call it a night (I had decided that he wasn't for me), I didn't want to be abrupt and have him read into my asking for the check. So I kept drinking and actually started talking. Regardless of the alcohol's effect, it felt forced and uncomfortable, like a job interview for a position you don't really want but you want the employer to hire you nonetheless. After we split (!!!) the bill, we headed for a cheap Mexican restaurant and shared bad food. Rewind. While in the streets on the way to the restaurant, Dude #1 thought it'd be a great romantic gesture to kiss me under the moon- (street lamp?) light. I let him. I didn't want to be rude. After tacos and a long walk home where I thought that maybe possibly hopefully I could like this guy, he kissed me a little more in front of my friend's house and said he wanted to see me again. I nodded and walked upstairs, not even for second wanting to turn around to see if he was watching. When my friend met me at the door, I just curled my lip and went to bed.

Once the disappointment of this first encounter subsided, I grew cynical. I studied photos, trying to decode imperfections from a myriad of becoming photos. Take the guy who never smiled with teeth: from that point on I didn't want to meet him, for sure of the fact that his pearly whites would be a crooked mess. Or less than white. Or maybe he didn't have teeth at all. Who knows.

After about a week, I finally got a message that piqued my interest. The guy was bold and blunt and funny and, quite frankly, ridiculously hot. We immediately entered an email tete-a-tete, trying to outwit each other with our big brains and symmetrical faces. I was excited. I sent photos of him to my friends. I googled him and read every single sentence he ever wrote on the internet. I added him on Facebook. This was happening and this was going to be good. Until it wasn't. Dude #2 revealed another sect of internet sleaze that I didn't know existed: the guy who lurks around dating sites to boost his swagger all the while containing his performance in a virtual realm. Perhaps this doesn't seem so daunting, but it was. All talk and no action is stupid. Why engage in this creepy world if you don't want something to materialize, even if it will, more likely than not, be a bummer. Dude #2, I concluded, had a girlfriend or a rotation or a small dick. Moving on.

Meanwhile, Dude #1 was texting me every other day.

Dude #3 lived about a block away from me and had a cool job. He didn't put too much time into his profile, so I became Nancy Drew of the virtual world. I found an interview with him on NPR (well played, council) but his voice sounded like David Sedaris. I instantly lost my metaphoric hard-on.

My inbox was full. I no longer responded to anyone. Though I only acted on three pursuits, they were lame enough to make me scoff at the whole experience. Disappointment is a burly bag of worms and I was beginning to remember why I needed to meet people in person before being titillated by their ability to compose a preposition-ladened sentence.

Dude #4 was the straw that broke the camel's back. It took me days to notice his message. It was a little too polite and a lot too long. But then, while waiting for my friend to try on a dress at the flea market, I looked at his photos. Not bad. I read his profile. Totally decent. Good on paper (you know what "they" say...). Okay, I thought, I'll give this one more shot. Why not.

Unlike Dude #2 who wanted to dwell in the mutual masturbation of online discourse, Dude #4 cut the chase. Instead of courting the casual back-and-forth messaging charade, he suggested we meet ASAP and see if there were sparks. Okay. As soon as we exchanged phone numbers, we began the flirty texts. Granted, this was weird at first; it's difficult to know how much to flirt with someone before you've seen them, but he seemed...confident. He called me on the phone. He had a good voice. I was a giggly mess. We decided to meet the next day.

After an outfit dilemma that left me sweaty and running late, I met Dude #4 at a bar across the street from my house. I was instantly relieved. Not only was he cuter than his pictures (!!!), he was actually a guy who I would notice if I was out with friends. The conversation was easy and fun and interesting. The sexual tension was palpable, which was the very thing missing from Dude #1. When our knees met under the table, I didn't do the casual shift away. The contact was received and reciprocated and wonderful. Looking back, there were red flags. Had I not been so eager to prove myself wrong about the whole online dating thing, I would have definitely, if not acknowledged, noticed certain eccentricities. But I didn't. The night was awesome and so was the next morning. I was hooked, lined and sinkered. Sucker.

We made plans for a second date. We communicated every day. Despite my skepticism, we genuinely liked each other. Just like therapy, I was proven wrong. This thing could work. This thing is great. This thing is revolutionary. Or so I thought. I don't know what happened in those twelve-plus hours of our second date, but something changed. Personality quirks were revealed with more specificity and it became obvious (to both of us?) that this was a very bad idea. Without a collective context of anything, there is really no foundation on which to build. Plus, there's the issue of disclosure. When people have background knowledge of one another, it is easier to be candid because they understand and forgive nuances. Take away that information and everyone just seems a little crazy. After that second date, it was unspoken agreement that we would never talk again. And just like that, we disappeared from each other's lives. Nothing lost, nothing gained.

That's the thing about internet dating: as quickly as someone enters your life, they can just as quickly vanish from it. Perhaps that's a good thing. There won't be any clumsy run-ins at dinner parties or concerts because, well, there is actually nothing binding us beyond time and loneliness. This is simultaneously brilliant and sad.

So, with that last rendezvous, I canceled my membership. I no longer had the energy to read clever messages from cute (or not) men. I didn't care. It was performative. And boring. And more arduous than the actual work I had to do. Like so many other constructed Good Ideas, internet dating proved to be nothing more than a social experiment gone terribly array. Now I know I will settle for flesh and blood first impressions above anything else, even if they so often have bad breath and stifled syntax. All the blemishes of people are more easily forgiven when there is no grandiose projections of our imaginations because, after all, our imaginations will fuck us up no matter what. We don't need another obstacle blinding our better judgement.

Plus, all of these guys seemed to be relatively unemployed or dissatisfied with their lives, which is terribly unsexy and another story for another day.

Common Denominator

2010-07-30T18:59:00.000-04:00

Let's start with the word "always" as it relates to the self, such as, "I always (fill in the blank)". The specificity of the blank -- while non-discriminatory in its myriad of fillings-in -- that I'd like to dissect (hand me a scalpel?) is the blank of attraction or, more precisely, the type of person we're often (always?) attracted to or, even nit-pickier in exaction, the perpetual crushing on the unavailable person. Then, between alligator tears and dirty martinis, we say trite shit like "I always like guys (girls?) who aren't over their exes" or "I always like guys (girls?) who are self-involved pricks (bitches?)" or "I always like guys (girls?) who don't want to be in relationships" or, you know, all of the above. Maybe this train is super obvious to you, Passive Reader, but for me, when lost in my own undoing, it's hard to find the fucking station (pun intended, or not, still deciding). There is a common denominator and she is me (it is you?).

So now what? How do you fight against Type, especially when said Type is so intrinsically wrapped up in the silly string of desire? How do you actively disengage when familiarity feels so good? I don't know, but I wanna untangle something.

Even if it's unbeknownst to our conscious thoughts and projections, we seek out what we want. Though I know (I think?) I don't want to be with some schmoozing ass grabbing mother fucker, I nonetheless don't know how to disengage when eye contact is penetratingly palpable (crux of the ego?). But maybe I don't want to be with anyone, really, so I find solace in the stupid whilst letting the meaningful fly by the periphery of chemistry, or the construction thereof (we gotta get it up somehow). So. Point. I actually must wanna be alone because I know I feel so much better when I'm free to be antsy and edgy and bad decision-y, therefore I allow myself to get swept away by Peter Pan men, or the idea thereof. Age, wealth, sexual attraction, what-have-you, it's the same root sprouting different versions of some skinny-branched man.

Grow the fuck up.

(All of us?)

Still. I can't blame anyone for being anything other than genuine when I am the disingenuous mother fucker who pretends that she can handle something when she really just wants to fix something (incessant distraction?). It's so much more sadistic to blame everyone else than to admit to you, yes you, the one you call "I", yourself, the only person from whom you can never escape -- save for the slit of a wrist or a drop of a noose -- that you're actually maybe probably the problem. Turn the mirror of that "always" around and see what you see. See.

But then what?

It's easy. So easy. Stop convincing yourself that every single goddamn experience is meaningful. Start calling a spade a spade and pull a terminator on the unavailable Other in the paradigm of your "always".

That's Just The Way It Is

2010-02-17T16:50:00.000-05:00

(Already fearing the cliche sentiment of this blog posting and I'm only in this many words. Oh well....)

I have certain habits. We all do. I'm not unique in my quirks, though my quirks are uniquely mine. Before shifting into the specific, allow me the abstract. There are particular things I do that I've often wanted to alter, that I've deemed contextually relevant to some problematic time in my life, that I've relinquished to some less-than-ideal version of myself, some flaw-piling on which I must work.

Or not.

Maybe these things are simply Sarah and I just need to accept them, instead of judging them and forcing an asinine, reductive meaning onto them.

For an example. When I'm cozy at home with my person and it's evening and we've just finished dinner or a glass of wine, or we're about to have dinner or a glass of wine, I never answer my phone. This may seem like the thoughtful thing to do, but then I have a stack of phone calls to return (most often to people I really like and to whom I want to talk). The sunlit hours seem too short and cumbersome to return the bounty of these calls (not to mention I'd get nothing even partially productive or beneficial completed if I was constantly connecting). Thus, I rarely call people back and am perpetually apologizing and playing catch up in my relationships. I thought this was something I did out of laziness, of feeling so settled in my life that I really had no need to talk to anyone other than the person in the room with me, or else -- even scarier -- I thought I had nothing interesting to say, so why even bother answering the phone.

Another example. When I go to a dinner party or social event with my person where I know no one (or -- usually my case as of late -- where I know only the DJ or the caterer or the nanny), I find myself quiet and uncomfortable, not wanting to reach out and make small talk. Instead I become some adorning appendage with a fancy cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other. My charm wavers as my exhaustion heightens.

One more example. When the hour that my person comes home approaches, I stop working on whatever task in which I was previously engaged and segue into waiting mode. I lose all creative concentration and can only find solace in a book or a magazine or cleaning up the kitchen or making a batch of cookies. None of this is asked of me, but I cannot fight the all-encompassing shift in priority.

These examples are all relationship-specific and, while I have many things I'd like to modify about myself outside of the coupled realm of things, I'm really curious about my behavioral transformation once the chaos of single-life subsides. Perhaps these are the inevitabilities of monogamy and I shouldn't judge myself so harshly, but, nonetheless, I do. Or, rather, I have. These are things I thought I wanted to change. Or, rather, upon which I would force change.

Maybe I'm terrified of my role as Good Girlfriend that -- much to my theoretical dismay -- typifies Domestic Goddess in some prescribed way or another. This is completely unwarranted and unnecessary. Instead of forcing myself to behave in an unnatural (for me) way, I might as well embrace these conventions and accept that they're just the way I am and that's A-OK.

We spend so much wasted time trying to revise ourselves into an ideal manifestation of our personality when the actuality isn't the version of self we had imagined. Really, though, what's the point? Our doting person and specific situation may (and will) change -- that's life -- but who we are remains the same. Accepting this truth harvests far greater possibilities -- creative and otherwise -- than does dwelling on how we wish we would act. So, with that, I'm going to judge myself less and do all the stupid little things I love to do more. After all, being authentic is the elusive point in this handbook-less thing we call Life.

Don't Pick At It

2010-02-15T14:58:00.001-05:00

I'm impetuous with scabs. Injuries often result from my hurrying (shaving my legs too quickly, chopping an onion too quickly, running downstairs too quickly) and the initial blood-trickle makes a perpetual mess. I do what one is supposed to do: rinse it out, apply pressure, bandage it up. Bla bla bla. Home Remedy 101. But then, when the wound gets crusty and calloused, I'm an inpatient mess who cannot succumb to my body's flawlessly-designed healing process. Blame it on boredom or anxiety or some little snagged corner, I start prodding and picking and peeling until the whole damn thing comes off, leaving the exposed cheese-less pizza of my skin -- wrinkled and red -- unshrouded and vulnerable. Of course I know better. I'm not a little girl who falls off her bike, wailing and screaming in projected pain, only to be left with two moon-surfaced knees healing at a slower rate than a grade school semester.

I know what happens when I pick my scab. I scar. My body's landscape has proved as much. On my left ankle, there's a caterpillar-length scar from slicing my leg with a new razor blade (damn those new razor blades). On my left pointer knuckle, there's a crescent-shaped scar from when I stupidly interjected in a dog fight (a nasty mutt of a dog attacked my passive puppy). Both of my knees are punctuated with the residuals of the above-mentioned bicycle accidents. Regardless of my supposed knowing better, I still prod and pick and peel. It's disgusting.

When dealing with emotional scars, my prudence also fails me as unwaveringly. It's the same process -- the fast action, the fussy care, the slow relief, the stubborn recovery -- but then, once all is said and said again, I have impulsive amnesia and go right back in for the picking, thinking I know better this time and will only scratch the most hardened surface, proving (to myself?) that the aforementioned situation underneath is blotted and bloodless, and that I have sufficiently healed in this particular undoing. This is -- if ever -- rarely the case.

Perhaps I like too much to meddle with myself, be it in the most literal parts of my body or the most symbolic parts of my psyche. Perhaps I think I know too well that exposure is not -- as memory would serve -- detrimental, but is in fact the opposite: it is beneficial. Perhaps I like to flirt with pain a little too much, seeing how close I can get to the source before backpedaling to a grass-padded patch of land. Unfortunately (and usually), the harm is already done. I'm already limping for a band-aid or snotting in a Kleenex -- numbness is not my style.

Maybe I'm just a masochist and, really, is that the worst thing in the world?

Dark Alley Logic

2010-02-13T17:19:00.000-05:00

Here's a metaphor to send the Fervent Feminist in me scowling to find another body-host. But, alas, it's only a metaphor: an easily transposed, often applicable metaphor to dissect intention and interaction. It has to do with protection. Not of the condom variety, though I'm sure there's many a metaphor -- perhaps more empowering -- in there as well.

Girls, imagine you're in a dark alley (because that always happens) with a boyfriend or husband or lover or any one of the opposite sex (yes, this a heteronormative mind-fuck) and someone, yielding some harm-inducing instrument (be it a gun or a knife or a Sigg water bottle) loonily appears. They want your purse or your ring or his wallet or whatever, their weapon-of-convenience grotesquely shadowed six feet long on the concrete wall next to the dumpster of the restaurant where you just had a glorious meal, full of charcuterie and Petit Sirah and really amazing conversation. Sure, you're a savvy girl who has mace and knows how to use it (you once tested it while walking your dog, only to forget about the chemical residue on your fingertips as you later rubbed your eyes and cursed the burn that your caution caused). Sure, you don't need anyone to protect you, you being someone aware of her surroundings and erring on the side of safety by all means possible. Sure, you don't normally walk down the alleys where stray cats search for crumbs and cardboard boxes. However, there is the momentary consideration of what this other imaginary person -- this boyfriend or husband or lover or any one of the opposite sex -- this new person who is tickling every funny bone in your body, causing you to fantasize about every asinine hypothetical, would (not to be confused with should) do. Do they project the masculine ideal as they shield you from this possible perpetrator? Do they defy all logic and raise their fists in defiance? Do they grab your hand and pull you away, running in the zigzag pattern of alligator trickery to elude a gun's fire. Or do they just sprint alone to the familiar shelter of street lamps and passers-by, leaving you to fend for yourself in this terrifying second of pending violence? This is the metaphor. What they would do here defines how they will act elsewhere, in the less heart-pounding instances of life. Always.

Again, it's not about the desire to be protected, disguising itself in grandiose displays of muscle-bearing intensity (though there's nothing wrong with wanting to feel secure or, for that matter, a lack of muscle-bearing intensity). This is, instead, indicative of how they feel about you (or themselves) on the larger, more subtle scale of everything.

I've been with all kinds of men -- from the ones who would fight to the ones who would flee -- and the ones who would flee are also more likely to scoot and scram and split when the going gets tough. And, such is life, the going will get tough. This -- this scooting and scramming and splitting -- is not sexy. Gender politics aside, I know this much is true.

I Told You So

2010-02-12T16:35:00.000-05:00

Try as you might to convince yourself otherwise, consensus matters. Especially when said consented matter is from those who know you (and the situation) the best. Especially when said consented matter is probably detrimental in some way (hence the trying to convince yourself and these others). Especially when dealing with something meaningful, something where you're undoubtedly vulnerable, or have the potential to become vulnerable again. And again. And again? Especially when said consented matter rings a chorus of "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me" in your subconscious.

Instead of listening to the consensus, you seek out the simple-minded, apathetic opinion of those with little-to-no insight regarding the situation. You cling to the projected optimism of a certain sect of friends who really, though they may love you, just want to get to the next agendic topic, be it dinner or books or their own quelled heartache. You make an unspoken pact: they'll tell you what you want to hear as long as you do the same. It's emotional masturbation. Or Russian roulette. Or, simply, a counterproductive conclusion to an deeply problematic condition.

You get mad at the people who call it like it is. Or, worse, you stop talking to them, grasping instead to the granules of hope garnished by the people who tell you not how it is, but how you want it to be. Then, when the inevitable happens, you're in a perpetual state of saving face and losing pride as their eyes smugly say, "I told you so". (They did.)

You gotta respect the people who stay up with you through all hours of the night, rehashing the details of despair just so you don't entertain the same mistake again. And again. And again? You gotta give it up to the people who were there the first time around, who saw the agony of your plight, who forgave your tears and irrationalities and ignorance. You gotta acknowledge the details that these people remember, as if an ingredients list for a favorite dish: they know just the amount of spice to make you sweat. And you sweat. They know just the amount of salt to make boil all the feelings that had slowed to a feigned simmer. You hate them for that. And you love them for that.

All the same, you don't want to listen because you think you know everything better than they do. You think their perspective, though appreciated, is peripheral and, thus, inconsequential. You are wrong. They are right. So listen, even if you don't want to. Ego (and that is more-often-than-not the culprit) is a mischievous little motherfucker, tricking you into making the same delusional decision again. And again. And again?

No.

Home Is Where The (What?) Is

2010-02-08T18:33:00.000-05:00

I used to be very attached to the idea of stuff. I took great pride in the accoutrements of my house: the overpriced Diptyque candles, the placement of flowers, the pretense of books. I felt settled in my dwelling of Danish furniture and empty countertops. The manifestation of my home was my divergence from the chaos of the rest of the world. I assumed that this was something I needed in order to harness balance.

Over the past few months, I've been living out of a suitcase -- the only tangible semblance of territory is my dog, Simon, my constant companion. At first, this caused me much anxiety. I thought I was too nomadic, too unsettled to actually feel at home anywhere. I thought I needed the roots of possession in order to finally regain the soothing quiet of external comfort. I blamed any lack in myself on the lack of -- what? -- decor, a car, a reliable mailing address. But then, something shifted.

Last night, while laying in a bed that is not mine and unable to find the rest of sleep, I felt completely untethered, unattached, unhinged. It felt amazing. I can go anywhere, do anything without the weight of unnecessary baggage or consumeristic gluttony binding me and, thus, forcing me to rationalize my decisions and desires. I felt free. Nothing discernible had happened -- no new house on the horizon nor future job prospect unmasked -- but this feeling was so liberating. It was a reinterpretation of sorts, one that can only propel me into something even cozier than the familiar cuddle of a favorite lover -- someone who, after years apart, still has the same body-nooks that make you unclench muscles you didn't even know you had. I didn't even know that I could be at home in myself until I didn't have the marginal indicator of what "home" is supposed to be anymore.

This, I guess, is like any other looming feeling. We decide to move or change or rearrange the landscape of our lives to find happiness in our own disjointed skin. This, I've learned, always fails at actualizing its intended goal: we're still miserable but with a different zip code, a different favorite restaurant, a different best friend. Instead of unhappily being nowhere, I can resolutely be everywhere. The specifics of my environment are irrelevant; all that matters (for me, anyway) is this feeling of ease and of being able to bear myself in any setting. The domestic paradise of my projected fantasies are definitely far away, but that's totally fine.

Passionately Mediocre

2009-11-02T17:16:00.000-05:00

As if superglued to my cerebellum, the phrase --

Mediocrity rises to the top!

-- always sticks out in my mind, perhaps because it rings so true. Locked in the lull of Any Big City, everyone is in a controlled, hurried state of Making It: the "making" being the constant, the specificity of the "it" being the variable. Granted, having a grandiose goal is a good thing (what would the world be if sans people with luminous egos?) but can every single person really be so damn special? And, if the obvious answer is "no", then why is it that often only the blase Middle succeeds? Are we really such cultural imbeciles?

I'm speaking of artistic expression.

At an airport bookstore a week ago, desperately trying to open my mind with a new author's new novel, I scanned the titles for something interesting. When a particular cover or whatever struck my fancy, I'd settle into a nook and open the book only to be vastly disappointed upon first paragraph. This happened five times. These people, these authors, these paid literary disciples have less coherent things to say than my year old godson! Which, of course, begs the question: who the hell buys this trash? Which, of course, forces the answer: everyone.

Mediocrity rises to the top...

Obviously there are a few artistic diamonds among the general rough, but these impenetrables are the odd ones out (and often ignored for the ever-almighty dollar-makers). Look at -- or, rather, listen to -- popular music: it is so easily consumable and so utterly boring, but enforced with a fervor that would otherwise suggest magnificence. Television -- with its abundance of idiots masquerading as celebrities on shows we call "reality" -- and movies -- spectacle superseding substance -- are no better. We're lost in a vapid labyrinth exponentially growing after every misstep and wrong turn until we're humdrum dizzy and clinging to passion over performance.

Hyperbole notwithstanding, don't be duped by the mediocre, no matter if it parades as Something New and promises Something Grand.

(PS David Bowie is not mediocre.)

Irrationality at its Best

2009-10-25T19:01:00.000-04:00

Everything makes sense. You plan your paycheck around the month's bills. You propose to your girlfriend when her clock starts ticking. You schedule your dentist appointment according to your meetings. Life is one rational equation after another until you realize your fifty and unhappy. Or bored. Or lonely. Or dwelling on the persistent, unanswered ifs. We all expect certain things -- everything -- to add up according to our grand plan.

In order to succeed, we need to practice some form of relative prudence. No longer letting the emotional -- or otherwise -- take reign, impulse must curtsey and excuse itself to practicality. But that's often terribly dull. I don't want to do what is expected. I don't want my life to be married to the status quo. I want the lavish, the irrational, the exciting. I want to trust a feeling instead of an outward manifestation of someone else's judgement, looming rear-view-mirror-large back at me. Going against any prescribed grain takes effort.

Lately I've become ridiculously practical around my birthday and the holidays. I'm the a boring gift-receiver. I'm the asshole who would rather have money than things. This is not because I don't trust other people's purchased projections of me. No. It's, instead, so I have a little extra in my bank account for commonsensical shit: groceries, bills, socks, whatevers. If I get a gift, I instantly quantify it (mathematician me): I could have paid for twenty green tea lattes resulting in fifty pages of my book for that shirt that I'll probably only wear once to yoga before realizing it's too big to asana in. Then I feel guilty that the person -- some loved one or other -- spent X amount of dollars on that thing only so it could be gift wrapped. The pleasure of tearing paper is a fleeting thirty seconds of opening-glee and feigned enthusiasm.

There is a case, however, to be made for extravagance (the more gluttonous cousin of glamour). When someone does something so over the top, so beyond the financial realm of my reality, I want to accept it without the burden of my better judgement. Everything doesn't have to be so damn assessable.

This makes me think of the construct of love. We all have an idea of that ever-misleading Perfect Person who is beautifully packaged in our imagination: a mashed-up version of everything we think we want or reason we need. Or, maybe, it's that one person who would be paradisiacal if he was a little smarter, the person to whom we'd propose if she was a little thinner. LIfe, however, doesn't fold itself into such a precise origamic representation. The rational is regularly raped by a desire so unfathomable.

It's a wonder two people ever fall in love in the first place. I'm terrified by the this'll do, of settling for a significant other because the time is right or I'm fifty and unhappy. Or bored. Or lonely. Or dwelling on the persistent, unanswered ifs. If someone moves you -- no matter how you presupposed things to move you -- you have to go with it. Instead of so fervently fighting against the irrational, I say we embrace it and let the specific vignettes take precedence over the entire layout of life.

Caught A Light Panic

2009-10-22T11:59:00.000-04:00

I'm an amazing flyer. I never fear the crash-landing or the bomb-exploding because, well, what the hell good does my potentially overactive imagination do to prevent the horrific? Absolutely nothing. Thus, I board the plane and find my cubby-sized seat without so much as a sweat. I fasten my seatbelt and stow away my headphones, opting for the in-flight magazine and a stick of gum until we've reached our cruising altitude. Then, once the nickel-sized package of peanuts and I'm-definitely-going-to-spill-this beverage are passed out, I can engage in more settling pursuits, perhaps a book or an article or, if I'm feeling saucy and sans other passenger's bored eyes, maybe I'll write a little. No big deal. Before I know it, the flight attendants are picking up trash and preparing for arrival.

Yesterday, however, was a completely different experience.

I'm in Florida, picking up my dog from my mom's. He's been here for a month-or-so to ease my transition away from LA and into NY. Now that I'm fully settled, it's time to scoop up Simon (my dog), serving as the final punctuation to my proclamation, "I live in New York" (the post script being, "See, there's Simon."). No big deal.

I woke up anxious, annoyed, antagonistic. That's not terribly abnormal and, therefore, I didn't think much of it. I arrived at the airport without a hitch, not a single braking for traffic or construction-induced detour. I didn't even have to check a bag; I was traveling light with only a purse and a pet. The security line was short. I unbuckled by boots and dripped out of my coat -- an airport striptease worthy of envy. I was the seasoned traveler, knowing my way around the airport as if it were a my closet. Then, something snapped.

I got bored waiting for the flight and allowed dormant fears to manifest into downright paranoia. Every possible scenario -- from the racist to the irrational -- clouded my mind until I was freezing in a self-made blizzard. I entered the plane, telling myself I'm acting crazy and to calm the fuck down. Everything is fine and out of my control. Everything is fine and out of my control. Everything is fine and out of my control... No big deal?

Everyone on the plane was too jovial to die. Or is this the exact way it -- whatever "it" is -- happens? Of course it's how it happens: it is the perfect day, the perfect plane, the perfect crying baby in the seat behind me and then, bam, Air Traffic Control cannot find the plane. Any unsavory passengers -- what the hell does that mean? -- were as obvious as lip-herpes. The normal maintenance noises were as loud as a Pollack painting. I started to sweat. I started to text my parents, my aunt, my friends saying I had a really bad feeling about this flight, what should I do? All of a sudden I fancied myself as a psychic. I was two seconds away from pressing my Flight Attendant Call Button to warn them of our impending doom. No one was texting me back so I, huddled next to the window, called my parents, my aunt, my friends. No one answered the phone. I was out of my mind and desperate to grasp any tangible thing. My silk Marc Jacobs dress was sticking to my skin. I was in full panic-mode. With no one quelling my indiscretion, I did the most obvious thing: I googled my daily horoscope.

Pause. I am not a superstitious, astrological person. I do not read my Scorpio 'scope as if a daily affirmation. I do not put weight on this whimsical pastime. I think it is ridiculous and meaningless, albeit fun when I need something to discuss with someone I presumably have nothing in common.

Not having any sort of leaning to any sort of site, I clicked on the first daily horoscope link I found. The only phrase I saw, backlit by my Blackberry, was -- I kid you not -- "dead end." I barely know what the rest said, but it was along the lines of "listen to your gut" and "big decisions need to be made" -- all the typical astrological bullshit -- but today, at this moment, it all seemed so clear. I asked the fat man in the middle seat to get up and I scurried off the plane, as sure of my decision as any decision I've ever made.

Considering I had my dog in my hands and, quite frankly, appeared to be a lunatic who kept repeating, "Don't worry I didn't check any bags" (in case they thought I planted a bomb and now was peacing out), the flight attendants were very accommodating and helped this looney little girl get off this dead end plane.

I have never been so dramatic in my entire life.

Twenty minutes later, waiting by the baggage claim for my mom to scoop me up, I was still shaking and sure the plane would crash. Alas, it didn't. I do not know where my anxiety stemmed, but, for what it's worth, I'm happy I listened to its spawn.

I'm staying in Florida until next Wednesday. This extending trip is a blessing in disguise considering I haven't had a vacation since Christmas and my computer is getting repaired in Midtown Manhattan. I would have been incapacitated in New York for the next few days. Now, I can write and read and relax without spending a dime, with only the sound of the breeze distracting me.

Though I want to laugh and brush off my embarrassment, there's another part of myself that thinks I really dodged something. Panic aside, when a feeling is so much larger than yourself -- and if that feeling happens so infrequently you don't even know how to name it -- you have to listen to it. Bottom line. No big deal.