What Are We If Not Cartoon Characters?

This morning on my way to the subway, I was reminded how I have so often thought that people are simply cartoon characters.  People take themselves way too seriously, myself included.  However, regardless of this endeavor to make life into a daytime drama, docudrama, and/or epic drama that it actually isn’t and doesn’t have to be, we are often just fumbling, imperfect, colorful, and amusing versions of ourselves to the world.  These attributes, and our interactions with society while being these fumbling, imperfect, colorful, and amusing versions of ourselves transform the world, for me, into one life-sized cartoon.

A few months ago, I sat on the subway, holding my laptop bag on my lap, clad in a sweater vest, tie, and blazer.  The world was in black and white at that moment.  I caught a glimpse of a man sitting across the train sketching on a digital sketchpad.  He scribbled as he observed the characters inhabiting the subway car.  I closed my eyes and rested my head back on the wall.  I fell into my mind, and into the black and white world.  I was peaceful for a moment, and took pride in the subtle polka dots on my tie.  Perhaps my polka dots were what defined me on that day in that black and white world. 

Something prompted me to open my eyes.  The man sketching inconspicuously looked at me.  He moved his attention back to his sketchpad and continued to draw.  He looked back at me.  In a quick glimpse, I could see across the aisle that he was sketching me.  The seats lit up in the orange that they actually were before my very eyes.  The blue pinstripes in my blazer suddenly became illuminated.  I could feel the windsor knot on in my tie fatten up.  The pink in my cheeks  suddenly became rosy circles on a pale canvas.  The cowlicks in my hair suddenly became alive and took their own shape.  I felt invigorated, and my body transformed into pure animation.

In many moments, I am simply an animated version or caricature of the real thing.  In those moments, my thoughts appear in bubbles over my head and I speak in exclamation points.  At other times, I find myself emerging from my secret identity, with a super cape draped over my shoulders.  I look around at these moments, and everything seems animated or surreal.  The colors transform into those bright reds and blues and purples that you only see in a cartoon, and conversations seem like people are speaking in those bubbles that rest over their heads in comic strips.  The heroic triumphs and defeats follow, with the villain being pummeled by the warrior or superhero, depending on the genre at the moment.  In most moments, that cartoon superhero is me. 

As I mentioned at the beginning of this entry, I was reminded of this view that people are often the cartoon versions of themselves on the way to the subway this morning.  As I set journey out my door down the block and a half to the subway, I saw a guy walking down the street in front of me.  It was the beginning of today’s crisp fall day, with only a few weeks or even days before the foliage will begin to animate the world with new oranges and reds in this animated real-life palate.  There I was, walking down the streets of a relatively quiet Brooklyn neighborhood on a moderate fall day, surrounded by brownstones and the idiosyncrasies of NYC life, and walking in front of me was a man in his 30’s carrying a surfboard under one arm and a wetsuit in the other.  He calmly walked to his car, as if this was routine for him.  And, it may just very well be for him to head out to Long Island or some other nearby location on a Tuesday fall morning to catch some waves.  It made me smile that this is how he would spend his morning, when the rest of us on the street were on the way to the subway to head to either work or school.  His surfboard seemed more colorful than anything around.  He seemed out of place, and the blues and reds that made up his wardrobe and that seemed to surround him stuck out from the browns and grays of my neighborhood.  The moment I saw him walking down the street, and immediately the yellows of the day seemed brighter.  As I walked by, I said, “Have fun,” and he smiled and said thanks as he nonchalantly prepared for his adventure.  He was animated, colorful, and amusing with a day full of prospective adventure.  He was my first cartoon character of the day.

While we are attempting to live life too sternly, rigidly, and seriously, we may appear sometimes to the outside world as these cartoon characters, amusingly and unknowingly taking a much smaller place in the world than we think we are.  On the flip side, when we find ways not to take ourselves seriously, we might be able to see our own animation and choose the colors for our cartoon land surroundings.  We can choose our color palate and fill in the dialog bubbles over our heads.  On those feel-good lighthearted days, life can seem like a kid’s cartoon or comic strip.  Then, we might have the occasional comical but adult-natured days, where life seems more like a Simpson’s or Family Guy episode.  Finally, on those more dramatic days, we might be placed in more of the animated epic movie or graphic novel scenario.  There may be drama in life and difficult times, but nothing happens that won’t eventually pass and change.  At the end of every day, there is nothing in life that is not animated.  There are millions and billions of colors and dialog bubbles and amusing scenarios surrounding us and including us, and we are all just cartoon characters among cartoon characters.

Project Focus On The Subway

I sit down to write a story.  Or an essay.  Or a blog entry.  Or a chapter of the book that I may or may not someday actually finish.  I situate myself at my table or desk.  I think for a moment about the sentence that I’m trying to translate from my brain to the keyboard.  I get up to get a drink.  I look around and drink my drink.  I sit back down and re-situate myself at my table or desk.  I write a paragraph, re-read it, and write a bit more.  I re-read it again.  I turn on the TV and flip through the channels.  I find one of the many Law & Order marathons on TV and watch the remainder of the show.  It may be 55 minutes, or it may be three minutes.  The show ends and I turn off the TV.  I get up to go to the bathroom.  I look in the mirror and style my hair appropriately for how I want it to look when I’m alone in my apartment, which is completely the same as I want it to look when I’m outside interacting with society.  I return to my table or desk and sit down. I begin writing again.  I write a couple paragraphs and re-read the entire entry again.  I move a few sentences around.  My phone rings and I answer it.  I talk to whoever is calling for a few minutes.  I then check my text messages and answer a couple that I missed earlier.  Then I check my e-mail and answer the couple of messages that have come in since the last time I checked not too long ago.  One of the messages is an invitation to something.  I check my calendar to see if I’m booked for that day and time.  I add the event into my calendar, and in my calendar notice something else that I need to respond to someone or other about.  I respond.  I get up to get another drink.  I look out the window to see what it’s like outside.  It might be day or it might be night, after all, Law & Order can be found on TV at any time of the day or night.  I look at the clouds in the day sky or the stars or absence of stars in the night sky.  I sit back down to write.  I ponder the next paragraph.  I then continue to do everything I just did, but probably just in a different order.

This is what happens when I try to write in my apartment.  On some days it’s worse, and on some days a bit better.  But nonetheless, I can find dozens of ways to distract myself when I’m trying to write if I’m in my apartment.  Or in a coffee shop.  Or in a library.  Or anywhere that allows me not to focus a thousand different ways.

Then one day I took out my laptop on the subway and began working on a story that I had been writing.  During my 30 minute ride home, I managed to write more than I would’ve during two hours of writing in my apartment.  What was this magical component of the subway that made me more creative than normal?  What was this newfound focus?

After two seconds of deeply pondering this question, it made sense.  I couldn’t distract myself on the subway.  I couldn’t go get a drink, or get up to go to the bathroom, or look out the window at the sky, or talk on the phone, or receive new e-mails, or watch TV (unless I had old reruns of my favorite shows on my computer or iPod).  At most, I could probably get up and walk around, but where exactly would I be able to go?  Even more so is the energy factor.  The subway is probably the greatest social experiment ever created.  The energy and personalities of hundreds of different people surround you in this environment.  However, very few people interact with others during their subway commute.  Each person sits in his/her own imaginary contained unit, not interacting but coexisting.  And I thrive off this energy in the subway, especially when those other people existing in their own imaginary contained units don’t bother me.

I was wowed by this new discovery, and took advantage of this ability to focus.  Now I try to get as much of my writing done on the subway as possible.  And yes, when I have those projects that I need considerable time to focus on, I take a long subway ride.  After all, the F train goes all the way from Coney Island to Jamaica…and don’t think I haven’t ridden it the full round trip before just to get some writing time under my belt.  So, for this newfound ability to focus when writing, I must thank the greatest social experiment in the world, the NYC Subway System, and the millions of us in our imaginary contained units who coexist there every day.  Every day is my “Project Focus On The Subway.”

A Commentary On The Social Validity Of Sweater Vests and Ties

There are certain things that you automatically associate with different people- those facts that are useful when you’re trying to explain to someone who someone else is.  You give a name, and the person you’re talking with has no clue who you’re talking about.  You notice that blank look on their face.  The question mark lights up over their head.  Then, you bring out the qualifier.  “You know, so and so who wears/does such and such all the time.”  Almost immediately, you hear an, “OHHHHHH….I know who you mean!” come out of the person’s mouth.  The statement is riddled with exclamation points, as if that one lone item or activity distinguishes the person from the rest of the world.  This could be Angelina’s indicator having adopted a dozen children, Lindsey Lohan’s being recognized as that skinny actress who turned gay, or as Dennis Rodman as that once-was crazy basketball player with the big dyed hair.  For me, that indicator has become that I’m that girl that often wears a sweater vest and tie.

Sweater vests have a bit a stigma of screaming “nerd”.  One of the sources that I read about sweater vests (yes, I actually read up on the brief history of sweater vests…no comments needed) stated, “Though the sweater vest has seen many various fashion styles, for many, the sweater vest invokes images of a golfer or a high school math teacher.”  However, I’ve heard from a couple sources that sweater vests are back “in” this year.  I can’t recall what sources these were exactly since I don’t actually read up on any fashion trends myself, and because these comments were all just tidbits of trends information passed on by friends who they thought I’d be ecstatic to hear about this fashion breakthrough.  I have to admit, this is good news for me. As anyone who knows me knows, I have a slight obsession (and I’d like to think a healthy one) with sweater vests.  With this fresh news, my love of this sweater vest fashion was justified by trends and top designers saying, “Yes!  You should wear that.”  However, as anyone who knows me also knows, it doesn’t take for sweater vests to be in fashion for them to keep making regular appearances in my wardrobe.

I have at least a dozen sweater vests and have worn them throughout the years several times each week, even when they weren’t “in”.  Although I absolutely love summer, my biggest aversion to it is that many days during the season get too sticky hot for me to try to comfortably pull off even a thin sweater vest over a t-shirt.  Really, though, I often try anyway.  I try to fool nobody by attempting to convince them otherwise.  Then, when fall comes, I become ecstatic that I can then comfortably wear a sweater vest with a button down shirt and tie (though I still try to pull it off a number of times during the summer months, too).  Even better is that, on the crisper of fall days, I even get to compliment the sweater vest with a blazer.  That makes me feel a bit like a five year old on Christmas morning when I haven’t yet uncovered the mystery of what their parents bought them.

This obsession with sweater vests started in my late 20s.  Once I bought my first one, I never stepped back.  These sweater vests have consisted of many varied solid colors with some argyle and striped mixed in to the motley options.  Sweater vests are comfortable and simple.  They can dress up any plain outfit consisting of a button down shirt and slacks.  They are timeless, in that the vintage ones are often just as interesting and fashionable as the ones that have just come out in the newly released lines.  And depending on the style of the sweater vest, like many other pieces of clothing, the look can be studious, hipster, or just plain dorky.  Luckily, all of these are good things.

As I’ve already briefed you on, my sweater vest fashion often consists of a tie.  My love of ties started around the same time as my sweater vest fixation.   You take a plain pair of slacks and a button down.  You first add that sweater vest, which might contribute a new pattern or different color to the outfit.  Then you add the tie, and schizam, you have a completely new look.  The tie works much like the sweater vest does, adding the flavor of another pattern or color to the arrangement.  Much like the sweater vest, as well, the style brings one step closer to designating your style as hipster or nerd.

You may think that a sweater vest and tie combo is simply a sweater vest and tie combo, and that it is impossible to change up the style for different events.  I once thought this, too.  But, alas, aha…these combinations can be quite versatile to reflect personalities and accommodate different occasions.  One (not referring to myself specifically of course) might wear a plain colored button down with a solid color sweater vest and a striped tie for a day event.  Then, this elusive person can then change up their style for a party, still sticking to the sweater vest and tie combo, and wear a black striped shirt, patterned sweater vest, and shiny tie.   This could be you, too.  It’s that easy.

Exhibit A

Exhibit B

I have my array of striped ties, which seem to look like a myriad of discarded prep school ties, along with the classic black and white polka dot and a couple solid colors.  However, after years of getting comfortable with the idea of mixing and matching this array of ties and sweater vests to reflect the mood I was in on any given day, I decided to mix it up.  “Why don’t I try bow ties?” I said to myself.

I have to admit that I love bow ties, and not in that hipster sort of way.  They look as dorky as humanly possible on me, but the look fits.  To make it even dorkier, I can’t tie a bow tie to save my life.  I’ve tried, and the result is a complete and absolute mess of knots.  So to make sure that I can still indulge in my bow tie fixation, I buy the ones that are already tied.  It’s the bow tie equivalent to the clip on tie.  A clip on tie somehow seems against the laws of nature to wear.  I wouldn’t do it.  Ever.  However, I feel that the added complexity of tying a bow tie gives me a free pass to wear the “clip on” version of the bow tie.

David Sedaris said in one of his books, “A bow tie announces to the world that you are no longer capable of getting an erection.”  I discussed this theory with one of my friends, concerned that this newfound love of bow ties to wear with my sweater vests might have some impact on my romantic affairs.  We came to the conclusion that the theory is only true for older men who are going bald and feel the need to do that hair comb over thing to convince the world that they do indeed have more hair than they actually do.  For the rest of us, bowties are completely acceptable, and typically make us seem impotent in no way whatsoever.  Dorky, perhaps.  But not incapable of having sex.  Instead, for most of society, it symbolizes that gray area where cool and dorky overlap just a little, and that the person might actually be comfortable embracing that coolish-dork-dom.   And who am I kidding, even if we had found Sedaris’ theory true, I’d continue to wear bow ties anyway.

I can be found clad in a sweater vest and tie at least a couple days out of any week throughout the year.  Through my love of the sweater vest and tie combination, and recently the bow tie, I embrace my dork-dom.  Even better, I love that the crisp fall air is settling in for the primary reason that the weather will allow me to wear them every day if I so choose.  And, I just might.

Blessed To Get A Swift Quick In The Ass

I grew up a jaded Catholic.  It was in the full tradition of the family having been Catholic for hundreds of years and probably not knowing where else to funnel our faith or time, and in the full fashion of only being semi-religious- those people who practice when necessary and don’t when not. 

After eleven years of the Catholic school experience with strict dress codes, forced confessions, daytime masses that we were only willing to go to because they got us out of class, and being told that the spirit was always with us, I was more than happy to escape the circus when I was able to make that decision.  It had been suggested years later in a half-joking manner by friends that Catholic school may have been the fate of my existence perhaps only after I may have been asked to leave my first elementary school due to my precociously unruly state of being five and six.  And although I did not take it completely seriously and may never know for sure if teaching the class how to write “fuck you” on the board when the teacher was out for ten minutes in first grade was the reason I was “transferred” to Catholic school, I often wondered how I would be different if I had spent those eleven formative years somewhere else. 

For years, the mention of “miracles” and “blessings”, and everything else that appeared to be unexplainable but that I knew was only coincidence or luck, made me either laugh or sneer, depending on the moment.  It was usually that I would laugh when the comment was made to someone else that something was a miracle or blessing, and sneer when the comment was made to me.

I always knew that I and only I controlled my destiny- that no matter what bearing these surroundings had on my immediate state, I could reshape and relearn, and drive myself, both literally and metaphorically, wherever I needed to go.  Somehow, years later when graduating college, I found myself in Japan, which was nowhere close to the path I had planned to be on at that time in my life.  It wasn’t even on the same map.

But that was my decision.  Although I could never decipher why I so easily and swiftly made the decision to move clear across the world to a country that I had never been to before without contemplating it for months or over-analyzing every part of the situation, I knew it was my decision.  I had made this decision.

Since then, there have been hundreds of those decisions that steered my life, some of which I did over-analyze and some that I made without blinking twice.  Then I got a swift kick in the ass, and instead of just opening my eyes to autopilot, actually woke up.  The swift kick in the ass was a hard one- I know because I still have the red mark and had to get the boot surgically removed- with both people close to my heart around me and that omnipresence of existence saying, “Fuck, if you want to be on autopilot, then why bother having any dreams at all? The signs are all there. Just go.” 

I just had never seen most of the signs before.  And even when I did, I laughed at them and told myself they didn’t matter because I was in control of everything anyway.  If I could have been any more wrong, I would have said that there are always 24 usable hours in any day, which was the concept of no downtime that consumed my life to this point.  There was and is a reason for me to be where I am today, and it will probably be different than where I will be tomorrow- but there will still be a reason nonetheless.  I would have never said this a year ago, but I was blessed to get that swift kick in the ass. 

The biggest thing I’ve realized in all of this: The concept of miracles and blessings isn’t even a matter of religion, but instead knowing that things always happen for a reason.  Those wonderful events and life changes, like my swift kick in the ass that I would have sneered at less than a year ago, are the miracles and blessings, and have only to do with my existence in this universe and nothing to do with how many masses I’ve been to this week.

This is where my thought process always faltered, in being so contemptuous about religion and thinking that it was the only thing besides our own choices that could give us direction… which left me with only my own choices.  We make our choices.  But a bigger part is that we see the signs, either choosing to follow them or ignore them.  And yes, with our lives, we may be in the driver’s seat.  But fate is only giving us a student driver car.  We hit the bumps and make the wrong turns, but when we’re about to go head on, it steps in and slams on the brakes, stopping us in our tracks and giving us new directions about where we can go and how to not make that same mistake again.

Reposed from my MySpace blog. Originally posted October 2, 2007.

A Half-Marathon?…Why Would I Ever Do That?…

When I crossed the 10 mile mark last Sunday, I thought I was going to die.  “3.1 more miles,” I said to myself.  “Jesus, I think my legs are going to give out.  There’s no way I can make it.”  The morning sun had started beating down at the 8 mile mark, and not only was I feeling like my legs were going to give out, but I was overheating.  My eyes scanned the upcoming strip for the next water station, but there was not one in sight.

About ten minutes later, I crossed the 11 mile mark, and was feeling the same way.  However, I slightly revised my statement to myself.  “It’s only two more miles.  You can’t give up now.” 

Again, in another ten minutes, give or take a few seconds, I crossed the 12 mile mark.  I had been looking for that marker for, it seemed, the last ten minutes.   “It’s the last mile.  Push it,” I said to myself.   I tried to ignore the fact that my legs were jello and that I believed they could literally collapse from under me. 

Then I finally saw it- the “FINISH” banner marking the end of the race for all to see.  That last one and one-tenth mile seemed like five.  As I ran across the finish line, I pushed with the longest strides that my 5’4” body could pump out.  In mere seconds, I was with the thousands of other race finishers, on the other side of the finish line, being given water, bananas, wet towels, medals, and more water by all the stupendous people working the race.  For 2 hours, 12 minutes , and 8 seconds, I had been on the journey to this spot.  I was in a state of ecstatic delirium as I made it to the lawn where I would meet my friends, who had also conquered those 13.1 miles. 

waiting to start the VA Beach half marathon

That half marathon in Virginia Beach is only the second one I’ve ever run.  My first was the Brooklyn Half Marathon in May of this year.  I trained rigorously for that one, and knew the course well.  After all, the first six miles of the race were done in one of the most wonderful places in the world, Prospect Park, which I very fortunately live less than two blocks from and just happens to be the place that I did the majority of my Brooklyn Half Marathon training. 

In running my first half marathon earlier this year, I had no clue what to expect.  The only time I was ever a competing runner was for one spring season in high school, and the most I raced at any given time was two miles.  For spring track competitions, the two mile race is considered a distance race.  However, in this time training for the Brooklyn Half Marathon, the first two miles had merely become a warm-up. 

I’ve run several shorter races, but the half marathon was a completely different game.  In my first half marathon, I found I had to pace myself a lot better.  It wasn’t a matter of racing to the four mile finish line, but instead of pacing myself through several of those.  Knowing when to breathe.  Knowing when to slow down.  Knowing when I pull over and get cup of water.  Knowing when to re-energize with gel.  Knowing when to stay in stride with the running crowd.  Knowing when to weave through the chaotic mass of other runners.  And, finally, knowing that, although the finish line is probably going to take a while to get to, it will eventually come, and that it’s just a matter of endurance and the belief that it will come in order to get there. 

Never did I think I would become a “runner”, let alone attempt running a half-marathon, or even two.  Aside from my four month stint as a member of the high school track team, up until the last two years, I only ran to train for other sports.  Soccer and crew were typically the sports that required us to run distance as a regular part of training.  However, at that point “distance” was defined as three or four miles, and not 13.1.

Running those two half-marathons were not appealing only because of the achievement of finishing an actual races, but because they have been relaxing.  Okay, I admit that there are points during the race when my body feels like it’s going to fall apart or I think the race just isn’t going to finish.  This often happens at miles 10 and 11, as I told you about earlier.  However, the process of pacing throughout the race, breathing throughout the race, and even training for the race is all very relaxing and helps to, well, keep life at a low stress level.

Despite possible jello legs and two to four miles of delirium, I look forward to running that next half-marathon and someday, even a marathon.

Perspective

I admit I’ve been in a bad mood lately.  It has been a self-sabotage sandwich of my ego wedged in between anger and self-pity.  Since it has been self-sabotage, I admit that I’ve done little to nothing to help the situation at all.  Call others and talk about it?  No thanks.  Treat myself to something unusual that might make me smile?  Uhm, no.  Listen to the advice of my good friends that might actually be helpful?  Haha.  Whatever.  Write a gratitude list?  Definitely not.

I walked to the subway this morning in the rain.  It was another gloomy and rainy day in NYC, which was not unusual for a long period of time earlier this year.  I have a strong aversion to umbrellas.  I find that they just end up hitting each other on the street, which annoys me more than simply getting wet.  So, I often opt to wear a hoodie, or instead, just get wet.

The subway was unrecognizably quiet and somewhat empty for 8:15am.  I found a seat almost immediately, and put my internal temper tantrum on pause for a few minutes.

When I got out of the subway, that same mood was still in the air.  Everything seemed somber and quiet, and the gloominess of the day hung overhead.  I stopped at the little store downstairs in my office building to grab my usual morning cup of coffee.  Then I made it upstairs, after what seemed like forever since I had gotten off the subway.  I sat down at my desk, plugged my laptop into the docking station, and looked out the window onto Fifth Avenue while my computer booted up.  Everything was still. 

Then it hit me. It’s 9/11.

At that minute, the rainy setting of the day and the quiet mood of the city made sense.  I was catapulted back to eight years ago when I was visiting my cousin in LA on that day, and was woken up by her husband.  “A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center…” he said calmly but in a frightened tone as he opened my bedroom door to wake me up.  I woke up startled, and made my way out to the living room where they were watching everything on TV.

For the next minutes and hours, I watched from thousands of miles away as my loved ones here, along with millions of strangers, lived through it only miles, or even feet, away from where the tragedy was actually happening. 

I dialed and dialed.  There was no getting a call into New York City.  I resiliently tried and tried again.  I finally got through and found out that the couple of people who I knew who could possibly be at the World Trade Center were not there that day.  That in itself was a miracle.  But I felt helpless.  I was helpless.  I just had to be patient and pray for everyone in New York, whether I loved them or not, and whether I knew them or not.

The visuals on TV told the story at the time, and we would learn thousands of more stories about families that had lost loved ones in coming days, weeks, months, and even years.  During that time, New York City came together like I hadn’t seen before in my brief time since I had moved here in February 2001.  We came together without effort.  Sincerity and respect for each other shone through peoples’ actions, even when strangers only interacted for a couple brief moments.  And I truly believe that sincerity and respect continues in New York City.  We have bonded through our mutual understanding, emotion, and remembrance of our common experience, and for the love of this city and each other.  We lost together, and have learned and grown together.

When it hit me that it is the anniversary of 9/11 today, I knew that my self-sabotage was exactly that.  I knew at that moment that it would be pure selfishness not to feel gratitude for the life I have.  I live in the most intriguing and wonderful city in the world.  I try to live an honest and loving life, and though I don’t always succeed, try to do my best to admit when I wrong others.  I’ve been truly in love, which I know is something that not everyone is blessed to experience.  I’m thankfully healthy, and even if I wasn’t, I know that there would be several people to support me, and even to take care of me if I needed it.  I work in a warm and open company with people that I greatly enjoy.  I have a love for creativity that allows me to explore life in new lights all the time.  I’ve traveled to dozens of places around the world, and hope to have the rest of the globe covered in my lifetime.  I’ve been able to say, “I love you” to many people- family, friends, and partners- and have meant it.  I have lived through instances of near death, and gotten a new chance in life.  And, I am grateful for all of it, and every moment to come.

I thank today to putting life into perspective.

Chasing Spirituality

Somebody told me the other day that I need to be more spiritual.  At that moment, this thought ran through my mind…Is it just to get what I want that I need to be more spiritual? Or is it that I need to become more spiritual just to be?

Then the selfish kid in me took over.  “I’m here anyway, so it must be that I need to be more spiritual only to get what I want.”

 Ha ha. Ha ha. What a laugh.  Mistake 1.

Who wouldn’t want to be happy?  It’s the obvious, like asking who’s buried in Grant’s Tomb.

Everyone wants happiness, but you sometimes find yourself wandering around in a dark room searching for the light switch, chasing happiness like an addiction to get some when you need it, and only to be disappointed when it’s not delivered.  And, god forbid it is delivered, then you’re disappointed when it wears off because, after all, external happiness is only temporary.

Happiness is not tangible and cannot be defined by an equation, and because it can’t be quantified, is a scary concept- at least for me.  Throughout my entire life, I thought happiness could be quantified.  Do well in school- you and your parents are happy.  Go to a good college- you and your parents are happy.  Get a good job- you and your parents are happy.  Get a nice girlfriend- you and your parents are happy.  Yes, these things can help to make you happy, but an alarming truth hit me like a ton of bricks- they’re all external, and no matter how much you work on happiness on the outside, if you don’t work on the inside, there’s no foundation to maintain the happiness.  Living on shaky ground, my friend, is what that is, and wow, I’ve done a lot of that.  So working on the inside, huh?

The alarm clock went off in my hotel room Tuesday morning, and the wake-up call followed only a minute or two later.  I finally opened my eyes and caught a glimpse of the sunlight reaching into my room.  The space around me was completely illuminated. What a beautiful day.  But that moment passed in a nanosecond when the sea of anger and resentment that I woke up in took me over in an instant.  The sunlight didn’t matter.  The potential beauty of everything that could happen in this day didn’t matter.  The only thing that mattered was that I was disappointed and dismayed, feeling mad and wronged.  And at that instant, I made the unconscious decision to be miserable.

It took me only a matter of an hour or two to realize that this is what I had done- resigned myself to being miserable and to hold on to all my resentments and anger towards those friends and strangers who I thought wronged me.  What a way to spend a day.

So I prayed and prayed for this to pass, and to be able to let go of this resentment and anger.  After all, they’re only feelings, and will eventually change.  Eventually, the heaviness of these feelings lifted, and although there was still some residual pain, I was able to get on with the day and focus on the now.

Anyone who has ever heard me talk about praying has heard just as many times about my past skepticism towards prayer.  I grew up Catholic in an environment where prayer wasn’t taught or advocated as a spiritual act for the preservation and betterment of you and your own soul that you do as a part of the relationship between you and your own higher power, but instead a tradition that you would be punished for, both in this life and in the afterlife, if you didn’t do.  So, you just did it.  But when nobody told me anymore that I needed to do it, I didn’t.  Why would I continue doing something that reminded me of only fear, after all? 

But I recently started praying again, only for me and my soul.  This was much to my surprise, and even moreso when I added meditation to the practice.  I’ve never liked doing things that you can’t measure the outcome of, and prayer and meditation are certainly two of those things.  There’s no way to quantify the outcome, you just need to have faith.  This was a sorely uncomfortable issue for me at first.  I told myself for a long time- I can pray and pray, but it could be a day, years, or never until those prayers are answered.  And, I can meditate and meditate to listen to the universe and center myself, but it may never work.  Instead, I should just take control and get things done myself instead of relying on something that may or may not exist.

Wow. Mistake 2.

I’ve realized in this recent grown-up life that not only are the universe and everything in it, except for my own actions, completely out of my control, but also that they have always been.  My perceptions were just different, and skewed, and lead me down a very controlling, non-spiritual path.  Realizing this has been both heart wrenching, and very enlightening.  But, through the realization of all of this, staying centered has been important.  I know that something out there, the higher power in control of everything, is helping me with this- in very mysterious ways.  Or, rather, I need to have faith that it is.  And funny enough, I always thought that I was a very balanced person, because I seemed “balanced” on the outside and I knew what I wanted and needed.

Scary enough, Mistake 3. 

I prayed for something a couple weeks ago, something very dear to my heart.  This is something that had been in my prayers since I’ve started praying again after my years on hiatus.  Well, that higher power out there may have responded to my prayers, but not in any way that I would’ve wanted or realized was possible.  It was almost the complete opposite of what I wanted to happen.  I told one of my friends about what had happened.”It’s absolutely not what I asked for,” I said.  “Funny, maybe it’s the long path to getting what I need, in a really fucked up way.”  She laughed and said, “Yeah, you need to be really specific when you pray.  But even if you ask for something specific, god has the right to veto.”  True, very true.  And the outcome of all of this absolutely sucks in the meantime, but if I don’t have faith that it’s happening for a reason, then this journey may be a lesson not only not learned, but also lost.

As for becoming more spiritual, I thought I had this all figured out, but now know that I know absolutely nothing.  So, I looked it up: “Spiritual- of, relating to, consisting of, or affecting the spirit.”  Okay, so….

So I guess that leaves it up to me to find a way to become more spiritual.  Being balanced will be a necessity for me to achieve internal happiness, and this can only come through spirituality.  I would dare to guess that praying, and from my heart, not my mind, is only the first step.  Other things are plans to start this journey: meditation- learning more about, running- do a lot of again, reading- need to do a lot more of.  Just the thought of all these things relaxes me. Even if my heart is on board with the process, I need to get all the other parts of me there, too.

My fear is don’t want to chase spirituality like I have happiness in the past, but instead achieve it.  Working on balancing myself and becoming more spiritual will be harder every day that I uncover another layer of me- of everything that comprises my body, mind, heart, and soul. And, living life this way will undoubtedly be a lot harder in the immediate now than it was living day by day according to the external factors around me like before.  But, as for long-term happiness, and for me living life on life’s terms for me, it will be worth it. 

Recycled from my MySpace blog. Originally posted April 3, 2008.

Then It Hit Me That I Was In The South

We got up on Saturday morning in that wonderful house that we rented for the holiday weekend and immediately began the effort to start the coffee in our half-conscious states.  Coffee maker- check.  Coffee- check.  Coffee filters- where the hell were the coffee filters?   Just imagine two relatively short women searching high and low for the mysteriously absent coffee filters.  No cupboard was left untouched, whether we were on our knees or on a stepstool to check.  Still, the coffee filters were nowhere to be found.  This was a crisis.

The two of us slipped into our flip flops and hopped in the car to drive the mile and change down the road to the corner store.  We walked into the corner store, which could’ve just been as appropriately titled a “general store”, and where nobody seemed to be in much of a hurry to find anything.  I wandered for a few feet until I noticed the coffee pots on a table to the side.  I poured myself a large cup.  I searched around for the skim milk, but settled for the half-and-half, which was the only thing that was available. Then, I stopped.  I looked around the table for the sugar, and stood there in a moment of complete confusion.   Then, I heard a friendly voice softly say to me, “You lookin’ for the sugar, sugar?”  I looked up, and the older woman with curly blonde hair pointed the container of sugar packets out to me.  It was at that moment that it hit me that I was in the south.

I don’t remember being called “sugar” at all in recent years.  “Dude” is one that comes up once in a while.  “Ma’am” might be my temporary title in customer service situations, with the occasional “sir” thrown in there.  But, sugar? 

In that moment of my discombobulated efforts to put my coffee together, I became a complete girl.  I smiled at the woman as she pointed out the container of sugar packets, and said “thank you”.  Inside, I think I may have even giggled a little.  After all, here I was, in a tank top and shorts with short hair and a baseball cap on, and she called me “sugar”.  I loved it.

The next couple days during our stay in Virginia Beach brought many other instances of this gentle kindness.  It also brought many instances of moving slowly through lines, as it seemed that the world outside of New York City, and any other east coast metropolis, chooses not to live their lives at the rate of moving quickly enough through every day as to ensure the possibility of a heart attack at a young age.  It also brought a predominance of pastels, especially pink, into the every day scenery.  In upstate New York where I grew up, and where people also choose not to live their lives at “heart attack” rate, my elders and peers never dressed in the traditional New York City black, or even grays.  There were colors incorporated into their, and into my (at that point in my life), wardrobes.  Rarely were these widespread colors pastels, however, and certainly not pink.  However, during our brief visit to Virginia Beach, it seemed that many of the local women were clad in pink, and often the younger ones also wearing bows.  This was a strange and interesting phenomenon to me.  Why all the pink?  At one point, I stopped questioning when I realized: It makes sense for pink to be such a significant color in a place where you might actually be referred to as “sugar”.  It just fits.

This morning when I went to get my morning coffee, the feeling of it all just wasn’t the same as the guy handed me my coffee and told me I owed him a buck fifty.  I was dressed in my New York City black dress pants and a sweater vest, and he had a black t-shirt on.  No pink. No calling me “sugar”.  Back to New York City.

In Search Of The Perfect Hair Product

I love my family.  I love my friends.  I love (most of) the surprises that each day has to offer.  And, I love my hair.

When I finally got my hair cut short a year and a half ago, I finally felt like myself.  I had been trapped under longer hair since I was twelve, and was wary for much of my life to revert to a short cut because I might look like the ten year old boy that I looked like when I was a ten year old girl.  But, once the weight of my very, very thick long-ish hair was gone, I finally felt like I was actually myself, and not covered, cloaked, or masked in any way.

me at 10

With short hair comes maintenance.  I love my hair, and I love styling it much more so than I ever did any other time in my life.  For this love of my hair and the styling process, I’ve been in search of the perfect hair product.

I have asked other short-haired friends, “What’s the perfect hair product?”  I’ve gotten the answer a couple times that it doesn’t exist, and that you actually need to mix products to get the perfect effect on thick, short hair to get it to sculpt properly, and at the same time, not have it be too shiny or goopy. 

I thought I had found the perfect hair product.  I had tried various kinds of more expensive brands, and they either didn’t hold my thick hair in place well enough or made it look too shiny.  Then, I thought I had found the perfect product, appropriately called Moose Head.  It’s thick enough to let me do anything I want to my hair without making it look wet.  However, as I was playing dodgeball outside in the rain last weekend, with tons of Moose Head in my hair, I was slightly disgusted as the white watered down hair product ran down my face, and then, at one point, also dripped onto my chest.  This was not the fault of the hair product itself, but instead my own fault for using way too much, and assuming that any hair product would be effective in the rain.  However, it was enough to make me begin another search for a more effective hair product, that holds my hair, doesn’t make it shiny, and doesn’t run down in white goops down my face when it gets wet.

now

My reservation is that I might be searching for something that doesn’t exist- perfection in something to externally make me feel good.  Like so many other things, it’s a metaphor for the highs and lows, challenges and rewards, of living life.  Do we continually and actively search for that perfect place to live, perfect opportunities, perfect girlfriend, and perfect life?  Or, do we just let life happen and trust that we’ll stumble upon everything we need?

The concept of “I’ll get what I need” might be a little too existential for the simple question of “What’s the perfect hair product?”.  I mean, after all, it’s only hair product.  My world isn’t going to end, or even be in distress, if I never find it.  But, the reality is that this “perfect” thing might not exist.  I might need to change it up once in a while when a certain hair product no longer works or looks good.  Or, I might even need to use a mix once in a while.  The most important thing in all of this- I can keep on searching for that perfect element to help me enjoy and love my hair that much more, but in the meantime, I’ll make do with what I have.

Adult Dodgeball…It’s Everywhere

The deeper into “adulthood” I get, the more I seem to have an urge to take out aggression and play games like I did when I was younger, like by sliding in the mud and getting as dirty as possible, playing an impromptu game of kickball on some random open space on a park lawn, or going to a dodgeball tournament and having that excuse to get pelted with the same type of rubber ball that we did in third grade, having to dodge that same rubber ball, and even better, having ample opportunity to pelt others with that little rubber ball.

Adult dodgeball leagues are popping up all over the place.  In NYC alone there are several, including Downtown Dodgeball (http://downtowndodgeball.com/) and the LGBT league, Big Apple Dodgeball (http://bigappledodgeball.com/).  Weekend tournaments also seem to be happening all over the place.  I went to one this past weekend on Fire Island called Diva Dodgeball (http://www.divaontheshore.com/).  Ten teams.  Twelve people on each team.  Seven minute halves.  And double elimination.  It’s kill or be killed, just like in third grade on the schoolyard, except instead, we’re adults and it’s on sand. 

The movie “Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story” (http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0364725/), written and directed by one of my college classmates, Rawson Thurber, came out in 2004 and seemed to brilliantly and successfully reintroduce the concept of adult dodgeball into U.S. pop culture.  Now, the thought of adults playing dodgeball is not completely asinine.  It’s a little out of the ordinary, since dodgeball is not the type of sport that the typical adult would think about signing up for to get back into shape or meeting new people.  But, a bunch of overgrown kids throwing rubber balls at each other is not an asinine concept.  In fact, more than anything, it’s liberating to play a sport that is not as mainstream in our society as soccer or basketball, and that allows us to go back and do something that we’ve really only done before as kids.

I grew up playing soccer, basketball, and softball.  Later in college, I did crew and played ice hockey.  Then, when I had my three year stint living in Japan, I joined volleyball and tennis clubs.  Never did I ever think I would ever play organized dodgeball as an adult.  I never considered it, probably primarily because I didn’t know it was an option.  However, discovering dodgeball as an adult is a treat because of its difference from more “structured” sports.  Dodgeball is, in a way, organized chaos, and pumps adrenaline through your body the entire time.  In seconds, you get someone out by pelting them with the ball, then end up dodging a ball, and only moments later might even find yourself standing on the sidelines after getting hit hard in the face or neck.  Within another couple seconds, a point is scored or someone on your team catches a ball, and you’re back on that sand court doing the same thing over again. 

diva dodgeball- fire island 2009

I think the allure of adult dodgeball is that we have an excuse and an opportunity to be kids again, back on that playground, but instead with other adults.  This means…the balls get thrown harder and we need to dodge quicker.  It also means that we get a bit more competitive on the sand than we did as kids on the playground.  And, yes, it does get very competitive.  Some teams go to socialize and have a good time.  Other teams practice ahead of time and go to win.  It is a kill or be killed situation, but with a sense of being able to say to yourself, “Hey, whatever happens, it’s only dodgeball.”

Dodgeball is still the same as it was when we were kids, but as adults, everything is bigger, faster, amplified.  It’s all part of the “big people” world we live in now.  But, if there’s an excuse to play a innocent sport comprised of a few small rubber balls and organized chaos to give us an excuse to act like kids with dozens of other adults, even for a day, why not take the opportunity.