GIGI GOES GAGA

TEN YEARS AGO

It was 10 years ago this month that my ex-husband and I decided to divorce. Our marriage lasted five years, and I've been married to my (second) husband for about six-and-a-half years now. The numbers don't really mean anything because it seems as though the passage of time has always depended on how much I paid attention to it. Those five years, let me tell you, were the longest period of my life. I'm sure my ex felt the same.

But going back to those days and weeks a decade ago. For a while there I was walking around in a daze; I can't describe it still, it was like being trapped in fog with zero visibility and trying to find my way to the clear with numb hands. Despite this being my decision, one I initiated with so much clarity and finality, I was so hopelessly lost after the fact. I don't think anyone really intends to get divorced, much less make plans for it the way you would prepare for your own passing, even if both are about death in a way. Or at least the end of a life as you know it.

I remember one afternoon lying in bed in our guest room as I often did then, staring outside the window at the pool, at the ceiling, and at the hallway just outside the door that divided us now. The phone rang and it was my friend Eleanor. Well, she and I knew each other because we had mutual friends, but we'd never really exchanged confidences or even had dinner out together, the way friends normally do. But she called me anyway because our friend Meg asked her to. El had gone through her own painful divorce a few years before and was doing great now, and our friend thought she might be able to put me on solid footing. As my friends know, I tend to withdraw into myself when I probably need them the most; I've just never learned how to ask for help.

The details of our conversation are hazy now, but I remember thinking immediately afterwards: I can do this -- even if she didn't candy-coat anything at all. She gave me the stark truth of the fight I was in for, but more importantly she gave me strength and hope. All the doubts I still harbored started to fade away, and certainly the guilt along with it. After we hung up, I got out of bed. I bought a few books regarding getting a divorce in California and started looking around for a lawyer to draw up the paperwork.

My ex-husband and I never did fight during our divorce proceedings. I was done fighting by then and all I wanted was my peace; my guess is that he felt the same, too. So I finally got my peace, which I've had for the last 10 years, the fastest-flying 10 years that I've ever known.

DOWNSIZING

I don't know anyone who hasn't been hit by these tough economic times. Of course, I don't know any insanely rich people who probably have no idea on how much they spend on groceries monthly or what they actually pay the gardeners (though part of me figures they must be affected somehow, too).

In my household, we've made adjustments to our lifestyle because we've had to. Fortunately years ago we decided not to buy a larger house when interest rates were absurdly low. Part of the reason we didn't, however, had to do with sheer laziness (and maybe a bit of luck). My husband didn't want to deal with endless, continuous waiting lists to even try to buy a house; I was too lazy to work on a household budget so we could handle increased mortgage payments. There was no motivation to push ourselves to have more: we were spending less for a home of our own than what apartment rentals were going for, and little enough so that we were secure in our knowledge that we could well afford it. Anyway, with only two persons and a cat who's usually rolled up in a ball fast asleep all day, we figured we didn't really need a lot of space. We were happy just having enough.

But with increased prices of -- well -- everything these days, and with so many people losing their jobs here, it does feel like things are crashing down around us and we're feeling a bit frightened, or at least not as secure. We've had to redefine what we used to think was enough; now we're trying to live with as little as we can and I have this nagging sense that we're going to keep finding out how little we actually need.

For instance, my husband and I carpool every day. We discuss what we need to do for the week and see if we can arrange our schedules so we can do as little driving as possible. We walk to the grocery store at night when we only have a few things to pick up. We cook more and eat out less. When we do eat out, it has to be at a restaurant where we know the food is better than we can make it at home and where the prices won't make our teeth hurt. Our planned kitchen renovation has been put on indefinite hold, but also because everything in it is working anyway. We have only basic cable -- no HBO or Showtime, and especially not TFC because there were only two shows I watched regularly anyway. I'm also trying to grow more edibles in my garden -- which takes up time I'd otherwise spend on watching television.

Despite all the clearance sales in stores and online, I've resisted shopping (though I did buy just a couple of items from Bobbi Brown's and Nars' Fall 2008 makeup collections. Baby steps, peeples!). I'm finding more things in my closet to fall in love with again so I don't have to love something new. Before I actually buy anything, I first try to talk myself out of it. I've only had one facial this year and my weekly manicures are every three weeks now. I'm fast becoming a stranger to my hairstylist and my eyebrows have become much bushier (thank heavens it's actually the trend these days). My skincare products no longer look so pretty inside my medicine cabinet and can be found in any major drugstore (even my local health food store); the best weapons I have against aging now are sun protection, moisturizer, more sleep, and lots of water.

I haven't used a cleaning service in ages; I've had to figure out how to find time to keep things sparkling around here. I no longer pay for a fitness trainer -- I have to push myself to move now and try not to accept my own excuses. I rarely go to the dry cleaners anymore; I wear mostly washable clothing these days and with what can't be immersed in water I've learned how to keep clean and fresh for much longer.

Many of the changes we've made will most likely remain permanent even after we feel financially secure again because we realize they were better choices to begin with. Having to make do with less has only made me realize what is actually essential -- which is always a good thing to learn, even if one can afford all the luxuries in life. And not having almost everything I want has only made me appreciate what I do already have so much more.

My friend Cathy emailed me a collection of funny "Only in the Philippines" images and one of them -- while awfully cheesy -- just gave me a new perspective on the more basic lifestyle I'm trying to get used to now.

 

Since I'm hardly miserable and definitely surrounded by love, I'm smiling for sure. Pissed off at the people who let things get this bad, but smiling. And especially so after I cast my vote this November, and when these folks are finally gone. Like I say, there's always something better to look forward to.

TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT

I was just chatting with a girlfriend I haven't seen in years, about those days when we were still in our '20s and did all sorts of things we couldn't ever imagine doing now.

Like the New Year's evening we spent partying at her house -- or rather, her brother's house, where she lived at the time. His wife had so many relatives over that my friend got kicked out of her own room and we had to spend the night in the bathroom. I swear I don't remember any of this, but it's possible I've blocked the memory from my brain. What I do remember, however, is the time this group of guys from UC Berkeley showed up at my apartment looking for a place to stay for the weekend. They were in LA for a student conference, I think, and one of the guys knew were I lived. I didn't know the rest of them, but I let them bunk for the night anyway -- and yes, one of them had to sleep in my bathtub. I'd still bump into a few of these guys occasionally years later and when people would ask how we knew each other, the guys just loved to say, "I spent the night with Gigi the first time I met her." Great.

My friend will never forget the time that she and another girlfriend of ours were trapped in that same apartment of mine while my boyfriend and I were breaking up outside in the living room. He was crying, I was crying, and for some strange reason we went back and forth over all the reasons we couldn't be together -- for the entire afternoon! They seriously had planned to jump outside from my bedroom window -- but both decided to keep their bones intact and stay indoors until they no longer heard any sounds of despair. I, on the other hand, will always remember the time she and I had started dating these two guys and after spending the entire day together we ended up, again, at her brother's place. It was really late at night, too late for anyone to drive home, and because the house was overrun by family once more we froze our asses off inside her garage, underneath blankets, but not really minding the cold. OK, maybe just a bit; it really was quite cold.

Nowadays we'd simply get hotel rooms instead of being so cramped in such small (and undesirable) spaces -- and I would never ever spend the good part of my day breaking up with a boyfriend of just one month.But like I asked her tonight: why is it that things that felt so awful then just seem so much fun now? Ah, but that's the best part of being young, broke, and stupid, 'no?

NURSING THE KITTY

My cat, Boo, had kidney surgery this past Wednesday. About a month ago, we came home to find her frighteningly lethargic, with no energy to eat or drink. She also had bloody diarrhea, and was so miserable she didn't want to be touched. When I kept fussing over her out of worry, she got upset and promptly peed on the bed. We rushed her to the hospital; she was confined immediately to make sure she didn't get any worse. They did all kinds of tests, gave her meds, and a few days after we brought her home to heal, we had to take her back because we were clearly losing her.

Without getting into painfully long details, we were told she needed surgery. We scheduled it immediately -- and then had to cancel because she'd caught an upper respiratory infection. More tests, more meds, and more healing time than usual. Then the surgery this week... but now she's finally home.

Three thousand dollars later, my baby's now doing fine (although she resents having to wear this soft cone around her head, which keeps her from getting at her stitches). My husband and I -- well, we're eating in more and spending less. I'd planned to meet up with my friends up in San Francisco this weekend but decided I couldn't afford it, even if I'd found cheap airfare.

So I was talking to my husband about how I planned to add more money into the household kitty. I'm going to sell more of my stuff on eBay, maybe even on Craig's List. No facials or massages this month, and manicures only every other week (and maybe even fewer than that). I'm buying my skincare at the drugstore, and I'll have to forget about shopping all the summer sales (sob!). And as I calculated the savings in my head, I realized all my efforts still might not be enough.

I turned to my husband, sadly. "I think I'm going to have to sell my body. What do you think?"

He looked at me in protest, obviously he didn't think it was a good idea. "Honey," he began, "But we really have a LOT of bills..."

Bastard. There's another word for kitty that he's not getting anytime soon.

SECOND CHANCES

If you've been visiting this blog long enough you'd know that I believe in second chances; in fact I believe that it's never over until it's really over, when you're no longer around to keep trying. While you live, you've got possibilities. Sure, they might be different from the ones you had when you were younger, but they exist nonetheless.

Another thing I know is that we should never let someone else's fears dictate how we lead our lives, even if that person is only full of good intentions. It's hard enough to conquer our own fears and move past them, but because we can't control someone else's trepidations, it seems only foolish to let theirs control us instead.

I remember a long time ago when dad advised me against having one "too many" boyfriends or even dating "too much". He said girls who did were doomed to become old maids because no man worth marrying would ever want to marry them. I didn't listen to my father, obviously, especially because he used the detestable phrase "old maid". And not only did I get married to a good man, but I did so twice.

Now while I don't think that this is what my dad hoped for either, my point is that I didn't allow his fears to become mine. Besides, what's too many? What's too much? As far as my dating history is concerned I will use the answer Andie McDowell's character gave Hugh Grant's in Four Weddings and a Funeral: "Less than Madonna, more than Princess Di -- I hope." (Note: she was referring to the princess' stats before she married the prince, not afterwards. I hope.)

I know that some folks think that because my friend got divorced then she's failed -- even if she tried so very hard to make her marriage work but chose to get out of a humiliating situation that would have eventually destroyed her. I'm also aware that there may be those who think she should now simply concentrate only on being a mother and deny other aspects of herself. Her children, by the way, are clearly my friend's main priority -- but I don't think they should be her only one (and thankfully, neither does she). Because what would her becoming invisible then teach them about the value of their own lives? And when the day comes that they no longer need her, would that mean that she has nothing left to live for?

Life isn't simple, it's true. Consequences rarely work out according to strict "If....then" terms we've worked out in our heads. What's worked for me might not work for you, there just isn't a sure-fire formula for anything. The only thing we know for sure -- that I know for sure -- is that if we keep trying, we'll keep failing. But we'll also learn how to fail less and succeed more. The only thing we need to fear is fear itself. Especially fears that aren't even yours but someone else's.

The third thing I know for sure is that a chance is something you make, not just take. If you sit around idly waiting for a do-over, it may really be over for you instead. So go find them, they're there, even if they might not look the same as you remembered. Who knows, maybe they're better? You certainly won't know until you try. Or try again.

PHONE-Y

I went to Santa Ana to take my US citizenship test today. The good news is I passed. The bad news still bothers me on so many different levels, I'm still processing.

My husband and I agreed that he would drop me off and then chill out at the nearest Barnes & Noble; this way we wouldn't have to deal with finding parking at the Civic Center Plaza and then also have to pay for it. So I got out of the car, climbed up the steps of the building, went inside, and stopped at the security check.

"Do you have a cellphone?" the guard asked. I had a bad feeling about what was going to happen next but because I'm a lousy liar I replied yes. He asked to see it.

"This has a camera so you can't bring it inside," he said. "You're going to have to go back to your car and leave it there." Flabbergasted, I waved my appointment letter and protested, "But it doesn't say anywhere here that we can't bring those in here." (Besides, the only reason I have a camera built into my phone is because most happen to come that way these days. I don't even use it.)

"Oh yes it does," he argued with me -- and then pointed to a small sign in front of where he stood. "No, not there," I replied back, "It's not here in the letter with all the other instructions. And I didn't drive here so I have nowhere to leave this." He shrugged his shoulders, "There's nothing I can do. Maybe you can go to the Starbucks across the street and see if they'll hold it for you."

I went back outside and phoned my husband to turn around. Minutes later, as he swung around the corner, I threw my phone into the open window and he drove off. That was the easy part.

When I was done at the Immigration office, I went to look for a pay phone. Another guard informed me that there were none anywhere in the building: "They removed them because they weren't making any money." He suggested I try the other buildings.

So I did. I walked around and found out that pay phones are apparently obsolete. Someone suggested that maybe the jail nearby would have a phone. No freakin' way, I thought; there's a reason I've been a law-abiding citizen my entire life -- so I wouldn't ever have to go to jail, you know? But I considered the suggestion and realized it was perhaps worth a try. Before making the trek, I decided to check my wallet and discovered I had no cash or coins on me. I'd have to seriously beg.

Defeated, exhausted, and with blisters on both my feet, I walked across to the Starbucks. They have this renewed pledge to excellent customer service supposedly (all stores even closed early one Friday a few weeks ago just so all employees could undergo training) and I figured perhaps they would help me.

I approached a helpful-looking girl behind the counter and kindly asked if I could borrow their phone for 30 seconds. I explained the story: I just had to make a quick local call to tell my husband to pick me up. I don't have my cellphone because I wasn't allowed entry into the Immigration building with it. There are no pay phones around and, even if there were, I have no change anyway. She shook her head, "Nope, sorry. We don't allow customers to use our phone." So much for her customer service training. As well as for the idiot who taught her that exceptions to the no-use-phone rule can't ever be made, at least just to help a customer in real need.

At this point I realized that possibly the worst place to have an emergency in Southern California is within the Civic Center Plaza area in Santa Ana -- home to various local, state, and federal government buildings, by the way. Apparently folks around here assume everyone drives a car and carries a cellphone. And politicians wonder when the people complain that they're so out of touch with the rest of the world.

I dragged my painful feet into the building where -- that coffee shop -- was located in and walked towards the guard/concierge standing in the middle of the lobby. I asked him if there was a phone I could use anywhere in the building. I explained my situation, knowing it wasn't going to do me any good anyway.

He paused for a second, pulled out his cellphone and handed it to me. I punched in my husband's digits and prayed it would ring. I heard his voice and sighed, "Please come get me" and hung up immediately.  I looked at the kind owner of the phone I'd just borrowed. "Salamat po," I said in deep gratitude.

"Ay Pilipina ka pala!" he said. And he smiled as if to say, "it was no problem."

Today I was approved for US citizenship and the only person who bothered to help me was a fellow Filipino. Somewhere in here is another story, perhaps another bit of bad news -- but definitely a bit of good, too.

EXPECTING THE EX

The gal who was processing my return at Saks today was young and cute. Makeup in place, hair nicely styled, outfit quietly hip. So it surprised me when one of her co-workers walked by and commented after greeting her chirpily, "Oh -- and you look good today!" As if looking good was more of an exception rather than the rule for this young, cute thing.

She must have sensed my invisible raised eyebrow because, without looking up at me from the register, she explained, "My ex's new girlfriend was in here yesterday and I looked really awful. You know, it was early in the morning, the day after Christmas..."

"Ahh," I think I gave a sigh of relief. "And I was beginning to think people were pretty catty around here."

Cute, young thing giggled. "So now I will NEVER look terrible. You just never know who's going to see you when you look your absolute worst."

Oh I know this too well, trust me. My first boyfriend, the one my life once revolved around, who cheated on me until I finally caught him (actually, a mutual friend confessed out of guilt), has seen me only twice since he married someone else -- and both times I wished the floor would fall underneath me, and then me through the gaping hole left behind. For some inexplicable reason -- karma not being it, I'm certain -- he walked into the store I happened to be working at when I had scheduled myself to reorganize the stockroom. Both days, by the way, were almost a decade apart since he lives thousands of miles away and so he can't possibly think that my appearance each time was merely a fluke.

On both days that this guy who once broke my heart saw me, I was in full grunge mode: no makeup, hair pulled away from my face, and completely covered in sweat, dust, and grime. Not the way you'd wish to look when you want an ex to see you and then regret ever losing you. Especially when you know that if he arrived on any other day you would have been dressed in a sharp black skirt suit, heels, and matte lipstick (Victoria's Secret circa 1990) or in trendy, feminine bohemian chic (Anthropologie, 1999).

So now I'm thinking and panicking: stockroom-ready is how I look practically every day at work now. Sometimes I'm tempted to wear a platform wedge or cropped cashmere cardigan just to update my severely utilitarian look but neither would survive an hour into my workday. Simply put, the only way I could go from work straight to a party is to change my entire outfit in the car en route. Despite what all the fashion magazines suggest, simply slipping on a pair of sexy heels or changing purses to switch from a Day to Evening look would only make me appear like I got caught between time zones.

Which is why I'm half-expecting my ex to show up any day now. But this time I think I'll be ready. My bestfriend Rosanna always says that when you give folks a wide, bright, happy smile when you enter a room, they're too dazzled to notice anything else. Well, I'll be smiling at him so widely, brightly, and happily that he'll either be too distracted to notice how I look -- or think I just really love doing stockwork. But either way it goes, he'll probably notice that I'm happy without him.

(And, yes, I was being catty just now.)

X LIFE

I don't like getting on rollercoaster rides. You won't find me bungee-jumping, hang gliding, skydiving, spelunking -- not even camping. It's not likely I'll ever go whitewater rafting in Costa Rica or attempt to climb Mt. Everest (let's be more realistic here: I won't even endure the eight-hour hike up Mt. Whitney, which is much closer). I'm actually tickled pink that there's a popular dive instructor in the Philippines who shares my exact name; somehow I can imagine that out there is an alternative version of myself experiencing amazing adventures in the deep.

But every few years I turn my life around, completely topsy-turvy, and jump without a safety net. It's not the adrenalin rush that propels me for sure; it's not even about the stories I can tell later. I can't say I've had an exciting life, but I've taken quite a few chances (some calculated, some completely blind).

I moved to Los Angeles, leaving a well-loved boyfriend behind, simply because I knew I needed to grow up. I stayed here even after my student visa had expired (thus risking deportation), unable to go home for eight continuous years as a result, because I was still learning so much and didn't want to stall my momentum. I got married, had a beautiful home and a secure financial future guaranteed -- and then left it because the marriage itself wasn't working. On the day I left him I had no job and nothing of my own; on the day I signed the divorce papers I hadn't asked him for any financial support or for any portion of what we'd accumulated during the time we were together. All I wanted was my life back. And I got it.

Five years later I left a career I'd built up steadily (albeit in spurts and stops) for 10 years because I no longer felt that I was growing or getting better. And two weeks ago I quit my job, no longer have income or health insurance, simply because I'm not willing to live so unhappily, so consistently stressed out and frustrated, when I'm perfectly capable of having the life I want. Yes, and deserve, too.

Here's the thing: I have this one life. This is IT for me, as far as I'm concerned. I can listen to everyone else and live according to convention or expectations set by others or I can trust my own instincts and pay attention to what my own spirit needs instead. I make too many mistakes and missteps, for sure, but I'm always mindful that I don't drag anyone else down with me. It's always my fall to get up from, while others are left still standing.

I have to keep trying and failing and trying again to get my life right. So at the end of it all -- whenever that might be -- I can look back and know it was all good. That where I ended was so far from where it all began, and that in between I loved and was loved deeply. That I learned, I grew, I evolved, I changed.

I lived.

ALONE AGAIN, NATURALLY

I've been sleeping alone for three weeks now, living completely alone for most of the time. It's like I'm single again, but with a striking difference: I'm not. So while I've been in solitary mode for the longest continuous period since the time I actually lived by myself, I can't say I truly know what it's like to be a single woman at my age. But I can say I now remember what it's like to be alone -- again.

I've been eating cereal every day because it just seems to be too much effort to cook for one. I tried ordering out once and then I realized that portions here in America really are too large -- I always end up with leftovers, which I may or may not eat the next day, and I hate having to throw food out. So this week I spent more on cat food than on my own meals. Really, I did. Now I know why I'm always so much skinnier when I'm single. I used to think it was because of an impetus to stay "marketable" but the real reason is I just don't bother to feed myself.

Right now my books and magazines are piled high on my bed to my right; on any given night they're usually on the floor to my left. I think I'm just not used to a blank space being there so I fill it up to make me feel more enveloped when I turn off the lights. Of course, now my cat Boo has reclaimed her former sleeping spot -- the one my husband took over when we moved in together. I don't think she'll take too kindly to giving it up again, but I'll let those two duke it out when he gets back.

I can spend far too much time at work when I live alone, even if this means I end up at work all by myself because most everyone else has already gone for the day. I have a peculiar sense of time, which is only heightened when I don't have to coordinate with another (normal) person's schedule. I tend to sleep way past midnight (almost at dawn, really) and my stomach rumbles only occasionally, but at all the inappropriate times. In my life, no one has ever had to mesh with my internal timeclock; I've had to mesh with someone else's because no one can possibly live as I do.

When I'm alone my mind goes on overdrive. I already think too much, but I find that when I'm not talking to someone I have long, deep conversations with myself instead. It can be a good thing (great opportunity for self-discovery) or a bad thing (I can self-destruct a relationship). But it can also be fun (I can think lots of naughty thoughts -- and then act on them impulsively).

A friend of mine asked me a few days ago how I can stand being alone for so long. She belongs to a household of six. I wonder how she can stand being with so many, having to bump into people at every turn (not to mention sharing the bathroom). I'm certain there are days, however, that we would rather be in each other's shoes. But not today, I'm still quite enjoying the solitude.

I'm enjoying it until my husband finally comes home and feeds me, remembers to turn on the alarm at night before bed, gases up the cars, reminds me when my favorite TV shows are on, grooms the cat, and does his funny dance when I look too serious. When I get again to enjoy the life for two that we share.

But at least I know that I can still live alone if I have to. Not that I want to. But I can.

THANKS, STRANGER

I'm not the sort who loses her things easily, yet I tend to not buy anything I'd only be too afraid to misplace. I also don't like things that scream "DESIGNER!" and I shy away from all things logo'd (although my friend Mia has a pair of Prada sunglasses that I found myself coveting for an entire evening. I didn't have to ask her who made them, though).

I was at Kohl's this past Sunday to check out their new shipment of Simply Vera and decided to try on a few things in the fitting room. I had my sunglasses hooked on the front of my shirt and took them off so I could do the same with my top. When I was done, I slung three pieces over my left arm, hung my purse over my right shoulder and stepped out. I walked around the store for a bit and then paid for my purchase.

When I got back to my car I opened my purse to get my sunglasses out of the case -- and they were gone, nowhere to be found. I ran back to the fitting room I was at, asked the attendant if anyone had seen my glasses or turned them in. No luck. I then bolted to the Customer Service desk and inquired if the folks there had received anything within the last half-hour. Nope, they replied. I ran to every fitting room on the floor, just in case I had forgotten which one I was at. The store was nearly closing and there was no sign of them anywhere.

My shoulders slumped and barely able to breathe, I headed back towards the store exit in a daze. I thought about my glasses and how much I'd paid for them, thinking about how I couldn't possibly replace them because of my now-depleted budget (and for heavens sake, they were still new!). I thought about how no one would turn them in and how it would be too tempting to keep them instead, even if there was nothing obviously marked to indicate how much they were worth. They were extremely lightweight due to the titanium frame; they were cute and they were the perfect pair I swore to wear daily for at least the next five years when I paid for them. Still I told myself: this ought to teach you not to buy anything so expensive and then be so careless. I was still berating myself inside my head as I passed the check-out counter and saw the girl who had rung me up. I looked at her and waited until she was done with a customer. Why not, I told myself, it can't hurt to ask.

"Hi there," I greeted her with a half-smile, "By any chance did someone turn in a pair of sunglasses about half an hour ago?"

She walked over to the register, picked up a familiar-looking object, and handed it to me. "An Indian lady turned this in not too long ago," she said. "She said someone had left this in the fitting room she was in." I thanked her profusely and asked her to also thank the kind stranger for me if she saw her again. "You have no idea how absolutely relieved and happy I am," I told her, and she looked pleased, as if she had done something good for the day (which she had).

I took a quick look around the store to find an Indian lady to thank and even nearly stopped a car that was leaving the parking lot because I thought the driver might be my Good Samaritan. I laughed at myself because finding an Indian lady in Irvine is almost just as easy and often as finding a Filipina in West Covina: one look in any direction and there you go, another one. I decided to cancel my pursuit because I might just scare or offend the wrong person, put my glasses on and said a fervent "thank you" again to no one in particular, hoping my hero would somehow feel the warmth of my gratitude.

I realized two things -- again. One, that there are still people who manage to do the right thing even if it's not easy or convenient. And, two, I should never buy anything that I'm too afraid to lose. Unless, of course, I'm willing to pay complete attention to where it is at all times. And how many things are worth the hassle, really?