GIGI GOES GAGA

KILLING THE PEACE

I need to confess something deeply shameful right now.

I killed a peace lily -- a plant generally considered one of the easiest to keep alive. A peace lily will tell you when it's thirsty -- its leaves will droop -- and will revive quickly once you water it. It doesn't need a lot of light to thrive and you don't need to feed it much. So my plant seemed happy where it stood, alert and proud, getting fuller each month, and occasionally displaying white flowers whenever it demanded to be noticed.

But then I got complacent -- and I don't mean benign neglect on my part. I got downright cocky. I decided that I'd let a pretty glass watering globe take care of my plant's watering needs so I wouldn't have to check on it as often.  Then one day it wasn't looking as perky; soon its leaves turned yellow and I realized what I'd done, but it was too late. Riddled with guilt -- or more likely, blinded by pride -- I thought that a late dose of attention and care would reverse the damage done. But I had to call it: death by drowning.

I remembered my early attempts at gardening. Even my friend Stacy was stunned: "How'd you kill rosemary?" I'd killed lavender, too, and even mint. My father, in his sweet attempt to reassure and encourage me, told me there was no such thing as a brown (or black) thumb; all it took was practice. So I kept at it, in spite of each failure, until I turned my tiny backyard with the poorest soil, scorched by the blistering rays of Southern California sunlight and Santa Ana winds, into an oasis. In the spring, spending afternoons outdoors was like being in my own Disney movie; birds came to nest, butterflies flitted about, and even the neighborhood cats climbed in to nap (much to my own cat's consternation).

So now I live in the suburbs of Seattle in a tiny apartment with a balcony. I've spent the past two years creating a potted garden, where I can sit outside and pretend that I'm not only steps away from a busy freeway. Although tending to a garden is a work in perpetual progress, I've also turned my verdant eye indoors, where there is more square footage to fill with plants. The thing I quickly forgot, however, is that each one has its own sun and water requirements, which vary according to the seasons. I started paying more attention to my new family of succulents, which in the past I've had no success with, and gave my "easy care" plants no care at all. 

My poor peace lily gave up its life for me to notice that when you care for living things, you must pay attention. Always.

I've said repeatedly in this little blog of mine that gardening has taught me life's most important lessons. How to be patient, how being in the right place can help us grow, and why perseverance brings the best chance of success. But here's one of the most basic lessons of all: never take anything or anyone for granted. We may think that there are those who will always be here, the most loyal and steadfast people in our lives. But if we forget that they also require a bit of care, that their needs can vary with their circumstances in life, we may one day discover that they are no longer around as the bright spots in our life. Or us, in theirs.

At least once a week, I stick my finger inside the soil of each pot to check if it needs watering. Once a month or so I feed those that require it. The rest of the time, I enjoy being surrounded by all this beauty. So little to give for so much in return. We all thrive with just a bit of constant time and care.

 

 

LOVE IN THE STARS

On the drive home one late night recently, I peeked out sideways and up at the stars. The sky was clear and calm, almost eerily so; the lights were brilliantly bright, like a beacon calling me home.

I thought about another night similar to this one, almost 25 years ago. Then, my heart was bursting with so much love and joy and happiness, and possibly other feelings too overwhelming to describe or name to this day. I looked up then and (please pardon the cliché) I thanked my lucky stars and heaven above them. I was in love, the way one loves when one is so young, and the man I loved sat beside me, driving me home safely.

He and I had been friends despite our relatively large age difference, and during what was possibly the most trying year of his life we exchanged letters regularly until he finally returned home. I admired his optimism, his ability to overcome and triumph over every difficult situation, his complete belief  that he could -- and would -- achieve anything he set out to reach. For a while there he was at the top of his game and then almost overnight he lost it all. He told me then, " It's only money. I made it before, I'll make it again." And he did, at least as far as I knew.

It seemed that almost as quickly as we became a couple (he casually asked me out for a movie, I said yes, he gave me a kiss on the mouth when he dropped me off at my door, I stared at him in shock and then felt my heart jump), it was over. The details are complicated but ultimately unimportant; on the night of his birthday, after the few very happy months we spent together, he cried over terrible news he had received that day. I told him what he needed now was a friend, not a girlfriend, and I broke up with him because I loved him so. I was devastated, and then when I discovered he wasn't quite as honest with me I felt betrayed. It was like climbing the highest mountain and celebrating at the peak only for a split second before being hurled off just so you couldn't enjoy victory long enough to remember it. When I look back I realize it was the very last time I fell in love that way, the way you do when you're young and hopeful, and love feels like everything in the world, the only thing you need.

I bumped into him once more since then, and then never again. We were at a birthday dinner, and we were now both married to other people. He took my arm and escorted me to the buffet table. He wanted to make sure I was okay, he said. Through the years I'd hear about him, about the business he started, about how he had a son now, but not much more than that.

And then just over a year ago I heard he had cancer, stage four. It started out in his lungs and then moved up to his brain. I got his address and wrote him immediately. After nearly a lifetime of silence between us I wanted to let him know that I was still rooting for him. I really was, you know; I truly believed this man would fight and win like he always had.

He wrote back to thank me, to say he was surprised and grateful for my support, and that he was doing better and expected to recover. He then texted me a couple of times over the holiday season just to greet me and wish me well. And then...silence, again.

I heard the cancer came back with a vengeance, and that he fought back with everything he had -- drugs, chemo, radiation. But today he's in bed at home, often tired and medicated, and that on some days he doesn't recognize anyone, not even family. There's still that part tucked inside of me that believes he'll pull off a miracle, but now all I do is pray that he's at peace, that he's comfortable and not feeling pain.

So the other night when I looked up at the stars, I remembered that blip in time when I thought he'd always be by my side despite knowing fully well all the reasons why he wouldn't, couldn't, be. I looked up and saw the stars' beacon lights, and said a prayer that they would guide him home safely when it's time for him to go.

It occurred to me then, as it did to me just now: love might not be everything, it's not the only thing we ever need, but at the end of our life we're grateful we had it at all.

 

DEAR DAD

Hi dad,

I lost you exactly one year ago, although I remember all the details of that awful day like it was only yesterday. I remember how much you hated having that tube down your throat, the way it looked like you were trying to chew it away, and how you swatted at my hand as if to say, "get this thing out of me!" You were ready to go that final morning I saw you, although I sensed that you already were months before, even before you got sick. You always sounded happy to hear my voice when I called, but I knew you were ready even then. Some things a daughter just knows, especially a daughter who is so much like her father.

I remember still how quickly it all happened, how fast my sisters and I ran upstairs from the coffee shop when the nurse phoned to say you were crashing. I remember how we got to your room and it felt like only a second had passed when the doctor slowly shook her head sadly, to let us know you were gone. I will never forget how T and I cried and hugged each other so, so tight, as if to keep our hearts from falling out of our chests and tumbling to the floor, splattering like mud.

I don't think I will ever forget watching from a corner while the two nurses cleaned you up and swaddled you ever so gently. You looked so tiny, dad; it's amazing how small someone larger than life can look when all the life has been drained out of him. I don't know why I can remember following them through the halls, down the elevator, along the quiet, hidden caverns of the hospital that only the dead and their handlers make their way through; I was in a quiet, numbing daze as my brain kept screaming. When they placed you on that metal bed inside the cold chamber I wanted to shout, wait! I wanted to throw a thick blanket over you; I know how much you hate the chill, how it makes your bones hurt.

Once in a while I think about my last words to you that morning, when your eyes were closed as you were trying to get some rest. I wonder if I said enough, if I told you all that I wanted to say. I think I covered the basics: I love you, I forgive you, I thank you, I love you, I'm letting you go now. I made you a final promise, which I kept and will keep my entire life, I know it gave you a bit of peace you needed. What I didn't get to tell you then is that I needed to keep it, too, not just for you but for me also.

It's both funny and sad that we learn so much more about our loved ones only after they're gone. I wanted to hear everyone's stories about you, but I also discovered parts of you from all the things you chose to keep. It's as if you felt that throwing them away would have been like discarding different pieces of you. Some of what I found, I admit, were painful; some even made me angry. What I wasn't ready to find was that all these parts and pieces I found in myself, too. I spent a lifetime trying to find answers about you, when all I had to do was look deep inside myself. I was like you, too.

But you knew that already. You used to say that to me even when I was little, when I didn't understand what you were trying to say. I think I finally understood when you told me the reason you didn't want me seeing this one stupid boy was because I was as sensitive as you were and you knew I'd get hurt. But it wasn't until you passed away that I discovered I was also just like you when I'd get hurt: I'd push back, as if to make the pain go far away, when all I truly wanted was to pull that person toward me and find peace from forgiveness and reconciliation. But now I understand why it was that you seemed to be able to forgive so readily, and yet at other times hold a lasting grudge. It all depended on what the other was willing to do.

Oh dad, if only you knew what I'd give to have just one more time to talk with you at the dinner table, after the plates had been cleared away, and no one else was listening. I probably would still say I love you, I forgive you, I thank you, I love you. You have given me everything I need to go through this world and find my place within it, and I am OK now.

But I don't know if I'll ever truly be ready to let you go. I miss every little thing about you every single day, and I cling to objects and memories, anything that reminds me of you. Even our occasional fights, that were always huge and dramatic, and utterly teleserye-worthy -- but only because when we made up I felt we loved each other more. When our love for someone transcends anger and hurt we find forgiveness and eventual peace.

My love for you gives me so much peace, dad. And for this reason I know it will always be the purest kind of love I will ever know. I hope that wherever you are now, you are smiling. In my mind no one smiles quite like you do.

 

 

MOTHER

I phoned my mother to greet her for Mother's Day. She no longer speaks; she grunts, no doubt because she's highly sedated from the pain medication. My sister S, who sat by her side, asked her gently, "Mom, are you listening? You're not talking again."

This is a difficult post to write, simply because I struggle with the tears that seem to be stronger than I am these days. I try not to cry, afraid that if I do I won't stop, that I'll break down completely. Instead I cry when I watch videos of cute animals who are unlikely best friends, I cry when one of The Voice contestants has a "moment." I cry when good and bad things happen to other people, even when they're only characters in a movie or television sitcom. My tears are like little earthquakes that appear unexpectedly and often, if only to ease the pressure building up from The Big One that threatens to blow.

My mother is a force of nature herself. She's never been one to follow societal conventions although she's keenly, painfully aware of them. As I've gotten older I've discovered the push-and-pull dynamic that frequently tore at her from the inside, the kind that has also characterized the kind of relationship I've had with her my entire life. She's never been the nurturing kind of parent who held me close, who said she missed me when I was gone or uttered "I love you" at the end of every phone conversation. Yet she gave me everything she had. She would give me more if she still could.

In one of mom's final email messages to me from late last year, she was filled with regret. She said she was aware that she wasn't the kind of warm, nurturing mother I probably would have wanted, but that was only because she didn't know how to be that person, that her own mother wasn't that way with her either. She wondered if working so hard alienated her from her children, and if sending me so far away for college was the right thing to do because we were now so far apart.

My mother's words broke my heart, even if I already knew what they were before she said them. Mom and I have had sporadic conversations like this before. She once confided to me that she probably would have been better off had she never married so that she could have traveled more and had the kind of adventures she could only dream of. Then she paused, looked at me, and said, "But of course then I wouldn't have had all of you. I don't regret my children." Push and pull indeed.

Mom didn't have to explain her words; I understood that her generation of women didn't have the choices mine do, and that even today we still have to deal with the consequences of those we do have. My mother wanted a career, she wanted a family. About a decade ago she was eased out of the last position she held, perhaps because of her age, and she wondered about the costs of everything.

My mother recently told my best friend that I am strong. If I am, it's only because she was, too. Everything she did in her life helped make me who I am, and I thank her for it. When people talk about a mother's sacrifices, we don't ever know half of it, I'm certain.

With my mother's ear to the phone I told her I loved her and I thanked her for everything she's ever done for me. I didn't mention that it wasn't just for the food on the table or the house I grew up in, the good schools I attended or all the opportunities I was ever given. I'm grateful that I had a mother who was her own person. She taught me, through her example, that becoming what other people think we should be is the worst betrayal of ourselves -- despite the costs. She never gave in, even now as she is slowly giving up on life itself. And what a life it has been. Hers, completely.

As my mother lies on her bed, often asleep, I lay awake trying not to cry over her. I fight with my tears as hard as mom and I once fought. In the end, I will make peace with them as I have with her. In the meantime here's what I wish my mother knew: I wish she knew that whenever things get really rough, whenever I don't know if I'm as tough as what I need to deal with, the first thing I think of -- the first thing that has always come to mind and that always will -- is that I wish my mother was here with me.

 

 

 

 

A GOOD MAN

I married a good man, a decent man, a funny man. After more than a decade since we first met, he's still that same kind of man. But we're no longer married.

We now live on nearly opposite sides of the world, living wholly different lives than the one big life we had together. But we communicate still, at least once in a while. Nearly two years since we split up, there are still things we need to discuss, things that connect and bind us. When we talk there's still the same warmth and concern in our voices; we still want to know that the other is doing just fine. I miss his family; he still asks about mine.

Two years ago we decided we weren't going to discuss our marriage with other people. "It just didn't work out, but we're okay," is what we decided to say. Only our closest friends might know a few more details, but even they were stunned to discover we had ended things for good. There was never any drama, no back-and-forths, no test separations. We kept details of our married life close to the chest, even when we were husband and wife. We decided at the start that we were going to treat each other with respect and value each other's reputations. That didn't end when we did.

Looking back I know what I could have done better, of course. I don't know if I could have tried any harder then -- remember that I'm writing this through the dubious benefit of hindsight (it can lead to tremendous guilt for things we did as we were before, not as we are now). Then was then, and I was I. Then. But I do know what I could do better now as I move forward in my life. And I am trying to do, to be, better.

Someone asked me if I regretted anything, all those 10-plus years. Never, not even when it got really, really, really hard. We went through tremendous difficulties together and just didn't make it through to the other side the same way. Now I'm not one to believe that fate is inescapable, but I do believe he and I were meant to meet and build a life together. I wouldn't be the person I am today if it hadn't been for him. Believe me when I say that I like who I am today, much more than I've ever liked myself in any other time of my life.

There are people who would argue that we're fools for giving up, that marriage is something you keep together unless there's abuse, cruelty, and deceit. And even some folks would say despite all that, too. I have young friends who wonder how two people who have so much love and affection for each other can't possibly make it work. All I can tell them is that it just shows how much work is involved in a marriage. I'm not saying it's not worth it, I'm only saying that marriage goes way beyond romance, lust -- even friendship.

Our circumstances are still difficult. We each face challenges we didn't think we'd have to deal with at this stage of our lives. But I know for sure I wouldn't still be standing if I never had spent all that time with him. In the end, that's the gift I have: the certainty that even when I fail, I've also succeeded somehow. Nothing is ever for nothing.

I once married a good man, a decent man, a funny man. A man who still asks if there's anything I need, who delivers on his promises, and who makes me laugh. In his way, in our way, I also became a better woman. That is all.

 

 

 

VALENTINE'S DAY 2013

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, I decided to ask my true love for what I wanted most: a can of Elnett hairspray. Forget a box of chocolates and overpriced roses; I much prefer a large bag of Maltesers and a bouquet of daisies anyway. He then looked at me in awed silence, waiting for the punchline -- and then it came: Oh, and I have a $3 off coupon you can use when you buy it, 'k?

The thought of Valentine's Day makes me nervous even if I had decided a while back that it was a"holiday" created purely for commercial purposes. It's a day fraught with overhyped promises and impossible expectations; after all, how can anyone possibly prove the depth and breadth of one's love in one day?

Restaurants are unfailingly overbooked, which makes intimate conversation difficult at best -- that is, if you do manage to get a reservation. Then once there your only option is to order the prix fixe menu, comprised of items you'd probably not put together if you had a choice and that would cost less if you had them on any other day.

I've worked retail for so long that I know only too well the face of a man (or woman) who needs to buy a last-minute Valentine's Day gift. It doesn't matter where I worked at the time, the look of panic is the same whether it was at Victoria's Secret or at Trader Joe's (PS: flowers at TJ's often cost less than what you can get at the flower market). I always try to say something like, "You did good here" or "Great gift!" to try to assuage the nerves of the poor, crazed soul.

Despite the number of February 14s that have passed by in my life, I still do remember the days when I dreamed of having someone to spend Valentine's Day with. When I was 14, for instance, my bestfriend and I decided to give each other flowers just so we wouldn't feel so left out. Before the big day came, however, a cute boy swept her off her feet and handed her a nice, big bouquet to boot. I got nuthin'. But that all changed the following year, and since then there have been only a handful of Valentine's days I spent on my own.

I have this nagging suspicion that Valentine's Day really happens at the office -- when deliveries from the nearby flower shop start streaming in and the much-awaited call from the receptionist arrives. "There's something here for you downstairs," the sweet voice says, with a teasing punctuation at the end. By the early afternoon a stroll around the office resembles a trip to a wedding chapel or a funeral parlor (however you choose to see it). Even the receptionist has a floral arrangement sitting on the front desk, so large that you can't see her beaming face.

One year I told my (now ex-)husband that I didn't want any flowers from him. "Don't bother," I said. "Let's save the money for dinner out this weekend or something." On that Valentine's Day, as a result, my desk was one of the few unadorned. I felt like that kid in school who happens to be celebrating her birthday with a couple of others in class -- but I'm the only one whose mom didn't bring a cake or cupcakes for everyone. I decided then and there that V-Day is not so much about showing your love best, it's about showing your love ALSO.

In fact, I already know that on that day my Facebook newsfeed will be strewn with photos of gorgeous bouquets, thanks to joyful status updates by friends. After all, in this age of social media, does something really happen if it's not shared with everyone else? That being said, I may just be tempted to post a picture of my new can of hairspray. It won't be as pretty, but that's okay: I'll have more than just a can full of air to celebrate this faux holiday. I'll also have the one with the sheepish grin, presenting the newspaper coupon at the drugstore check-out counter, trying to make his girl very happy this year.

 

TO GIGI AT 16

Dear Me,

I know how absolutely terrified you are to be in college now, at school with boys for the first time in your life and surrounded by people who seem to do better at everything than you are capable of.

Try to keep this in mind: they are as frightened as you are. Even the ones who look so confident and self-assured and talk as if they know everything -- underneath the surface they are wondering why it looks so easy for everyone else when they're struggling just to keep up.

I was reading your diary, full of despair about your writing ability. You are a better writer than you think, more insightful for an annoying teenager than I gave you credit for, but you're so full of self-doubt and fear of mediocrity that it paralyzes you. I hope this brings you some measure of comfort: one day, during one of the darkest periods of your life, you will find your voice. It will come out of nowhere. One afternoon you will find yourself typing out a four-page newsletter to your family and closest friends to let them know how you're coping. It will be full of humor you didn't know you still had. And mom will worry that you're going insane because no one could possibly have a laugh while losing it all. But you can.

I don't want to reveal what's in store for you these next 30 years and spoil the surprise. All your decisions and actions, no matter how wise or foolish they prove to be, will make you the woman you become, and so you need to go through them. What I can tell you is that nothing will happen for you the way you think they will. There will be times when you think you just might break, but let me assure you that you are unbreakable. Have faith that the road you are on is the right one, even when you think you've lost your way.

Your handful of close friends right now will be with you when you need them the most, so keep them. You can also look forward to forging a few very special friendships in college; these will help bring out the best in you and change your life for the better. In fact all your life you will choose your friends wisely. None of them will ever lead you astray.

Lastly, you will find love and lose it and find it again. I know, I know...you want this one to be the first and last you will ever have. But you'll get to stand at this exact spot where I stand now and realize with joy that in your life you loved so deeply -- and that you were loved exactly the same way.

Love,

Me

PS: Okay, I cannot resist. One day you will end up in the emergency room for acute bronchitis and will be asked to do a favor the next day. Don't do it.

 

 

 

17 OF 30: HUSBANDS AND WIVES (A PROLOGUE, OF SORTS)

My friends and I were talking about husbands and wives the other night. About husbands cheating on their wives and wives cheating on their husbands. About why they do it, about the male code of silence when a buddy is cheating on his wife (they don't tell their wives, who may just tell the wronged wife), about women having affairs with their friends' husbands (an egregious violation of sisterhood!), whether or not mistresses have it so good, why anyone would cheat on a "perfect" spouse, and how you would know if your spouse is cheating on you (according to my mom: "You just know").

Enough topics to fill a week's worth of blog posts (wait -- well, that's an idea!) but I need more than 15 minutes to say what I want to say about any one of them, and unfortunately that's all I have tonight.

So I'll say this for now. Sometimes we think we know the full story, that we know who the villains and the victims are because one left the other and that should be clear enough. But we have to be especially careful not to judge, and especially not to vilify, because somewhere in the middle of black and white exist thousands of shades of gray. As the old adage goes, there's his version and her version and then there's the truth.

The only thing we know for sure is that the truth hurts.

MEN AND WOMEN: FRIENDS ONLY?

I have a girlfriend who can't name all the men she's slept with. She can remember vividly, however, a handful from early on as well as the few who came along the last couple of years (she's slowed down her pace considerably). But all the others in the middle -- more than 50 men, she reckons, although she's not quite sure of the exact number -- are nameless; some are even faceless to her now.

"How can you forget their names?" I demanded. "Not even a first name?" She shook her head.

"Haven't you ever slept with anyone you didn't know?" It was her turn to ask me a question. I shook my head this time.

"Oh yeah," she muttered. "You only hook up with friends."

I leaned back, eyes widened...and then my shoulders dropped. I had nothing to say. Except.

"I'm afraid of cooties," I said cooly. "And with guys you don't know, well, you just don't know."

After When Harry Met Sally hit the theaters in 1989, it seemed like everyone was asking the same question: can men and women just be friends? Harry didn't think so; he said the sex always got in the way. Sally disagreed -- and then fell in the sack with him during a terribly vulnerable moment. And just when it seemed that the friendship was ruined for good, they got back together when they realized they loved each other, and we all knew that Harry was right after all. At least in the movie.

What screenwriter Nora Ephron didn't get to say is that sometimes, sex doesn't so much get in the way but is along the way between two friends. It doesn't have to be a zero-sum game, where you can be only friends or lovers, and it doesn't always mean that just because a line has been crossed that you can't shuffle your feet backward across the line again. Of course, nothing's ever quite the same as it once was but I say that if the friendship was strong enough in the first place then it will survive the forward-and-back crossing eventually, if both wish it so.

That being said, I still believe that men and women can enjoy close friendships without ever crossing the line. Sure, in my life there were times I've had to hold up a bright red stop sign when a randy friend had tried to send a few signals of his own, but more often than not many of my guyfriends considered me just one of the guys (albeit nicer smelling and with soft towels and better furniture).

The other day I conducted my own (most-unscientific) survey on Facebook: I asked my friends who were online whether or not they thought men and women can remain just friends. All of them said yes; many with the caveat, though, "it depends."

My friend J, who is both a guy's guy and a girl's guy, said succinctly, "Of course men and women can be friends." He added that throughout his life many of his close friends were female and there wasn't any sex involved, only "the pleasure of hanging out together." My girlfriend M concurred, explaining that one of her best friends is a guy she's known since 8th grade: "We tell each other our secrets and troubles and get the opposite sex's point of view. We also have the same humor and tons of inside jokes... tons of history there!"

My sister J, who will never call a spade anything but, said it's possible -- but only if there's no sexual attraction between the two. Which was echoed by my friend A, who explained that once she gets closer to a guyfriend it's difficult not to become attracted to him. Thus, she maintains close friendships with men who are not her type physically or who aren't her ideal in any other way.

I also asked the same question to a couple of guys who had crossed the line from friend to lover in my life at some point. G, who has always had several female friends, had an interesting point of view: he said that once someone gets married, the extent of how close a friendship one can maintain with someone of the opposite sex depends on one's spouse, even when the marital bond is strong. And when you factor in demands of work and home, he added, the friendship invariably grows distant.

Which echoes what one of my best college guyfriends S explained to me more than a decade ago when I asked him why he didn't call me like he used to: "I don't think your husband would like it if I did." And after he himself had gotten married and had children, we never talked on the phone again.

I'm not sure what to make of R's response to my question: "I think so, we were friends first, right? Friendship only makes the love affair sweeter later on." Which is lovely to think about, but doesn't quite address whether men and women can be friends only.

And yet, his reply touches on why I've often chosen to get involved with men I was already friends with -- and sometimes, really good friends -- to begin with. You cut down the time it gets to know each other, there are usually no unpleasant surprises to deal with, and there's a high level of trust established. And what if it doesn't work out?

In my experience, at least, I become the one they talk to when they enter into their next relationship. After all, I can call them out on their shit before their new girlfriend does. Which makes perfect sense if you think of it -- because no one else knows what the women in their lives have to put up with quite like I do. And why waste a perfectly good friendship?

 

 

15 OF 30: PARDON THE DELAY

I started to write about men and women being "just" friends and found myself sitting at my desk for a bit, ruminating on my history regarding this topic. I suppose I can blame it on withering brain cells, but I find it more difficult to pluck the past from my head these days. I decided to dig into my blog archives and look for posts I've written about my past relationships and love affairs (or so to speak). And after the second or third I was amazed at all the little details I''ve already forgotten by now. I'm also quite surprised that I'd revealed so much, actually. But that's just the way this blog has evolved -- as I have -- these past eight years.

So excuse me if tonight's post will have to be tomorrow's; for now I can't stop reading. Normally I don't go back and reread what I've posted, and I certainly don't go back that far (with 570 posts and counting, it's no easy task anyway). But it's like picking one of my old diaries and seeing myself through the lens of my younger self. Since the time I posted these stories I've actually met up with some of the men I wrote about, with varied though definitely interesting results overall.

Maybe there's a book somewhere here, but I don't know if the "me" today can still say so much. Or maybe I just did.

 

14 OF 30: NEVER TOO LATE

The youngest in our family arrived only a year and three months after I came into this world. We could have been virtually twins -- except for the fact that we were nothing alike. We even looked nothing alike. While I was among the tallest in my class, large-boned, and plump, T was tiny, frail, and so thin that mom feared she had tuberculosis (she didn't). Growing up, I was such the chatterbox that I generally received low marks for Conduct (lowest was for PE); my one appearance at the principal's office was for talking in class. My sister, on the other hand, was so shy that during her only trip to the principal's office, for her admissions interview, she wouldn't say a word. Alarmed, mom had me pulled out of my first-grade class to sit beside my sister and encourage her to talk, or at least to answer questions.

My head was always buried in books; T's was lifted toward the stars. My childhood career goal was to be a writer and she wanted to be an astronomer. At 18 I left my family to study college abroad, while T remained home to finish her studies.  I transferred from school to school, switching majors a few times, collecting a couple of degrees along the way. She started and finished at the same university, and then went on to another to get her master's degree.

I swept through a tornado of relationships for a few years, many lasting no more than a few months; she can count her boyfriends on less than one hand. I've been through two marriages in 18 years, both ending quietly and civilly, thankfully, as I refuse to fight with anyone I've ever been in love with. And T, who bore impertinent questions and unkind comments about her single status for the same two decades, is getting married for the first time. And though it was somewhat unexpected for us, I knew instinctively that it was not a rash decision on her part. As with everything my sister does, it was made only after careful thought and a healthy dose of caution, even if it appeared to happen so soon.

If there's anything I've learned about this latest development it's that we've got to be true to ourselves and proceed at our own pace. Which is difficult to do when you've got so many supposedly well-meaning people imposing their own expectations on you, based on nothing about you and everything about themselves.

My sister and I found love in completely different ways, just as different as we are. I would argue with anyone who would judge whose path was the better one; both of us were simply being true to ourselves, making decisions we felt we had to make based on the risks we were comfortable taking.

It's never too late to find the love of your life -- whether it's someone or something, incidentally -- which my good friend M can also attest to. A couple of years ago, at the age of 45, she married a man who had a high school crush on her from afar and who still cherishes her to this day. Just as my sister had told me recently, M also said that she knew she'd met "the one" and, at her age, what was the point of waiting when you were already sure? To borrow a line from one of my all-time favorite rom-coms When Harry Met Sally, "...when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

T and M had always known what they were looking for, but they didn't stick around waiting for it. They followed through with their own plans and lived as they wanted to -- and when they found someone to share their lives with, they happily made room for him. I think the key is to keep open to new experiences always, never believing, not for a moment, that there's a cap or an expiration date to finding happiness. And if it's love that you find, it doesn't matter when it happens, only that you do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A HEAVY LOAD

At this moment I'm having an interesting -- quite revealing, actually -- conversation on Facebook. I updated my status with what I thought was an unabashedly romantic statement the librettist and theatrical producer  Oscar Hammerstein II made to then-Dorothy Blanchard Jacobson shortly after he'd met her:

"If I were a little boy in school and you were a little girl in school I'd carry your books home for you."

When they met in the 1920s they were both already in their 30s -- and married to other people, with children. Not the best of circumstances certainly, and even today there would be a lot of tsk-tsk'ing about the way they got together. But even Dorothy's daughter acknowledges that they probably fell for each other instantaneously, and by several accounts they remained in love to the very end.

My niece C -- an intelligent, thoughtful, highly independent young woman I'm quite proud of -- however, disagrees with my romantic take on this story. She thinks that if a boy had offered to carry her books home it would be a reflection on his belief that she's not strong or capable enough to do it herself. Plus, she says, the idea of a grown man thinking of her as a little girl is pretty creepy.

I know where she's coming from; at her age I wrestled with my views on old-fashioned chivalry versus my burgeoning feminist ideals. At her age I was living on my own, supporting myself, figuring how to do things that I'd never learned how to do. I was coming to terms with falling in love, getting into relationships, and trying not to lose my identity in the process. Surely a man didn't have to open the door for me or pull out my chair during a dinner date at a restaurant; I could easily do them for myself, thank you very much.

But as I've gotten older I've learned to live with the blurry lines and interpret male-female dynamics in terms other than power and control. But of course I know when I'm being demeaned or underestimated because of my sex -- that's something I can spot instinctively and react accordingly. For instance, if a guy sees me holding a power drill and jokes about what damage I might do with it, I may just show him how I could if I wanted to (like right then and there). Or if it's suggested that I can't replace my car's automatic transmission simply because I'm a girl I might reply that I know quite a few men, including my own father, who can't do so either. Besides, I'm not too thrilled with the idea of the monstrous thing crashing down onto my chest and pinning me under the car, where no one might find me for weeks.

So I do appreciate it when a man offers to carry something heavy for me, the same way I would offer to help anyone else I were with. The way I see it these days, it's about kindness and empathy, regardless of the sex of the person who was trying to help me. Some days I might accept the assistance, other days I may not because I'm good, really -- but I'd never take it against the guy who offered to ease my load.

I've been in relationships with men who were raised to show modern acts of chivalry with the women they're with, and I've been with those who had never met a door they liked. The truth is that I know which breed I prefer -- as long as they didn't make such a huge show of doing something nice for me and expecting something in return. When a man offers to hold my heavy bag of groceries I'd like to think it means he's thinking of me kindly, period. And it's always nice to know you're being thought of in that way.

But going back to Hammerstein's quote, I suppose it knocked me off my feet in the first place because it made me reflect on meeting the right one at the right time, before life got so darn complicated. When you fall in love when you shouldn't, with someone you shouldn't fall for, then the thing you hope for the most is that you can go back in time when everything was as easy as carrying a girl's books home from school.