"Just because I’m losing doesn’t mean I’m lost"
June 22, 2010 § Leave a comment
Never have I ever felt more ashamed of my behavior than I have in the past week. I acted selfishly, convinced myself of things I never thought I could, and became dangerously close to becoming a despicable human being.
I never thought I was the type of person who could be so stubborn and indignant and resentful. But pride isn’t worth it when you’re hurting those who matter most.
If there were ever a redeeming factor to this terrible week, it’s that once again, I am reminded of how truly blessed I am to be surrounded with so much love and forgiveness.
And that no matter how much I think I may have figured out, there’s still so much I have yet to learn.
"Cause I’m just about to set fire to everything I see"
May 19, 2010 § 1 Comment
Apparently, 25 is when it all clicks. 25 is when you start getting serious about getting serious. 25 is when the mother of all ice-breakers, “what school did/do you go to?” gets replaced by “where do you work?” 25 is when you start seeing the people you date as a potential spouse(s) (or in some cases, 25 is when you start considering if you want a spouse(s) at all). 25 is when you realize you can no longer eat four, palm-sized sugar cookies with frosting for breakfast without feeling really lousy later. 25 is when you don’t know whether to be offended or flattered when the waiter doesn’t ask you for your ID when you order pinot noir at dinner. 25 is when you start investing more (interpret that however you may), when you really start to understand quality over quantity in every aspect of your life, from furniture to friendships.
There’s an unmistakable sense of maturity and change that you notice in yourself as you hit your mid-twenties. They are subtle and hardly noticeable at first, but when you take a step back to evaluate yourself as a whole, you realize the sudden impact of it all. For a select few, these changes can happen earlier, but for the bulk of my friends and for me, it happened in the last year. Suddenly, it seemed, we weren’t kids anymore. We were no longer recent college graduates. For most of us, a few summers had passed since we could claim that title. We found our schedules a little fuller, a little less flexible. But it’s not the addition of a salaried job or the business-casual wardrobe I’m speaking of.
And I don’t know, maybe it’s because the mid-twenties seems a lot closer to thirty than it is to twenty. Maybe there really is a biological clock inside of us, alarms set on the points in our lives where significant change and growth is supposed to happen. Or maybe, you just get sick of acting like an idiot, outgrowing the days when being careless had consequences that didn’t seem so severe. Whatever it is, you start to understand yourself a little more, even when all you understand is that it only gets more confusing.
At 25, I can tell you all this was true for me. Everything came together. And everything fell apart.
At 25, I decided that a career and life plan twenty years in the making was no longer appropriate, as the passion I once felt for it had dissipated. But even with such a jarring decision, a decision that was the most difficult thing I’ve ever had to come to terms with, I have never felt surer that I am doing the right thing.
I’m ashamed to say that I can be quite the ageist. I have always thought there was an age limit to certain things, and outside that range, it would no longer be acceptable or appropriate. And no, I’m not just talking about grandmothers in tube tops and hot pants (no? is that just Florida then?). Whenever I heard people say, “you’re never too old for…” I just pretentiously deemed them as people who couldn’t come to terms that a dream was over, or that a goal was just too unrealistic and out of reach. But when my own plans were delayed, I saw my previous mindset as being a little too skewed, and a little too naïve. Life, as we all can attest to, rarely ever goes according to schedule. We can make a basic itinerary and try to follow it as devoutly as we can, but more often than not, we find ourselves compromising, altering, and adjusting with each reroute we come across.
But 25 doesn’t have to mean anything more than what it is, a number; a product of some math problems, the minimum requirement to rent a car without incurring a ridiculous additional fee, the number of minutes on a treadmill you will negotiate as being sufficient enough to counterbalance the half a pizza you ate the night before.
In a lot of ways, we’re better prepared to take riskier chances at this age than we might have been five years ago. We’re a little more wiser and not as reckless, but not old enough to have become too jaded or discouraged. Even if we’re diving into something unfamiliar, we’re still guided by the experiences we’ve already recorded. We’ve become smarter about what we hold on to, and what can let go. We’re still molding. And we’re not ready to let go of all the ideals that brought us to where we are.
I think the biggest thing you understand at this age is that the life you have is truly yours to own. That no matter the obligations, the pressures, the expectations placed on you (by others and/or yourself), you are ultimately responsible for the choices you make because you have made them. You hit a certain point where you accept that there are no other bodies you can blame because you are indeed, accountable for your happiness.
25 doesn’t have to be the age where all your shit comes together. Neither does 26. Or 36. Risk something. Risk everything. You never stop figuring out who you are. So take your chances in San Francisco. Or Waco. Or NYC. Or a shack in West India. Do it while you have room for mistakes. Do it while your ass hasn’t started sagging. Time will be less and less forgiving as you get older, and that’s just the nature of life. And while there’s no age cap for self-discovery, it will get harder to take that step.
Life refuses to slow down for any of us, so do what you can when you can. And maybe that means moving to a different city in a different state. Or a different country on a different continent. Maybe it means switching jobs or switching industries. Maybe it means throwing out that lifelong game plan, to try out for something new. I don’t know. But at the end of your life, don’t you want to be able to have stories to tell? Stories of absolute catastrophes of decision making as well life-altering ones? Don’t you want to be able to say, “yeah, I did that once, I got a tattoo of a pirate ship on my ass in Cairo” (enter ‘arrrgh, booty’ joke here) or “I met your mother at an all-you-can-eat Shepherd’s pie festival in Kansas City”? Don’t you want to be able to reflect back and recount the days you were scared shitless but happy more than the days you were safe but miserable? Don’t you want to say that you lived life the best way you knew how?
All things are ready, if our minds be so – Henry V
"Everything I’m not made me everything I am"
May 14, 2010 § 1 Comment
On any given day, I will have no less than three bandages wrapped around my fingers. There are multitudes of desperately squeezed Neosporin tubes in the medicine cabinet and kitchen countertops. I have kitchen battle wounds on places that you typically shouldn’t see scars (forearm, elbows, shins, and bellybutton). I add too much garlic to everything, and my sauces are always a little too runny or far too dry. At 25, the only thing I can eyeball measure is the soy milk-to-cereal ratio, and that’s if I’m not distracted by something shiny.
I have often wondered if my mother feels disappointment in that her first born daughter (although she claims to have found me under a bridge) has failed so miserably in resembling or retaining any of her domestic prowesses. She has memorized and perfected long-standing recipes since she was half my age, while the only thing I am able to do with them is to shove them ferociously in my mouth as soon as they are prepared. My chopped vegetables are terribly sloppy and unevenly cut, but she slices and dices with the utmost precision with a speed that makes me wide-eyed with amazement.
And while I am inclined to eat burned macaroni and cheese straight from the pot, usually hovering over the sink, she has never found it taxing to set the table. Her presentation has always been impeccable, even after all these years, even when it’s just us neanderthals she’s serving; she always takes time to wipe off sauces that may have trickled onto the plate, and arranges the food in the most appetizing, Martha Stewart-perfect ways. And she does all of this automatically, without thought or concern that she’s doing it at all.
It would be easy to dismiss my Omma as just another traditional housewife, someone who cooks and cleans and makes sure my dad’s cholesterol is at acceptable levels. But in truth, it is she who keeps this family in checks and balances. It is she who fixes the broken dishwasher or lawn mower when my dad has given up in frustration. It is she who buys Honie and me pretty (but ultimately unnecessary) things that all girls love, but dads would find indulgent and fruitless. She is also the one who keeps my dad from making too many rash, impulsive decisions that will likely bite him in the ass later. Even with a family as close knit as ours, she’s the one each of us go to first to act as a buffer and confidant when we’re wary of how the others will respond to a particular piece of news. She’s the voice of reason, the greatest negotiator and problem solver of the most impossible of situations. She is the one who keeps us nourished in equal amounts of banchan and unconditional love.
Although I could never imagine taking the route she’s chosen, she has told me on many occasions that she is completely satisfied with the life she’s has lived, as a mother, wife, and a homemaker goddess. I tell her, with a hint judgment in my tone that I could never follow in her footsteps, that it would never be sufficient for me. But she takes no offense in my obvious arrogance. She’s not ashamed of the life she’s chosen – this is what she wanted, and for her, it’s proven to be enough. She’s had other aspirations and goals at several points in her life, but her role, her identity as homemaker always takes precedence, and she holds no regrets or qualms about that.
Even with my utter lack of sophistication, grace, and common sense in the kitchen, she has never pushed her lifestyle onto Honie or me. She understands that I’ve always been lights years different from her – that the tomboyish qualities I developed at an early age was never just a phase, but an integral part of my personality and character. I have always leaned slightly more to the obnoxious side; Ki has repeatedly told me I burp like a man and I have yet to conquer the concept of taking small bites when eating. I think it’s hilarious to cover my eyes while driving, screaming, “My contacts! My contacts!” especially when my mom is in the passenger seat. My priorities and interests never included anything with a ladle, and I think she’s always been secretly proud of that fact. She will occasionally criticize my total incompetence when it comes to laundry (ohhhhh, so silk really should be dry-cleaned), but the pride I hear in her voice when she’s defending my domestic shortcomings to others is always obvious and clear.
I’d never outright admit any of this, but I really do try to model myself after her. We are more alike than either of will ever care to admit, and when I catch myself doing things that are so Omma-esque, I am simultaneously shocked and pleasantly surprised. When I bake, I weed out the mutant cookies and/or muffins before placing the non-deformed ones neatly on a plate for others (although I think my dad would eat my banana muffins no matter how much they resembled a cleft foot in appearance). Whenever I find myself doing anything remotely ladylike, I know that I have intrinsically inherited the skill from my mother. I have learned, with much trial and error, to listen to her advice, no matter how pesky and obsolete they may seem at first (always carry extra Band-Aids… and a sewing kit). My mother and I grew up in two entirely different times, settings, and continents. We were raised with vastly contrasting set of expectations, but the similarities I see between us extend deeper and farther than any long-standing tradition. The core of who I am is founded on how my mom (and dad) chose to raise me, despite the image she’s probably always had in her head when it came to a first daughter. Ki, Honie, and I are who we are because we grew up in a house filled with encouragement, never enforcement.
I will always be someone who burns the chicken and her fingers. I am more than likely to go and buy new underwear to avoid doing laundry. I will always think fart jokes are funny. But because of my Omma, I will also never pick my teeth at the table. I will never be intentionally cruel towards anyone, even my enemies. I will always spoil Ki and Honie with things they could just as easily get for themselves. I will always feel love and supported, without limitations or expectations to meet. And for that, if I can become just a quarter of the woman my Omma is, I will consider myself to have done something right in this life.
“No I’m not a Jonas, brother I’m a grown up. No I’m not a virgin, I use my cajones”
April 7, 2010 § 1 Comment
Honie and I stopped to refuel at California Pizza Kitchen while shopping the other day, and we witnessed what was an obvious first date (let’s set aside the fact that a first date was occurring at CPK for a second). Including the painfully awkward and sparse conversation, the girl was using a fork and knife on her pizza (no), and I caught the guy checking out the waitress’s ass at least three times (a bigger no). I thought about the first dates I’ve been on (and shocked myself when I realized I’ve actually had a few), and realized that there are things that I’ve always assumed to be second nature, but others do not (or have forgotten with time). These of course, change and adapt with time – as a relationship grows, so does the level of comfort in which you can be a bit more lax (but not too much – don’t make us think we’re dating a barbarian). But first impressions are everything, so until we’re at a point where neither of us will be too repulsed by a particularly disgusting belch (I can do A thru M before my throat gives out), please do your best to follow these on the first few dates:
1. Remember when answering a phone at the dinner table was a big taboo? It also applies to text messaging. If it were a big group dinner, I would understand, but if I’m the only one sitting with you at the table and I’ve shaved my legs, you better put that thing away.
2. Unless you are deathly allergic, stop picking stuff off your plate. You chew, you swallow. Not too difficult of a concept.
3. Don’t sniff the food. Yes, I’m going to eat this, so stop pulling your face.
4. What is this salad bullshit? You are a grown-ass man, eat like one. Also, none of the “dressing on the side”, “light on the oil” crap. Being picky and prissy is my job. Burgers are always manly. Add some bacon, even manlier. Ordering a burger should be as simple as your usual at Starbucks, so resist making too many specifications. If you don’t want mayo, I’ll let that slide, because frankly, mayo is disgusting.
5. With that said, you should be eating your vegetables. What are you, six?
6. You should always order a larger serving of ice cream/frozen yogurt than me, if not only to make me feel better, but so I can mooch off yours when I’m done with mine.
7. Don’t be too surprised when I clean my plate when you’re too stuffed to take another bite. We Asian girls can have deceptively large appetites.
8. Elbows. Off. The. Table.
9. The greatest filet mignon in the world won’t save a date with a lackluster conversation. But this one can share equal blame. Unless you’re super dull. I’m a ray of sunshine.
10. There’s something undeniably sexy and confident about an uncomplicated drink order. You can never go wrong by ordering something on tap. If your cocktail is the color of an Easter egg, I can already tell you that I’ve mentally checked out of the evening.
11. It differs between gal to gal, but simplicity is always key. Sure, we like to get dressed up every once in awhile for a place with more forks and spoons than I would know what to do with, but I’d be just as happy with a pizza on the couch. As long as there’s wine. Always have wine.
12. I once dated a guy who would always rise from his seat when I approached the table. A little old school? Perhaps. But I can tell you he was getting some (put your eyebrow down, we dated for a year).
13. More than anything, respect is sexy. Respect for yourself, for your grandmother, and for the seemingly incompetent waitress of ours. You don’t have to do anything special; just don’t be an asshole when she messes up your order for the second time.
14. This list isn’t as long and demanding as you’d like to believe. Most of these are basic rules that you should already be practicing, granted your parents weren’t lazy and you’re not a hillbilly. Women get labeled high-maintenance (or worse) for wanting someone with manners. But dismissing the importance of etiquette makes you seem lethargic and careless. And those are definitely two qualities we won’t ever find sexy. You will never hear a woman say, “Oh baby, it is so attractive when pick your teeth like that with your butter knife”.
15. Unless you’re a pirate. But no eye patches, please.
“And these memories lose their meaning, when I think of love as something new”
March 30, 2010 § 1 Comment
When I was little, I was excited about college before I was ever excited about high school. There was no option of not going; college was just in the natural progression of my life, like puberty and menopause. I’d dream about what it’d be like on a big campus, surrounded by romantic ivy-wrapped buildings and gothic architecture. I’d dream about getting into a heated argument in an ethics class with a stubborn yet handsome boy who I’d eventually date. I dreamed about lecture halls and late night study sessions at the library. I dreamed about meet-cutes at the coffee kiosk, dorms, bookstores, and political rallies.
I was more than convinced that my life, or the “life that counted” wouldn’t start until college, so anything before it would be idle time, a holding room until college was ready for me. College would be a time of great growth and self-learning, and I would come out of it as confident as I could ever be. And I’d meet amazing people; people who would change my life just by being part of it, enriching it with their unique personalities and perspectives. These would be friends who would become part of my wedding party, friends who’d support me through my divorce(s), friends who would know me better than I would know myself. Yes, I was positive that college was going to provide me with this; college would cater to me. And college would be everything I envisioned, everything I had created in my head, because it had to – I had been putting everything off in anticipation of this great life.
Except, there was no ivy, and there were no creepy statues. That heated ethics argument was with an angry lesbian, not a Rivers Cuomo-esque type of boy. The lecture halls were at 7:30 in the morning with 530 overeager, overcompetitive, equally high-strung pre-med students. Study sessions at the library were not glamorous; falling asleep face first in my biochemistry book at one in the morning was not the image I had pictured. Waking up to a page fused to my cheek was neither cute nor charming, especially if drooling was involved.
Because I was/am psychotic and have terrible time management skills, the middle years of college were pretty damn miserable; I was taking on far too many classes than I could sanely handle. I’d leave the apartment at eight in the morning, only to return fourteen hours later to sit at my desk, desperately trying to retain the information on the pages and notes before me. It was here that I developed my erratic sleeping habits (I once briefly fell asleep on the stretching mats on the main floor of the IMA), the ones that I ultimately blame for my insomnia now.
Needless to say, with all the sleep depravation and overwhelming course load, I wasn’t the most pleasant person to be around. On top of it all (because I’m also a masochist), I started to take on the opening shifts at work – which meant waking up at 4:30 in the morning. I figured if I wasn’t sleeping, I should be making some money at it. I was tired and cranky all the time to the point where my own parents were too nervous to call, in case I snapped. I turned down weekend invites from friends, flaked out countless of times, and gave plenty of bullshit excuses about my absences.
Gradually, the calls and invites dwindled. I didn’t blame my friends – I was so unreliable and scatter-brained that I completely understood their annoyances. A commitment from me meant nothing, and people were genuinely surprised at the times I did show face. I knew I was being a terrible friend, but I was too busy and far too tired to care. I would run into once-close friends and they would give me a Cliff’s notes version of the happenings of their lives and I started to realize how much I was missing out, how much I was drifting away from them. The close group of friends I had always envisioned was disappearing before my very eyes, sailing away on the we-balance-it-all-just-fine ship, while I was stuck at the harbor, being viciously attacked by lab reports. At the rate I was going, I had barely anyone to invite to my wedding(s), let alone ask to be my bridesmaids.
It wasn’t until I went back to a reasonable number of credits a quarter and started sleeping in places other than crosswalks and stoplights that I came to full awareness of my lack of a college experience. Everything I had preplanned had gone kaput and my social circle was on the brink of extinction. I barely knew a life outside of organic chem labs and office hours. I knew going in to college that the academics would have to be a priority, but I never expected it to swallow my life so entirely. And more importantly, I never anticipated that I would do so poorly balancing everything. This wasn’t the me I had seen in my premonitions – I was supposed to be enviously well-rounded and successful. I was supposed to be the one everyone looked at and went, ‘wow, that girl has her shit together’, not the one who continuously stepped in it.
I was facing, or thought I was facing a whole new challenge: trying to incorporate myself back into my friends’ lives. I knew how selfish and presumptuous I was being – I was basically saying to them, ‘Hey, remember me? I know I didn’t have time for you guys before, but here I am now, so let’s just pick up where we left off, eh?’. I half-expected to be shunned, or in the very least, ignored when my name suddenly popped up on their incoming call logs.
But because I had once again grossly underestimated how amazing these people were, I struggled to hide my shock when they did indeed, accept me back with open arms. No questions were asked. No prerequisites had to be fulfilled. I never had to beg for forgiveness and repentance because they required no apologies. These were people who understood friendship to be more than what I had superficially gathered and created in my head. And while they tried to convince me otherwise, I felt completely undeserving of such love, kindness, and understanding.
It’s no reach to say that I can be quite… slow when it comes to understanding human affections. It’s easy to trust the people around me, but even easier to not. Sadly, I think I’ve always approached people with an air of skepticism and cautiousness. And while that has certainly provided me with a sheath of protection against unsavory characters, it has also in turn, prevented me from getting close to those who truly warrant trust.
I finally took the time to analyze where I had gone wrong in my planning. I already had years of college past me, the so-called ‘life’ I had been so eagerly anticipating that would provide me with all the experiences that I thought I was supposed to have… only to find out that I was coming up utterly empty-handed. Besides the sleepless nights and vicious caffeine abuse, I had very little evidence of this great college life. I had not grown wiser or felt any assurance that I was evolving as a human being; in fact, I felt just as lost, empty, and frustrated as ever. I was learning to deal with the stress and workload better. I was learning about crossbreeds of fruit flies and how to write an effective thesis, but I remained as emotionally retarded as I had always been.
The problem was, I was looking at those expected experiences – including friendships – systematically. I had created a to-do list of sorts; a grocery list of everything I thought I needed to achieve within a specific timeline. What took me a long time for me to learn was that you couldn’t predict and plan what and how much you’ll learn from any particular event, no matter how much you wanted it to. Life is like Delta Airlines; it never runs on schedule. Experiences can’t be evaluated and appraised. There is no checklist.
The problem with learning an unintentional lesson is that you panic and try to overcompensate. But I was smart enough to understand that if I were to do so, I would once again be forcing circumstances in hopes of retaining some sort of wisdom. I wasn’t going to try to throw myself into playing catch-up, because clearly, that had backfired tremendously.
I vowed to stop being carried away by clichéd expectations, and just learn from the greatest teachers around me – my friends. In them I saw all the qualities I admired most. They were successfully tackling responsibility without being bogged down and overwhelmed. They approached life and friendship with a grace and kindness I could only ever hope to achieve, with unrestricted hearts. And although I still felt like I had a lot of work to do to deserve their companionship, they never made me feel like I had to earn it.
I recently returned from an outrageous trip to Vegas with an amazing group of friends. Some were new, and some I had known for years, but we all embarked on a weekend adventure worthy of a screenplay (involved: missing teeth and near bitch-brawls at a McDonald’s drive-thru). Together we laughed until our sides began to cramp, doubled over with tears streaming down our alcohol-flushed cheeks. We sat with each other on the bathroom floor while we regurgitated the contents of the buffet, and looked out for one another even when we were barely able to walk ourselves. And while many of the details remain fuzzy (much thanks to the notorious amount of Goose consumed), I know I returned home with a renewed sense of camaraderie and love for those I cherished (as well as a remorseless hangover).
More than ever, I want to be the person who deserves the friends I have. I want to be able to contribute and give just as much, if not more, the love, patience, and support my friends have always given me. It is thanks to them, and not the hours logged at the tutoring center, that I feel I am becoming the person I had always hoped I would be.
What’s that overworked saying? Life is what happens when you’re busy making plans? In my case especially, that adage seems to be an undeniable truth. I had been trying to force my life to happen according to a preconceived list of expectations. It didn’t have to be that hard. The stories began to write themselves once I stopped pushing for the plot. The characters were always there, better than anything I could have generated. All I had to do was stop being such a freaking basket case.
To everyone, from my formerly-scrawny-ass-white-boy-now-a-meathead best friend, to my beautiful Bewbie (who I’d like to joke that with her blonde hair and blue eyes, probably owned half a dozen slaves in a former life), to the entire Vegas crew, to the group I share a loss and heartache with, to everyone who has tolerated me and allowed me to stick around, I could never convey the gratitude and fortune I feel by being permitted to call you my friends. I am truly blessed to know so many beautiful souls, and with your love and guidance, I will continue to strive to be a person worthy of your friendship.
soopastryheart 
