If you ever get a chance to meet my boyfriend, and care to ask him what my favorite things are he would say this in this order: “Organizing, throwing stuff away, and laundry.” OK, I will admit I am a Virgo. I make my bed every morning (and will risk being late to do so).
I grew up in a messy environment to say the least. There were mounds of crap everywhere like you might see on an episode of “Hoarders.” I guess since ever since I left my childhood home, I’ve had an affinity to cull my possessions and only keep what’s necessary (or of extreme sentimental value). If I could control how kept my environment is, then maybe my life would follow suit.
Some singles say it’s easy to build up emotional baggage dating. But I say that’s wrong. It’s because people jump from one thing to another in this day and age that nothing is ever “resolved” and you have that feeling of not being done. In order for things to be done, you have to let them lie. You have to resolve things or else it’s the same thing as having a messy bedroom – you’ll end up with a messy heart.
A few tips I’ve learned to prepare for a new situation (of any kind):
Clean up your life, and you will surely clean up your heart. You will send the message to the universe that you are ready and have room for more, and if you have any sort of spiritual belief, the universe will answer you. But believing is key.
I always knew this was emotionally true for me, but I didn’t see it become physically true until I started to hate my job with a passion last year. It went from annoying to difficult to unfathomable in about six months. I knew my heart was done there, but my head (and bank account/resume) couldn’t be, so what did I do? I cleaned out my desk as if it was my last day at work. I remember a girl walked by and said, “Oh my! You aren’t leaving, are you?” (I had an open floor plan). To which, I said, “Oh, no – just some spring cleaning!” I remember telling a couple of people that I cleaned out my desk to inspire myself for something new. To tell the universe I was looking for more and had the space to prove it. That famous song lyric, “You can’t always get what you want. But if you try sometimes, you get what you need.” I thought, well if I show the universe I actually need something to fill the space, maybe it will. Show the world that this space isn’t indicative of you – you are choosing to inhabit this space, but are still looking for the desk of your dreams. The love of your dreams. The pet of your dreams. The house of your dreams. You get the picture.
Sure enough, three months later, I had an amazing job offer on the table and took it. And left my semi-empty desk as fast as I could.
My new desk is simple, neat, and has pictures of my nephews and my boyfriend on it. I have this mini fan that does wonders when I’m too hot and a sweater in my drawer for when I’m too cold.
Too often are we all too complacent. Afraid of re-evaluating things. Afraid of saying, “This just isn’t for me.” I’m not one for feeling stuck, but sometimes you are stuck when your bank account says you are, or life’s circumstances hold you hostage in a space you don’t want to be in – emotional or physical. So I developed this habit to show that even when you are stuck, you don’t have to feel stuck. You CAN choose to look around at your cleaned out desk and think, “I could leave this tomorrow.” And you just might.
Settling. What a loaded word, huh? It used to just mean where your house was, or where you would camp out for the night. And now it means so many things. It means you sold out, you missed good chances, you took what was in front of you instead of waiting for what made you feel alive. I’m afraid I might have done that recently with something I care about more than anything in the world. I hate when people say “hindsight is 20/20.” Sometimes you make the smartest decision you can and it still can seem like settling in hindsight. There’s something I am so afraid of. I call it playing house. I am so scared of playing house with my life. Of “settling” with anything I do and anybody I spend time with or believe in. They call it playing house for a reason – it’s because it’s not your house. It’s a farse. It’s fake. It’s not real.
And the second you let your mind think that you settled, it can just go wild with regret and time where you’ve seen the writing on the wall and oh, shit moments. You think you were in a moment of desperation, or you had lost hope, or your heart just wasn’t beating fast enough so you had to make a choice, and you had to take a risk. Everything in life is a risk. Your kindness, your hair color, your belief in a stranger. I always think will I be walking down the aisle, having an oh shit moment? Will I be pushing out my baby thinking who did I create a child with? Will I be looking at my unsold copies of my book on a shelf in my home on day, thinking that had I just waited for one more publishing offer, or one more editor’s bat of his eye, would I have been a real success? But then again, you can’t wait forever. And sometimes you don’t have choices. I guess you always have a choice, but sometimes even the most negative people want to believe that everything will be okay. I should know – I am one of them. I am so negative but then again, sometimes I could not have more hope for things that I love.
The irony in all of this, is I do want to settle…down, that is. How do you settle down with settling? Why is that even part of the word? One definition of the word is to “move downwards – dust settles.” That’s depressing. You have to move downward to settle down? I think when people say settling they mean “settle for,” which by definition means “to accept in spite of incomplete satisfaction.” My big question tonight, though, is will I figure out if I’ve settled for something before it’s too late? And is it OK to settle at times? Sometimes I feel like all I do is settle and I just profoundly claim every now and again that I refuse to settle in love.
I don’t want to relive most days of my life thus far, sadly. But one day I wish I could relive is the day I decided I would take the ultimate risk and write a book about my mom. Who I miss every day. Who I wish could be my barometer for settling. She would know if I was settling for something right now, she would. So I’m putting it out there. Am I settling, mom? Am I settling for something when I deserve more, or am I just being 26 and scared?
Someone very smart once told me that confusion doesn’t exist. Confusion is just your mind’s way of not wanting to land on a decision. Not wanting to settle down. Right now, I am not confused – I am disappointed. I feel like no option is a good one. I just want everything to be okay.
I am tired. Exhausted. Insightful. Smarter.
I am having to go through the exercise of tagging my posts from the past three years. Yes – Jessicabarraco.com is nearly THREE years old! I can’t believe it either. And we’re giving her a facelift before things really start take off with The Butterfly Groove – and life. I want my website to look as prepared as I feel. And now, when you read a blog post you like of mine, you can have a search function that brilliantly shows you other blog posts of mine you might enjoy as well! Yes, my website is becoming polyamorous (for blog posts, of course).
I am tired. Happy. Curious!
The past three years living in NYC has been a whirlwind. Am I where I want to be? Not really. Close, though. I love my job, I am hopeful that my agent will sell my book, I am happy I have a fricking agent. Some friendships are becoming more distanced than I thought they would, and some people are becoming closer to me than I thought we’d be. Sometimes last coffees or lunches have turned into deja-vu because they come back in multiples. Some of my favorite friends from college have resurfaced in my life and prove to me daily that they knew me better than I ever gave them credit for. Truly.
Reading over these posts, I realize that I have spent a lot of the past three years scared, but so profoundly hopeful. I have always had that 60/40 mixture in me and I like to think it’s de-tensified itself over the years. For my last 9 days of being 25 and more, I am working on accepting what I want for myself and not denying it to be true. I want companionship. I want love. I want to find the person who just totally gets me — in and out of bed.
I was reading this book about the female brain and it says that it’s so complicated for women to orgasm (I was about to write “achieve climax” and then threw up in my mouth a little bit so I’ll just be crass instead, after all, I am not 26 YET people). The book claims it is so difficult for women because they have to simultaneously shut their brains off, yet also feel completely safe and sound with someone. To feel that their partners “worship” them. Does God not hear me when I say I want to be a princess in a castle?! I want to be worshipped! By a man. Not a man-boy, not a boy, not a boy-man, not a near 30 crazy ass, confused person. A man. Worshipped by a man. (Got it? Ha). And I want to be with that man, if it’s right, for a very long time. And I want a beautiful diamond from him, like the kind I see at the nail place. You know, like when you’re going to get a light color and then you see this kind of nasty blue color that looks AMAZING with a huge diamond this bitch next to you is sporting, and suddenly you have to have that color. (I am typing to you with blue nails). And then I want a King Charles Cavalier named Hazel or Minnie or Milly. And then eventually, God willing, I want to have babies with this person.
I am trying to de-complicate my life. I am not pushing anything. I am trying my best not to be afraid of the good, the bad, the ugly, the difficult, the predictable.
Albeit super lame, but Taylor Swift says it best: “Drop everything now, meet me in the pourin rain, kiss me on the sidewalk, take away the pain, cuz I see sparks fly whenever you smile.” I want my life to be like that. With a man. Who worships me. And has the confidence to realize that I’m worth it – we would be worth it – to let the sparks fly a bit and see what transpires. That’s all you can ask for in life – to see what transpires and hope that it’s beautiful. And hope that when you see it, you know it, because you’re ready for it. Life is all about preparedness. I realize my generation likes to be unprepared, that that somehow became trendy, but I think it’s lame. I’m prepared for whatever is to come my way in my 26th year of life, and you know, even numbers are usually better than the odds. We’ll just uh, chalk 25 up to that – those odd numbers. Get ya every time.
Is it just me or are you suffering from excuse-overload? I am so tired of hearing people’s excuses. Why do they feel the need to make them? The only reason you should make excuses as far as I’m concerned, is if you’re trying to get out of a workout class with strict cancellation policies and you would otherwise be charged upwards of $40 if you don’t show up… and you have cramps. I cannot come up with any other reason you should make excuses for ways you are feeling or work you didn’t do.
The age old excuse that I HATE is when people are suddenly uninterested in the person and they use excuses as means for avoidance, or better yet, they just stop contacting the person completely – because that’s mature. Leaving the recipient confused and afraid of looking: a) neurotic, b) skeptical and c) not trusting. When in reality, your gut was right. The fact is, it doesn’t matter what the excuse is or how many there can be. This isn’t mad libs – this is your life. If you don’t want to spend one moment with somebody, then don’t, but be honest and use your words and do it fast. Don’t wait a week or a month. My mom taught me never to pussyfoot around (great word) the truth. People are actually receptive to the truth. The reason why there is a misnomer of people not being receptive to the truth is the same excuse people who have been lying for so many years use: they forgot that the truth is actually more comforting than BS and avoidance. Whenever I do not wish to see anyone anymore, I tell them. I don’t care if it’s “After School special” of me – it’s the right thing to do. If you don’t feel a connection, you shouldn’t lead a person on.
This is the first lesson I will teach my sons and daughters. The truth always sets you free. And intentions are everything. If you are a person who has no intentions of becoming a pilot – don’t go to flying school. If you are a person who has no intentions being in a relationship, stop seeing whoever you are seeing. It is mean. And unnecessary and you can buy sex. You can’t buy someone’s feelings for you, or yours for them. But you can buy sex. And porn. So people, go do that and stop dating if you aren’t ready. My whole generation seems to be flying by the seat of their pants all the time. How about setting some goals? How about knowing what you want in life? When did knowing what you want become scary and aggressive and uncool?
I will leave you with this theory: you could fall in love with a tree if you spend enough time with it and it’s willing to let you exclusively lay in its branches. Life is all about intentions. I moved across the country to get a literary agent and now I have one. I also moved here to find the right person to spend my life with and I’ve met a lot of frogs. I’m ready to get off out of the swamp now. Intentions are so frequently thought of as – good vs. bad. But that’s not what I’m saying. I’m saying have clear intent of what you want from somebody, from a job, from a project, from a workout. And if you aren’t happy with the results, move on. Just make sure to tell the person you’re moving on before you do.
If you read this, and do anything today: just man up – even if you’re a girl, and stop making excuses. Go at life with a clear head, with clear intentions and you have to win. But stop making excuses and stop lying to other people – and more importantly, stop lying to yourself.
I know what you’re thinking. And no, I have not decided to be extremely focused and train for a marathon (like everyone else in big cities in 2013). This is more a metaphor for how I’m feeling in life right now.
I have some great news — an agent for The Butterfly Groove, a job that is about something I really care about and is slowing down for the summer, and dating isn’t even going so badly… Yet, I keep having this uneasy feeling of running in place.
For a few years now, I’ve been feeling like I’m running a marathon. Rushing through life when things are busy, and over-analyzing too much when things aren’t. Either way – it’s been a very fast jog in my head and outside of it. I’ve been so focused on getting a literary agent that the rest of my life really came in second place. But now, I feel like since I have representation and my book might find a home sometime soon (please god!), I am close to the finish line. And it’s easier for me to be better at other things in my life and focus more on them because my book is safe, for now. But more than once a day, I envision myself running a marathon and being almost done. At the finish line, I see my future family, my book in published form – I see so much happiness. And I feel physically and emotionally close to this, and I can SEE it. But at the same time, the last half mile is taking oh so very long to sprint.
Perhaps my pace has slowed – for good reason. Perhaps I just couldn’t sprint for that long anymore. Maybe I know what I need to do is turn my sprint into a slow jog, or a fast walk even. Because that half mile I am facing might take a slower pace than it did to find an agent. Maybe everything else requires a slow jog, rather than a sprint. Sometimes when you are ambitious about one thing, you forget that other things take less effort but are equally valuable in the end.
I’m going to go back to a fast walk / slow jog at most and just hope everything falls into place as easily as it does in my mind. Because when I do get there, when I do experience that euphoria of finishing my first marathon, it will be sheer bliss.
PS: Follow me on Instagram and Twitter with #obsesswjess! Book news soon to come.
I live in Manhattan, so when I go to Tiffany’s, it’s not a Tiffany’s – it’s THE Tiffany’s. People travel there from around the world to take pictures of the flagship store, buy engagement rings, buy graduation pens, register for wedding gifts, return baby gifts (does that silver rattle really need to cost $400 or does mommy need a sapphire celebration band?) and more. It’s actually a powerful feeling, I think, to be an establishment that houses so many celebrations in one’s life.
And even though I know that whatever engagement ring I do get one day will likely not be from Tiffany’s because everyone knows the diamonds are overpriced because it’s Tiffany’s. Also, if we were going to go the “F%** it” route, I’d cross the street and choose a Harry Winston instead. But for whatever reason, I walked into Tiffany’s to buy a jar of their jewelry cleaner and my heart swelled up in my chest like something big was about to happen to me, my fight/flight reflexes kicked in, the room started spinning, and I choked up. I kept walking – walking past the diamond studs, walking past the new rose gold line, walking past the engagement rings and then stop. Yellow diamonds? I sort of forgot slash like to pretend these don’t exist. Canary I think they prefer to be called. Canary diamonds. Just sparkling in my face, not allowing me to leave eye contact with them. I opened my mouth to say, “Can I try that one…” but the words just couldn’t come out.
I have to tell you, I’ve been in thousands of Tiffany’s in my life. From the time I had a Bat Mitzvah, I’d had a “reason” to go into Tiffany’s. I had to get my floating heart necklace cleaned, or my charm bracelet shortened. When I got my driver’s license, my sister’s in-laws bought me a beautiful Tiffany keychain that I had for a very long time. This was the time of the “ball issue” – hence the little silver balls would just fall off the keychain, exposing your car keys to the rest of the world (or bag). I’ve risked my life for these balls and spent a lot of increments of $6 replacing them. One time, I chased the ball down a hill on my sister’s old street in Bel-Air. The power of Tiffany’s. When I moved to New York, I decided to get myself a new keychain for my new life – and that ball is pretty sturdy. Haven’t had to replace it once.
So what made this experience so intense and profound? I think because I felt a certain closeness to the rings, or in my life. Not that I know the man I am going to marry, at all whatsoever, but that these rings and I were more like friends and soon-to-be lovers rather than mean girls taunting me. I felt positivity from these rings. These rings made me feel like I could fly – soon. But not yet. The canary diamonds would stay on their delicate cushions. The cushion cut rings with a pave halo and pave bands all-the-way-around would stay in their corner. For now. But soon, I feel these rings might give me a hug one day. On my left ring finger.
Who’s the man, the prince charming with the canary diamonds that I never knew I wanted until four days ago? I don’t know. But like in any good rom-com, feeling closer to him is half the battle.
When I pushed through the revolving doors, with my jewelry cleaner in-hand, I looked at my left hand and could almost see a sparkle – or was it a reflection off the diamonds, off of the glass – or a tear? Whatever it was, I want more of it. I walked up Fifth Avenue, back to my office, and smiled to myself. Will I be one of those celebration people someday soon? What will I be celebrating?
Catching the bouquet, or as I like to say, “I won the bouquet!” The history of this term comes from the 14th and 15th centuries, according to Yahoo! Answers. “There was an ancient belief that certain herbs contained in the bridal bouquet were good luck. In order to pass on this luck, the bride would choose a friend to present the bouquet to at the end of the wedding.”
I caught it free and clear last weekend, I kept a Kung Fu grip on those stems. A girl to my right pawed at two rose buds, causing them to fall and float sadly in the air. She was also the girl who was stretching before the toss. Just another example in life that proves when you something so desperately, you never get it. Something about feathers and flower petals spreading depresses me. After this, I took one of the happiest pictures I’ve ever taken. I was glowing. It was bizarre. I have only been to maybe 3 weddings in my life. The last time I was at a wedding, I did not want to get married. I was in a roller coaster of a psychotic relationship and wanted out, not married to it. I can’t even remember paying attention to when this ancient ceremony would occur. But everyone in America seems to know this custom. The day after I caught the bouquet, my grandmother’s El Salvadorian caretaker smiled and said, “You’re next!” For the first time, I didn’t hear horror music in my head, “Dun dun duhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” I was happy and calm. Maybe I do hope I’m next.
But how can I believe something that clearly has no truth to it? What does it mean? Is it just there now to give single girls hope, because at the time, I did have hope. I had so much hope that I took it from LA all the way to my apartment in NYC and it is now drying upside down next to my vanity mirror. It didn’t get smashed on the plane, which is even more bizarre. Flowers are so delicate, like emotions. You were waiting for me to say something like that, weren’t you? You can admit it. It is a very Jessica thing to say, at least when I have my writer brain on.
But really, a bouquet is like your whole life. Each bud grows on its own accord, each part of your life evolving until it blooms. And once it’s put all together, all bloomed, it is utterly beautiful. Isn’t that what we are all doing in this world? Waiting to bloom? Waiting to even out? Waiting to spread our wings, waiting to not have to hope anymore because the hope is confirmed. What do you call that? Happiness? I’m not sure. I am no expert on that. How long exactly does this good luck transpire?
The odd thing was after I caught it, two groomsmen got really obsessed with me. As if I was some sort of Alpha Female or something, like I took control of my love life by using my sharp instincts to catch the flowers. At the end of Bridget Jones, Clueless and countless other rom-coms, the lead catches the bouquet. Did I just get cast in my very own rom-com? Stay tuned, I guess is what it means at the very least. I know I will.
I’m not sure why I seem to run into so many people who are limited emotionally. Is it an epidemic that runs rampant in men in their 20’s and early 30’s? I looked it up in the Thesaurus to find synonyms for limited. They are abhorrent words like inhibit, reduce, restrain, constrict, narrow and hinder. These are all terrible words that I associate with negativity, people who can’t enjoy life, people who are so afraid to let go and release (which if you were wondering are the antonyms of limited), that they live inside their world where they believe this is the only safe way to be. Love isn’t a diet. You don’t need to constrict and restrain and inhibit your sentimental intake. There are no caloric values. It seems to me that in 2012, young people’s only bigger fear besides being fat, is being emotionally available. It’s ironic to me that everyone speaks so highly of being single and having freedom to do what you want, but if you were so free, then you would be able to tell when something was worth splurging for.
Would you go to a store that was open sometimes? Would you buy brands that made food or clothing sometimes? No, you would lose interest because it wasn’t consistent. Or human nature says, you’d like it even more, because it’s unavailable. Am I the only person breathing who wants what she CAN have? I know, I know. It’s not you, it’s me. It’s ignoring, passive aggressiveness, I was in the moment, I was being genuine, I, I, I. I am so tired of hearing these lame excuses. I remember being so pissed a a few years ago when a guy was forthcoming with me and had to cancel a date because he felt another relationship was progressing. Apparently he was on The Bachelor, but whatever. And he felt uncomfortable seeing me again given that he was more emotionally attached to someone else. I would LOVE if this happened to me now. I remember being so hurt and angry, but you know what? He’s still with that girl, we never got too physically involved, and he’s in love with her. At least he didn’t not see me again for some girl that had no chance at longevity. That’s timing to me, not emotionally unavailability. It’s irresponsible, it’s like not wearing a condom. Which some limited people are hell-bent on doing. But I won’t name names.
I just feel bad for them. And now I’m questioning why there is a store called The Limited – is that supposed to be cool? It’s cool now to be limited? I guess meth is still cool in some states, so limited is nothing in comparison. I do not respond nor believe in this closed off mentality. Nobody ever got anywhere being cocooned in their own bullshit. Get a therapist. Get on drugs. Get a grip. Perhaps don’t get physically involved with someone when you feel like you are at your LIMIT. Just suggestions from me to the limited – not the store, the people’s movement.
It’s so rude and hurtful and unnecessary. People should not be sexually rewarded for being this way either. I wish the world was divided by people who are limited and people who are not. And all the limited people had big L’s on their forehead. I wouldn’t ever look in their direction. I don’t care if Ryan Gosling had an L on his forehead – there is no amount of cute that can surmount getting involved with someone who is closed off. The best part are the people who are open sometimes, and closed off for the most part. But when you see them, they’re pretty open, and when you don’t, they are emotionally confined to the square footage of a helium tank. I’m not even sure these people should have cell phones or free will. There should be an amendment passed where people who are unavailable have to go live in a confine – one of their favorite words.
But of course, the psychology is that these people are on a pendulum and they have no idea what they’re doing or when they might not be open any longer, so they just do shit and expect it to be fine. New word for this: selfish.
In conclusion, I am at MY limit with the limited. I want nothing to do with them and having seen both sides, I’d rather be with someone brewing with emotion and openness than closed off and confined and inhibited. They say sex makes you lose your inhibitions, which is great. Means that bottled up people can be open during sex, and then closed off immediately after. Lovely – that really gets me going.
It saddens me so much to write this post. My only writing icon and legend, Nora Ephron, has passed away. When I moved to NYC last year, I really thought I would be able to meet her at one point. Right before I moved, I read her most recent book, I Remember Nothing. In it, she speaks about what she will miss and what she won’t in her life. Among things she will miss, coming over the bridge to Manhattan and pie. It is almost prophetic that she wrote these words so recently. They speak to me, because those too, are two of my favorite things in the world. Every time I recognize the city lights coming home on one of the bridges, or eat a slice of pie (any kind will do), I will think of Nora. I will feel guilty that I can never speak of these things with her, and most of all, that she will never be able to consult me on my writing.
The first apartment I had here was on West 43rd street. It was a very magical street. I did not want to live that west, or that uptown at the time. I didn’t know why because I was not a New Yorker yet, although, much like Nora (a fellow California girl), I always felt I was in my heart. I remember getting off the subway to see the apartment and glancing to my right. I saw the Westside Theatre, which was playing Nora and Delia Ephron’s play Love, Loss and What I Wore. My heart started racing. Without thinking, I immediately crossed the street to ask the box office if Nora ever came in. The man looked at me and cocked his head to the right saying, “Some Saturday night shows, she does.” Next door, was a vintage store. A few weeks later, I made a connection with the owner there. She, too, said that sometimes she hosted a writer’s group and Nora has been known to come in. Nora knew how to realistically portray New York City and make the most simple things look sensationalized mainly because she was so immersed in the community. Riverside Park, for one. Papaya Dog, another. And Katz’s Deli especially. Just last summer, I was in Katz’s for the first time and walked over to the ceiling sign that said “Where Harry Met Sally.” I took a picture by it – feeling as though I could do anything I wanted in that moment. “I’ll have what she’s having.”
I remember having a bad day this past Christmas. I was on vacation in Florida. I turned on the TV and When Harry Met Sally was on. I pulled out my screenplay of the movie and followed along. Before Harry and Sally had even reached New York, I had forgotten what I was so upset about.
Just from my and Nora’s shared path on one tiny block in Manhattan, I knew we had kindred wants, desires and interests. I felt strongly that if she ever met me, she would see similar hopes and dreams she had when she was a mailgirl at Newsweek in the early 60’s. She is the only celebrity figure that I can honestly say I loved from afar. New York felt like it might be a home for me after watching her films. Every time I see the Empire State Building at night, I think of Jonah, the little boy in Sleepless in Seattle, and Tom Hanks running up to him and locking eyes with Meg Ryan for the first time. Every time I’m on the upper west side, I think of The Shop Around the Corner and You’ve Got Mail. I walk around, wondering desperately where the café is where Tom and Meg meet, when she still has no idea he is the man she met in the random chat room on her 30th birthday. Whenever I lose faith in men, life, love, myself – I look to Nora Ephron. She is the ultimate inspiration for me and did wondrous things for creative women all over the world. Because of Nora, I feel as a woman I can be romantic, funny, and graceful all at the same time. If I were to identify all of her work into one word, all that comes to mind is Lovely. She was lovely.
I bought yellow daisies for my house last week. Not gerber daisies, but regular daisies, just like the ones Tom Hanks bought Meg Ryan in You’ve Got Mail. “Aren’t daisies the friendliest flower,” a sick Meg asks Tom. It makes me ill to know that these daisies I bought last week have out-lived Nora Ephron. I am going to dry them in her honor and hope that one day, I will meet my Harry and maybe if I’m lucky, I will write something that a critic compares as, “Nora Ephron-esque.” What I hope most is that I can take the best advice she gave America, “…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.” (When Harry Met Sally, 1989)
We will miss you, Nora. I will miss you.
I haven’t written in so long. You must have thought I abandoned my own website. Or someone hacked into it who could care less about writing. I have been going through a lot of changes. Usually I don’t agree with the statement: change is good, but right now I do. There’s nothing like reflecting back to last Memorial day and being so happy it was a year ago. It’s kind of amazing what can happen in a year. But, as far as any change that comes about, I am always ponderous of the past. Choosing to be positive is one of the hardest things in the world for me, but you know what, I am going to do it. Why? Because if I don’t, then the world gets the best of me. And since my life mantra has been to ignore the crisis and rise above, I have to continue to do so.
It’s an odd thing when the person you want to see the least appears on your corner at 9am. Ghosts of the past. I used to date a guy who used to read these blog posts but I don’t believe this one from the corner does. That’s something that makes New York a very strange place. I could have crossed halfway through my block like I usually do, but no, I had to finish walking my block into the construction zone that I typically avoid and bump into the first mistake I made in 2012. Nothin like the first, right?
But it wasn’t so bad. I was actually in a good mood and wished him well. At least this Memorial day won’t be wrapped up in someone else’s bullshit.
I recently saw Death of A Salesman on Broadway, which was amazing for many reasons. But I think my favorite part of the play was that it has nothing to do with love. People are miserable in this show, heartbroken, torn apart, ripping at the seams, but love is not even secondary on their list of complaints. It’s because life is about more than love. Maybe I just realized that. Maybe I realized that at 9am this morning. Maybe I realized this last Memorial day but didn’t want to believe it. It sounds so Sex and the City but life ends up being more about the love you have for yourself because if you don’t have enough of it, you won’t let the right people love you. A plethora of wrong people show up on your corner but you can’t be bothered. You love yourself and know they are so young and so wrong.
This is something I learned since last Memorial day. So, watch your back, New Yorkers. You never know how wrong that person lurking at your corner could be in broad daylight. And you know how you can definitely spot the wrong person? He’s happy he’s in this blog. “Flattered” even.