Happy National Podcast Day!

Happy National Podcast Day everyone! I co-host a weekly podcast called Women of Uncertain Age with my dear friend Karen. We talk often about dating, particularly what it’s like to be divorced and no longer spring chickens like us. Turns out, most everything that afflicts us in our advanced years torments women of every age. Foibles of the heart never change!

In addition to its ageless appeal, I think our podcast addresses a few basic human needs that everyone can relate to: to love and be loved and to be understood. Our perpetual quest for these desires inspires constant analysis and discussion. Karen and I don’t, however, purport to be experts in any way on any of these subjects. We fumble our way through life and discuss our mistakes and the mistakes we observe so that we can learn from them. And we broadcast our musings on lessons learned through podcasts. At the end of the day, our hijinks and blunders simply amuse our listeners and remind them that we are all on this crazy journey together seeking happiness and love and trying to improve ourselves a little bit each day along the way.

We’ve been accused of nitpicking our dates’ missteps. Like when we were horrified at the guy who wore sweaty gym clothes to a first date at a restaurant. Or when we were baffled by the guy who arrived at 8 PM to start cooking dinner on a first date and then two hours later declared the sauce ruined and inedible. Or when the guy who never texted after a great date joined us on our show to explain why. Karen and I poke fun at these blunders because we find them funny and the best way to deal with bad dates is to laugh at them. The blunders can also reveal something deeper about the person’s character and how they approach life that makes him incompatible with us. The bottom line is this: if there’s chemistry, none of these gaffes matter and we overlook them as adorable little quirks.

I have also recently been accused of using online dating to troll for fodder for the podcast. Not true! I’m a hopeless romantic and I want to have a special someone in my life. I love the tingly feeling of anticipation that grabs my gut when I’m waiting for a guy I like to arrive. I love the way he smiles when he sees me from across the room. I love the electricity that jolts through my spine when his hand touches the small of my back. I love holding hands and stolen kisses while walking down the street on a busy Saturday afternoon for all the world to see. I love inside jokes and traveling somewhere new with him. I love being in love and I love being loved. I love love! And I like talking about love.

I also love the end of love. The wretched sadness fills up the spaces where love once abided and reminds me of how wonderful love once felt. Sometimes it feels like I’ll never find love again when I gaze wistfully at couples entwined in each other. They seem to multiply inexplicably and exponentially when I do not find myself in a state of love. However, being out of love is the state of anticipating love and everyone knows the anticipation is better than the thing itself. At least for a hopeless romantic like me.

I worry that this romantic idealism of love may make it very difficult for me to find that kind of love again. I feel justified in setting such expectations, though, because I have felt all those things before and I know they exist. In the meantime, I continue to be open to meeting men through an array of options and to talking about my search with one of my best friends and letting people eavesdrop.

[If you like our podcast, will you please subscribe on iTunes and give us a rating? THANK YOU!]


Museum of Broken Relationships, part 2

“Unlike ‘destructive’ self-help instructions for recovery from failed loves, the Museum offers a chance to overcome an emotional collapse through creation: by contributing to the Museum’s collection.” -Museum of Broken Relationships

My friend Christina organizes a fabulous week-long vacation every summer in a glamorous location somewhere in the world for ten or twelve of her friends. Last year we convened at a hundreds years old farm villa in the Sicilian countryside and spent the week exploring the ancient ruins of Agrigento, scrambling across the chalky white cliffs of the Turkish Steps, meandering the windy streets of Taormina, ascending the active volcano Mt. Etna, and eating and drinking tanto Italian food and wine. It was an extraordinary week of physical and sensory stimulation, capping a two-month summer sabbatical that had begun two months earlier at a writer’s workshop in Maui and that had been marred only by symptoms that had plagued me all summer and that eventually became the basis for a breast cancer diagnosis four days after returning from Sicily. I’d been glad for the Sicilian distraction, however the growing fear of what I had read on the internet about those lingering symptoms had nagged at me all summer and I was relieved to get back to America to face what I knew in my gut, even before the biopsy proved it, would be one of my life’s greatest challenges.

Christina emailed the group again in the spring with information about this year’s fabulous location, a modern villa in Croatia overlooking the Adriatic Sea. I immediately responded with an enthusiastic, “IN!” without opening the link to the villa’s website or checking the dates to make sure I was available. And though I knew I would undergo the third and final surgery of my cancer treatment at the beginning of summer, I was determined to recover fully by late August and to wear a bikini. I was also determined to visit the Museum of Broken Relationships in Zagreb, even though our villa in the seaside town of Omiš was nowhere near Croatia’s capital city.

I’d first learned about the museum several years ago when it began as a traveling exhibit that I’d missed seeing when it had come to New York City. I vowed that if I was ever within a couple hundred miles of the museum, I would visit. Aside from a morbid curiosity in its donated contents, I wanted to contribute something to the collection and thought for weeks about what that would be. Imbuing objects with the power to transform the human condition fascinated me and, having been through a physical transformation over the past year, I wanted to experience an emotional renewal.

I settled on bequeathing a fluffy pink bathrobe that my ex-husband had given me for the first Christmas we spent together. I possessed several things he had gifted me over the course of our relationship and many things we had owned together before we divvied it all up after the divorce, but I chose the robe because it represented his loving desire to keep me warm and snuggly during most of our marriage and that desire was now long gone.

At the last minute, I unpacked the robe from my luggage when I realized that I didn’t harbor any lingering negative feelings for him at all and, in fact, felt glad that we had spent so many good years together. Our break-up many years ago had wrenched my heart. I loved him. I just didn’t want to be married to him, or anyone else for that matter. We’d gotten ourselves stuck in a repressive knot that we couldn’t untangle and the only way to unravel it so that we could become our best selves was to sever the relationship. I tried to think of another broken romantic relationship about which I felt enough animosity to require catharsis over its existence or demise and I could think of only one, and I’d already thrown away everything that reminded me of that guy.


The Museum of Broken Relationships

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One hundred meters away from the Museum of Broken Relationships sits St. Mark’s church, gothic eye-candy in the center of Zagreb’s upper old town. On a recent sunny and mild late summer Saturday while exploring this beautiful section of Croatia’s capital city, some of which dates to Roman times, I encountered no fewer than a dozen newlyweds who had emerged from the church surrounded by friends and family cheering and throwing flower petals into the air. The glowing couples roamed the cobbled streets, each trailed by a phalanx of photographers, searching for the perfect backdrop to capture their perfect smiles on their perfect day to kick off their perfect new lives together. Many passed in front of the Museum of Broken Relationships, happily oblivious to its contents, donated objects representing broken relationships of every kind: romances, friendships, families.

Determined to visit this museum that began as a traveling art exhibition of the remnants of failed relationships, I’d driven nearly five hours early that August morning to Zagreb and had booked an inconvenient evening flight to my next destination from there rather than Split, which would have been a much more convenient departure point. The museum had been founded a few years after the exhibit travelled the world collecting more and more objects and finally landed in a small space on the ground floor of a beautifully restored creamy white neo-classical building complete with museum shop and a café featuring artisan coffees and craft beers served by hirsute baristas bearing arms fully-adorned with colorful inky graphics. I felt right at home and spent the better part of the afternoon alternately writing in my journal and staring into space and reflecting on how I had come to sit in that strange place that day.

I had considered donating something from my own broken marriage to the museum, a fluffy pink bathrobe my ex-husband had given me on our first Christmas spent together before we married. I wore that robe every winter for over 20 years, even after our marriage ended, until last year when it sat neatly folded on the highest shelf of my closet, hidden behind bulky, wool sweaters. I’d forgotten about it in the commotion of fighting off cancer and recovering from three surgeries over the past year.

In some ways, the aftermath of a broken marriage had been more agonizing and bewildering than the bout with cancer. With cancer, though the emotional trauma had been difficult, I understood the way forward once my doctor laid out the treatment plan after diagnosing me with this disease. With divorce, I was in uncharted territory having been bound up with the same man for 18 years!

The pink robe remains hidden in the dark recesses of my closet. Though I feel a sense of loss when I stumble on it every once in a while, I keep it there as a small reminder of the great friendship my husband and I once shared and of a time when I felt happy and cared for when wrapped inside it.

The week in Croatia coincided with the one-year anniversary of my cancer diagnosis. I spent the actual day sitting in a swing chair at a beach bar gazing at the Adriatic Sea until long after the red sun dipped below the horizon. I pondered the friendships that had strengthened over the course of my year with cancer and how those stalwarts of friendship were at that moment thousands of miles away. I’d made a mistake in thinking I wouldn’t need them that day and that spending a week with virtual strangers would suffice. Though obviously thrilled that I had been declared “cured” earlier in the summer, I hadn’t anticipated the melancholy that overcame me when I started thinking about everything that had happened since the first symptoms of the disease materialized the previous summer.

The ensuing physical trauma had been bearable. I bounced back quickly from each surgery thanks to gallons of green vegetable juices and exercise whenever my doctor allowed it. The emotional trauma, however, had superseded the physical and I’d have sunk into an emotional abyss without the love and support of my closest friends who had taken care of me and had been by my side through some pretty grim stuff. I’d gotten a taste of what it would be like to exist without the bonds of close friendship that day on the Croatian beach alone and I vowed never again to spend an important moment without them.


Connecting the dots

Steve Jobs gave a commencement speech at Stanford in 2005 in which he shared three stories from his life that each illustrated principles that I have also tried to apply to my own life: do the things that you’re interested in doing and trust that those things will eventually lead you to something meaningful, do what you love and don’t settle even when you lose the things you love, and don’t waste time living someone else’s life because we’re all going to die anyway.

In the first story, he talks about how he dropped out of college but stuck around campus to sit in on courses that interested him, like calligraphy, rather than the required ones. He believed that dropping out of school gave him the intellectual freedom to take an interesting class that didn’t seem to have any obvious real world, practical application, but that eventually led to all computers having multiple typefaces and proportionally spaced fonts. He said:

 “You can’t connect the dots looking forward; you can only connect them looking backwards. So you have to trust that the dots will somehow connect in your future. You have to trust in something — your gut, destiny, life, karma, whatever.”

The dot theory requires trust rather than intention and doesn’t work if you create dots aimed at a specific goal because the most interesting and satisfying things in your life often happen when dots connect in unexpected ways. You can’t predict the myriad of variables that will pop up along the way and that will have an impact on how the dots connect. Many dots will connect in ways that you couldn’t have predicted. Some dots may never connect but if you do interesting things to create them, then you will have at least had fun along the way.

Even though you will not be able to connect the dots looking forward, you can be more conscious of creating dots without knowing where they will take you. Aside from trusting karma or destiny, you can create new dots based on curiosity, generosity, courage, passion, and inspiration. Doing so opens up vast possibilities, many of which you don’t even know exist unless you trust that choices made with this framework will lead to cool things.

Dots should be created in vastly unconnected subject areas because unrelated reference points all contribute information in unexpected ways to finding solutions. Dots beget exponentially more dots so opportunities and pathways increase in direct proportion. You should generate as many as dots as possible and continue doing so throughout your life. The more dots you’ve got out there working their magic on your behalf, the better chance you have of them connecting up in cool and meaningful ways.

Making dots is not like networking. Making dots is like collecting experiences and people that sincerely interest you rather than collecting business cards and friends on Facebook or LinkdIn or followers on Twitter. Creating enough dots to connect in a meaningful way takes years. Start making dots now so that in a few years when you least expect it, the dots will connect up into something amazing.

The dots connect in different ways at different times in our lives. The same dot that might have led toward one conclusion in your 20s could redirect and lead toward another conclusion in your 30s because new dots were created in the intervening time that affect the way your dots connect. The possibilities are endless so long as you don’t look back when you arrive somewhere and decide that this was the final destination. Each dot is like a weigh station that leads you toward the next dot.

Because the connections between the dots can take different directions at any given time, you can connect those dots as they are presented to you at any point and then shift direction later when new dots open up more opportunities. Your constellation of dots should be expanding and rearranging themselves all the time.

Sometimes, it’s not obvious how the dots connect when you’re still fumbling around in the middle of a medley of dots that don’t make sense yet or you are still in the early stages of creating them. You must keep trusting that new, as yet unknown, dots will fill in the gaps to make the connections.

http://youtu.be/UF8uR6Z6KLc

[to be continued]


Sweaty gym clothes on a first date

I co-host a podcast called “Women of Uncertain Age” with my longtime friend Karen. Each week, we discuss and dissect a relationship issue and try to learn something useful from it. Past topics have included determining the appropriate amount of PDA, recycling old boyfriends, and lying about your age. Occasionally, a topic sparks lively debate on Facebook (here and here), such as yesterday’s discussion about some blunders that happened to Karen and me on recent first dates.

My fella showed up in gym clothes and he clearly had not showered after whatever workout he had done that afternoon before meeting me. He didn’t smell too terribly bad, but when we greeted each other with a hug, his skin felt sticky with sweat residue. He didn’t offer an explanation for the lack of attention to his appearance.

Our first date did not take place at a gym or involve exercise, rather our first date took place at a nice restaurant, which he suggested.

“Want to go to dinner? Drinks are not enough, you are too cute for just drinks. Not enough time to talk either.”

Though I had showered and combed my hair and donned an outfit that I thought made me look really cute (and on which he complimented me!), I overlooked his lack of effort to bathing and dressing appropriately for our first date because he seemed clearly “into me” right from the beginning. I didn’t consider the gym clothes an indication of whether or not he liked me because he showered me with compliments about my appearance and my intellect right from the start and throughout our date. I believe that the lack of attention to his appearance was due to obliviousness and dating incompetence.

When I finally asked him why he wore sweaty gym clothes to our first date, he said he wanted to focus on me and on the conversation and not on what he was wearing. I appreciated that response and agreed wholeheartedly!

He was good looking, fit, smart, and tall, but the conversation never dove deep. I never felt a rapport with him, the kind that makes you want to talk for hours late into the night and that inspires you and leaves your stomach tied up in knots and you’re so excited that you can’t wait to see him again. I know what that feels like and this was not that. Though the conversation flowed easily, because having a mundane getting to know you first date conversation is really not that difficult, I never felt an energizing and rousing connection between us. I told him this when he asked me out again and I never mentioned his sartorial blunder. I never heard from him again.


Burn, baby, burn

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I purchased a “Ken” doll from Target and burned it in effigy with a friend who was having difficulty moving past the end of a weird relationship with a man that I didn’t much care for. I knew “Ken” long before she met him because our social circles intersected. We were acquainted enough to chat at parties and to have been Facebook friends, though we never legitimized the friendship beyond those superficial connections. I’d had a couple odd interactions with him and had resolved to keep him at arm’s length. He possessed a sappy charisma that could charm emotionally vulnerable women into falling for him and I had seen him prey on at least one such wretch before he ever met my friend who had just emerged from a relationship catastrophe that made her ripe for the picking by such a predator.

I offered her a feeble warning but didn’t push hard on the matter because I didn’t feel qualified at the time to dispense advice on affairs of the heart having recently made a colossal mistake of my own. I’d been involved for a time with a charismatic, gorgeous, super sexy, posh English-accented man who I think genuinely dug me. We shared emotional intimacies that I think only someone who’d suffered similarly could understand. However, he hadn’t done much to repair himself and some part of me felt like I could rescue him from self-destruction. I knew my effort was futile, but my ego lusted for the conquest! I got burned in the end and it took me a while to recover from that injury.

My friend would not have heeded my advice anyway even if I’d pressed her on it and, knowing this, I refrained from forcing the issue for a time, fearing a rift in our friendship. I watched from the sidelines while he took advantage of her kindness and sincerity. She was as culpable as he in allowing it to happen. I berated her a few times toward the end when his (and her!) absurd, delusional behavior incited anger, bewilderment, and bemusement in me all at once. It was only a matter of time before the train would wreck. I hoped at least that the body would expire quickly and painlessly.

When the relationship finally and inevitably expired, I cheered. However, her sadness tempered my joy. I didn’t like seeing my friend suffer from the indignity of having allowed this man to hustle her. I reassured her that she had done nothing wrong and, in fact, had been nothing but generous, loving, and tolerant. The worst thing anyone could say about her was that she had allowed him to get away with this repulsive behavior for too long and to her detriment, which would embolden him to continue acting badly until someone stopped him.

Burning the effigy wouldn’t erase the hurt, but it felt good to belly laugh with my friend as “Ken” burst into flames and disintegrated into a small pile of black ash. The men who bruised us still run amuck, but our friendship remains fully intact and the experience of having helped each other through our ordeals have strengthened our bond.

(More on the catharsis of fire and destruction here.)


How I learned to drive a stick shift

Karen’s blog post a couple days ago about how she taught her nephew to drive a stick shift reminded me of how I learned to drive a stick shift.

My first lesson transpired after I graduated from high school when my kid brother and I spent the summer with our dad. He lived in Alaska at the time but was visiting the Lower 48 to stock up on provisions, so we flew to Seattle to meet him before driving northward toward The Last Frontier.

After loading our luggage into the trunk, I headed toward the back seat where kids generally sit when they’re in the car with their parents. Instead, dad handed me the car keys and asked, “Can you drive a stick shift, Baby?” He conferred nicknames on everyone in his life, and the one he’d given me when I was an actual baby had stuck. Everyone in my family still calls me by that name to this day! I smiled to myself at the affectionate familiarity of it, though it sounded peculiar and even a little insolent. My brother and I had not seen our dad in almost a decade.

He picked us up from the airport in a new burgundy Volvo sedan he’d dubbed the Swede. Although it was a practical solution to navigating Alaskan winters, the Swede’s square, sensible shape was a comic contrast to the baby blue Karmann Ghia convertible I’d remembered him driving when I was a little girl. I had an old photo of him coolly resting his tall, lean figure against the sporty car, not quite smiling, not quite looking at the camera, not quite handsome. His sizable snout propped up a pair of fashionable sunglasses, and his thin, blond hair was slicked back, revealing a widow’s peak and prominent forehead. His angular limbs seemed in conflict with his body—arms a little too long, legs a little too short, and elbows and knees poking in every direction. 

I have always been good at following instructions so learning to drive a stick shift on the fly didn’t faze me too much. Depress the clutch, shift into first gear, let out the clutch at the same rate as you press the gas pedal, move forward. Easy! I wanted to impress my dad so I suppressed any apprehension I might have had and acted like it was no big deal as I clumsily maneuvered the car away from the parking garage and into the drizzly summer day.

I was filled with anxiety, but not about driving a stick shift for the first time. Panic had struck me as our plane landed that day, and I made my brother wait until every other passenger disembarked before we relinquished our seats to the cleaning crew. The thought of seeing our dad for the first time in ten years had unnerved me as I recalled another summer day when a well-intentioned judge took my small brother and me into his private chambers, drew us into the billowy black folds of his robe, and inquired, “Would you rather live with your mother or your father?”  My mother sat across the desk staring at us with swollen and expectant eyes. 

“My mother,” I whispered to the judge as I clutched my little brother, hoping that I had not given the wrong answer. 

I don’t know why my father was not in the room with us that day and I don’t know if he ever knew my verdict, but he stopped calling or writing soon after we moved to Virginia.  None of it seemed to matter ten years later as we stammered greetings and fumbled hugs in the airport and pretended that my brother and I spent all our summers with our dad. I was thankful for my chatty brother’s banter; it filled the chasm of silence between my dad and me. After a couple of days of lurching around Seattle in the Swede, Jim christened me the family “chauffresse” and declared me to be the best driver in the family, and thereafter the only driver in the family. Handing the car keys to me then became a silent ritual. Every car I have owned since then has been a stick shift.


Destroying stuff to annihilate yourself

My birthday last October coincided with “No Bra Day,” which alleged support for Breast Cancer Awareness Month. Though the origins of the day seemed dubious, I took it at face value and decided to celebrate my birthday with a good old-fashioned bra-burning complete with boob cupcakes, boob balloons, and boob-loving friends. The ceremonial cremation of my undergarments would commemorate the freeing of my tatas in a double mastectomy scheduled for later that month. I would never need to wear a bra again after the surgery and burning the bras, rather than throwing or giving them away, seemed like an auspicious and reverential way to acknowledge the transformation and self-scrutiny and reflection that breast cancer had activated in me.

The bra-burning bash took place on a mild mid-October evening around a fire pit at a friend’s house in the woods along the Potomac River just outside of DC. Once the funeral pyre roared to life, I tossed the first bra into the conflagration and the flames vaporized the polyester and nylon in seconds, leaving behind glowing red wires over which we roasted marshmallows. Laughter and happy chatter filled the air until the final bra was sacrificed into the bonfire and then we stood silently in a circle, each of us lost in thought.

Earlier in the spring of that year, I smashed a cotton candy pink Fender Stratocaster into small bits on the stage at Cherry Blast. A musician friend who liked to smash guitars on his birthdays proposed the idea a couple days before the event and I agreed right away.

The night before the event, my friend taught me enough chords to impersonate someone who knew how to handle a guitar, coached me on proper rock ‘n’ roll style stage strutting, and shared a few pointers on how to protect my eyes and hands from flying shrapnel. I failed to heed his safety tips so my ungloved hands ended up bloodied and bruised, however my eyeballs remained unpunctured even though I forgot to pull down the sunglasses from the top of my head to cover my eyes.

I had been producing Cherry Blast annually for five years for the National Cherry Blossom Festival along with hundreds of other events over the same period and had begun to feel adrift and burnt out and like something was missing. The catharsis of lifting the guitar over my head and smashing it to the ground again and again until the solid, hard body gave way to tiny bits of wood and metal and wire that littered the stage in a mangled mess propelled me a little closer to my true and best self.


LIFE PLAYLIST!

I sat on a grant panel at the DC Commission on the Arts & Humanities several years ago, long before I was an arts commissioner and when I was just starting to produce large art events as Pink Line Project, when a slightly awkward young woman sang a couple songs and played ukulele as her application for an arts grant. I was so taken with her lyrical wit and charming disposition that I contacted her as soon as the commission would allow it and asked her to perform at one of my early events. That women was Maureen Andary and I have been following her rise with great interest and pride ever since. Our careers in the arts in DC have grown in tandem and I’d like to think we helped each other succeed. After so many years, I am thrilled that she and the wonderful Sara Curtin will perform as The Sweater Set at the live recording of the Women of Uncertain Age podcast at noon on Saturday, July 19 at DCAC’s 25th anniversary event!

In preparing for the podcast this weekend, my co-host Karen and I decided that we would each make a music playlist of our lives and write about the importance role music has played in our lives. Music is memory for me. Songs and albums remind me of a trip or a person (like Maureen!) or a time when I was happiest or saddest. There are too many songs to recount in just one post! I present herewith only a few of those songs that comprise my Life Playlist.

  1. I love long road trips! I have driven cross country three times, and up and down the East and West Coasts on numerous occasions, including an epic journey from Portland to Fairbanks, Alaska, with my dad. I love the freedom of stopping whenever and wherever I want along the way. I love long, meditative stretches of highway that allow uninterrupted hours of thinking time. And music. Lots of music. One of my dad’s favorite singers is Linda Ronstadt. He has had a crush on her since the 70s and still talks about her like a moony, love struck teenager even though he is well over 80-years-old. We listened to “Blue Bayou” more than a few times on that long drive and I gotta admit, sappy though it may be, I sorta like the tune. When I went to make an actual playlist to accompany this blog post, I realized I didn’t even actually own the song, which I have now just added to my collection.
  2. One of my most memorable road trips took place the summer after my first year in law school, before I started an internship in a law office in Caracas, when my ex-husband and I drove around America for six weeks. We were both in graduate school at the time and didn’t have much money so, except for one night at the Sahara Hotel in Las Vegas, we stopped only in places where friends or family would shelter us for the night. Cincinnati, Indianapolis, Kansas City, Denver, camping in Zion National Park, Salt Lake City, then Seattle where we left our car and flew to Alaska to visit my dad, then back to Seattle and down the West Coast through San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego, Las Vegas, Santa Fe. We arrived in Houston just in time for the birth of a second cousin before we continued eastward through Birmingham and back home to Richmond. I probably forgot some stops along the way. There was no Spotify, Pandora, or even XM Radio at the time. Just a binder of plastic sleeves filled with CDs. Though the binder contained 100 disks, two got more playtime than any of the others: Seal’s “Prayer For the Dying” and Sarah McLachlan’s “Possession”. Those songs remind me of endless miles zooming across the great sundrenched plains of America, and over the pointy Rocky Mountains when a snowstorm slowed us to a crawl in the middle of June, and down a rain-slicked highway near Seattle when a tire blew out, and on a lonely highway that cut through the Alaskan wilderness  and when we looked back and could see the sun behind Denali at midnight.
  3. I spent the summer after my first-year in college with my dad and his fourth wife Shelley in Ketchikan, Alaska. It had been a rough year and I was happy to escape to an exotic destination where no one asked you any questions about your past or burdened you with any expectations about your future because everyone was sort of on the lam from something. I waited tables in a diner and met lots of colorful characters that brought to life every cliché of weird and quirky Alaska. There were other young people like me who were in town only for the summer to make wads of money on dangerous fishing boats and in the stinky fish cannery at the end of the island. I met one such fellow one morning when he was in town for a few days between fishing trips. I noticed him right away, a blond mop of hair, square jaw, and thin, muscle-y physique. The perfect specimen for a summer romance. We flirted and I felt especially flattered that he even noticed me. There weren’t many women in town, though, so I probably looked pretty appealing even in my UVA t-shirt and jeans and hair pulled back in a ponytail. He was the hottest guy who had ever been interested in me up to that point and we spent the rest of the summer together shooting darts and drinking beer and smooching at a scenic overlook on the road to my dad’s house where I lived. At the end of the summer, I went back to college and he went back to California with promises to see each other soon and to call every day. (This was well before texting!) Those calls, filled with lots of silence punctuated occasionally by idle chatter, became less frequent so I decided to rekindle the flame by visiting him over fall break. He picked me up from the airport in San Jose and on the drive back to Santa Cruz, he popped in a cassette tape of Bruce Springsteen’s “Born To Run.” When the title song ended, which we had agreed was one of our favorites songs, I wound back the tape, turned up the volume, and played it again and again. I had been smitten and flattered by his hotness, but we didn’t have much to say to each other when we weren’t both away from home and anonymous and not our real selves.
  4. Last summer, when I was in Oregon during a two month recess from my life, when I started noticing the first signs of ill-health that eventually led to a cancer diagnosis, I wrote a long letter to a dear young friend who asked me what I thought she should do with her life. I sent her the letter with an instruction to listen to “Living Life” by Kathy McCarty on the Before Sunrise soundtrack while reading it. I told her to stop wasting time worrying about what anyone thinks she should be doing with her life and go do the things that make her happy. I cried so much writing that letter to her knowing that I was really writing to myself more than anything, and I cried in my white rental Chevy Malibu on the way to the airport as I left my dad’s place for what felt like might be the last time I ever saw him, and I sobbed at the baggage carousel after landing at LAX in sheer terror, sensing the magnitude of life change that lay ahead of me.
  5. My ex-husband had excellent taste in music, which usually leaned toward the heady. He played the trumpet and piano and loved jazz music and introduced me to Miles, Brubeck, Coltrane, and Byrd. To this day, the unusual tempo of “Take Five” stops me in my tracks wherever I am and forces me to pay attention. He also got me hooked on The Police. “Roxanne” was a personal favorite.
  6. Guys in bands are dreamy and sexy. The ones who are true musicians usually have a wide range of musical influence regardless of whatever genre they play in. One guy I dated for a short while played guitar in a band that sounded like Nirvana, which was not totally my thing. However, he introduced me to M83, Spiritualized, and Sharon Von Etten. Bon Iver’s “Skinny Love” accompanied our first make out session. We didn’t last long, though. I think I was too square for him and I might have offended his musical sensibility when Air Supply’s “We’re All Out Of Love” popped up on my iPod one evening when we were hanging out at my place. I tried to explain that the song was just a joke and I didn’t really like it, but things cooled off between us soon after.
  7. Guys who make music mixes for you do so at great risk. I have fallen for guys based purely on their selection of songs and I have lost that lovin’ feelin’ for a guy for the same reason.
  8. Young interns over the years have kept me up-to-date on music so that I don’t get stuck on shuffle repeat with the songs of my youth, classic rock of the 70s and the synthy pop tunes of the 80s. One of my first interns used to bring me a flash drive every couple months of all the best stuff she’d bought recently and I’d load it onto my iPod and we’d play the music over the surround sound speakers I’d had installed in my condo when I first moved in. Whenever Florence and the Machine’s “Dog Days” came on, we’d crank up the sound and an impromptu dance party would ensue, a great break from hunching over our laptops for hours. Introducing me to new music became a requirement of the internship.

Have I been an a*@hole?

A young girlfriend emailed me last summer asking for advice about what she should do with her life, whether she should stop doing “random, crazy things and settle down and start a career and take a desk job.” I had just landed in Portland, having spent the previous weeks in Hawaii writing and surfing, when I received her text message. I dashed off a quick “NEVER” and told her I’d write more later. I pondered the question for a week, during which I experienced the complete breadth of human emotion having met a man who would change the course of my life and spending time with my father from whom I’d been estranged for nine years, and during which I imagined the possibility of my imminent death and planned my funeral with playlists and poetry, before I responded with a lengthy, rambling email urging her to stop wasting time worrying about what anyone thinks she should be doing with her life and go do the things that make her happy. I concluded with this:

You don’t need me to tell you what to do. There is no one answer anyway. Trust your heart, love fiercely, hug harder, and don’t be an asshole (to yourself included), and be kind and generous (to yourself included), and be in love with the world. And let the world love you back. (I have a hard time with that last one.)

I wrote that bit of advice during a time when my own life was in drastic flux and in the midst of yet another self-reinvention fueled by a desire to pursue my own creative aspirations. One month later, a breast cancer diagnosis left no room for confusion about the path forward.

Now that treatment and the reconstruction process are almost done, I have been wondering how well I fared in following the advice I had imparted to my young friend. Though cancer has allowed me to excuse myself from many social and business obligations over the past year, soon I won’t have that crutch to fall back on. I have drastically downsized my business, which has given me more time to write, and I have been securing more and more freelance writing and speaking gigs, and slogging my way through writing a book. In those regards, I have fared well.

Have I, however, loved fiercely and hugged harder and been kind and generous and in love with the world? I have tried my best and I learned most of whatever I know from all the love and kindness and generosity that has been heaped on me.

Have I been an asshole? Yes. I have cancelled dates with girlfriends in favor of a guy who asked me out at the last minute, I have talked about people behind their backs, and I have fought dirty with loved ones by using the weapon of silence. I am reluctant, however, to confess the truly epic asshole things I have perpetrated. Too embarrassed! Let’s just say that I finally figured out that I don’t have time or mental space to be an asshole, which requires filling up limited emotional capacity with anger, resentment, and a certain amount of conniving and which leaves little room for love, kindness, generosity and ultimately joy, and makes everyone feel bad in the process. I’d rather spend the time paddle boarding or reading a good book or walking with a friend or having lunch with my niece and nephew or a thousand other things that make me happy.


YOLO, so love more

On the same day that I gave a “Creative Mornings” talk in which I reminded the audience that we are all right now dying so we need to be doing what our hearts tell us we should be doing every single minute of every single day, my ex-husband emailed me to say that his brother’s wife died the same day after having been in poor health for 18 months. He’d dashed off the email to me on his way to the airport to be with his family and did not provide more details. I found out from reading her obituary that she’d died of Stiff Person Syndrome, a rare neurological disorder with features of an autoimmune disease. I recalled that she had suffered various maladies almost the entire time I had known her and I wondered if she’d been misdiagnosed all those years.

I burst into tears on learning of her passing. I had not seen or spoken to her since well before the divorce years ago, and we had not been close when I had been part of my ex’s family. We never communicated with each other outside of family gatherings and our conversations during those infrequent holiday visits lacked intimacy and warmth. She tried hard to befriend me and I rebuffed her amiable overtures until she finally gave up and we settled into a tolerant co-existence. And yet, the news of her passing overwhelmed me with sadness.

I thought of her three children on whom she’d lavished love and of her kind-hearted, loyal husband. They would feel the great void of her sizable personality. Though she and I never bonded, we had nonetheless been part of each other’s lives for nearly two decades and her demise left a small gap in my heart, as well. She was generous and forgiving to a fault, and she was confident and resourceful and optimistic and she expressed love easily.

I possessed little of these qualities at the time, which made me subconsciously jealous of her. I had felt intellectually superior to her and I had been smug about her life choices, which had been much different from my own. I did little to mask my disdain, a disdain that made me feel better about myself and that infused in me a false sense of power over her. I was detached from and dismissive of the demons she’d fought in her young life and self-righteously believed that my demons stank worse. I hid my contempt behind a thin veil and her friendly overtures ceased after a few years as she resigned herself to mirroring my bare civility.

I cringe now at the depth of my immaturity and lack of self-confidence and the agonizing awareness of my inability to compete with her at the time in the ways that mattered most. I could have been happier with my life sooner if I’d let go of all that pride and all those emotional barricades and reflected her virtues. Instead, I wasted years expending emotional energy being annoyed, uncharitable, judgmental, and critical.

She was only a few months older than I, a startling reminder that though I had had my own recent brush with death over the same period and had survived, I was not invincible and we have limited time to learn how to be our best selves. I regret that I had not been better to her when I knew her and I wish it had not taken me so many years to become better, for my own sake. Her death reminded me that living your life like you know you are dying every day is about much more than following your dreams to become a writer or travel the world or live with abandon. Living your life like you know you’re dying means living with compassion, kindness, love, and unfettered generosity. Those are the things that will make you happy and in turn make others happy and make the world a better place for all of us.


#endlesssummer interrupted

Cancer has been one of the shittier things that ever happened to me. At the same time, my year with cancer has also been a magical time in my life in which I learned some mighty lessons about friendship, love, freedom, and how to live like you’re dying (because, you know, we are all dying right now). Nestled among these abstract gifts from the cancer gods was one more palpable and tangible bonus: liposuction!

A few weeks after the second surgery in January when the implants took their place beneath my chest muscles, small divots and depressions began to form as the silicone pouches settled into place. This lovely side effect doesn’t happen to women who get breast augmentation because they still have breast tissue on top of the implants. My plastic surgeon (three words I never imagined I would say together) prescribed a standard procedure: fill in those dents with fat harvested from my tummy.

Even though the imperfections were small and even though perfectly symmetrical and well-shaped breasts are not the norm anyway and even though I had never before considered elective plastic surgery, I figured I could at least get perfect boobs out of this whole ordeal. And though a flat stomach barely redressed the loss of my breasts, I thought it could at least help vanquish nagging feelings that I might never be attractive enough to date again.

The liposuction would take place during the surgery to reconstruct the nipple, which my surgeon had removed from the cancer-ridden breast. He explained that reconstructing the nipple from the remaining areola was like origami. I’d like to think he made that analogy with all his patients and not especially for his Asian patients who might better understand the process by relating it to something they could easily understand.

Ahso,” I nodded cheerfully!

I looked forward to the liposuction and had been feeling physically strong, maybe even stronger than before the surgery. Since being diagnosed with cancer, I had changed my diet to exclude processed sugar. I drank less alcohol, ate less meat and more veggies, and guzzled gallons of green juices. Once given the all clear from the last surgeries, I began exercising again with gusto. Plus, I felt smug telling all my jealous girlfriends about getting medically required lipo … that insurance would pay for!

Optimism filled me until a few days before the final surgery date when the familiar fear and anxiety of cancer and of invasive surgery set in again. The recovery from another surgery would disrupt my #endlesssummer with swelling and bruising well into early fall and there would no exercise more vigorous than walking for several weeks. I plunged into a funk. The impending surgery reminded me of everything I’d suffered over the past year.

I wanted the whole ordeal to end as soon as possible so I considered calling off the lipo, which was the part of the whole procedure that would require the most recovery time. Turned out, insurance would not pay for any liposuction beyond the small amount necessary to fill in the holes. The additional, stomach-flattening lipo would cost nearly $5,000 out-of-pocket (even with the breast cancer discount!). Perhaps it had been wishful thinking, but I had misunderstood the scope of the procedure when my plastic surgeon first explained it to me.

Would it be worth the additional physical pain and emotional torment? I polled several girlfriends who had been jealous of my impending liposuction for their opinions thinking they would talk me into taking out a home equity loan to pay for the much-coveted flat stomach and here’s what they said:

“You don’t even wear make up, why would you pay for liposuction?”

“Why gild the lily?”

“Spend the money on a fabulous vacation instead!”

You don’t need to remove miniscule amounts of fat to be a better writer, rock star, artist, or hottie.”

And so it happened again. Yet another magical gift bestowed on me. The gift of thoughtful, loving, gorgeous girlfriends who weren’t afraid to set me straight when I needed it. Tomorrow, I will undergo the least invasive option  and then I will move on with my wild and beautiful new life and continue with my #endlesssummer.


Fourteen reasons to be half-Asian

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  1. No stress over what career path to follow. Your Asian mother already picked out three choices for you: doctor, lawyer, or engineer!
  2. Keep it all in the family: you can buy Nikes that your second cousin hand-stitched during her 14 hour shift for which she earned the equivalent of two U.S dollars.
  3. You have the superpower to become invisible whenever the menace of racist taunts threatens you. If you think they can’t see you, then they can’t hurt you.
  4. Your family treats you like a weird alien child. You look nothing like them and family portraits prove it.
  5. Excellent physical fitness thanks to working out all the time because you believe you’re huge. And you are! (Relative to your relatives.)
  6. Your Asian half turns bright red when you drink alcohol. Your Irish half orders another Jamison on the rocks.
  7. Good at math AND English!
  8. You can play a myriad of roles including Mexican, Laplander, and vague person of color. (But you can’t play an Asian.)
  9. Not Asian enough for Asians. Not white enough to date.
  10. I’m exotic!
  11. Half-Asian babies are so cute!
  12. Wrinkle-free, easy tan Asian skin.
  13. My English is real good, so I am told.
  14. I may be a mutt. But I don’t eat them!


Over at The Home Beete, Paulette is writing about her body every day for 30 days. She struggles with her weight and speaks beautifully and poignantly about the ways her large size have affected her disposition and even the course of her life. Until my 20s, I wore baggy, boyish clothes that hid my shape because I believed that my body was too big thanks in part to my Asian relatives who have never stopped commenting on my relatively larger size. Eventually I figured out I was medium sized and that my relatives were tiny and I began wearing clothes that fit me and vanquished those perceived flaws about my size, though I am still trying to lose the same five pounds that I was trying to lose in college, which have lately settled into a muffin top that both my grandmother and mother carry around their midsections, so I suspect genetics will thwart my efforts.

Though I recalibrated my perceptions of my body size, I have never been able to completely overcome the negative feelings I sometimes still harbor about my Asian physical features. As a young child, I would pinch the bridge of my nose and lift up my eyelids with my fingertips every day and I permed my hair into long curls as a teenager and later added streaks of blond in a futile attempt at altering my appearance so that no one would mistake me for Asian. I never had any ideas for how to lengthen my legs. I have never, however, complained about my Asian skin. Besides tanning easily, my skin has been slow to wrinkle and sag.

I have spent most of my young life avoiding other Asians, including my family, so that I would not be mistaken for one of them and therefore treated as an outsider. Despite my best efforts, I never felt like I fit in the ultra white, Southern, suburban town I called home. My rag tag band of friends, though all white, each embodied their own brand of misfit. One friend practiced a weird religion, Mormonism. Another friend was clearly a closeted gay and came out years later after marrying and having children. A third friend was South Asian, which was just far enough away from my own Southeast Asian to be acceptable company. A fourth friend was a quiet loner whose alcoholic father beat and verbally abused him and who went on to become a pediatrician.

[to be continued]


More musings on friendship

Whenever I go to NYC, I stay with a former fairly serious boyfriend, sleeping chastely on the couch. He does the same whenever he comes back to DC to visit. We dated for nearly two years not too long after I split up with my husband of 16 years. He helped me heal from the awful pain of divorcing someone I still loved, though not, in the end, in that desirous, passionate way that keeps a marriage pulsing with life and vigor.

He brought me flowers regularly and performed little guy tasks like fixing my stereo system and putting air in my car tires. He gave me thoughtful gifts, like the super cool huge beach towel for two emblazoned with a surfing motif that he’d ordered from The Standard Hotel, and the heavy duty food processor after I complained about chopping vegetables one night when I was making dinner for him. We road tripped to Pittsburgh to explore the art scene one late spring weekend and as usual he found the yummiest places to eat and the neatest old hotel for lodging, and later we went to London and Paris for my birthday and somehow he got a reservation for two at a fancy, pop-up restaurant on the roof of the Palais de Tokio, where Paris and everything that was beautiful and gorgeous in the world laid spread our below us.

A couple years passed after we broke up before we became friends and our friendship deepened as we learned how to relate to each other in this new way. He became one of my most ardent supporters during my bout with cancer, and at the end of that awful year, he posted on Facebook an inventory of things he’d been thankful for in the past 12 months, and the last thing he listed was gratitude for one of his best friends kicking cancer’s ass. I saw that I was important to him and I cried a little and hoped I had shown him well enough that he had been important to me.

So when I texted him a couple weeks ago to ask if his couch was free for a visit, he told me that he’d just started seeing someone who didn’t like that he had so many friends who were women and that he’d have to check with her to see if it was ok for me to stay with him. I advised him to break up with her without delay, not because I was jealous or secretly wishing we would get back together, but because I knew how hard it was to find great friends who take care of you when you need them and who know your weird quirks and still like you anyway. Anyone who would stand in the way of a potential mate’s hard earned friendships was questionable material for anything beyond a passing fancy.

I’m lucky I got to find out who my friends were when I got sick last year and this guy was one of them. I hope he, or anyone else I care about, never has to find out the hard way who his friends are.