Him or Her? He or She?

Before the world is split into multi-dimensional matrix – we begin with a simple pronoun.

Him or Her? He or She?

Are you a man or a woman? Can you imagine fitting into both, or fitting into neither? Or the very worst- being trapped inside the wrong body?

This following confession might sound wrong, but I pride myself on my collection of friends – my best friend is a mirror image of myself, family/background/etc, however she reeks of Type-A/Responsible, whereas I’m guilty of type Late/Laidback… One of my oldest amigos is gay, there is the wonderful woman who is a compassionate shoulder, and she is a lesbian, I have plethora of African-American, Chinese, Hispanic, black, you name the race- you’ll find it. Jewish, Christian, Muslim… Wheel chair bound and the most successful writer, I have the most loyal friend who has Asperser’s and he is a genius, a deaf friend whose photography is drop-dead gorgeous. A blind guy who’ll become a politician… A sensitive woman who opened my eyes up to autism, there are the young, the insane, artistic, logical, vagabonds, recovering drunks, overachievers, philanthropic and some a bit selfish – the accountants, the writers, the entrepreneurs, sports-nuts, or scholars. Each character plays a pivotal role in my life – they have challenged me to believe two things:

1. At inception we’re all the same – it’s after that the changes begin to determine who we will become.
2. There is nothing fabulous about not being special.

But in my life, and in my entire repertoire of relationships, I’m yet to trip across a transvestite.

Okay, and that term, well let’s stop beating around the obvious… is painfully an enigma, the three syllables are difficult to say, only because I’ve never been able to tie a personality, a character, a photograph or a friend to the title. It’s beyond my normal comfort zone, Friday nights and editorial meetings, classes and travels… I’m yet to meet someone who has the obstacle, nearly debilitating obstacle – reconcile your body with your brain.

But then again, each of us have methods in which to blend in with the masses, become one in a homogeneous sea of humanity.

And Michelle has done that with such grace. A thick mane of curly red hair, tall with a pink shirt and jeans- her puppy is calm and not annoying and nuts like the majority of the yappy dogs. Michelle tells me that her dog likes me, which is unusual since he doesn’t like most strangers, which is flattering, since I have an affinity for all things canine.

She moved to Denver on a whim two weeks ago after an explosive epiphany in Miami. A right-hand-man for Madonna, Paula Abdul and others, in LA…Michael moved to Miami where he decided to undergo irreversible procedures- invasive, a one-time choice, a decision forever. Michelle has been featured in documentaries, interviewed for features chronicling the lives of “transvestite.” And you’d never know by looking at her -

A man who decided to reconcile his body and brain – is now a woman, a happy, content, fulfilled and driven woman.

Poignant and empathetic, compassionate and kind, my heart reaches out to her – and my respect. I pray that she finds someone who sees her for exactly who she is –a durable, courageous, beautiful and accepting human.

Aside from giving me permission to write about her – she left me with a thought: “I love to hike… Life is one big mountain, we can all take various routes, different trails, see different things on the way up, but at the end, it’s the same view.”

Starbucks - Random

Starbucks offers more than a triple venti latte with soy, half a scoop of cinnamon, and finally a dollop of whip crème. Oh, it’s a hub of business meetings, writers, students and girlfriends catching up, a prime location for first dates, and a desirable neutral/safe zone to hand off kids. Sounds dismal. I spy on a mom with two toddlers - clearly handing them off to a father .He is so excited to hug them and has saved a table in the corner. Two chocolate donuts are waiting on two napkins. She’s giving him a disproving glare. I could stipulate that their normal form of communication involves email and two cc’d lawyers. But that’s just my guess.

There is a homeless guy playing the accordion outside, there are two women dazzling in jewels and then two guys, maybe eighteen or nineteen with calculators and chewing on erasers. The social environment which appears to appeal to all walks of life - you’ll locate familiarity in all of the thousands monopolistic cafes; the same mahogany tables, the calming hunter green and the same vanilla scones- well it’s a classier McDonalds model - the same dependable taste whether I’m in Hong Kong or Sydney, New York, or Plainville, Texas. This is a brilliant conglomerate in which I wholeheartedly support.

A weird thing happened recently: Serendipity, happenstance, however you want to phrase the absurd conversations that leave me a bit unhinged and more weirded out than say, the average “hola” to my neighbor.

Two Saturday’s ago I ventured into Starbucks on Colo. Blvd. – it was 11pm and I was desperate to see proof of humanity. I’d spent the majority of the blizzard day working in my apartment. Thanks to the Denver population (roughly 17 people) I climbed into my car with sweats to drive through the snow to locate the only 24-hour Starbucks. There is a one almost-empty table, an older man with a leathered briefcase with small circular glasses, dark skin with very short black hair. He is packing his bag, sipping the last of his coffee and brushing the crumbs off the table. I make a run for it.

All I want is to turn on my computer, shut the world out (such an oxymoron, since I’m at Starbucks to see other humans blaring miscellaneous music and pounding out whatever on Apple keyboards, or lost in textbooks), blare my music and continue my love affair with Microsoft Word.

“So why does a woman like you come to Starbucks at 11pm at night?” He probed. He had a thick accent, pausing at the vowels.

I jumped, expecting him to take his briefcase and give me his table... not trying to start talking at this ungodly hour.

“I need some energy.” Was all my brain could rummage up at the moment as I was wiping the whip creme off my chin.

His eyes were skeptical. He questioned my answer, “Like what kind of energy?”

“You know, like I just needed to get out of the house.” I explained, annoyed. He wasn’t leaving the table.

“Sure, I understand.” He said without a clue as to what I was explaining.

I glance at the papers on the table and see foreign formulas in various colors, equations of sorts.

He noticed I was staring, “Oh those are formulas - I’m a physics professor and I was just helping some students better understand Einsten’s Zero-point Energy theory. It’s why I was a bit fascinated when you said you were seeking out energy tonight. Essentially it explains the transmission of energy.

Not only did I get what I was seeking, but I got a full blown explantion of why and how I was receiving exactly what I’d asked the world for, literally. This man and I sat down and talked for an hour. This sixty-something fatherly figured was so eager to explain the law of gravity, how to create magnetic force from mere metal, how the law of relativity is flawed, light-years, space-ships, you name it - this guy could explain it, and I was actually, truly enjoying learning such interesting, scientific theory.

I’m now a believer in the blind law of attraction. Sometimes you get what you want - and sometimes you're given exactly what you've requested, but weren't expecting at all.

Love Will Save Us (and our GDP)... A look at America's most Prized Invention...

Esquire tossed a journalist under an MRI to scan his brain, trying to figure out, scientifically– if there is such a thing as amour?

“I love thee with serotonin produced by my raphe Nuclei. I love thee with testosterone receptors deep in my hypothalamus. I love thee with dopamine that floods my primitive lizard brain.” Says A.J. Jacobs. See link below.

Dave Matthews nailed it for the umpteenth time. He has lured in radio stations and listeners with his comforting, soothing melodic sound, but with every new album arrives even “hippier” lyrics.

Funny the way it is, right or Wrong
Someone’s broken heart,
Becomes your favorite song…

While the irony is unmistakably obvious, Matthews uses his musical manse as a catalyst, challenging listeners to ponder the trenches of our consumer-hungry hearts, eventually breaking down, having a come-to-Jesus, Boulder/Agnostic style. And that is supposed to solve our problems.

But it wasn’t his husky voice that commanded the cult more than a decade ago – it was his distinct ability to have the whole world fall in love with his lyrics.

The way I used to laugh with you was loud and hard
Sweet like Candy to my soul…

Come now- he reeks of a heterosexual version of Whitman - and several half-paragraphs later you wonder what direction is this rambling taking you?

What percentage of our day is haunted by variations, revelations, advice columns, colognes, books, films, movies and therapists all dedicated to making this paramount part of your life livable. And it doesn’t come cheap. Whether you’re single, married, divorced, or independently independent, you can relate to melancholy lyrics, flirty flicks with zero resemblance to reality, and get lost in blogs contemplating which gender is to blame. And what do I think? Well as a capitalist, I say “go you,” as a single woman I say, “let’s get on with it.”

Americans have idealized this notion that this chemical reaction will trip across you at Starbucks, or at the grocery store and there won’t be a thing you can do to stop it.

“It”, being this utopian umbrella that protects all problems, which consequently has been the cause for most of them as well. Wouldn't arranged marriage alleviate all that pressure to constantly make someone else feel obsessed with? And yet, as hundreds of cultures in the last several centuries couldn’t give an iota of energy to this profound invisible existence, it seems to drive, shove, direct American consumerism. But is it love, or lust for something that doesn’t really exist. Is it a deep sentimental recognition of another soul?

Is it simply an attachment to someone who will bear witness to your life?

The best part: There is such an oxymoron. We FLOURISH in the idea that LOVE is out of our control - leave it up to fate, the big guy upstairs - chemistry? But then once we have it, or when we've decided to look for it - we rush out to buy, analyze or redo - to somehow let love manifest itself? So... America and our chick flicks, our self-help books, and our sappy love sagas have indeed entertained the world, while I'm not sure if we've convinced the rest of the world that "amour" is within our reach - it's certainly helped our gdp (how many international tours has Justin Timberlake done, or books Danielle Steel has sold?) Here is a toast to inventing the unstoppable, unpenetratable addiction to amour.

http://www.esquire.com/features/mri-of-love-0609