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

Santa Monica

Saturday, 1am
He noticed my girlfriend and I standing by the bar and navigated his way through the salacious silk scarves, the makeshift tops women wore. Approaching us, he hesitated, well-aware that he was outside the acceptable generational barrier. But I was bored, so warned him with the precautionary white-lie: I had a boyfriend and madly smitten, but would gladly accept the merlot and conversation. My girlfriend glared at me as she was on the prowl, whereas I was just a curious journalist sidetracked by a colorful character. Seemingly benign, he appeared out of place in the posh crowd. My Aussie gal was flirting with some bloke, so I sat on the leather stool with whom I learned; a graduate of MIT and Harvard. Now an international lawyer/investor, he specialized in the hospitality sector in China. Not a bad dude to ask for some advice re: my portfolio. Sure, we chatted about how easy it was for him to raise capital in America to invest in international real estate development, which was a bit disconcerting, which eventually brought us back to about two decades before, when he was married to a woman named Mary, She was also from a small city in Kansas. He paused. I paused. I texted Sarah, who’d, disappeared awhile earlier with some guy on the dance floor.

I started to give him grief for roaming a lounge intended for the 35-under crowd, but his sad eyes stopped me. Sure, men tell women random and wacky stories, sure they fake equity in this company, or a claim a faux degree from that college, but when you’ve got an educated and successful, grown man pouring his heart out to stranger and more importantly, he was completely sober, he must have felt alone. Not the type of alone attempted during a weekend away on a reprieve. I cannot imagine that the crowd around us made his gnawing loneliness better, until he said “My son died of leukemia when he was two. My wife and I ended up getting a divorce. In an effort to do something, anything I started building companies. Companies after company, from India, United Arab Emirates, Brazil, China … each merger or acquisition ate up more time, until I looked in the mirror and realized it had been fifteen years since I’d entertained the idea of moving forward. And that was last May.” And i realized that this man wasn't scouting out for the next woman of his life, or business partner or one-night stand... He was simply seeking out humanity at this late hour.

This poor, well, filthy rich man… Life could get ugly no matter how beautiful of clothes you’re wearing. I excused myself to the restroom. Hit his name into google to make sure he wasn’t heaving lies toward my empathetic ears. Sure enough, thousands of results popped up with his name - all legit. I felt like a jerk, but a resourceful journalist. Note: Thank you Blackberry.

Walking back to Channing, who was staring haphazardly out into the crowd of people decades younger, his expression was melancholy; he seemed more comfortable observing from afar, than attempting to join.

Tapping his shoulder lightly, he jumped. "Guess what?" I chirped.

More tomorrow…

The Night Ron Jeremy Made A Fool of Me

Canonizing Reality

There are two ways of telling a story, skimming the surface and pausing at the chapter headings for a witticism or insightful quote. Then there is digging deep into the trenches of our stubborn history tugging at the debris of leftover memories. And only once that happens, you can thoughtfully move forward.

However, sometimes the most pivotal part of a story is the part we try to forget.

It’s the part where the “protagonist” fails. But it is a crucial element in any storyline. It isn’t fair for a reader to see solely the strength in a protagonist, rather than be witness to vulnerabilities too. It is impossible in nonfiction to pretend that every chapter ended perfectly.

Nonfictions are supposed to be about suffering as a human, and coming out at the end accepting that is what we are. As a writer, I prefer not to talk about the parts in my life I’m not proud of, but that’s only human of me right?

We each have two sides. What we keep inside, and the outside. The thoughts we think and the things we actually say and while the two are related, they’re never exactly the same.

But no real memoir has a perfect ending, because a memory is only a thread, a single account. A memoir is a life dissected by pages and paragraphs, alarm clocks and holidays. Its purpose; somehow analyze and make sense of an existence, one that is temporal and fleeting.

There are certain characters in my narratives who are now, just ghosts to me. There are certain people who slip in, unassuming and unarmed for a minute or two. They must make an appearance for the entire story to make sense, but if they stayed any longer, there couldn’t be an ending.

Sometimes fate will throw you a bone, Lord know I was handed enough luck to keep people entertained for hours, but as a writer, it isn’t difficult to manipulate fate a little bit too.

In what phenomenal and inspirational nonfiction is there not an element of transformation on the protagonist’s part?

Transformation, whether voluntary or not, isn’t simple, it’s barely describable, pulls you out of reality so instead of colors and voices the world is garbled together like static.


Several Autumns Ago….

My white corduroy jacket with princess sleeves is being harassed by an unidentifiable rank odor. Why do some cabs seem infected with vermin and lice and the residue of people who have just hooked up? I’m not going to lie, I don’t shower every day, but I also don’t usually share this information. The driver of this cab almost certainly smells, he probably retreats home everyday so sickened by the stench of his cab… which must permeate his clothing, having a necessary quick rinse to even kiss a wife hello. I wonder if people who work in the porn industry shower everyday. I hope they do, it would be absolutely grotesque if they didn’t, however it might not be as vulgar because they’re sharing so many bodily fluids, so maybe it’s more the merrier in regards to the germs.

My mind cannot dislodge the visual image of Ron Jeremy in a man thong. Harsh I know, but with hundreds of filmed titled "Blank Blank Blank Blank" my feelings toward him are a big skewed, even if he claims that he is empowering women. I’m surprised he still has a rattail, I’m sure it dates him. The porn king/guru- C Hollywood star, porn director/producer is also scholarly. He actually has a Masters in special education- of all concentrations. Please forgive my inappropriate assumption, but did he earn this degree to facilitate communication with his colleagues? I’m curious if a graduate degree in special education was the only route to understand such “touchy” issues? Don’t get me wrong, it’s commendable to dedicate your life to helping those who have extraordinary needs, but should an inability to climax four times in two minutes (biggest problem in porn industry) be categorized as a special need?

Last night a debate was held on Huntington Street in South Boston between the Porn Guru/God himself Ron Jeremy, and an ultra conservative Priest. They argued the ethics of the porn industry, its influence on pop culture, children, and crime and most importantly, us college students.

Peering out from the third row in the large auditorium cascading with college student’s popped collars, seven jeans, nose rings, and Uggs. Dead silence was followed by the brisk; formal taps of expensive shoes on wooden stage floor. The shoes belonged to a very metro non-denominational priest. He sported shaggy, sandy blond hair, a veneer- engineered smile and twinkle blue eyes. Come now. Come on, I just thought he might look more like priest. Especially considering, hairy ape man, whose 30-year-old rattail had yet to be cut off. Ron Jeremy could not look any more like the stereotypical porno dude. I don’t even know the proper title for people in that industry, actors, models, and the imaginary titles need to stop.

Ron trained his eyes to look up and down every body, if not for his own pleasure, but the pleasure of making the body observed uncomfortable. The awkwardness between Ron and the priest (whose name we never learned) was disquieting. Even before the debate began, ooohhhh, ahhhh, booos and the unsettling, romping cheers for Ron filled the auditorium. It was frightening knowing that each male cheering a little too inappropriately had seen his member, and fully erect. Ron was the greasiest version of the grossest person you can conceivably imagine. And the funny thing is, he is the only person who can accurately represent the porno prodigy is himself, Ron Jeremy. In addition to his 1,800-porno flicks he also made, “making the movie of Ron Jeremy”. As Jeremy’s rebuttal began my friend leaned to me with a whisper similar to a whisper intended for telling 40 kindergarten children it was nap time, “You know his blank is blank inches long, it has some sort of record or something.” My mind went black, and thank God no visual picture accompanied that factoid….

The eruptions of perverted guys all around us put my feminist bitch attitude in four-wheel drive, which started revving when Ron refuted the Priest with, “Pornography is empowering for women….”. I had unconsciously stood up, thrown my jacked on my friend (for safe-keeping) and publicly throated a “WHAT” and began to descend down the stairs to get to have a word with the legend himself….

In transit, shaking starts under my feet, I grab the hand0rail, vibrations are everywhere, my mind retraces this feeling, and I remember lying awake in Costa Rica feeling an earthquake. Suddenly the sound of stampeding has stopped, which has been replaced by deafening laughter and screaming, STREAKER…

The rest tomorrow…

NAKED WARS: Part II "It Ain't No Catch & Release"

We're just two lost souls 
Swimming in a fish bowl - Pink Floyd

Don’t you want to lick every adjective off the tip of his tongue?

Don’t you want to drown yourself in her sharp observations and crackhead commentary?

How do you prevent yourself from ripping off clothes and indulging in animalistic, cataclysmic action reserved for “his and her only”? Isn’t that what relationships are for – the simple chore of dependable entertainment.

Several nights ago at a cowboy restaurant a cute couple, preppy, right out of a JCrew catalogue had such passivity engraved in their already stoic expressions I seriously considered them dead. I couldn’t figure out if they were on a church retreat thus appearing bored and conservative was part of the consent form, some sort of coming to Jesus. Or rather they were so apathetic toward the other they independently found staring off into space far more stimulating than idle banter?

I wanted to cry out… Why? Why? How could you have changed so much since that first date? The night she spent an hour straightening her hair? The morning he washed his car and changed his socks twice? How much energy has worthless arguments and bickering drained your soul of anything resembling human interaction. What had to occur so that you cannot bear even sight of each other, let alone ignore poor innocent conversation?

What happens once you’ve battled the commitment phobia and you’ve actually obtained a variation of public acknowledgement that you’re (and he is) off the meat market? The calculating games required to “land” have been mutually put away, and shoved under the bed for a rainy afternoon when the electricity has gone out (literally)? The giddiness of readily agreeing to eat your least favorite food has been substituted with nights nervously eating pasta impressing the parents. And obnoxious bars packed full of grizzly bouncers has been replaced with plaid pajamas and netflix.

The thrill of the hunt and the perfume in the air and the high-pitched girl giggle “hehe”… (Complimentary visual image from Adam Ferrara)… are gone. Because the only olfactory enhancer you smell anymore is deodorant, and if lucky, mouthwash. With no reason to be macho and cool, with quick-witted comebacks and impressive tales of heroic survival stories stuck in the Rockies, only for a phone number or a half-assed hug. Nope. No need to put on makeup, or plaster on an artificial grin after rush hour. Let it all hang out because why, why you’ve gone to the trouble of not being single. And what self-sacrificing fool would ever do that? Unless there was an upside… An empathetic ear just a phone call away, the obligatory booty call, a psychologist and travel partner, friend and foe all rolled up into that yummy and delectably delightful person you call “boyfriend”.

But once the above mentions have been met, what’s leftover? Not to insult the sanctity of relationships, but how do couples entertain themselves once they’ve already agreed to just be.

Why is it the cute couples in their forties and fifties you find cuddled up on a park bench, or walking hand-in-hand out of a Viagra commercial tend to be a product of round 2? Why can’t people get it right the first time? It makes finding the initial shot so annoying and daunting and most of all leaves me dubious of a way to keep the embers alive. It seems to me that once the fire dies down, the smoke has cleared there is just a bunch of soot and ashes asking to be cleaned up, or demanding to get laid at 8am on a Thursday morning when all you want is a snooze button. And where is the fun in that?

I ask myself why do we push for commitment, when once the fork in the road is behind us all bets are off? We’ve limited ourselves to a single-party democracy where equitable negotiations no longer equate to compromise, and swallowing your words is far more bitter than swallowing your pride. Pride was tossed out the window with lacy panties, polite conversation and god-forbid, flirtation.

The Secret promises that if you wish for something, write it down, chant it and do rain dances beckoning your deepest desires, it will somehow become your reality. So rather than blowing out birthday candles, praying to Judeo-Christian gods, more and more folk rely on the premise that the power of the golden rule, expecting good when good is given, reigns over all.

But I then ask myself… Are all relationships based on trade, GO ADAM SMIH ….or might there be the rare ones founded on something more? Give and then get and count thy cards? A spade is a spade, but if you trade it for hearts then maybe later your joker won’t be such an asshole and hit you back with a royal flush. The bottom line is: Do people get together so they get what’s missing, or is there an actual added value in 1+1? Aside from the luxuries of not religiously gyming it in fear of cellulite, and having a bed buddy whose snoring eventually becomes a therapeutic distraction, what other bonuses come with being tied down? Where is the advantage in having someone who odds are, will eventually bore you?

Why do we kill ourselves trying to find someone with whom we can relate, laugh and share fond outdoor activities? When a dog or pals can provide the similar companionship? Is there really this indefinable, seemingly intangible feeling we seek out when searching for that thing called love? Or rather are we kidding ourselves and really we’re thirsty for safety and unyielding acceptance that arrives with commitment? Maybe the mirage is a big ass white flag pointing in the direction of the most compatible, logical partner, equally eager for contractual committal trade?

Or maybe there are the few exceptions, when love beat logic. When all the numbers didn’t make sense, but the inexplicable rush from being together was enough of a reason to try. The couple whose laugh lines aren’t all G-rated, and the weathered memories aren’t all enchanting, in fact they’re full of intensity and passion and truth. The couples who fought through the boredom to keep feeling, never allowing the other to settle, always urging the other to reach outside the comfort of commitment, reminding all the while, that they’re not alone.

I don’t know how one prevents the onset of boredom. A debilitating death sentence so viral one must get vaccinated with regular footsie in restaurants, foreplay and the always-occasional banter…

"Meet Market"

Finding “The One” isn’t always easy. Do you trust fate to drop him in your lap — metaphorically — or do you get proactive?

As I step into the darkened lounge, my eyes focus on 20 or so individuals with numbers pinned to blazers and blouses, nervously sipping cocktails. The awkwardness and tension is soon sliced by a cheerful voice: “Welcome to speed dating! Are you ready for the most exciting or most miserable five minutes of your life?”

I am a stranger to the world of speed dating. I silently pray tonight won’t include an unanticipated rendezvous with an old classmate or, God forbid, a former flame. Like many single professionals in Denver, I’m looking for the right man, one who prefers white to red and skiing to snowboarding, is addicted to golf, and is brilliant — with more than adequate culinary skills. (Too much to ask?) And if I happened to find him in five minutes, well, that would be fabulous.

Getting Personal
While there may be a number of men matching my above criteria floating around the Mile High City, I’ve yet to meet Mr. Right — or even Mr. Maybe. I’m willing to don heels on a Friday night and am game for the occasional blind date, but the sparkling optimism that a room abundant with singles once brought or the notion that a potential suitor will wink from across a bar in LoDo has lost its luster.

Lately, I’ve found myself growing less skeptical of the chemistry born out of Internet algorithms or professional matchmakers promising to connect me to a viable mate. Why should the most crucial aspect of life be left to fate on the off chance I’ll find love while taking tequila shots with the girls?

I started by logging on to both eHarmony and Match.com, curious to see if real love can be discovered virtually. Scouring my brain to pinpoint personality types and hobbies vital to my modern-day Casanova was fun. Three hours later, I had nutshelled my entire personality into 3,000 characters, uploaded a picture and browsed available men like I would shop for shoes on Piperlime. Headers such as, “Hot Woman with a Brain Wanted” and “Goin’ Fishin’ for You” made me laugh but were not enough to make me want to “see more.” Before signing off, I checked my inbox to find 13 emails from men aged 20 to 40, living everywhere from India to the Amazon River Valley.

Although the allure of the Internet playground was enticing, filtering through virtual profiles — half of which belonged to men living on the other side of the equator — would take forever. I couldn’t justify staying up all night to sort through this melange just for a coffee date. And while I can respect the never-married Helen Morrison for publishing the first personal ad in 1727, the possibility of being seen as single and desperate by one of my parents’ divorced friends was enough to make me deactivate both accounts. There had to be a more efficient way.

Relieving the Pressure
Melissa Jannetta from It’s Just Lunch called to schedule an initial interview. I arrived early (a first) and waited quietly until a beautiful woman in her late twenties emerged and correctly pronounced my name (again, a first). Melissa began by asking questions about my job and hobbies and then explained how her team personally interviews clients and then brainstorms potential matches. It’s Just Lunch felt safer than the online sites, and instead of handing me a cookie cutter of a man I’ve never met, Melissa took the reins and posed questions I never considered pertinent to defining “the one.”

Slowly, I unfolded the story of my life. An hour into the interview, her gentle interrogation bordered on the personal, but she listened intently and took notes until I fully articulated my responses. She empathized with my bar-scene frustrations. In another situation, I would have been uncomfortable revealing my failures in prior relationships or deep commitment fears, but our two hours together felt like a refreshing therapy session rather than a matchmaking assessment.

As confident as I was coming out of my interview, I was equally nervous going into my first date. Running into the restaurant, slightly disheveled with damp hair from the snow, I slid into the booth and broke into a big smile. The man across the table could not have been more handsome and seemed reasonably normal. Our conversation moved from the Broncos to golf courses to the tumultuous economy.

We didn’t discuss the trouble we each took to meet the other, but we shared an unspoken understanding that we both cared enough about our futures to go to such extremes. We exchanged a hug before bidding farewell, and while I don’t think either one of us is what the other envisions as our perfect match, we were each one step closer. The date reassured me that the type of man who bears the qualities I cherish does, in fact, exist.

Around in Circles
Of all the available dating resources, the one I dreaded most was speed dating. I cautiously entered the Jet Hotel, took my number and mentally prepared. The premise is fairly simple: Every five minutes, a whistle blows and a different man strides toward my small chaise and begins to chatter. I heard every excuse from “I’m interviewing for a new job and thought this would be good practice” to “I just moved to town and wanted to get to know people.” Overall, the men were gregarious and interesting, but after my final five-minute date shook my hand, I wandered out to my car feeling like a failure.

The next evening, I found myself explaining to a girlfriend just how exhausting the previous few weeks of dating had been. Two drinks into the night, we were both laughing hysterically, so much so I barely noticed the handsome blonde approaching us. People always say when you stop looking that’s when you find the one, but the truth is it wasn’t until I started seriously looking that I figured out who I was trying to find all along.

www.denvermagazine.com, Feb 2009 - Drawing by: Matt Vincent

Ex-Boyfriends are User-Friendly

I have this strange habit… whenever there has been potential for a new, blossoming relationship, and I realize that I'm only half-in... The guy isn't perfect and I'm now frustrated with humanity. I phone my ex-boyfriend. Not for advice, or to be reassured that my alluring and quality characteristics will stop any guy dead in his tracks… I’d slip into the city for a long weekend, comforted by his familiarity. Convincing me, “No Auna, you’re not insane.” Joking afterward, “but you should come with a cautionary warning.” And then I would laugh, now confident and strong, feeling acceptance by someone who already knows how I look naked, how I kiss and how I spoon. And after a plentiful night of rehydration I would return to foreign territory of the dating world, where I"m inherently awkward and it takes months to comfortable letting go - feeling nourished… knowing if another guy screwed me over, instead of moving forward… I could always go back.

Why bother making memories with someone you know down the road isn’t going to be around to remember those memories with?

For the experience? Enjoy the succulent temporal, live for the moment that now, has already passed. Those one-in-a-life experiences that razzle and dazzle your innards, jam-packing your suitcases, hitch-hiking across Europe only to catch the 2am titty show in Beijing.

I'm a bit tipsy in California and it's amazing what the brain can rummage up when all you have is a friend, lap top, suitcase and a bottle of vino to amuse you.....

Do it for the stories you can tell. But the bigger question is: Who the hell wants to listen?

The rambunctious and insane acts we do for the sophomoric single-syllable mind-game. Possibly born out of boredom, but truly spurred from too many bland starbucks meetings where ogling at your watch doesn’t seem to get the point across THAT YOU DON’T GIVE A DAMN.

And when the blind dates and the forgotten business cards grow old it’s so easy to resort to our exes. Do we think that another “roll in de hay” will cement the issues that once kept church bells from ringing, or rekindle the bond incapable of being unearthed at the dinner table, only found once tangled in the bed sheets? (It’s amazing how much easier it is to find conversation while making out, rather than rehashing politics over steak tar-tar). I honestly wish the enchanting weekends could have rekindled the happiness I see in our pictures, but every time I waved goodbye… I felt a little bit sadder that we’d not made it as an “us”. But rather two individuals just trying to get by.

And so while there are only a few sips left of my red wine … and after I shall retire for the evening. Tonight is a first when I haven’t a conclusion, simply a question. Are we afraid? Or tired? It’s so easy to trust what we know “almost worked” rather than perspire and selflessly try at the new relationship, which still has a small chance to actually work out.

There is something so cozy about nostalgia… it grows with us and absorbs the situations and mistakes that no longer define. The memories you no longer associate yourself with, but without them you don’t know how you made it out alive.

If I could have one more night with the guy who swallowed my heart several years ago, and only gave some of it back… I might. And while he is the closest to perfect I have yet to encounter, there is a reason we didn’t make it and a reason why I’d leave our bittersweet dialogue left on the phone.

I have to believe there is the right one out there... a guy who will want the rest.

Jesus wrote a blank check, One I haven't cashed yet.... - Cake

Is there something you’d like to change about yourself? Throw an unhealthy addiction or detrimental habit, like French fries or procrastination to the wind? With the assumption that the garbage man will discard the nasty buggers with last year’s rubbish and you can move forward, stripped of any error. Or then, there is the category of change focused on “improvement” … where the newly purchased Nikes will lure you onto the treadmill, or your calendar will somehow create space to clean out your closet, the projects and image renovations on your “to do” list for the last ten years, will somehow magically get done? (I've had three bags full of goodwill clothes sitting in my car for weeks!)

The above mentioned without doubt can happen, whether it be a life coach, heart surgeon, or fashion trend, eventually the burdens on our mental check list will either become unimportant, we’ll survive around the gook or we’ll get fed up with our fat that we'll unconsciously eat less. But these things are trivial in comparison to the changes that make me curious… the change in how we perceive the world. How might we respond when someone a poses a question to which we haven’t had the courage to answer, even to ourselves. To swallow pride and ask for help, or advice, and then execute, without knowing how to calculate the risk. To acknowledge the chips in our shoulders, sandblasted by an old flame, which resulted in us being jaded, fickle and flawed? Knowing whether or not, if someone dedicated enough could ever heal those invisible wounds.

What about the endearing silly qualities that differentiate us, asking for an insane dinner order, an inability to parallel park, arriving a few minutes late (or too early), do they add dimensions of color to our already-matching complexions, or are they just annoying nuances that need to be shed. After being told that "everyone is special" 7-year-old Dash Parr from the movie The Incredibles replied, "Which is another way of saying no one is special. "

What would happen if we forgave? What would happen if we abandoned doubt on the curb and pressed onward unafraid? Never hesitating for a moment about the “what ifs”, the mistakes, the imperfections that humanize us? The things we say, and more importantly the things we choose to leave unsaid, what would happen if we let it all go? If we let fear go?

The fear of Christmas without our parents, turning into a homeless waste on the side of the road, being diagnosed with cancer, and god forbid the most debilitating phobia of them all… being happy. That maybe, the little pieces of life we envy from the couple still smitten walking their dog in Wash Park, the great-grandmother about to have her 100th birthday, the culinary wizard/marathon runner/soccer mom who is still hot, hell, Bill Gates, those little pieces are waiting around the bend. Maybe the daydreams that haunt us at 3am while slaving away, trying to make it.... might turn into tomorrow?

It’s frustrating to imagine that we don’t have control over our reactions entirely… Yes, the majority of our life we can scheme, strategize and plot each speculative detail. But we cannot anticipate who will waltz into our life, unassuming and unaware that they will have the capacity to change our course. Our internal compass, convincing us we're headed north, but calling it "north" is pretending there is no fate. Every person who crosses our path leaves something in our wake. Whether it a funny joke, a totaled car, the flu, a new friend, or your “other”… tomorrow is unwarranted. How do we change how we’ll react if we don’t have a clue exactly who it is that will run into us?

Lately the ability, no, actually the desire to change has been a subject up for debate. Should we change who we are? Should we be blindly accepted for who we are? I don’t think we should ever sacrifice or apologize for what we love about ourselves, but should we try to embrace the things which people love about us? Even if who we are is a mixture and combo of our backgrounds, blood type, books that have bled into our soul, a leftover of every person who has walked into our life and we have loved deeply....and the people with whom we allowed to love us and they chose to walk out.

There isn’t an answer to change. At sharp turns we’ll overcompensate, and at tough decisions we’ll underestimate, by default and preparedness, we’ll unconsciously self-correct and adjust, eventually becoming who we already are. And while a friend, or co-worker, or random stranger at a party, or that “other” can be so perfect at the start… the authenticity will start to surface, and the funny flaws somehow manifest into rational, quirky traits, and they’ve just whittled their way into our hearts. How does one probe without being offensive, or act without due diligence. How do we let hurtful words slide off our back without catching the chip on our shoulder? How do we not over analyze the warm and fuzzy thoughts articulated to us over text message, or while sipping steaming chai?

Next week I'll scribe about sex or drugs or something equally frisky. I promise.

Until then....I’m starting to realize the words that are supposed to tie a relationship into a perfect bow aren’t simple, black or white, or definable. Sometimes the prettiest bows require four hands, a YouTube video and a southern drawl. Recently, when someone isn't making sense to me, I try to see where it is they're coming from, and maybe where it is they want to go. I'm not hard of hearing, or eager for the world to chant kumbaya, I'm just a girl who is sometimes misunderstood, but more than that wants to understand.

Ode to the Bachelor...

My most favorite friend from college is a man-whore.

I don’t type that lightly, or politely or pausing even momentarily. He was a slut.

The jokes heaved his direction edged on cruel, but never hyperbolic in the slightest. Woman after girl would saunter out of his room… disheveled hair, wearing one of his Belichick-ish ripped sweatshirts… plastered with that sideways smile that shows no shame. The deeds he has done (or at least the ones we know about) are not appropriate for this blog… or appropriate for even a blackmail attempt.

Back to Brian (woops I started to type his name – sorry if you’re reading this, but you’ve been warned the repercussions of being friends with a writer)… He was the best listener. He never failed to call me back, or invite me to the bars when I needed a dry white wine most. (He jokingly said I liked em’ dry like rubbing alcohol.) More importantly whenever (not that I admit this often) I needed someone to flirt incessantly with me at a party, play the role of the dapper date with the WSJ memorized at a company function, offer to share a tub of Ben & Jerry’s and never take a bite, or be the shoulder to cry and blow my nose on…. he was that guy. The guy that all girls dreamed of getting, well… except for the girls he got on.

Girls fell in love with him as quickly as he fell out of interest with them.

Thus arrives the puzzling conundrum. Who is this emotionally unavailable, but never for a shag type of guy? We assume them jerks and write them off as rubbish, loads of leftover baggage feigning sweetness with martini’s and syrupy compliments. But with lovely mothers, well-mannered female chocolate labs and cotillion on their resume… these men cannot be so hate-worthy. I mean they make fabulous, insightful and honest male friends. And they have friends… consider them an entrée to meet male prospects? I mean not all their friends can be the raging man-whores, correct? Or so I bluff…

It’s assumed a man who is famous for bachloresque behavior (which can be achieved by either dating many women at once, or sadly the same reputation arrives with never dating anyone at all)… he isn’t decent.

My dearest friend couldn’t have had a more affable attitude with a deep belly laugh making you feel you were born a comedian. I know the genuinely friendly and helpful bachelor-by-choice will forever be a befuddling and potent combination. A mixture of simplicity and sublime laced with complex…always served warm with a wink.