24 Hours

Our entire day can be remembered in a few seconds. It is funny how a day is comprised of twenty-four hours, but when we reflect on our day; filtering through the wakeup, the commute to work, the trivial conversations, eating, ordering Starbucks, the walk to the car, the traffic, the phone calls and text messages, the gym, the cocktail party, watching the news, or reading a book, it can be remembered in a few seconds. Which makes sense when people die. It is said, “your entire life flashes in front of you.” Apologies for being morbid. But it makes sense, right?

Maybe that is why movies and books appear chronologically logical. They only highlight the significant, life-altering moments, the choices that shift the direction of where we assume we’re going, the conversations paramount to our existence, the fears overcome, the connections made. The stories lure us in, tempting us to turn the page, hungry for a benevolent or happy outcome… but always the outcome, the ending. But we shouldn’t hurry to get there, because once we reach the end, it’s over.

But no, life isn’t that perfect, reality is what happens between the lines of a book, the scenes in a movie. We can’t cut, rewind, pause or erase. We must move forward…. And when we look back, we can barely remember anything at all. Words sometimes flow and other times they get stuck in my throat. I want to get as much out as possible, because my memory will quickly forget the details.

I found this little missive (circa 2005) and thought it was worth sharing.....



October, 2005

The weekend in New York was a blur, staring at the photographs of my friends and me laughing while throwing our scarves into the air, hit me as though that blond girl, FYI- me, decked out in a Burberry rain coat was somebody else. Puffing the cigar belonging between my girlfriend’s fingers; skimming the crowds for celebrities, pretending to be cool in a world so far away from childhood.

Recovering from our deliciously fun Friday night, rendezvousing with old friends and drinking champagne into the wee hours, we were having dinner at a restaurant. I neglected to bring my purse in the stall with me. I left it on the counter where my girlfriend was standing and talking on her cell phone. Washing my hands, and grabbing my satchel my eyes scanned the crowd outside the restroom where she had left to finish her phone call. Scampering to catch a taxi, my watch reminding and that if I didn’t hurry I would miss the Amtrak train to Boston.

The first car that pulled over was a regular sedan, the man hunched over the worn leather of the steering wheel demanding where to drive in a bulky Arabic accent.

“Penn Station, please sir.” I stammered. The Beatles starting belting “yesterday” from my cell phone, my sister had downloaded the new ring, when the music hit the drivers ears the cab nearly collided with a bus next to us, as the bus driver shot us the finger with one hand, and pounded the horn with the other.

A profanity or two escaped the mouth of the Arabic man in the front seat. Catching my apologetic expression in the review mirror for my boisterous phone ring, he softened.

“ So, why are you visiting New York?” He questioned.

“Just visiting some girlfriends.” I explained.

He nodded. Probably not the first time he’d heard that answer.

The traffic from Chelsea was a nightmare; twenty minutes later pulled up to the train station. Rummaging through my bag for my wallet, I frantically discovered an empty space. My wallet was missing. How was I going to pay for this cab, get on my flight home without my id? The innards of my stomach began to turn inside out; nausea hit me as the vision of me laughing in the stall, and abandoning my purse by the soap dispenser with my friend, who had walked outside. There were a dozen girls in that restroom, the vision quickly entered my brain, and sobs began to exit my mouth. I quickly called information and then the restaurant; the manager said that no wallet had been turned in.

Gulping loudly, I began to cry, “Sir, my wallet was stolen. I’m so sorry I don’t know what to do, I need to catch my train to Boston.”

An angry, thunderous voice responded, “Are you sure, do you want to look again.” He thought I was lying. I wasn’t telling some counterfeit excuse to avoid the fee, how was I supposed to get on the airplane if I didn’t even have a license. Sweat mixed with tears stung my cheeks, and I pleaded. “Sir, I’m just going over to that policeman over on that corner to explain the situation.”

Fuming with frustration at my inability to pay the forty-seven dollar cab fee, I was freaking out… My two girlfriends were already en route to Connecticut and I didn’t know of any banks that would get wired money on a Saturday night. I sprinted in my three inch boots, not conducive to running, toward the uniformed officer. Bewildered by my construed appearance, he patiently listened. “I don’t know what to do, my wallet was stolen, I have to pay the cab fee, I have no credit cards or cash, I just have a train ticket waiting for me at will call.” The police officer was trying to piece together my story with the minimal information I had spat at through my mangled sobs.

A cumbersome figure dressed in a turban appeared next to me, towering over the police officer. “This girl has tried to rip me off, she thinks she does not have to pay for her fee over here.”

Blubbering into my cell phone to my mother, who was trying to hear me over the loud voices of the policeman, cab driver, and the sirens and street merchants, the line suddenly went dead. The demise of my battery had just ended any hope of wiring cash. Besides offering my earrings or watch to this beastly driver, who wouldn’t accept my offer to send him a payment the next day, I felt a tap on my left shoulder.

Through the dark night, the streetlights illuminated gentle eyes. A guy in his twenties stepped into the Bermuda triangle of confusion (the police officer, driver and myself). Me, lugging my red valise, watching the Good Samaritan quietly slice the tension.

“I’ve been listening to the situation from over there,” pointing only a few feet away, where a few people stood, clearly interested in the scene I had caused. “It sounds as though this girl, uh woman, needs to catch her train to Boston, how much is the fee for the cab?” He then looked toward me for approval.

Unsure if we heard correctly, the three of us collectively responded, “huh?”

“Well, it appears this girl will miss her train, so I would like to pay for her cab since she had her wallet stolen, is that correct?”

“Yes, Yes, I left my purse sitting on the counter, where I thought my friend was standing, and wallet with my credit cards, cash, and ID was stolen.” I confessed, wishing anybody would believe me.

His kind face nodded with understanding; he reached into his overall pocket. Wait overall, yes overall. This twenty-something stranger was wearing overalls, even in the midst of crisis; I noticed his out-of-the-ordinary appearance.

The large Arabic man turned to the young savior, “It was forty-seven dollars, without the tip,” in a flat, nonchalant voice.

“Without hesitation, he pulled out two twenties and a ten, placing the cash in the palm of the angry man.”

Speechless and still sobbing, I threw my body into the arms of overalls, proclaiming, “I don’t know how to thank you, oh my gosh, thank you, thank you. I’m so embarrassed, I don’t know what to do, give me your number and address, wait what is your name?”

Watching the drama unravel, the police officer ushered the pulsating crowd aside, gave the guy a pat on the back.

“My name is Matt. You’d better hurry if you want to make your train.” The guy in pinstripes said.
Not having any paper with me, I handed him the book I had been reading; begged him to write his address in the back, so I could compensate properly.”

As he scribbled his information on the last page, I gathered my belongings. I looked up at this man in pinstripes, so curious as to what persuaded him to do such a nice gesture?

Giving him one last, uninvited hug, I ran off into the autumn night. To the train terminal, I was determined to make it to Boston.

Settling into a warm booth in the economy section of the train, the man checking tickets began to wink at me, until he noticed my smudged eyes and tear-stained cheeks. He asked if I was okay. I nodded. I was desperate to crawl into a happy dream that didn’t include an angry taxi driver.

Before my sleepy brain could succumb to the gentle cadence; the hum of the train on the train tracks, I remembered Matt had written his information down. I fumbled to find my book; my puffy eyes fell onto the last page.

The words scrawled in black ink read, “It’s Karma. Good luck with your travels.”

Goosebumps quietly crawled against my shoulder and every hair on my arms stood erect. I had no way to reach this man, to thank him. A soft smile spread across my face realizing that Karma was in my hands. A situation would soon arise, a scene would soon unfold where I could hand it off to somebody else....

BLIND SPOT

AVOIDING CRAIGLIST
Rumors occasionally surface from “missed connections” on Craigslist. Until last night I’d never had reason to venture onto the kooky website. Intrigued I skimmed the posts, ranging from desperate to cryptic, some ominous, several random, but then I would trip across a message – written by a person, who I envision wouldn’t normally expose their search, but their fleeting interaction with a stranger, was worth their every effort, including forfeiting pride. All on the chance that “other” person would identify this “missed connection” bulletin.

Depending on the size of your city, the number of stops you make day-to-day, your routines, your circle of friends, the odds of colliding into that person again aren’t in your favor… And while the majority of the posts were creeperish “Hey, we were at a bar and you left to go to the restroom and you never came back,” terribly pitiful. There was the rare, “Hey, I doubt you’ll find this, but if you were a tall blond at the Broncos game last night… We joked about terrible pizza in line getting beers. We waved to each other on the way out, but you were with your group of friends. I was in the blue #7 jersey. Anyway, if you happen to see this, I’d like to take you to dinner.”

A guy with genuine intentions reaching out to a girl, whose name he didn’t even know? Why couldn’t he have asked for her phone number when they were standing in line? Sounds so easy, right? But the simplicity of a guy hitting on a girl has gotten lost in the clumsiness of society. Our day-to-day interactions with the opposite sex have been hindered by this dire fear of rejection. The necessity of acceptance has been engraved in our egos –so much so, the opportunity to randomly connect in the world is determined by internet sites, worthless 2nd dates and directionless relationships. I despise the term, “pop culture” but it appears twenties-somethings have accepted that a lack of interest from someone is a product of and a fault of us as individuals. We’re “supposed” to be perfect, no rather, idealistic. How about defaulting “rejection” to the obvious: that a lack of interest is a result of a lack of chemistry, not some deformity we can remedy with more makeup or perfume?

Some people exert such effort pleasing the men or women who’ve already come and gone, they’ve lost themselves in the process… the idea of tripping across someone who without effort fits, just fits, seems implausible. When schedules are too busy to take a breath and watch the world around us, we risk missing someone standing in our blind spot, trying to catch our eye.

Thus arrives the unorthodox method of communication, Craigslist “Missed Connections” and while a worthy cause, and a fantastic story if you locate that person, it would be so much more efficient to connect on purpose, in the first place. Isn’t it annoying how a stranger with whom you exchanged few words can escape your mind for a day or two, but eventually the image of them laughing or smiling during your brief interaction continues to pop up, never straying for too long. And then what next? How often does someone make an impression, the type of impression that leaves a dent long after they’ve walked away? Few. So while Craiglist should be heralded and endorsed for all those "reconnections" and I wish those who’ve posted a missed connections the best of luck in their pursuit… It'd be nice to remind everyone that the worst thing that can happen if you ask for a phone number is the person can say no, and the best case scenario, well that's up to fate.

Twilight Zone

Washington Park is centrally located in the wholesome city of Denver … grass generously spread across acres, sprinkled with gardens, ponds and walking trails. The usual crowd on weekday afternoons is comprised of runners with labs, bikers in packs, girls power walking and gossiping, newlyweds pushing strollers, sometimes a lone soul reading or sketching under a maple tree. And my favorite, people walking their dogs. Dogs tend to match their owners, no?

A dozen neon pink dresses stand out against the green… ruffles and braids of black hair are what I noticed entering the park this past Saturday. White chairs and a podium are planted next to several rose beds. There is a woman in a white, and suddenly I realize this is quite the colorful Spanish wedding. Twenty yards further I notice two small boys with dark complexions in penguin suits following their father decked out in tails… headed for the opposite side of the park to another wedding. What was it? International day of nuptials?

Two blonds in full-out Irish dresses waltz by, I fully expected them to offer whatever was on tap… Rounding the corner there are four hippies playing foursquare. Squatted nearby are their girlfriends, touting dreadlocks by a bonfire. Yes, a bonfire at 4pm in sunny, dry, heat. Near the lake are two midgets, mid-fifties, chuckling on at a picket table, their shrunken legs barely able to reach the ground, alternately tossing a bone into the water for their cocker spaniel. There are tennis players sweating and chugging Gatorade… guys without shirts throwing Frisbees and impressing groups of gals lying out in bikini tops on towels. There is a father teaching his daughter how to ride a bike without training wheels, and her mother snapping photos of the milestone. And the older couple, peacefully sitting on the park bench together, hair the same shade of silver… hands interlaced, and while I couldn’t see any words exchanged, knowing eyes told me a different story.

Observing the busy park robust and bursting with energy – the two watched from afar, enjoying the Saturday afternoon from a far wiser place, and from years of memories I’d yet to experience.

I confess that whenever I see someone older in a coffee shop, grocery store, or post office, and alone- it tugs my heart, it saddens me… In my twenties it is expected to be independent, and even down the road there are friends, family, commitments and careers to keep busy. But to reach my seventies or eighties without someone else I believe is my gravest fear – to reach the end, and have nobody bear witness to my life.

When I saw the elderly couple this past weekend, their image was the antithesis of loneliness… there was an overwhelming sense of closeness. When they noticed I had been watching them, they gave me a little wave... softly smiling, as though they had been keeping a secret for decades.

Elway...

It’s half past midnight and I’m sipping a martini in downtown Denver.

Suddenly the crowded bar turns toward the entrance. Curious as to the commotion, my friends and I watch two tall black men walk into Earls. Aware that they’re stirring attention, Carmelo Anthony and J.R. Smith duck their heads and retreat to the back of the restaurant.

Several minutes later a loud group, not the normal patrons comprised of twenty-thirty something urbanites, but rather the gathering you’d see at a family birthday party. Moms and grandmas, uncles and cousins in sweatshirts and sneakers, pinstripes and leather, at the rear of this motley crew is the baldhead of Chauncey Billups. A guy whose dues have been paid starting in inner city, rocked it at the University of Colorado and since leaving the Rockies passed through Detroit, Minnesota, Orlando and Toronto. But finally this past November has come home.

Tomorrow night is the first playoff game for the Denver Nuggets, but more important than the playoff, this is the second time Denver has a hero with a #7 on his jersey.

I wandered over to J.R. and Melo (last January Denver Mag published an exclusive cover feature), while congratulating the two, Billups approached. Upon noticing the veteran player, their eyes lit up. I witnessed the proud and unfettered sports stars accustomed to signing autographs and speaking on ESPN become quiet with reverence.

Rarely does success reach a point when it’s no longer worth calculating.

Zeros and accolades stop adding value, and the challenge is no longer making it, but figuring out how to enjoy it. The antithesis of the “baller” basketball player, Billups doesn’t prove how cool he is by 24k gold chains, overpriced vodka, and women wrapped around tattooed arms. And while that description could be confused as a rapper, Billups has established his worth where it can be objectively measured, on the court.

A cousin in the NFL, Billup’s genes can’t be too shoddy, but I wonder if ever in high school, or after his shoulder injury, or when he was on the reserves, if he ever considered quitting? The image of Denver’s most celebrated athlete laughing gingerly over ice water, in the eyes of an older woman, probably his grandmother, reality hit me hard.

Success is when you can afford to live in the moment.


Flowers and IVs

I make reference to my color-coded day planner. Most nod politely, not giving a damn, and anyone who knows me chuckles tastefully knowing I’m full of shit. The chance of locating a colored pen in the trenches of my bag is as easy as finding the Lions at the super bowl. I bitch. Without doubt I’m the first to complain, or whine, or seek out empathy from an unassuming sympathetic ear. But the last words to leave my mouth are, “it could always be worse.” And, never has a painful event occurred, when it couldn’t, not, get better.

Ambulances are a warm and safe haven for me. Odd. However disgruntling the statement might be interpreted, the ol’ go-carts full of supplies have transported me from hospital to home on numerous occasions. Mostly during my stint as an invalid.

However, on a particular afternoon two weeks ago, the breezy, sunny, April springtime afternoon in Denver, returned from a sojourn from LA that morning, the rest of my day and outfit were wiped out. As quick as you can press the gas pedal, was I strapped to a stretcher with sirens screeching, recollecting my social security number while a needle was being shoved into my vein.

Family and friends were tossing silly jabs my way while awaiting results from the MRI. Attempting to capture the seriousness of the situation, I advised with a stoic expression “you know, this detour wasn’t on my agenda…getting my car totaled and canceling a party I’d spent weeks organizing was certainly not on my “to do” list.”

So what? A benign car wreck led me to wonder, what other interruptions aren’t clearly inserted into calendars and palm pilots? Heart attacks, cancer diagnosis, plane crashes, and god forbid worse. These are the unforeseen rollercoaster rides that screw up our existence as we so unknowingly expected it. So what is the answer: brace yourself? Hold tight to your loved ones because all hell will break lose eventually? While I wish there was a remedy to cure what hasn’t happened yet, I’m abandoned with a single deliberation. Live knowing there will be phone calls you don’t want to answer, and news you’d like to ignore, but among the handful of painful blows, there are unheralded interruptions that are capable of inviting joy, if you leave your eyes open.

BRACKISH

Mostly Caucasians fill the flat. It’s Friday evening and dancing to the pop music is bubbling alcohol, torte chips and digital cameras. All strategically organized, to flirt, record, and then share the glee with the rest of the world via facebook.

In the corner by the pantry is a woman who doesn’t fit in, visually anyhow. Course, dark, hair hides her soft, but calm expression. Twenty years older than everyone else, she seeks counsel studying photographs and nodding at conversation in which she hasn’t been included. Amiss from the cultish pack of precipitous partiers is one man who steps closer to the involuntary recluse.

Two people speaking in half Spanish and half English, but mostly via horizontal head motions and vertical hand movements. While I wasn’t privy to their shared dialogue, I discovered their conversation was anything but trivial, or effort-heavy chatter produced out of guilt. The few minutes brought reality back to my friend.

It wasn’t his reality, but hers that convinced him to see a light at the end of his own tunnel. It was as simple as a story about her son's graduation announcements. Graduation announcements were $35, and her cousin could not afford to have such a luxury printed.

In his world where $35 can be easily found and replaced, to meet someone where so little is so much, suddenly the fruits of our labor, however sour on a given day, suddenly taste succulent. The laborious strain that weighs down weekdays, tying muscles into painful knots, can never be as tragic as not having $35 to spare.

And my friend walked away feeling so profoundly affected by the realities of this woman, I don’t know if he understood what he unintentionally handed her in return is invaluable. In a life absent of influence, an office where she caters to the upper echelon of society, she was heard, simply because he wanted to listen.

In a room saturated with loud and obnoxious, unaware young professionals, a small Spanish woman found her voice.

Edible Time and how to effectively waste it.....

It’s a tremendous feat to reflect on youth and using wisdom against years, admit to regret.

It’s 1am and as someone unable to sleep and trying to get off ambien, I hit the elliptical glider with ELLE. I discovered a sassy, bordering on tragic article, “Failure to Launch- When Beauty Ends” by Elizabeth Wurtzel. The same author who wrote the bestselling tome, Prozac Nation and Bitch. Assuming I was going to get lost in psychological dribble intended for those who truly enjoy the illogical mood swings accompanied with PMS, I was startled.

This woman admitted she wasted the “pretty” years. The fragile window when men not only scrutinize your brain, but still check out your ass. And it scared me. People advise, “Auna, don’t waste your youth. Go play, get tipsy and flirt with the bad boys, you’re only going to get older.” And so I listen to these well-intended gnomes, in fear if I don't I'll attempt mini-skirts when my 401 kicks in. I try not to make the mistakes most twenty-something’s screw up on – navigate my way around failure, because there simply isn’t time to fall and fall and fall.

But Wurtzel makes a valid point – she has lived a colorful and rich existence. There are the thirty-somethings and forty-somethings women whose day planners are a true testament to raw, unadulterated fun, proof that mouthwatering success can be achieved, and spontaneous nights being wooed and gawked at were only possible sans domestic dues, but these women arrive home at the end of a decade of exciting memories, and still alone. And that deserves, hell that demands respect.

And yet, the war wounds these cougars use to counter-argue the need for babies is proof they can play with the big boys, but doesn’t seem to mend the missing time – the time that could have been dedicated to husband hunting. Seeking out and reeling in the few “good” guys – the ones worth brining back to Mom and Dad. The men who knock you up and rub your feet, forget flowers on occasion, but always remember how to make you smile.

“I don’t want to look back at what was, tell stories of once upon a long time ago, of what I used to do, of the men I once knew way back when, of 1,001 rapturous nights that were and are no more—I don’t want my life to be the trashy and tragic remains of a really great party, lipstick traces on a burned-out cigarette at the bottom of a near-empty champagne goblet.” Shy says….

To mitigate stupidity, laugh off the idea of settling down, barricading my feelings so my only obstacle is the career ladder in which I climb mercilessly. Right. There are so many essays and stories and novels and books written for us. The early-mid twenty professional who stereotypically seem to waste this precious window of opportunity, the years intended to build a foundation for the future, while taking tequila shots and dating .

These are the seconds and minutes that are golden and edible. The question begs for a pregnant pause: How does one spend this time, so when youth begins to fade there is no longer a need for it anyway?

http://www.elle.com/Beauty/Health-Fitness/Failure-to-Launch-When-Beauty-Fades

Worthless Conversation:

Was it Actress A or was it Actress B that had the lip injections. I mean she was just so beautiful until that boob job and then the sun just did her in, and now well, the screen just isn’t meant for her. Poor thing.

Right. The sympathy we cannot seem to find when the whole world is way too amusing to poke, prod, scrutinize and hypothesize without any objective, other than to find fault. I don’t get it. I’m not pure, or all that Christian, I just don’t give a damn. The people I criticize are those that criticize others. Why the hell do you care how their broken heart lent itself to lazinss, and as a result failed to accomplish what could have been accomplished. It’s sad yes, but it doesn’t need to be talked about in a way that makes that person appear pitiful and failed – we all have our failures, but there is nothing more amazing to discuss than how people overcame their failures. Maybe I reside in a makebelieve world where people are optimistic as sunshine- and there is no concept of revenge. Maybe I’m particularly sensitive to gossip and bashing people because I’m guilty of that, or deeply frightened people have thrown stereotypes upon me like a blanket on a naked child. I love to talk about people – are you kidding? It’s what I do for a job. But to only speak ill of others for the mere purpose of entertaining our self feels like the glass isn’t half empty, but cracked and dry… and it’s sharp edges can cut.

Ready, Set, SUCK IT UP

Where the hell did the love-hungry articles written by macho men in GQ go? Every issue included some heart wrenching narrative scribed by a befuddled journalist attempting to mend his sanity by disclosing his soul to the world. Around six months ago these endearing ditties stopped, not replaced by anything other than more articles celebrating the brevity and intelligence anything with a penis inherently can relate…. And so every month with great anticipation I enter the pages of GQ I’m greeted with disappointment because there is a huge hole. And as a woman reader of the fantastic tome I’m pissed. These exposes were the only proof that men found “the relationship” as confusing and tormenting and awe-inspiring as women...seem to be obsolete. GQ has abandoned me with my archived editions. My favorite read was Adam Sachs “ Divorce: The Ultimate Aphrodisiac” check it out below… A stellar book could come out of his vulnerable and brilliant string of flings he reveals to readers in his candid reflection of divorce.

Funny story about Adam: I was so pumped about our coffee appointment that I emailed my associate editor, “Oh My God I’m so excited to meet this fabulous writer.” And accidentally, haphazardly hit return- to Adam! Unanticpated fan mail, which (thank god) enticed a shared chuckle between the two of us at coffee. http://adamsachs.org/GQ-Sachs-Upside.pdf

Not a digression, but yesterday in an editorial meeting I tossed out this idea – and since no one thought it was fabulous… my blog gets the leftovers….

Below are several activities you can still enjoy during this debilitating economic epidemic.

1. Passion. Kick off the heels and throw back your hair and relish some really good (ahem) necking?
2. Run. If your wallet can’t be fat, your ass doesn’t have to.
3. Give in ways you can’t. Volunteer, become a mentor to an at-risk teen, write thank you notes to people whom you’ve ignored. Reach out to the person who would least expect to hear from you (generally an older relative)… You’ll get immediate gratification in ways (ahem) necking can’t accomplish.
4. Remember. Take stock of your life up until now. And what the hell do you want now the rest of the world sucks?
5. Invest in something insane and crazy. If you have a little bit of disposable cash – search for an opportunity, which might not make sense as a secure and responsible investment, but a company you’d LOVE to see flourish… in this economy anything could be explosive. Might post some stocks in the next several days…

Before All Else, Be Armed - Machiavelli

I wish I could find something funny about this whimpering economy. Sheltered in my make-believe American utopia where I routinely admit to relishing labels on my totes and the cost of haircuts that could feed a family for a week in Uganda, I can’t comprehend the value of a dollar in the eyes of a peso.

Summers in Brazil and discovery videos from Africa don’t penetrate my bubble of health insurance and paved roads, in which I innocuously reside.

And when a person is stripped of their job, their survival, in a messed-up way, someone’s job is how the world evaluates their worth, their contribution to society. And suddenly it’s obsolete, and then it is too late to turnaround.

Craiglist classifieds are overflowing with stellar resumes and still 50,000 Americans are wandering aimlessly around our democratic streets curious who is going to cover their mortgage. What happened to job security? Is there such a thing, and is it appropriate for such a concept to exist in a laissez-fair economy.

There is no such thing as a real promise- because who can actually predict what the future will heave at us? I love how America uses good faith as collateral… just in case government bonds go to hell. But think: In every aspect of our lives…. Marriage could end in divorce, a road trip could end in a car wreck, and botox could get boxed. Without any type of guarantee in life how the hell are we supposed to protect ourselves?

We can’t.

All we can do is try to protect each other.

Comparative Advantage

I’ve never liked a good liar, however I respect the hell out of their dexterity.

Your eye hits their eye and unconsciously your brain has just categorized, stereotyped, calculated and formulated a subjective position, completely based on a quick glance. Isn’t it frustrating how people we assume stuffy turn out to be a comedic and endearing, or those who appear organized thrive in chaotic disarray. Then there are the people assumed to be wretched, snobbish or finicky, but eventually become our closest cohorts. And why is it that it’s nearly impossible to predict what people are presuming about us?

To forecast if the ethical mindset of a stranger is “good” or a “bad” is an art in which I admit I have no skill. It’s taken several years of sucking at reading people to recognize this shortcoming. However, the painful repercussions have challenged me to be open to the many things (intelligence, wit, empathy, sheer joy) an individual can offer in exchange for friendship, forcing me to rein back how judgmental I typically prefer to be… because let’s face it, people watching and analyzing the details of apparel or character traits is a frivolous and terribly delightful activity that journalists more than anybody partake in.

While I attempt to rummage up satirical humor to inject into my ramblings, it’s difficult to find anything funny about not being able to read people. It’s important to debunk my personal (narcissist) verbiage to note these entries are scribed upon the request of my friends, who either like to claim they relish my diatribe on a regular basis, or my friends from afar who miss out on my routine rhetoric. Not just to get people to read this stuff and think, wow… she must have a lot of time on her hands. I have hardly any free time (I’m a victim of over committing myself) – while I can’t claim expertise in intuition, I’ve mastered every area of procrastination.

Let me explain. While my biggest blunder is assuming I have the capacity to untangle the intricacies of a personally– I’m damn good at pretending it’s actually my strength. My desire to extract personal information about a stranger couldn’t be more authentic, genuine… it’s what I’ve dedicated my life to – a journalist has the ability to tell one story to thousands of people, which otherwise they never would have heard.

So I guess I can tell you the secret details of a person – their fears, what turns them on – and what turns them off. Ambition and failure – you name it, fetishes and absurd observations they inherently pick up. Their history of mistakes and successes, how they envision their future – I can script the life of a stranger or a confidante in different fonts and vibrant adjectives. I was born a proactive listener (as you read this – I’m sure you have doubts), but if you talk to me, or read my words I can recount verbatim what you said, in what tone, whether it was with enthusiasm, vulnerability and trust, or fear I’d judge. And while I can retell a story with dimension and emotion - I’ve just realized it’s nearly impossible for me to detect whether that person is “good,” or not.

Ran Away from Freedom

For miles yesterday I ran. I ran away from my to-do lists and piles of laundry. It’s so freeing to watch the world from a pair sneakers, never know what tidbits of life you can see from the pavement. The stories about the couples holding hands, the dogs walking their owners, the strollers being pushed by twentysomethings in maturity clothing, laughing together. Enjoying a moment they're never aware I’m sharing with them, but only for a second, until they're out of sight and behind me.

Viridian camouflage, unmistakable and identifiable from an airport, grocery store aisle, or the front page of the newspaper. The thick material soaked in variations of greens and tans, like a habit to a nun, concealing the body to hide it of its humility, or more likely when it’s a woman, her feminity.

With the bulky boots and stoic expressions, there might as well have had a botox booth set up for the returning army. Underneath the helmet I see eyes looking out to the bodies of civilians that have come to support the troops, arriving in their minivans, with toddles crying and bulky jackets. I’m at 16th and Wynkoop in Downtown Denver and there is a small group of soldiers and a smaller group of citizens, some PR attempt to bring the world back together. The soldiers and the audience are trying to make conversation, polite chatter consisting on anything other than the obvious.

One pair of eyes shadowed by the brim of a helmet catch mine as I run by. I feel guilty that I don’t stop, that I don’t wave, that instead of making eye contact I turn up my ipod and sprint farther away. Running from the eyes that have witnessed a world I cannot even imagine.

The November sunset makes the air chillier and suddenly the warmth of the afternoon has left and my pace is quickened against the gravel. My legs are fatigued and my lungs angry at the altitude. And even though the reality check of soldiers returning home from war is blocks away, I'm not ready to return to my quiet apartment. The soldiers now healed from the shrapnel wounds, the lacerations so horrific, leaving veterans strapped in wheel chairs, those are courageous ones. The ones I want to run up and hug and cry and thank for their strength and endurance. But right now I don't want to. I’m tired.

I reach out at every opportunity I get. I know this. I met a woman in an airport in Austin, she was taking her boots off at the metal detector and I tapped her shoulder, “I don’t know you, but I admire you,” is what I said. She had been deployed several weeks after delivering a baby girl. Can you imagine leaving an infant to powdered milk and instead of rocking and singing lullubyes, hauling a machine gun around the Middle East?

Whenever I see the uniform of patriotism I wince. A bit of guilt for not volunteering as often as I should, a bit of pride to be a native of the same country, but I mostly wince because I don’t want to understand the pain they know, they have felt and that will torture them. I prefer to run far away from the news stations and reality that our world isn’t really the dogs, and strollers and couples laughing over triple vent lattés, it’s a world outside our fictious peaceful American walls. A world where suffering is the norm and people’s only chance for freedom is running away....