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

Wolverine Meets Jim Carrey and Kate Winselt at a Bar...

Only if Clementine and Joel had some adamantium… amnesia would have been far less painful.

Carmelo Anthony hopefully has that sick shot he hit two seconds before the buzzer against Dallas engraved deep in his brain. Not only do Denver fans have it etched in forever, but also Mark Cuban certainly won’t dismiss that painstakingly spectacular play.

Right now the hundreds of emails, phone messages and errands demanding attention tomorrow are eating away at my snoozing hours tonight.

I fantasize one day I’ll awake with total command of my thoughts, or the digressions or derivatives, the random flurries of nonsense that fall and sneeze on each other while I’m trying to be productive at the magazine. I'll reach over to hit my alarm and, WHAM discover this pre-programmed remote control, user-friendly buttons, to easily switch channels from friends to cocktails, to sports to the golf course, a pedicure and eating something awesome. Finally with the ability to TiVo certain situations I"m not in the mood to participate, and rewind for later use.

But what if the brain were a sponge, no rather, an organized filing cabinet, the colorful steel boxes from Target, or better yet, an unbreakable hard drive. So upon approaching capacity, there was an option to filter through the moments, and delete what is no longer worth reconsidering, or replaying. So instead of letting my present get burned by my past, I could hold on to the good stuff.

But in two of my favorite films, Wolverine and Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, (which could possibly be metaphorical for real-time examples), each protagonist faces a similar challenge, should some of the mind be deleted, and if so, which parts?

It appears in both films that the really good stuff is eventually what both characters erase.

And the bad stuff will be left in decent condition for reminiscing purposes... to scold and teach, and reenforce how “good” things currently are. Because if we tasted the good for how great it actually was, it would be painful to know it no longer exists.

Clementine: This is it, Joel. It's going to be gone soon.
Joel: I know.
Clementine: What do we do?
Joel: Enjoy it.

And so as the sunshine peeks over the tall buildings and floods my bedroom come 6am, my blackberry, a photo shoot, the dry cleaner will drown me. Followed the chaos will be a desperate drive in attempt to make my red eye flight. And chances are I’ll forget that I wrote this entire rambling to begin with. But chances are a funny thing …

It is impressive when an individual can leave the past in a alphabetized scrapbook, and then has the self-discipline to pull out a fading moment with only the intention to shine, buff and neatly tuck away like an old photograph for safekeeping. There are the few recollections that haven't found a home. The delicate times that can't be inserted into a labeled folder, an old drawer, or shoved into a space in the back of my brain for a particular chapter.

These are the depreciating memories taking up occupancy, the ones I expect to lose value, and once that happens they'll be replaced by moments even more wonderful. But as stubborn as they were real, these silly little memories hold on through the night, stick with me through the chilly seasons, warm me when I lose hope, and keep me awake when the calendar becomes too comfortable.

The unexpected surprises, unanticipated opportunities, the successful triumps, and the unpredictable losses. There is love, and then there is strength, when injustice took a punch, and you proved to yourself you were stronger than fear, and the odds.

Those are the powerful memories, the moments so good they hurt, and they never fail to remind me where in life I’m headed, and what has already been left behind.

CHAMPAGNE FOR THE HOMELESS... it's a screwy world...

Exposed skin, matte with dirt, the debris from unending days without a shower, thin hair framing sunken dark eyes, eyes that have witnessed a world I cannot begin to fathom.

Not more than 23. But limp shoulders suggest weathered years far more challenging than her young body deserves.

Walking down the 16th street en route to the magazine, in a hurried pace. Cell phone glued to my ear with my Burberry bag swung over my Marc Jacobs jacket I reek of shallow, and rounding the corner I almost drop my blackberry. Normally greeted with the older men grinning and drunk with crooked teeth and shopping carts spilling with garbage mixed with sleeping bags. My morning has taken an unanticipated turn, encountering this woman who stripped of her ripped clothing would be mistaken as one of my own.

With no dog-eared cardboard scrawled with a pitiful message, she wasn’t begging for money, but curled up against the cold brick. Already stopped, it was too late to walk back around the corner, and pretend to whistle my way around her. Barking bullshit moments prior into my cell, every item carved into my brain, stressing my afternoon out dissipated when our eyes locked.

It wasn’t envy, it wasn’t jealousy, not a strained glare making me squirm with guilt, but her gaze was a simple, curiosity.

This awkward exchange transpired in seconds. Unsure if I should dig through my wallet for whatever cash I had, or if I should quicken my pace past her, I quietly said hello.

She said, hello. And similar to two strangers riding on an elevator, whose lives cross too quickly to care, she intercepted my day in a way I cannot shake. Her gaze shifted back to her feet, which were neatly tucked under her tattered jacket.

Our shared moment was over and I continued to walk toward my office. My warm and decorated office, overflowing with excitement and creative energy, and designer bags, a place where we plan extravagant parties with the intention to rid the world of homelessness.

My gut now emptied of stress was empty with empathy. Not pity, nor distraught with the burden of trying to figure out how to save one girl, instead of Starbucks my afternoon was interrupted with sadness. A reality I’ve easily avoided. But I couldn’t anymore, a woman close to my own age, whose existence is juxtapose to my privileged life, cold and hungry huddled on the pavement ten yards outside of my office right now, and somehow be okay with it.

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…

Caveat Emptor: POWERFUL CAREER MY ASS

A touchy subject, a sensitive issue even to broach, especially for someone who isn’t yet subjected to the one double standard our society has set. Instead of pondering such debilitating and often painful truths I tried to rummage up something cutesy or funny, I even came up with this: Picture this: Blond hair (desperately needing to be highlighted) windows down, driving on University Boulevard in my 2008 Escape, I’m singing, pumping my fists, swaying my body to Flo Rider’s “Right Around”, which is the hottest rap song to hit high schools and subsequently waspy white girls’ hybrids.

Parallel parking in between a Jeep and a Jetta, both pimped out with ski and bike racks at Washington Park I’m reminded I’m in twenty-to-thrity-ville Colorado. The first day of spring and everyone including the birds and the bees, and the yellow and chocolate labs skipping alongside their taut owners, is happily bopping to their iTunes, a 2009 version of the first scene of “Sound of Music”. While a serious republican, I’ve finally fallen victim to believing in this whole scientific frenzy dubbed, “global warming”. The sixty-degree weather I’ve enjoyed since last March now has me concerned.

Boring right? Who gives a hell about global warming except for the mountain folk (and condolences to the mountain folk). Well I’m not in the mood to write about the sunny afternoons 90210 style, in fact dittying that diatribe only makes me want to get a personal trainer and locate a husband and/or burgeoning career pronto. So often I’ve said (and meant), “Oh if only I could be gender neutral, only if I could be A-sexual,” and my favorite, “My goal is to be so narcissistic I won’t want anyone.” Simply with the objective of avoiding this whole nasty, but sociologically fascinating conundrum… the two biological clocks. The female clock, which ticks disturbingly loud with a quota of “snoozes” and then the male clock, which is infinite as it is silent.

My Mom (who spent twenty years in television journalism, had her own company and her stories were syndicated nationally, oh right and now she is a portrait artist painting a president), but she is a freak example of someone who could pull off both the business card and the diaper bag. And those women I have SO much respect for... to love your kids enough to role model a career - but it isn't everyone who can pull off such a daunting feat. Not that anyone is holding a gun to my early-twenty-something brain demanding I give notice of my breeding intentions, but I’m witnessing my closest cohorts around me drop like flies, caring less about creating a “knock-em dead PowerPoint” which has now been substituted with, “he is obsessed with his nieces and neither of his sister-in-laws work. Isn’t that great!” again, choke, check out reflection, and proceed to vomit. But, I’m trying not to judge. Because I’m just praying my clock will wait quite awhile to turn on.

A friend (who owns his own company) mentioned that he cannot help but consider if a twenty-something employee will cut and run once a diamond has been cemented on her finger, but would he have the same hesitation about a man, no... And, even in the most equal opportunity of companies, how can an employer neglect the fact when an applicant vying for an engineering position (100-hour weeks) walks in pregnant? And the whole Sarah Palin thing? Do not get me started! Fascinating how 35,000 books have been written on the subject, and more than 211,000 websites pop up when googled, “Balancing work with motherhood.” What does this tell us? There is clearly a problem deeply entrenched in working America, and it isn’t if women can work and have kids, but rather how.

My concern isn’t the “Mompreneurs”, or the women fortunate to have husbands with the income to provide for her and the kiddos, but my real ethical concerns remain with the women who have worked their asses off in corporate America. Now in their late thirties and early forties they’ve reached the pinnacle, a point in their career when they can focus on something other than climbing the vicious ladder. And once surfaced (and callused) from heels and pantsuits they're ready to dive into the “sea of fish”, aka: the men their same age, who have a genuine desire to get married, produce 2.5 beautiful children and build a picket fence. But this sea might as well be a pitiful fish tank. And the men in the same position, well they’re just hitting up the twenty-something, fresh and eager to settle down with the more established men (who have toiled so they could financially provide). So what is an educated woman with drive, a passion to make a difference in her industry, and enjoys having the ability to independently take care of her own needs do? Logically, if it takes 10-15 years to get to the top… which is about the same time your clock will start running out…. That said, the women who care enough about their career to shove estrogen aside and bite the bullet - make it.

But, before you buy into your dream of becoming a powerful CEO of a major company, beware. The truth about having it all down the road is only as pretty as it appears...