Selling Heartbreak on Ebay!

How starving kids in Guantanamo can benefit from your heartbreak.

Two weeks ago in Dallas.

“Just throw it. Pretend it is a football. It was cheaper than a football anyway.” I encourage my Emma, my dearest childhood friend, who is clutching a cheap porcelain figurine like it’s the crown royal.

“Auna, that is harsh. It’s just so, so, I don’t know….” She stammers, racking her brain for any excuse not to heave the reminder off her balcony. Unearthing nothing…. She sighs exasperated by my persistence. So in order to get me to shut up, she arches her back, winds her arm… and from her third floor condo, hurls the colorful representation of a union-gone-wrong into the parking lot.

We both stare in disbelief as the ceramic pieces fly into the dark night. The sound of smashing startling us both…. She turns to me for reassurance that she wasn’t going to hell of this 90210-type activity. The silence of the broken memento below is purifying and my words are worthless. Her face had transformed from traumatized to empowered. The simple act of destroying something into smithereens reignited vigor, a first step toward dismantling the pain her ex heaved on her two weeks ago. There is something so liberating when something is so busted, that there is no way you can glue or tape it back together. So instead, you pick the broken pieces up off the tarmac and throw them in a garbage bin, knowing they’ll be hauled off to some compound far far away.

Wet mascara is smudged and her nose is runny, but we walk back inside where a large cardboard box packed few of stuff is staring at us, mocking us, daring us to do something totally crazy with its contents. There is a gold necklace, a pair of diamond earrings…. A bracelet from Tiffany’s, and then the books, movies and ticket stubs that occupied Saturday nights. And finally our eyes fall on the framed sketch of her beloved asshole displayed prominently on the table…. But I remind her that luckily that “stuff” doesn’t include mortgages and children and a lawyer.

“I have an idea.” I say, thrilled that my physics has taught me Newton’s principle of energy; it cannot be created or destroyed, but simply converted.

She holds up a ‘Learn Hindi’ DVD in one hand and the diamond earrings in the other, “Seriously, what am I supposed to do? It’d be bad juju to hand this stuff off to my friends. Who’d want it anyway? I feel bad, it was all so, so expensive.” She explains, staring longingly at a pink silk nightie on the on the chair.

“Where are you scissors?” I demand.
“In the top drawer in the kitchen.” She replies, confused.
I grab the pink nightie, “Cut it.”
“What?” She shrieks! “Are you crazy.”
“Clearly. Come on. You know it’s good for you.” Sometimes tough love is necessary.

With a newfound sense of confidence, she begins at the delicate lace, until all that is left is tattered, unrecognizable silk with a la perla label hanging limp. She gropes the leftovers to her chest like it’s some meowing kitten.”

“Garbage bin.” I point.

Next, the jewelry, pulling out my digital camera I hold up the weighty Tiffany’s bracelet, “Do you still have the box for this? It is always better to have it look as new as possible.”

Tears begin rolling down her tender freckled cheeks. I wasn’t being very sensitive. The reality of removing each memory piece-by-piece from her apartment was slowly hitting her. The “getting over” a relationship is sometimes more painful than the breakup itself.

Hell, I hadn’t fallen in love is so many years; I forgot how impossible it is to try and climb out.

I hand her a tissue and pat the space next to me on her white leather couch, “Okay, let’s take a break.”

Weeping, she sniffles “Sometimes I don’t know how I didn’t see it coming. But all the romantic dinners, the flowers, bringing my family champagne, it was blinding. And now a year of my life is gone.” She snaps her fingers, “Signora.”

I’m at a loss. Mostly because I agree with her, I’m baffled how she didn’t detect, or foresee this nightmare from unfolding? She is an engineer. She is logical and doesn’t hurt people. So how someone could cheat on such a kindred soul is beyond me. But this guy managed to not only cheat on her, but he led her to believe that he wouldn’t do it again. Then, did it again. This isn’t something about male bashing, but more about analyzing cheaters and their behavior in general. Are we genetically wired to be either the “good” or the “bad” guy, or can good people do bad things?

But what about the good people who just get screwed over? Are they at fault because they fell victim to something they believed was perfect? I just can’t reconcile it – I mean Emma, she defies innocent and has been abandoned, baffled as to what she did wrong and emotionally crippled. I wanted to rip his head off. But since I didn’t have access to a rifle, nor had access to his address, I decided the best way to retaliate would be to auction off the “loot”.

I begin explaining, “We’re going upload the photos of the jewelry on ebay. And then we’ll sell it to the highest bidders.”
“Wait, wait.” She starts to interrupt me.

I hold up my hand, “I know what you’re thinking. You feel guilty selling this stuff, plus you think the money has nasty karma attached to it.”

She nods.

I continue, “So that’s why you’re going to a choose a charity and we’ll donate the proceeds. For instance, those diamond earrings, easily a caret each, well those will go for at least $1000. Some woman in Detroit will be ecstatic for the deal she scored, and some starving kids in Africa will eat for the next few months.”

Starting to understand the methodology, she is mentally calculating how much she could accrue from the jewelry, but her eyes rest on the earrings a little too longingly for her to be 100% game for this exercise.

She needed more convincing, “And even more important than the malnourished children and the stranger in Idaho, you’ll be free of this stuff. You don’t want his dirty energy collecting dust in your jewelry box! I’m warning you: If you don’t throw the old stuff out, how will you have room for the new stuff that someone fabulous, someone even better, the next person will bring you? Let’s think of your jewelry box like your heart.”

I got serious, “How will you ever have space for the future, if you can’t let go of the past?”

“You can get too metaphorical.” She laughs.

“Yeah, but it’s the metaphors, all that esoteric BS that actually dictates our choices, our decisions, if we’re not emotionally engaged, invested in something bigger than that moment, than why should we care if someone cheats on us, or we made a mistake, or love anyone at all? If eventually hearts will get ripped out of chests. Then why bother?” I frame the rather hypothetically, curious as to what my little nerdy engineer will say.

“Because I don’t know…. I guess I want to believe that the right guy is out there and he hasn’t found me yet?” Smiling, clearly proud of her astute response, she whispered, “You haven’t seen the worst of it yet… he bought me this ridiculous dress. It’s heinous with sequins, some weird French designer, but guess what? The tag is still attached. Watch… we’ll make a fortune.”

Wonder Woman for the night?

“If death meant just leaving the stage long enough to change costume and come back as a new character...Would you slow down? Or speed up?" -Chuck Palahniuk

IDENTIFY THEFT

I’m jealous. Wow. It has taken me twenty-plus years to finally admit that I wish I had the guts, creativity, chutzpah to pull off that flawless, “no you didn’t” “that must have cost a fortune” Halloween thing, but I’m lazy. And I need to go to the gym. The days of leotard and spray-painted bras aren’t gone, but currently in hibernation along with anything smaller than a size 27.

The wooden bowl sitting by the door is empty except for a lone Reses’ Peanut butter cup, which I unwrap carefully and then nibble, the familiar taste that has quenched my sweet tooth for two plus decades melts on my tongue. Chocolate, like a Dave Matthews song, or a new poinsettia is this unyielding time capsule throwing me years away from this quiet moment.

Maybe I will opt for a sparkly mask with feathers and tell everyone my name is Zena, I’m from Ohio and I play professional Billiards for a living. Oh how fun it’d be to take Halloween to a new HBO or a reality TV level. I would reinvent myself. Lately, I’ve been listening to Kelly Howell meditation cds at night… she does manifestation visualizations of being calm, it is the non-narcotic approach to curb UOA (ak: under-organized over-achievers)… who systematically suffer the most with to do lists, mostly because we forget to write them. But why I bring her up: Her distinctly tantric (I say in a calm/mellow/yogi meaning) aids people into climbing into the “subconscious” layer of our cerebral craziness. Only to discover… hidden meanings, lost desires, secrets beyond… that might be the name of one of her audio cds actually.

Not to get too Freudian, but what about the costumes we’ve chosen? Or why we’ve chosen them? Are we fulfilling some childhood fantasy by pulling on an NBA jersey, or covering up those ten pounds we gained over autumn by cutting a pretend snowflake out of mom’s sheets?

I digress.

If so, what would I change? Like beyond Oct. 31…. Who would I want to come back as? Would I turn into a socially inept nerd, who subsisted in a sphere of dusty library books? Maybe a gym rat with the abs of granite, the skin tone of a tangerine. Or maybe a different version of me? A goblin, hamster, princess… shark? Halloween is this weird invention us, Americans, consumer driven and creative bunch we are…. As little kids we consider what we want when we grow up… simple costumes. Doctors, Firefighters, astronauts, you know the occasional golden retriever or witch here or there. But as we grow older we choose themes, or even situations (ak: A guy attacked by a shark), cultural inside jokes (____ in the box), or icons Marilyn Row or Jack the Reaper. And I got to ask myself, have I lived up to those 4th grade Gypsy expectations of myself or rather, have I exceeded them in some unidentifiable (and frankly immeasurable way).

Dying my hair brown was a weird in cognito act out of complete rebellion, but doesn’t quite cut it in terms of the overall renovations (albeit the common boob job) in which I’m referring a la moment.

The sky has gone from chilly to deserted… other than a few stars separating the blackness, I sit in silence on the porch swing at my parent’s home. My condo building downtown doesn’t entice the typical trick-or-treaters… more the normal homeless guys on the side of the road, looking for change instead of Snickers bars. Quasi-political incorrect, I know.

Tonight, there was no snow, so the little ballerinas needn’t need their parkas and snow boots. Children from two-years old to the adults who are staggering home awaiting Monday morning hangovers…. Halloween is this odd holiday, paving way for the real holidays… the days in which deserve calories and days off of work. Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years and Valentines… I include Valentines because let’s frankly say it, who doesn’t?

While it is easy to recollect your past through birthdays and trips, it is easy to identify through a space suit, or a “jack in the box” or a Steelers’ fan, or TV, or whatever you were that one Halloween where you happened to be the designated driver, or your costume fell apart, or you got stuck in a storm, or met the man of your dreams…. Or the night your best friend was arrested (yes, try Vegas ’07) or when you plain ol’ looked in the mirror and liked what you saw…. And honey, if you were impersonating a pinup girl circa 1950s then that is fabulous…. But I ask you to look in the mirror this Halloween and see who it is staring back? It’s surprising how much someone can learn about themselves through some face paint and Lycra, but to see us through the mask is rather revealing….

The bottom line. Halloween is a special holiday that allows us to draw upon situations and take stock of our lives. Birthdays, sure… but you can’t identify a year by a number, when it is so much easier to say, “the year of the gorilla suit.”

DEVIL's advocate....

God, Politics, Sports teams….

Those “American” things that either rip us apart, or bind us forever… but in reality, albeit Sunday morning church, Sunday afternoon football and what percentage of taxes come out of your paycheck, what gives?

Oh the internal struggle? Prayer, which plays in an integral part everyday for some. Does how we celebrate our GOD, recognize that omnipresent, omnipotent chunk of our decision making really even make a big different in the big scheme of things, or a difference at all? These are questions that ruminate, during the days compromised of phone calls and research, running errands and picking up food. When time is broken apart by being rear-ended or an unanticipated argument. Dissected by the unexpected departure of someone dear to our hearts, or the entry of new friend who haphazardly showed up, or a new baby. You can’t help but ask yourself. What are the prerequisites for a GOD to exist?

What has to happen in my life to believe that in all actuality it never really has belonged to me?

Do people change? Do they ever come to believing in something bigger than themselves? I asked a Christian why they’re so blatantly against atheists and his response was, “they believe in themselves, and that is just selfish.” But is it entirely selfish to believe that we control our own control fate, destiny, that is our individual responsibility to execute this life either with a robust appetite for color and travels, for deep and sentimental relationships, for emotions…. Without God can we fully experience sadness? I only wonder because if we’re truly a product of random molecules and our tear ducts manufacture those wet drops that are associated with emotion, and if emotion is simply a figment of our imagination, a visceral reaction to an emptiness, or some Freudian excuse?

Is there something worth being sad about if the afterlife is comprised of dirt and decomposition? And all that stuff referred to miracles are merely gibberish, coincidence at most, frivolity that is a waste of effort and ambition, and frankly, time?

There is something inherently liberating about living your life only believing yourself... that we're not all "one source of energy" we're "all brothers of Adam and Eve." That actually, what you see is what you get? What you understand is YOUR truth. You’re floating in this present moment, in the now, it is tangible and simple. There aren’t the Ten Commandments to untangle; there isn’t the spiritual journey to somehow aid us in the being unafraid of the “beyond”. To an atheist the end, is very simply game over. There is no judgment, no golden gates and with the possibility of heaven, also arrives the possibility you’ll spend eternity with Sisyphus …. Seems rather monotonous, miserable? And completely illogical.

And what is there to do with the obvious sinners… those who commit abhorrent, devastating and insane crimes, the schizophrenic sinners, who are 100% convinced that their kamikaze ways are in fact sacrificial, an appeasement to their higher being, then what? Then you’ve got the evangelicals, the crusades, and the holocaust. And then the countless periods in history, some so horrific they’re left out of social studies textbooks when religion screwed many of a minority.

There is nature, intricate and delicate flowers…. The weather, powerful hurricanes and tornadoes, you’ve got cancer survivors and innocent children who’ve been ruthlessly murdered. There are the ways of the pagan, the “spiritual seeker”… all the hybrids, the in-betweens who while legitimate still cannot answer the one-answer humans have questioned:

IF you strip GOD of the Koran, Bible, the Torah and every other religious text that is the acclaimed guidebook for the future of humanity beyond planet earth…. You can’t help but wonder what’s left?

Redeye: Denver to Boston...

Month seven on crutches, two months out of the hospital. I was finally allowed to travel.

I apologized to the blond, balding security officer for my overstuffed bag; he was unfazed by the magazines, un-capped lipstick and sticky receipts. But his jaw dropped when he reached the clear zipper bag. This was where I kept my orange bottles of prescriptions, fourteen in total.

Each night I’d brush my teeth, standing like a flamingo on my one leg, since the other leg was defective. With a large glass of water I’d start left to right, slowly swallowing each pill. The color and texture and the after taste reminding me exactly what was wrong. I’d try to distract myself by reading the directions on my mouthwash, but the red pill never failed to remind me of my stomach problems or the white that my blood platelets weren’t high enough, or the yellow that I had premature arthritis.

Crutches are great, but the real hookups were when I was in a wheelchair. My friends took me to a Dave Matthews concert and we were led to the front row. We relished the sweat and the spit of his guitarists. There are the bonuses, like parking in a handicap spot and not feeling guilty. But that’s where they ended.

After getting off the train and making my way to the gate, I had forgotten that handicap people board last. There is a woman quietly sitting in a wheel chair a few feet away from me. Around fifty, her chair was beaten up, with a fanny pack slung around her waist. I collapsed next to her. She said hello and we chatted for a few minutes before the flight attendant waved to both of us, signaling that it was our turn to board.

I took a deep breath prepared to grin and bear the wrath of the punctual travelers, as I was the habitually late, always the last to board. But when my eyes met those belonging to the passengers around me, there was no irritation; instead I was greeted with sympathy.

I had the entire first row to myself, so quickly fell into a deep, vicodin-induced slumber. Until Mr. Charisma showed up.

Mr. Charisma nodded, then took the remaining gulp of his cocktail. “Born in 1981 with two older siblings and Republican parents. They’re decent folks, I promise. They bought me GI-Joe. The boys would rip off their head and slingshot the figurines at the girls during recess. I preferred to dress GI-Joe in my sister’s Barbie clothes.

Pausing to catch his breath, he continued. “Football season in 7th grade, I was the quarterback, great hand-eye coordination, but when Blake Mainer hiked the ball, it hit me in the face. I was too busy staring at his delectable ass. So I had to quit. Imagine facing sexy boys in the locker room everyday? But it wasn’t until my second year in college that I officially came out of the closet. My parents called it a phase, a stage, an act of rebellion; my father was ashamed that I was his son. So I packed up a U-Haul and moved to Colorado, where nobody could remember me as straight.”

“So you’re gay and your parents won’t accept it?” Spilled out of my mouth before I could suck it back in.

“100% tried and true. It’s been several years since I relocated to Colorado. Since then my father has learned to accept and embrace me, sexual preference and all.”

“So what’s so terrible about going home?” I asked.

“Well, I have some news, and it isn’t the type of news you break over the phone.”

But before he could tell me the news, the woman across the aisle, the same woman waiting at the gate with me, who’d been snoring the whole flight, was stirring.

“Oops. We were too loud.” I said.

“Wonder why she got a special ‘handicap seat’. Bitch.” He said.

I pointed to where her left leg should have been. In its place, nothing.

“Whoa. We’ve got a paraplegic on the plane.”

“It gets worse. She lost her leg when she was 24-years old. She was a
swimmer.”

We both stared. It’s impossible to envision her swimming. I estimated she weighed at least 200 pounds. Her hair is mouse brown, an ageless man-cut, perfected at Great Clips. Her apparel consisted of leggings and a sweatshirt that read, “Best Aunt in the World.” I wondered how this woman could let herself go like that? Did she own a comb? But, who was I to judge?

She resembled Roseanne.

“She fell back asleep.” He pointed.

“Phew. So guess how she lost her leg?” I whispered.

He scooted closer.

“Staph infection.” I said.

“Shut up. How do you know?” He said.

“We were waiting at the gate together. Thank God the flight attendants interrupted our conversation before she could ask why I was on crutches. Imagine how’d she feel if she knew I had staph infection too. Only I didn’t need my leg amputated.”

“So what’s your news?” I asked.

He took a deep breath.... he gave me a once over and decided to trust me. “It was the 4th of July. I was visiting some friends in Los Angeles. We were at a posh club. Instead of normally crawling into a corner with my cocktail, insecure and envious of those carefree people on the dance floor, trying to dissect the gay from the straight. I took the opportunity to be extroverted. It was so fun. It was also a mistake.”

“How is that a mistake?” I asked.

“Honey, be patient okay. This is the premise. I’ll get to juicy stuff in a moment.”

“Oh I’m sorry.”

“So there were velvet ropes, bouncers, and exclusive VIP lists. Inside was even better. Plush leather couches, chandeliers, and more exquisite bodies than a summer Vogue issue. The women were all panthers. And the men, oh the men were glorious. Each man a variation of Adonis, this was a heaven of sexual erotica. And I got drunk.”

I nodded.

“Being curious and somewhat confident in my new Versace jeans, I followed a particular group into one of the private VIP rooms. Before I realize what is happening, a tall woman, a glamorous model, a gazelle is introducing me to her “gay” friend. So giddy that there is another, and even more excited because I could tell he was giddy too. Freed from all the straights, we chatted and danced and kissed. He made me feel so warm and welcome and, accepted.”

“Why do I think that this doesn’t have a good ending?” I said.

“Oh Peach, the ending has happened yet. But it will. And soon.”

He made no sense.

“When he invited back to his loft, I couldn’t refuse. I had kissed men before, but I was always too nervous to go beyond. It was an opportunity to finally lose my “homo” virginity. Kissing led to other things. And that is when the night got fuzzy.”

I bit my lip, “Then what?”

“And then I woke up in foreign bed, with a pounding headache and not a soul in sight. It was my first one stand and I didn’t even know the name of the guy. The house was empty, he had left with no phone number, no note, nothing. I grabbed my wallet embarrassed, feeling dirty, and walked to the nearest street corner.”

“Everyone has had a one-night stand. It’s okay.” I reassured him from second-hand knowledge.

“The irony is not that that it was the first one night stand; the irony is that it was also my last. I was diagnosed with HIV about three months ago.”

Through his thick glasses I stared into his eyes. The sparkle wasn’t a natural high. It was desperation to connect, to unearth anyone who could extract value from his disease. He had to somehow logically make sense of the terminal illness, the kind that doesn’t give you a second chance.

“You see darling, you’re not the only one infected on this plane.”

Unsure whether to laugh or to cry, I instead reached across the armrest and patted his arm, “I’m so sorry.”

“Oh Peach. It’s okay. Just promise me you won’t do anything stupid because you’re scared. Do stuff because it makes you strong.” He said.

“Deal.” I couldn’t hide the tears I was shedding for this sweet man sitting next to me.

We both heard rustling from across the aisle. The woman was definitely awake. We huddled watching her; coddling our alcoholic beverages.

It was obvious by her large eyes she didn’t want to cause any trouble. She glanced up at the glowing “call” button, but decided not to push it, which would wake everyone up. Déjà vu hit me like a freight train. The constant pride I had to swallow when requesting that my peers or professors or the janitors help carry my book bag or hold my hand in the stairwell. Or at home I would beg, needing assistance with everything, from shaving my legs to putting on socks.

Watching her try to balance her 200-pound body on her one functional leg, I cringed. I assumed her artificial leg was in the overhead bin; she was trying to get to the lavatory. My legs didn’t work either, so I nudged new friend. He jumped out of his seat to rescue the paraplegic.

Instead of being stubborn, she was gracious. He lifted her arm around his shoulders, so he could play the role of her missing leg. It took several minutes to cross the ten feet separating her seat from the toilet. With every second that passed, I experienced less pity, they don’t need it, what surfaced, was admiration.

He stood by the lavatory, protecting her. The few passengers who had woken up by the commotion glanced at him, assuming they were together; he was her son. But the truth; they were only strangers.

Their bodies are so fragile and their spirits so durable. And this indiscernible thing called life hung in the balance.

My new friend plopped back in his seat, “So, back to my story.”

“Yes.” I said. It was 4am and I was exhausted, but I didn’t care.

IRONY'S ugly cousin

Irony’s ugly cousin….

You’re 100 yards from the entrance of Starbucks when you spot a tall, masculine, seemingly gorgeous man reading a newspaper. Even though he is turned away from you, you notice a baseball hat and what appear to be glasses, which screams Wall Street Journal. All near-sighted people are geniuses. Even from this distance you recognize that laid-back look, sporting a button-down polo and khakis that frame a perfectly chiseled ass. Yes, you know the man I’m talking about… he is sans a wedding ring, and his smile illuminates sparkling white choppers. Now only fifty yards away, you silently squeal with delight because he hasn’t moved… A small thought, barely a thought at all…a mere possibility begins to bubble, maybe from the corner of one of his sparkling blue eyes he has spotted you and is gearing up for your arrival (he watched you climb out of your car). You’re checking your ponytail for stray wisps, applying lip glass and wrapping up your cell phone call, so you’ll be hands free when you ask for directions, even though you have the newest GPS system. For where? Hmm. You haven’t exactly decided… "May I have directions to your heart, or even better… can I mapquest your home?”

In less than a few seconds the fantasies include long embraces on the beach, your back is arched, (yoga classes have paid off), there is moonlight, there are waves crashing, oh yeah… there is the faint music of the orchestra from afar. He is whispering sweet nothings in a husky voice; no better… sweet something’s. into the nape of your neck, which double as soft kisses. You’ve forgone your insecurities in your ratty sweatpants because suddenly a few seconds of mystery has concocted an abstract, yet entirely plausible reality… people meet and fall in love all the time, all over the globe. Maybe it’s your turn to taste that succulent fate Hollywood and happy couples boast about... As you round the corner with anticipation, blushing about this soon-to-be salacious encounter.

And before you can gasp… this man, this undiscovered gem of a male specimen who you were so convinced was utterly perfect in every delectable way…is a freaking, lifeless, faceless, mannequin.

Yep. It’s the kind compliment you hear secondhand, that you soon discover was about the “other” Jennifer in the office.

Your boyfriend is watching you apply your makeup with admiration and focus… then you see ESPN in the mirror’s reflection.

The $1000 check on your desk with your name printed in large letters is actually an HR mistake.

After twelve concerts your heartthrob finally recognizes you and is staring into your eyes over his guitar strings. His girlfriend is standing directly behind you.

A beautiful pair of Calvin Klein pants easily zip around your waist, and when you check the tag, you notice it is a size 4, which is a sign from GOD you should own them. Then the saleswoman "happens" to mention it was mistagged and is really a size 6.


Three things happen:
1. You jump for joy.
2. Fall into a pit of rejected despair.
3. YOU FORGET that pre-mannequin, HR idiot and foggy mirror… not of the above mattered, because you didn’t know it existed.


So in a world where international news arrives in twitter updates, we gather local news from our friend’s facebook wall posts, and the Internet adult playground “2nd world” is causing real-world divorces, why the hell should we stop a few fantastical seconds from enhancing our life? Hell… in world driven by over stimulated and immediately validated populous, relish the moment when you believed the above were true, because I’m going to let you in on a little secret…

John Mayer sings, “There is no substitute for time.” And trust me…. Even my hard drive is collecting dust from photographs circa 2004. I’m not worried about the time we can’t get back… the seconds, the hours, and the years that calendars devour with a voracious appetite…. It isn’t that stuff that worries me… it is the emotions we cannot relive. For every sad moment, is a happy moment lost?

Chances, odds and every other indicator suggests that no, you will not win the lotto, but once in awhile your significant other will admire you while you’re not watching, or you’ll be given a bonus or meet your hubby at a coffee shop… don’t sell yourself short, enjoy the maybes…. But more importantly let them go. Don’t gauge your happiness on a letdown that wasn’t ever supposed to be. Am I suggesting you lie to yourself? Hell no… I’m just saying, live a little… enjoy the ride… and just because it isn’t true, in a moment or in a year… I mean let’s face it. Today your lover is alive, but tomorrow he could die in a motorcycle accident, doesn’t mean today doesn’t exist. Are you following my thinking here? For the pure moment you believed something to be real, your brain registered it as real. Now you know that you can’t cash that check, nor can you buy the same pants in a different color, but you can revel in the moment that it, however fleeting did exist.

Because this life belongs to only one person. That is you. These moments, the thoughts, the agonies, the blunders that shake us, delete perfect people who while have the best or worst of intentions shared in on “our” time… don’t let what ended up happening ruin what already has. I struggle with this, but I know that deep down this postulate holds true. I was at the gym and noticed this guy from my office who always manages to make me feel dumb. A few machines away I decided to show him who was boss... I pushed myself really hard… I know I’m shallow and competitive. An hour and 1000 calories later I turn around beet red, to prove something. But of course, it wasn't him. It was some poor stranger who was confused as to why he was getting my weird stares. But had I know that.... my workout wouldn’t have been as good….

I’m just saying those little triggers in life explain a lot about ourselves, so pay attention. And now… damn my calves look good. Sometimes it’s the mannequins, the placebos, and the leap years…