Day 73: A Day in the Sun

Here's performance dress option number two. While I like the color of this one better (I imagine it would be nicer against my ultra-pasty winter complexion), I like the shape of the other one. This dress's draping just seems a bit busy, and I worry about having to pull this up and that down all the time--issues that can't occupy the mind when you're playing difficult piano pieces in front of an auditorium full of people you've known since childhood. We'll see though. The frocks should arrive in less than a week. I also bought two from Victoria's Secret, which I might have already mentioned, you know, just in case. Sometimes a girl just needs five dresses to choose from (my sister has a blue one she's willing to loan).

So, I'm sitting outside of a coffee shop near my house. It is a gay male coffee shop, though there seems to be a healthy representation of my sex here today. I don't think I have related the story of how I found out it was such a place. One day, after having lived in Denver for mere weeks, I walked in with my laptop, thinking I would find a quite table where I could write and look for jobs. When I entered, I glanced around and froze, paralyzed. Out of a sea of thirty or people, I was the only one with breasts. I was so scared, though I can't quite explain why, that I nearly turned around an left. But I didn't. I walked sheepishly up to the man at the cash register and ordered a latte. I also asked him very, very quietly why there were no women in the place.

That was when I learned two things. The first was that I lived in Denver's gay neighborhood, and this was one of the most popular gay coffee shops around. The second was that the man sitting on the stool next to the counter was actually a woman. I haven't returned to the cafe until today. Over the months, I have seen enough straight-looking women and couples sharing coffee here that I know I won't be the only estrogen-driven mammal to sit down with a drink, take out her laptop, and soak up some vitamin D. So, that's what I'm doing.

"Imagine...being blind and not being able to see a beautiful day like today. Can you think of anything worse?" Charlotte

"Stonewash jeans with a matching jacket." Anthony, Charlotte's best gay friend

We're into the last part of season six. Carrie is officially dating the Russian and is finding his grand, romantic gestures a bit much, though she's becoming more interested in him. Samantha realizes that she misses having a same-age partner, lamenting about Smith's immaturity. Ironically, to prove her own apparent wisdom, she decides to sleep with her ex, Richard, while she's at a party with Smith. Smith takes her back, causing her to marvel at the maturity of his love for her. After a visit to a plastic surgeon to discuss a boob job, she also learns she has breast cancer. Charlotte and Harry, taking a cue from Carrie's Russian lover, decide to go out to a romantic, French dinner and end up with food poisoning. Charlotte also decides to do some volunteering until she and Harry can try for another child. Miranda has to deal with living in the same apartment building as her doctor ex. She also asks Steve to marry her, and the couple says, "I do," in a small garden with only their closest friends and family standing by. Though it's her big day, Miranda insists on keeping it normal, talking with the girls over coffee and life news.

You know you're nearing the end of a project when you find yourself detaching from the product you're supposed to be producing. In simpler terms, I don't feel like writing about SATC. Even though these are some of my favorite episodes of the show (Miranda's approach to planning a wedding is priceless for it's humor and poignancy), I just feel like I'm already preparing to say goodbye to the show and its fictional characters I (sadly) know so well. Each day, each post gets a little harder to invest in, each word I type a little more distant. It doesn't help that I am running out of things to write about (weddings? done it. cheating? yup.)

I am also a little disappointed in the result of all this writing. I don't know what I expected would result from typing a bunch of thoughts about a TV shosw--that I would, oh, I don't know, have an amazing book option or figure out what to do with my life--but I know that the ending feels a little anticlimactic. I was certain something big would happen. Sure, I can think of personal benefits of the whole experience. First and foremost, it gave me a chance to process all of the relationships I've had in the past ten years. It also did what it set out on the surface to do: help me through the often depressing task of finding a job in a new city. Since I started, I have found friends and stable work, and that's something all right. It's just not everything. And I guess I wanted everything.

But maybe I'm not seeing the whole picture. I've learned a lot of things about myself through writing this blog that I'm not sure I would have figured out otherwise. For instance, I have such an interest in fashion and style that I can have real closet and a virtual closet and still find the energy for shopping and helping other people shop as a job. Heck, I probably have the job I do partly thanks to this blog. I'm not sure I would have believed in my fashion sense enough before it to even apply for a retail position. As unglamorous as my job is, I still think it beats sitting behind a computer typing emails to people I don't care about, which is most certainly what I would now be doing before this project. It's amazing what you learn about your interests when you're forced to write about them. Writing is like your chance to have a conversation with your mind. And sometimes it says the darndest things.

I have also written about my dieting philosophy, which I had never before articulated so clearly to myself, and my personal struggles with debt. I won't say that this blog is the reason I have created a budget or cut up my credit cards and mapped out a detailed plan for paying them off (which includes giving up half of my shopping budget for two years). But there is something about putting your intentions in print that makes you feel terrible about yourself if you don't succeed with them--or at least try with all of your might.

There are probably other fringe benefits from this whole thing that I can't even see yet. For now, I'm content just finishing what I started and having some time to digest it. So there's my personal reflection moment. Back to writing about the episodes next time. I promise. But for today, I think I'm done. My arms are getting sunburnt, and I need to watch my mole accumulation. Otherwise, I won't have to worry about any of this due to being prematurely dead from skin cancer. Sometimes it's really as simple as that.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 72: Can't Touch This

This may be almost literally what I wear to an upcoming benefit concert for Haiti that my sisters and I are doing. I just bought this dress today ($130). It's by a new-to-me designer, Isabella Oliver, with whose collection on wearable, easy-but-elegant dresses I've now become obsessed. I saved six to my online wardrobe, so you'll be seeing much more of her designs. I actually even ordered another one of her dresses and two Victoria's Secret numbers (that I'll post in the coming days, feel free to vote). Hopefully one of them will work for the event.

I also bought advanced tickets for SATC 2. Hank and I will be seeing the 4:00pm show the day after it opens (he needs to study on premiere night). We'll be all decked out in cocktail attire, since we'll be heading to his end-of-the-year gala right afterwards. It's for the best. Somehow it just wouldn't feel right seeing the movie in anything other than heels. And here's where I say thank you to Hank for being such a trouper through all of this. What kind of boyfriend watches a whole chick-series with his girlfriend, comments continually on her silly blog about it, and isn't afraid to go see it at the theater dressed to the nines? The great kind.

The next two episodes end the first part of season 6, which means there are 8 episodes and a movie left until T-Day (theater day) and only nine days in which to write about them. Eek. Carrie meets up with Big on his brief visit to New York to have heart surgery. As his closest friend there (and let's face it, because she loves him), she decides to stay with him during the recovery. For a moment, Big looks at her and wonders why they continue to play games when life is so short, but the next day he's back to his distant self. After he leaves, Carrie meets a quirky, famous Russian artist at an art opening, and the older man asks her out.

After trying alternative medicine, Charlotte becomes pregnant, only to lose the baby a mere month later. Devastated, she has to summon all her strength to move on with life and be hopeful. Samantha takes issue with Smith trying to hold her hand but eventually gives in. Steve walks in on Miranda and her new boyfriend having sex. Much tension between the two couples ensues. Miranda realizes she's not over Steve when her boyfriend says, "I love you," and she can't say it back. At Brady's first birthday party, Miranda instead says the words to Steve, and he says them back, saying she's "the one" and always has been.

I could write about the Russian guy I once dated, but I'm not going to. Here's why not:

1. I would be doing the same thing this episode does by stereotyping all Russians as dramatic, romantic, and depressive.

2. I can't remember his last name, and that bothers me.

3. He was twenty back then, which is far too young and innocent in my humble opinion to be subjected to being the topic of an ex's blog post.

That said, I don't really feel like writing about Big and Carrie, either. I mean, it just becomes silly after a while, you know? Same baggage, different season. I also can't really talk about fertility and miscarriage, because I've never experienced it. And that's one thing you can't accurately imagine experiencing--imagining will never be enough to know what it's like. So that leaves the holding hand issue. While I initially thought it was the weakest plot element amidst a sea of weighty issues, I am beginning to see it with new (and desperate) eyes. And I am beginning to see how it actually has some relevance in my life. In fact, it may just be a perfect topic.

Let me just say that I rarely stop to consider my similarities to Samantha. But last week, I took an online quiz that tested which SATC character I am most like, and my result was she. (You no longer have to wonder who actually takes those quizzes. Here I am). I was shocked and a little appalled. For me, Samantha has always represented the woman everyone wants to know but no one wants to be.

But the more I've thought about it, the more I see the connection. Maybe I don't consistently dress in provocative outfits or sleep with different men every few nights or sometimes even in a single afternoon. I'm not a big-shot career woman, unbothered by whom she tramps on in order to make her point. And I don't think plastic surgery is a good idea. But, there are some similarities between the two of us. Like her, I tend to be very vocal in my judgments. (Just the other day a friend said to me, "Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you just tell me how to live my life?" This was after I told her to stop staying up so late and to drink more water. She said it in good fun, but I got the hint.) I, too, have a somewhat liberal sexual philosophy. I also have some intimacy issues. That holding hand crap? That could be me on the wrong day, even on the right one. And don't even get me started about antipathy about marriage.

See, Hank and I differ on one big thing: affection. He likes to give it (a kiss when he gets home, a touch here and there to say he cares, an "I love you" in every correspondence) and get it back. I have disappointed on many occasions. He'll come home when I'm writing or practicing, and I won't even look up. Or I may glance at him, smile, and say, "Hey." That's it, which is fine for me. At night, he would prefer that I fall asleep on his chest, like I used to when we first started dating (because I knew it made him feel manly, even though it killed my jaw). I prefer to maybe touch feet or hands in the drifting off stage but nothing else.

He is not the first boyfriend with whom I've had this issue. Many times, the guy wondered why I didn't want to hold his hand or why I shied away from his touch or kiss. And I've never been able to explain myself. I always had some loose theories. I could count on one hand the number of times I've seen my parents touch affectionately besides the usual peck on the lips before bed (blame it on ma and pa). I wasn't held enough as a child (again). My skin was sensitive, or I simply liked having my personal space and it was his problem. But it always spelled issues for my romantic relationships. (Though I apparently used to even punch parters in my sleep, so I guess I'm progressing with Hank.)

This episode made me see my issue from a new light--by watching Samantha. It's very easy to see why she is the way she is, because the show tells us. She's afraid of getting hurt, so she keeps her distance, even when it makes no sense to. Smith is clearly in love with her and treats her like a queen, but she still has a hard time letting down her guard with him. So, if I am truly most like Samantha (so much for not taking online quizzes too seriously), perhaps I, too, push people away before they have the chance to hurt me. The reasoning goes something like this: Don't say, "I love you" too much, and don't get too comfortable, because you never know when you'll be on your own again, where you're safer anyway. Maybe, like Samantha, I fiercely avoid intimacy in order to avoid pain, even when it means pushing people away who love me and whom I can trust.

I don't know if the above statement is true or not, but it feels true, regardless of any debatable further connection with Samantha's character. Something about it feels maybe truer than anything I have written throughout this project. And if that's all I take away from this whole thing, I can live with that. (As for what you're taking away from reading this, I have no idea.) I always thought my aversion to affection had to do with temporary things--being busy, being hot, being mad at my partner. But I'm beginning to see that it's just me, no matter my mood or hormones or schedule.

Sure, sometimes I feel very affectionate. It seems to come in bursts--like a caged animal that has been set free. At those times, I grab Hank and kiss him or walk into his study and wrap my arms around him in a bear hug. It feels like I'm so full of affection that it's dripping out of me. But most of the time, I'm not touchy-feely. I'm even a bit frigid. It's something I would like to get better at, though, because I want Hank to know I love him--for him to be able to physically see that. But it's really tough. It's really, really tough.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 70: Untying the Knot

Rockin shoes, eh? With the uber-casual attire, they actually pass as any-night going out material. And there's nothing much else to say, except for that skinny gray pants are next on my must-have jeans list. I'll call this outfit, "Drinks with the Gals," because you could have been painting your living room all day and thrown on these shoes and grabbed this clutch seconds before meeting up with them. They won't care that you smell bad and have blue streaks in your hair. They'll just be glad you're there.

Well, Charlotte ties the knot once again, though this time in tradition Jewish style. Before saying "I do," though, she has her share of fretting about it being her second marriage, especially after she sees her old wedding dress still hanging in her closet. It takes her a while to realize that she can celebrate a second wedding just as much as she celebrated the first. On the big day, everything that can go wrong does, and Charlotte is left in tears. Carrie tells her to buck up and see how wonderful she has it--and also tells her that the worse the wedding, maybe the better the marriage. Miranda finally fits into her old "skinny" jeans (in the old sense of the term, meaning the ones we wore in our lean years and keep around for motivation). She rejoices by flirting up a storm. Samantha, in her publicist capacity, tells Smith (she changed his name from Jerry Jerod to Smith Jerod) to broadcast that he's single and not get too attached to her. But when he leaves to do a movie shoot, she finds herself missing him. Carrie laments over Burger's abrupt breakup via post-it note. To get over it, she sleeps with the best man in Charlotte's wedding and ends up with a bad back from "jackrabbit sex," as she calls it.

As episodes go by, and I write about these characters and their situations every couple of days, I see interesting patterns. One I'm noticing lately is that no matter how much I think I relate to Carrie and her interests in writing, relationships, and shoes, a lot of my actions coincide more with Charlotte. At least my dating history is very similar. I, too, have been in relationships since I was 14 without much break in between any of them. I, too, have always felt insecure by myself and been in search of a mate to make me happy, even if I know I should rely on myself for happiness. I also have tried very hard with all the wrong kinds of guys, always assuming that there's something more I can give, always in danger of giving too much. Like her, I have converted for boyfriends--even if it was to vegetarianism and not Judaism. Granted I've never been married, but I've sure had to face the ghosts of wedding dresses past.

The first time I was engaged--to Arnold--I wanted the whole shebang on our wedding day. I didn't really want a ton of people, but I wanted things to be perfect. I went to Ace to pick up paint color pallets and spent weeks deciding what combos I liked best. I handmade all the invitations. I tore out about a hundred pictures of wedding dresses from magazines, dreaming of the ideal one, and so on. In the end, I decided to wear my mother's wedding dress as a tribute to my history (in my mind, that dress signified the perfect choice). After all, it fit me perfectly without any needed alterations.

Months after I cancelled the wedding, I visited my parent's house and saw my mother's dress still hanging on the closet door in my old bedroom, still in a plastic bag, still unworn except for that one, hot, August day in 1975. It was like an invisible bride had been hung there and forgotten. As a matter of fact, when I was there for Christmas this year, now six years that first cancelled wedding, it hadn't moved. I'm not even sure it has been touched.

The next time I officially got engaged (I no longer count the times I thought I was going to marry someone, for there are far to many), this time to Jorge, I decided I would buy my dream wedding dress right off. After all, that was the best part of the wedding planning process in my mind, and I had skipped it last time. I got one from David's Bridal on sale for $500, and it was gorgeous, even perfect. It had a halter neckline, a sheath body made entirely of beaded lace, and an elegant satin sash around the waist. There were days I would take it out of its garment bag just to stare at it.

After I refused to send invitations for that wedding, in effect canceling it (or as I liked to think "indefinitely postponing"--canceling was too harsh a term), I tried to forget about the dress, the symbol of yet another failed relationship in my mind. Perhaps unconsciously, I brought it to my parents' house and hung it next to my mother's old one, just to get it out of my small apartment. Now there were two invisible brides.

Last year, when I met Hank and before I moved to Denver to live with him, I decided I had to get rid of the dress I loved so much but that haunted me. I would put it up for sale on Ebay. I packed it up from my parents' house and brought it to my apartment, where I photographed it from twenty angles. I also snapped shots of the shoes I had bought for the occasion (Stewart Weiztman rhinestone jelly flats as a throwback to my childhood) and all the accessories that came with the dress. I put up all the photos on the same day I started advertising my apartment.

After a week, no one had bought the dress. I was dissapointed. It was so beautiful, and I had priced it at $200, which I thought was a steal for an unworn, unaltered, beaded lace wedding dress. I decided to take the dress and its entourage to Denver with me, where I would attempt to sell them all at a consignment store. On the move down with my father, I tried to ignore the oddly shaped, unlabeled box that contained the odd relics of my past and hoped he wouldn't ask me about it.

About a month later, I hadn't thought much about the dress. On a whim I decided to repost it on Ebay. This time, I amped up all of my pictures and wrote an ad about the dress that made it sound irresistable. Sure enough, I got a hit. Within a week, I had sent it off to a woman in Florida, who had been looking for the perfect dress for her upcoming wedding and knew she had found it the moment she saw my ad. It was official. My dress--no longer my dress--was gone. And I had nothing left to show for my engagements. It felt wonderful. And it felt sad.

There is a moment in one of the episodes where Charlotte says she doesn't feel like having a big celebration again. She doesn't think it's proper. After all, it's her second wedding, and she has already had the bridesmaids and the flowers and the perfect dress. This time around, she says, she feels she should have a small and simple wedding. But Carrie won't have it. She tells Charlotte to go for it--to celebrate this marriage the way she wants to, with all the excitement and vigor and pomp, even if she has gone through it all before. So she does.

I know how Charlotte feels. I almost feel like I know how divorced women feel. The only things that really separated me from being one were a couple of stupid pieces of paper and a single wedding day. I went through all of the motions. I just didn't take the vows. And while that's an important difference, all the stuff leading up to the vows seems almost more important and harder to forget--like planning a honeymoon with someone you're planning on spending the rest of your life with, asking people to be bridesmaids, and making invitations with your family.

But do I want a simple and small wedding when the time comes for me to finally say, "I do?" No, I don't. I still have dreams of the great dress and shoes, of an amazing cake, of being surrounded by friends and family and good music, of having a night out with my sisters the night before, of writing my vows and saying them to the person I love most in the world. In fact, I'm going to take my cue from Charlotte: if something is worth celebrating, celebrate it. It doesn't matter what came before.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 68: Crazy Ladies

In case anyone thought I was kidding about these being all-purpose jeans, here they all in all their versatile glory--standing in for a suit pant. Since the tank will cover up the top of the jean, it is likely that no one would even notice it isn't just a skinny trouser. These jeans are like the person who wasn't invited to the A-list party but snuck past security. We'll call this outfit, "Taking the High Road (Off Guard)."

In the next two episodes, the women all become psychotic. No, not really. But you would think so. Carrie realizes she loves Burger. They have it all going for them--the same careers, the same food interests, etc. When Burger lets on that he's still angry about his last girlfriend, Carrie shares her war stories in a bonding moment. Then, however, they hit a bump. Burger's book comes out, and though Carrie thinks it's marvelous, she mentions a small flaw and Burger backs away. Carrie eventually reels him back in. Miranda goes on a good date but wonders if the man will call. Burger tells her that if he didn't go up to her apartment that night, then "he's just not that into her." Miranda decides to share the revelation with random women on the street. Samantha and new lover Jerry immerse themselves in a world of sexual role play. After a few weeks, Jerry finally gets addicted Samantha to have a conversation about their real lives. Charlotte officially becomes a jew and cooks Harry their first holiday dinner. When Harry turns the TV on to watch sports, Charlotte flips out and begins screaming at him about why he hasn't set a date for a wedding. She reasons that he'll clearly never find anyone as good as she. He moves out.

Unfortunately, there's only one thing for me to talk about here and that's my own history with being obsessed with getting married. These are the moments when I can really relate to Charlotte, as nutso as she seems in this episode. But first, I must point out two things. The first is that I think Burger is a big baby. Learn to take some healthy criticism, man. Second, Hank and I realized while watching that the movie He's Just Not That Into You must have stemmed from one of these episodes. I later learned from a friend that the man who wrote that book did indeed write for SATC's sixth season. It all made perfect sense.

Okay, let me state one of the biggest paradoxes of my life. I am terrified of marriage, but I have forced the issue on almost all of my boyfriends. I don't get this about myself at all. If I say I'm afraid of marriage (and, believe me, those anxious feelings are strong), then why have I brought it up so much and pushed men to give me an answer about marriage well before any logic would dictate? I'll talk about rings and then say I never want to get married. I'll ask them to plan a future, and then, when they do, I back out. It's crazy.

Let me just say I wasn't always this neurotic. My first few relationships were somewhat normal. I was always an intense person, so I felt love intensely and often, but I wasn't hot and cold. I generally went after people who were interested in me and didn't worry about those who weren't. I didn't stalk people or call them obsessively, but I did write extremely romantic poetry at age ten. And I did always think the person I was with was the person I would eventually marry.

Then came Arnold (when I was 20). He made my intensity seem like nothing. He swore his love within days and asking for my hand within weeks. I went along with it all, thinking that we were meant for each other, even if I had misgivings about how healthy we were together. When that relationship fizzled out and I met the Russian guy, I thought the passion I felt for him was what I had been waiting for and told him so. The day before I was going to meet his family, he broke things off. Apparently I had pushed too hard too soon.

Then I met Travis, who was slow and steady, a good balance to my head-over-heels approach to relationships. He decided early on that he wanted to marry me. I wasn't so sure, but it didn't matter. I convinced myself that he was the one and that it would just take time for me to be ready. We still talked about kids and careers, as if it would all happen eventually together. Still, I feared the day when he would pop the question. When I started lusting after my married piano professor, I began to imagine the guy divorcing his wife and marrying me. That was when I knew I wasn't in love enough with Travis to marry him.

When I eventually left him for Billy, the Peruvian artist, I again thought I had found "The One" (giving up, quite fickly, on the piano professor). Billy and I had a melancholic connection. I thought he needed me. So I told him that I thought I should move down there and that we should get married as soon as possible. He was up for it (I was a pretty American girl after all), though it took me a while to realize he didn't love me at all. But by that time, I had told everyone, partly in order to justify my crazy move to a third world country, that I had met my soul mate. Saying goodbye to yet another dream of happily ever after was probably the most difficult part of our breakup.

Then, I met Jorge. He hadn't had many relationships and didn't really care about marriage. But I told him I wanted to get married in order for us to live together in the States. He capitulated and bought me a ring. We had been together for two three months. A year later, I canceled our engagement.

The months after that I spent trying to have non-serious relationships (yes, I had to try). I would go out drinking with friends and deliberately hook up with someone random. Up until that point I had never had a one night stand. I wanted to see if I was capable. After two experiences, I gave up. With the first guy, we saw each other again and talked on the phone a few times, but he said I seemed "too eager" to get into another couple. When I stopped calling, he started sending me nasty facebook messages. In the end, I had to block his account.

The second guy I picked up from a bar was cute, but I was so disappointed from the last encounter (and so inebriated) that I cried the entire night. He kept trying to say sexual things to get me in the mood, but I was a wreck. I had never had sex just to have sex, and it seemed heartbreaking to me. The next day, he said he wanted to see me again, but I said no.

Then I reconnected with Brad. Though we both initially jumped in head first, thinking we had re-found something great with each other, it soon went sour. We had both been in bad breakups that year and had loads of baggage. This time, it was the night before he was going to meet my parents again that he broke it off, saying he wasn't ready for a serious, possibly marriage-headed relationship again so soon. He said I shouldn't wait for him.

Two months later I met Hank, and I refused to talk about marriage the first week. Of course I failed. Of course, we decided within the first month together that I would move with him to Denver. Of course, I fell in love fast. But I have never felt rushed with him, and, as far as I know, he hasn't felt rushed by me. I don't worry about marrying him. I don't (for once) think about it that much. Life and our daily relationship keeps my mind and body busy enough.

My cousin once said to me that I was the type of person who should date someone at least a year before getting engaged to them, just so I could be sure. At the time, it seemed like a long time. I was on the three-month plan. Now that Hank and I have been dating for over a year, I am surprised at how quickly the time has gone without me obsessing over the marriage question. I know I'm the same person, but something is a bit different. I feel more peaceful. And yet, still quite in love. I'm not sure I knew that was possible but am so glad to find out it is.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 67: Love as Science

Here's the uber-casual version of the black skinny jean outfit. Haphazardly roll up the bottoms of the jeans to expose the entire sandal. Again, I would wear flat sandals or ballet flats instead, but that's for convenience only. I love the look of a high, sexy sandal with a laid-back outfit. I also love the versatility of the black/white combo. You could put on almost any scarf, combination of jewelry, and bag and look fabulously put together. We'll call this "Simply Skinny."

Well, Hank informs me that my last posting didn't portray him very well. It's probably true, and I feel badly for that. Since I don't really read my posts after I post them (sometimes only much later to edit, even though I should be doing that at the time of writing) and since I don't really have time to go backwards in this process (T minus 25 days), I must take his word for it and continue the trek forward. Hopefully any readers will realize by now that Hank and I have a real relationship, and that's all I'm hopefully proving with my posts. I try to portray things the way they are or feel on any given day--sometimes that's grand, sometimes it's dull, and sometimes it's really bad. That's the way it goes. But (and this is for you, dear) it's always from my heart. And remember, you're wonderful. I am simply trying to speculate about certain aspects of life and love. I can't worry about how people are going to judge my thoughts or relationship. I just have to write.

Season six starts out with two great episodes. Charlotte decides to convert to Judaism in order to be with Harry. They share a moving conversation, where Charlotte tells Harry about her reproductive challenges, and Harry tells her not to worry and that adoption is always an option. Samantha meets a hot waiter at a hip new restaurant and decides to seduce him. After sleeping together, he tells her she needn't have tried so hard; he was into her from the start. Carrie heats things up with Burger but finds that all their chemistry screeches to a halt in the bedroom. Finally, after some honest talking and wearing of furry footwear, things start to look promising again. Miranda tells Carrie she's in love with Steve. Before Miranda can tell him, he tells her that he's seeing someone else. So, she clams up and decides to ignore her feelings.

So many things, as per usual. But the idea of being sexually in sync out of the bedroom but not in it is very intriguing to me. I haven't really experienced that exactly, but the situation with Brad was somewhat similar. Though we were very flirty on dates, and the kissing was great, things got weird in the bedroom.

The first time we slept together, he didn't want to. He gave me the whole "I've slept with so many girls that I want this time to be special" schpeel, as if that was something I wanted to hear in the heat of the moment. (News flash, men: we generally want sex as much as you do. We also don't want to hear about how many women your dick has been in, possibly ever, whether we're different or not. Would you want us to say that line to you?) Let me say that even though the chemistry was there, the sex wasn't good. He was one of those guys that Carrie talks about in an earlier episode--the kind that's not good in bed, because he never had to be due to his nice looks, charm, or a thriving bank account. He didn't really know what to do and had no patience to learn.

But the sex wasn't as bad as the aftermath. I couldn't sleep. Literally. I don't generally nod off quickly, but it always happens in 20 minutes or so. Not this time. I laid next to him for what felt like forever but was actually only a few hours in his strange bedroom, feeling like I was being eaten alive by Pottery Barn decorations. I hoped he thought I was peacefully dreaming. He seemed to be. But after accidentally clearing my throat about two hours after the act, he said, "Oh, you can't sleep either?" Awkward. "Uh, no," was all I could think of. So, we kept trying to fall asleep, knowing full well that the other person was also awake.

The next morning, I felt and looked awful. He didn't look great, either. And we couldn't really look each other in the eye. We both knew something very strange had happened the night before, and it didn't seem there was any use in talking about it. It wasn't like it was something we could change. As I found out that night, trying to force yourself to sleep is a pretty useless task.

The next couple of times we spent the night together were no different. I kept thinking it was going to change--when we were more comfortable with each other and our relationship, when we learned more about each others' bodies, when we trusted one another more. Over the next few weeks, we talked a lot on the phone from our respective towns. We went to movies, cooked dinner, went hiking, and planned future trips. In these moments, we seemed comfortable, but our chemistry was never the same after that first night. Also, the sleeping situation didn't change, at least not for me. I only slept soundly with him on one occasion, which ended up being our last time together. Maybe my subconscious knew that finally the gig (whatever it had been) was up. I could finally relax.

Chemistry is so weird. You can't predict it. You can't change it or will it or hope it. Stopping it is hard. Starting it when it's not there is harder. It is like God's little chemical secret. Sure, there are theories--everything from pheromones and upbringing to astrology--but none sufficiently explains the mystery of why we hit it off naturally with some people and why we don't with others. Brad smelled very good and was a compatible Capricorn, but something major was off. An essential love ingredient was missing, the equivalent of yeast to bread. Maybe I'll never know what it was, but I know it wasn't there. And I don't really want to know. I still like to think there's a little magic in it all.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 66: The Question of Memory

It doesn't get much more glamourous than this. What? Jeans can be glamourous? Who knew (besides me)? The trick with making these pants pull fancy duty is keeping the rest of the outfit ultra shiny and even over-the-top. It helps that the jeans have a little sheen to them, too. Now, a word about the shawl. I have had so many women come into the store and ask me to find them a cardigan to go with their dress. After that first lady I helped, I have gotten into the habit of just immediately pointing them to the shawl area. The reaction is always, "Oh my God, that's perfect! Why didn't I think of that?"

So here's a word to the fashion wise: buy a shawl. But two even. It doesn't matter what color they are, though I would probably go for a neutral, single-toned one (black, beige, gray, etc) and a patterned one like above. They will keep you warm, add instant sophistication to your evening outfit, and won't break the bank. I would suggest pashmina, but cotton, cashmere, or any woven blends are good too. We'll call this ensemble, "My Symphony Jeans," after my father, who, bless his heart, jokes that if his rugged blue Levis are good enough in the garden, they're good enough to hear classical music.

To wrap up season five (it's a short one, thank God, because I have about twenty seasons and a movie to get through), Carrie visits San Francisco to promote her book and takes Samantha with her. There, Carrie meets Big and the two have some fun, but not before Big worriedly picks apart her entire book, embarrassed by how much he hurt her over the years. Back in New York, Carrie meets up with newly-single Berger at a wedding and wonders where it will go. Charlotte starts sleeping with Harry, her divorce lawyer, and finds herself falling for him despite his hairy back. He tells her his feelings are mutual, but he can't seriously date a non-Jew. Samantha throws a party at Richard's beach house and discovers she's still angry at him. Miranda and Steve hook up, and she can't figure out how she feels about it or him.

Lots going on here. I have to say that Harry's character is my favorite of the entire series, so I'm glad he's in the picture now. He's such a hoot and unapologetic about being so. For me, the most interesting issue here deals with how we experience and remember events. When Big confronts Carrie about why she is still interested in him after all he has done, Carrie says that it was all in the past and that half of it wasn't true but embellishment. In the end, I was left wondering, "How can these people have been in the same relationship and be on totally different pages?"

It made me think of my own perspective versus Hank's. Memory is subjective, of course. But then, what is truth and what is fiction? This relates somewhat to the last blog entry and the negative personality issue. How much of what we remember and think is due to our unique perception, which is based on everything from heredity and mood to blood sugar levels at the time of the event and the time of relating the event? How do relationships work at all, considering the two people have totally different perspectives? How can there be any agreement at all about what happened or what's happening?

When Hank and I disagree about a past event, we just can't come to see the other's point of view. We can try to convince the other that what they're thinking didn't really happen. But what's the use of that? I will still see a situation in my own way, no matter how Hank tries to change my perspective. And he'll see it in his way. The same holds true for remembering events. We each have our version of the story. Maybe all we can do when we disagree is respect the other's version of events and move on.

But it's not easy--especially when one person supposedly has a negative personality and the other person doesn't. It seems like so often in big blowouts, I fall into the habit of saying things like, "This has happened so many times before. It's not going to work. This is exactly what happened with ________, and it was a bad sign. Blah, blah, blah." And Hank counters that with, "That's not what happened last time. This doesn't mean anything bad. We're totally different than ________. Why are you so negative? Blah, blah, blah." Who's right and who needs to look at the situation differently? Can the two views work together to form a healthy perspective? Is that what a good union is all about?

I don't like that I remember the 'bad' things. I like to think I remember the good ones, too. But I do have an uncanny ability to analyze, and most of the time that includes being critical of whatever I'm analyzing. In relationship fights, that's the relationship. I also don't like that Hank always has to be the person who sees the 'good' things. It must be exhausting for him, and sometimes his positivity tires even me out. I would like to hear him say, just once, the simple words, "Hon, you're right. We have a problem here." Because sometimes we do.

And sometimes we don't. I guess I need to learn to see more than just the negative, learn to be more supportive than critical. In the end, it is a choice. There is always that moment where you could go either way--towards the relationship or away from it. At those times, maybe it takes a powerful desire to conjure up the good memories, the pros instead of the cons, so you can get through the moment that feels like a con, even though it maybe isn't. That's hard work for me. I get carried away in the moment. There are so many mornings I wake up and wonder why the hell I threw such a fuss the night before. I need to stop running away, and Hank needs to stop running after me. He needs to develop his critiquing skills, and I need to calm mine and maybe use them for something else.

I realize this is a lot of rambling, and I also know it is a lot of divulging. At least it feels that way. But that's life. It's too short not to think about it all, and it's too short to dwell too long on anything. The answer, like always, probably lies somewhere in the middle.

I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 65: A Critical Review

Since I recently wore my new black skinnies and am obsessed with their versatility and coolness, I've decided to use them for the next few outfits. Watch as we go from day to night and from super casual to sleek and chic. The fashion challenge is on. Here, we have a casual day look. We're pairing the jeans with a traditional cardigan worn buttoned up as a shirt, no need for a cami. Countering the primness of the cardi is the rocker-like accessories. Instead of a formal wristwatch, we have a starfish cocktail ring. Instead of a conservative Coach handbag, we have an edgy black leather number with hardware. The flats also work to keep the ensemble looking carefree (they're next on my must-have list). The effect is studious and sophisticated without being snobbish, though I'm actually not sure you could make black skinnies snobbish if you tried. We'll call this outfit, "Study, Shmuddy."

I cannot believe I haven't posted for a week and a half. My sister was visiting, and I just couldn't bring myself to take time away from hanging out with her to write. Shopping, eating, and chatting were so much more fun. Even if I had wanted to post, it didn't seem in the cards. We were gone for three days to North Carolina for the wedding of my favorite cousin. At the reception, I decided after three and a half glasses of wine that it would be fun to jump and dance in 3-inch heels. At the time it was fine. But my back was so messed up the next morning, I was unable to get out of bed without extreme effort. I actually had tears involuntarily running down my face. So I have been taking twice daily baths for the past few days, and only today has sitting and typing really been doable, though still not comfortable. So I have some catching up to do.

The truth is even before my sister arrived, I had also been having a crisis of motivation. When you're around clothes all day and constantly chatting with your female coworkers, it turns out the last thing you really want to do is come home and pick an outfit and talk (or write) about feelings. Instead, you want a bottle of wine and a bubble bath and to talk to no one. But I have committed to this project, and, by damn, I will see it through. Besides, it's kinda nice to write, once you get going...

Here's the lowdown on the last two episodes. Carrie throws a book release party and attends it without a date. She realizes she's lonely. When the New York Times gives her a rave review, she focusses on the reviewer's one possibly negative comment (that she tosses out men) and wonders why she can't let it go. Samantha takes a shot at babysitting. When Brady's vibrating chair breaks down and he starts wailing, she improvises by setting her new sex toy next to him. It works, though Miranda is mortified. Meanwhile, Miranda's date with an old flame gets interrupted by her constantly crying child, and the new mom realizes how different her life has become. Charlotte takes her mother-in-law to court and wins the house fair and square.

Hank has a theory that I have a negative personality. Since my mother also has this theory, I have begun to seriously consider that it's true. According to Hank, there are certain characteristics of these types that I exhibit. They are as follows:

1. They often remember the bad things about past situations and rarely the good.

2. They think everything is about them.

3. They worry and overanalyze and feel anxious a lot.

Actually, I may have added the last one. It sounds right. He told me many more, but those are the ones that stick out. I don't know if he's right or not. Recently, we went to an exhibit that talked about optimism versus pessimism and the whole glass analogy (which I've never really bought). I looked at the glass for the millionth time in my life and said to Hank, "What if you look at it and think, 'It's only half full?' Does that make you an optimist or a pessimist?"

Either way, in light my work day today and these episodes, I'm inclined to think he's onto something with the personality thing. The day was pretty much like any other, but at the end of it I wanted to disappear. It seemed like miscommunications were happening everywhere, and at every moment I believed I was somehow making a mistake. If my manager looked at me funny, I thought she must be thinking I was doing a horrible job. If a coworker made a joking remark, I took it seriously. Normally, though I am not a laid back person, I like to think I'm able to get perspective a little easier than today. Today, I just took it all personally and stewed.

But maybe that's a more regular thing than I like to admit. I am often tip-toeing around people so they won't be upset at anything I'm doing (number 3). I worry a lot about what people (especially authority figures) are thinking and usually assume the worst (also number 3). When something goes wrong or someone is upset, I immediately think it was my fault and apologize for my perceived part, usually resulting in the person telling me she or he isn't upset with me at all (number 2). And I remember every detail of an interaction, usually focussing the parts that I didn't think went well and replaying them over and over again (number 1).

Like most people, I want to be liked. I am a perfectionist. I want perfect reviews from everyone. Only when I decide I don't like someone do I stop caring about their opinion. But that is rare. I usually like people enough to care what they think, which makes me very social but very anxious and neurotic. People-pleasing is risky business.

In fact, after today, I think I may just make a conscious effort to relax and tell my mind to shut up when it starts creating fantasy scenarios. My manager recently told me that "worrying is a waste of imagination," and that phrase has stuck. I think imagination is a huge driving force of anxiety. You can think off all the possibilities, so you do. What else is going to keep your mind busy? But that's just it. Anxiety takes a lot of mental energy--energy that could be used to learn your job better, think about future goals and dreams, plan trips, and listen to what people around you are saying. It's hard to do any of those things when your mind is whirring with analysis and worry.

I think opinions are important, because I like to think my opinion is important. If mine is, other peoples' must be too. Maybe Carrie does drop men. Maybe she doesn't. That's for her to decide and figure out if she wants to change, but not because some reviewer told her to. In the end, you can't live for other peoples' opinions. I know I'm not the first to say it, but I'm saying it anyway. You can't have peace trying to make everyone happy. You may get promoted, and you may be thought of as endearing. You may have lots of friends. But you will be really, really tired. And you'll always feel like you're going to drop one of the thousand mental balls you're juggling. Take my word for it.

So why not just juggle the balls you want and purposely drop the rest, maybe even make room for some more meaningful ones? I'm going to try it and get back to you.

Until then, I hope you'll be back. I will.

Day 64: Dieting Diaries

It just struck me that I wear the same bag every day. Unless I'm going out at night or headed to the beach or on a trip (not usual occasions), pretty much the only bag I take out of my house is my dark green Aldo studded shoulder bag. Don't get me wrong, it's a great bag. I'm not complaining. It was also $22 (pleather is a wonderful thing). Yet another reason not to complain. But considering that I pick out cute outfits with a different bag everyday, I realized I am living vicariously through this blog. Okay, I'm pretty fashionable. But I'm also quite boring. There's a big difference between picking out a picture of a fabulous pair of suede gray sandals and actually spending both money on buying them and time taking care of them (let's face it, storage in cities is a big problem). It's funny that I spend all day around great stuff--cute Michael Kors bags and designer jeans, especially--and can't afford any of it. Oh, well. I guess that's why I'm here--because here I can wear whatever I want. In fact, my new motto is, "Dress for the life you want, not the one you have--at least in your blog." I'm calling this ensemble, "Pick a Ring, Any Ring (or Two)."

It is Hank's and my year anniversary tomorrow. I got my period today. These things do not coexist well. I am also so tired that I actually contemplated going to bed at 4:30 pm but forced myself to stay up. Hey, I had already been up for 12 hours. After working both the closing shift and the opening one, I have come to a grand conclusion that both suck. There isn't a winning situation. Either you're ready for bed when most people are still at work or you're eating dinner at 11 pm and sleeping your morning away (not to mention dealing daily with the post-work, pre-dinner and therefore hungry, mass of shoppers, which makes the little old ladies and stay-at-home moms who come in at 10am seem like angels). Nope, either way you lose (so chipper tonight).

Since I am thinking about sleep with every key stroke, let me get on with this post. The girls try to spend some quality friend time by going to Atlantic City to gamble and eat. Even though Carrie does her best to remind them of the importance of investing in friendships, the girls all seem to be on different wavelengths. Samantha's obsessed with keeping an eye on Richard, until she dumps him. Miranda's tired and wants to veg out in front of the TV, and Charlotte is trying to ignore the unpleasantness of her 36th birthday by hitting on random guys instead of hanging with the gals. Eventually, though, they all end up on the same bus back to the city. When they return, Carrie tries to pick a look for her book cover. Charlotte needs help with her self-help addiction. Samantha blows the UPS guy in an effort to get over Richard, and Miranda joins Weight Watchers to lose her baby weight, briefly hooking up with an insecure fellow dieter in the process.

Dieting sucks. And that, my friends, is my thesis for the night. I have tried nearly every diet under the sun, and I am here to say that none were easy. Although I have been at a comfortable weight for about eight years now (the fear of getting "fat" again has only recently subsided--and by that I mean 5 minutes ago, when I stopped looking at my bloated stomach in the mirror and made peace with the fact that I ate about three servings of french fries with dinner). When acquaintances make comments about how "Some people don't have to worry about what they eat" in front of me, I want to laugh in their faces. What do they know about my history with food and my metabolism? Nothing. Throughout high school and college, I tried an only-Asian diet, a sugar-wheat-dairy-fun-free diet, The Zone Diet, The Prism Diet, vegetarianism, veganism, Ediets.com, metabolism-boosting injections, and a handful of other things I can no longer remember (thank God).

I used to be thirty pounds heavier than I am now. I used to be a size 12 and eat a half gallon of ice cream in one sitting. In fact, I even tried to be bulimic once in high school (actually before I got chubby) but had to stop when I realized that I liked food too much to watch it come back up all destroyed. What was the point of that? Yes, even when I was healthy and even, gasp, skinny, I dieted. My mother and I often did it together, and it was a sort of bonding experience. I think we started when I was 12. My biggest memory was of the grapefruit, egg, and coffee diet, the strangest part of which for me at that age was the coffee.

My mother always struggled with weight and self image problems. I remember constantly putting her body down, even though to me she just looked normal, even healthier than many of my friends' mothers. But looking back now, I finally understand where she was coming from. She had once been a size two, just like many women in high school and in their twenties. She missed it, and she probably hadn't anticipated saying goodbye to her svelte figure forever once she had kids. Sure, she could exercise and cook healthy meals in theory, but who had time for that when you had a booming medical practice, an over-worked husband, and three crazy daughters running around playing dress up and asking for mac-and-cheese?

Only now, as I contemplate one day losing my favorite parts of my figure, ones that I have worked pretty hard to attain during my adulthood, do I appreciate the fear of looking anything less than great. Sure, there are more important things in life, but I like to look good. So shoot me. And this coming from the girl who just downed a burger and three servings of fries. Ugg, and I don't mean the boots.

My weight loss (this is getting pretty darn boring, isn't it?) started my second year in college. The year before, at NYU actually, I had hit an all-time weight high. I had developed a ritual, mostly to conquer my loneliness of being without friends in the most bustling city in the world. At night I would roam the New York City streets alone, sometimes seeing off-off-Broadway plays, sometimes catching a movie, sometimes just walking, but I would always end up in a cafe or dessert shop. Here is where I confess something very embarrassing. I would sometimes eat three to four full desserts a night. It was the only way I could cope at that point.

When I transfered to Rochester a year later, I found myself once again in the land of running trails and affordable gyms. I ran myself into shape. I decided to stop dieting and just learn to eat healthily. I ate a variety of foods. Nothing was off limits. But I forced myself to count calories. Thanks to the online dieting program I had joined while at NYU (which I hadn't used it much), I knew that I could have 1600 calories a day and still lose weight. It was like being in heaven. I had always grown up thinking that 1200 calories was the max and that if you weren't hungry, you were doing something wrong. I forced myself to weigh only once a week (not daily, as I had been masochistically doing) and shoot for losing only 2 pounds between weighings. It worked. In six months, I had lost 30 pounds and felt great about my body for the first time in maybe my whole life.

Now, I don't diet. I don't weigh. I don't even own a scale. My jeans are my scale, and they are worth keeping my figure for, even if it's sometimes heavier and sometimes lighter depending upon the season and where I'm at in life. I don't freak out about gaining weight, because I don't know when I do. I don't count calories, though I have an idea of the calories in what I'm eating. I just know my face looks pudgy, and I don't like it. But I don't make drastic changes. I maybe cut down to one piece of bread with my eggs and bacon for breakfast instead of two. It usually works. I still have dessert, but surprisingly I don't really want it as much as I used to or really only want a few bites. It's amazing what you want (and don't want) when you allow yourself to have what you want. These days, I mostly just know what makes me feel full and good, and I eat that. If one day that's steak, great. If the next it's a handful of peanut M and Ms, perfect.

Okay, well that was a bit Shape Magazine sappy, but thanks for bearing with me. It's funny how so much drama in one's life can be summed up in less than 500 words. I think there's a lesson in there somewhere.

I hope you'll be back. I will, but not before 10 hours of sleep, God willing.

Day 63: A Change of Thought

I saw a lady come in to the store carrying this LV Stephen Sprouse Collection tote. I couldn't believe how cute it was and told her so. When I came home to hunt down a photo of it and see how much it set her back, I found a plethora of believable look-alikes (left) all over the web and some real ones (right) being auctioned off a few months after their January debut. What's the difference between the two besides $400-$1000 buckaroes? You tell me. Yes, the right one would last a lifetime, but the left one just might too. Even though I love LV, I'm not sure I love him enough to spend that kind of dough. So, to knock-off designers everyone, I'm dedicating this outfit to you and calling it, "I'll Take the Fake...and the Cake, Too."

We are on to season five, and I have to confess I've seen every episode in it about six times. When I lived in Peru, you could buy a season for $3.50, so I bought all the ones I hadn't seen (five, six, and six part deux). The only catch was that sometimes they would play, sometimes not. Unfortunately I never got season 6 to work at all and didn't have the time or energy to go haggle my way to a refund. So, when I wanted my dose of SATC, I just re-watched an episode from season five. I pretty much know them verbatim.

But I didn't really remember the context, since I hadn't seen the first seasons for years. I was aware of the big things--that Miranda had Steve's baby and Charlotte and Trey divorced--but had forgotten all of the details and whys. So when I saw these two episodes again today, despite the fact that I have them nearly memorized, I teared up.

Miranda finds that motherhood is challenging her relationships with her friends, especially Samantha, who wants nothing to do with baby talk. Per Steve's request, Miranda gives in to the idea of baptizing Brady and asks Carrie to be his godmother. Carrie finds herself becoming cynical about dating and love at the same time a book offer comes along. She must decide whether she's an optimist about relationships or a pessimist and decides to keep the faith alive. Charlotte starts losing hope as well and turns to self-help psychology for help. When she convinces Carrie to join her for an "affirmations seminar," Charlotte sees just how strong her grief over her failed marriage has become. Samantha decides to give cheating, scumbag Richard a second chance, much to the dismay of her friends. However, she can't quite forgive and forget what he did.

Okay, let me explain the tears. It must be said that Kristin Davis (Charlotte) is a great actress. There is a moment when they attend the seminar when she stands up and asks why the affirmations the lady suggests aren't working faster. She says she wants to believe in love but finds it so hard after divorcing. She feels angry at her ex-husband for taking her hope away from her. The way she says it makes you feel everything she's going through--and makes you want to bomb the motivational speaker's home for making people believe it's easy if they just work really hard to see their situation in a new way. It's just not that easy. Ever.

After breaking up with Billy, I came up with my own philosophy about positive thinking: "Thinking differently about reality won't change it; it will just make you think differently about it." Positive thinkers everywhere will hate me for saying that. I did say it in a different context--relating more to trying to "think" an unhealthy relationship into being a healthy one without anything really changing--but it could really be used here as well. Usually we experience difficult emotions for a reason. Sometimes it's because we're grieving, which I think is a normal, healthy thing. Sometimes it's because we're angry, which can also be good as a catalyst for changing our lives for the better. Sometimes it's physical or hormonal, which can be helped with natural hormones and a little exercise (hey, it worked for me). Whatever their root, personally I haven't found "positive thinking" to be very helpful. Usually it just makes me feel like crap about myself.

And I should know. When I came back from Peru (engaged to Jorge, though he hadn't moved to the U.S. yet), I was emotionally out-of-whack. In retrospect, I see that I was suffering a bit from reverse culture shock, a bit from the train wreck of my relationship with Billy, a bit from the near-paralyzing task of rebuilding my life in Montana I had so suddenly abandoned a year earlier, and a bit from having gone off of anti-depressants for the first time in seven years (still off them, by the way, and that was almost three years ago). My mom saw my angst and suggested a book by Marianne Williamson called, "The Gift of Change: Spiritual Guidance for Living Your Best Life." She said it was affecting her life dramatically for the better. So I gave it a try. As my mother said, "What have you got to lose?"

Well, a lot actually. About half-way through, I literally felt I had hit rock-bottom, but that was right before feeling like the book was really onto something huge. I read every word like it was the Bible, underlining things and writing comments in the margins. The author told me to love, love, love--that if I focussed on loving enough, I wouldn't feel angry or sad anymore, only peaceful. She said that negative feelings were just the ego's way of bringing us down. The ego told us we had things to fear. The ego separated us from God and love. Her premise was that all our "issues" were "inside our head."

I started listening to her radio program nightly with my mother (I was staying with my parents that spring before moving to New York for a summer job). I ordered her "Course in Miracles," a workbook to teaching people how to think differently about their situations, with exercises, affirmations (yes, really), and CAQs. At the time, I was really worried about the direction my life was headed, especially concerning marriage. I thought this book was the answer and decided to think positively about the whole thing.

Until I no longer could. I started to hate myself for feeling scared and sad about what had happened that year. I began to hate the book (and my mother for giving it to me) for basically blaming it all on my brain. Then, I would hate myself more for hating the book, because obviously that meant that I wasn't being loving enough, etc. It was a mind fuck if I ever saw one, and I eventually had to choose the book or my brain and its sanity. I chose my brain, even if it was less than perfectly loving at the moment. In the end, I figured, I didn't want to lead my life not trusting what my body and mind were telling me to feel.

Self-help is really appealing when you are lost. And let's face it, we're all a little lost. It's easy, because someone gives you the answer. Someone offers to take all that anxiety from you and turn it into a simple theory that you can hopefully live your entire life by without having to think too hard. The problem is that you don't really work things out that way. Not really. You stick a bandaid on the problem, but it's still there, lurking under the surface. I didn't want to live my life knowing I had a problem I wasn't facing.

So I let myself feel what I needed to feel. It brought chaos. Jorge and I fought. I cried a lot. I tried anti-depressants again and called my therapist weekly. Then, I quit my therapist, who just kept saying that I was doing fine and had the whole world at my fingertips (

What did I care? I was sad.), and switched to another student therapist, who really helped me work some things out and make peace with myself and my natural emotions and thoughts. I canceled another wedding, trusting my instinct whether my emotions were based on fear or not, I wasn't about to get married to someone I wasn't sure I loved and just didn't want to hurt. I took a hormone test and started taking herbal and hormonal supplements. I got off the new anti-depressants.

With time, I started to stabilize. I cried less and felt hopeful. I talked with friends about what happened in Peru and began to see the craziness of it all and the manipulative side of Billy. Up until then, I still had blamed the end of the relationship on myself. I began to--get this--even feel thankful for the whole experience and what it had taught me. I knew that some of those lessons--taking care of yourself in a foreign place, surviving a breakup without friends or family, trusting your voice (it was in Peru that I really started writing, even if I didn't share it with anyone)--I couldn't have learned any other way. And I learned them without any stupid book on change or forced positive thinking.

Well, here's to trusting ourselves--what we think, feel, and experience. If we don't, what can we really trust? I think even God would agree. I hope you'll be back. I will.