GIGI GOES GAGA

CLARITY IN THE HAZE

I don't see the world in shades of black and white. My decision-making process doesn't involve looking at a long list of right Vs. wrong or good Vs. bad things and then choosing accordingly. For instance, if someone were to ask me if it was wrong for a man to leave his wife, I'd ask "Well, why did he leave her?" And after it was explained to me why, I'd be curious as to what he wanted out of life, what was truly important to him, and whether or not he was willing to face the consequences of his decisions and actions. In the end, even if I knew all the answers to my questions, I still wouldn't be able to say; I just wouldn't be able to judge the man. I probably would, however, know if he was someone I'd ever want to marry or choose to get involved with now that he was free.

I think it's simply too easy for us to point at others, especially celebrities or public figures whom we only think we know, and judge them for their mistakes and missteps and condemn them for their sins and failures. Me, I can't help but wonder what brought the person to this point, to the edge of this precipice, now about to jump or get pushed over. Of course one can assert that people who are used to immeasurable money, power, and fame tend to think they can get away with anything simply because of who they are. I wouldn't know because I don't have what they have and don't have the benefit of their experience. What I do know, however, is that when a famous man yells at a (usually non-famous) person: "Do you have any idea who I am?" then it means that he believes he deserves everything he wants, regardless of consequences to him or anyone else. His action has revealed how he sees himself in relation to others, and that person I can easily call a jerk.

But I digress. What I'm trying to say that it's easier to live according to a set of rules more often than not, even if doing so involves sacrifice or self-denial. But because I generally don't, I oftentimes have to reassess or even reinvent whenever my situation and circumstances are different, as they usually are. It's also easier to judge and condemn instead of trying to find compassion and understanding for someone, even if that person is yourself. But just because I see all the various shades of grey in life, however, it doesn't mean that I have blurry vision. I may take longer to process my options, to weigh what's good for me against what's good for someone else, to consider the consequences of my actions before I decide, and then look at everything within context -- but once I know what to do I don't look back. This certainly doesn't mean that my decision is a perfect one -- if ever there was such a thing -- but only that I'm willing to stand by it. And that if I'm wrong I'm also willing to apologize, make up for it, and endure whatever I need to face. Because if that point comes you can bet that I'd already seen it happen in my mind before I ever acted, sometimes again and again and again and from different angles at that.

I was just talking to a good friend of mine whose wife left him almost six months ago; she said she was no longer in love with him and that she hadn't been for a long time. She accused him of taking her for granted, although it seemed that it had never occurred to her that she had been doing the same thing to him as well. My friend was clearly devastated; he believed he was losing everything that he ever wanted, everything that he had ever worked for. He used to ask me, almost daily: How will I get through this? Will I ever get through this? I assured him repeatedly that he would, but that it would get worse before it got better. And it did.

During the months while he struggled to find new purpose in life he discovered things that gave him pleasure, that he loved, and that he was good at. Most of his adult life he had spent with his wife; all that time he forgot how good-looking, smart, and funny he was -- probably because she had forgotten to tell him that he was all of these things and so much more. But now all these other women were reminding him and he was quickly gaining self-confidence as he learned more about himself, not just through the eyes of others but, more importantly, through his own.

Now she wants him back. She says she realizes she made a mistake but now she knows that she still loves him. The thing is that the man she says she still loves is no longer the same man she once left. There were many things my friend and I discussed today, and because I could sense something he was concerned about, I assured him that I don't see his wife as a bad person or a villain. As I started out saying in the beginning, I really don't know what brought her to the point of when she left him; I don't think I'll ever know. All I can hope is that she saw the possibility that she might change her mind -- and that he might someday, too.

Knowing you were right about predicting a negative outcome doesn't make it any easier to bear; hopefully you also thought about the choice you were making and whether or not you could live with it. That's something she has to face and, if you think about it, now so does he.

SHADOW AND LIGHT

One of the best things I ever did in my life was enroll in a summer arts class when I was about 10 years old. I've always liked to draw and I thought I wanted to become an artist when I grew up, even if I never was a prodigy, emerging young talent, or anything remotely of the sort. One of the first things my teacher taught us was the concept of chiaroscuro, the technique of using light and shade in painting and drawing. I still remember her telling us to think of where the sun was and, based on its position, to place light and shadow where they would naturally occur.

Although we're often led to believe that light is good and that dark is bad or has negative connotations, it's simply not the case. The trick is to use both light and shadow to our advantage; after all, we need them both, together in harmony, to add dimension and interest. I can't think of anything I've learned since then that didn't involve this concept -- not just in the arts but also within life itself. People talk of the importance of yin and yang, for instance. When you think about it, we need opposite forces in order to achieve a sense of balance. My friend Mike's grandfather used to tell him: "Too much bad is bad, but too much good is bad also." It took me a while to understand just what he meant, even if I thought I did when I first heard Mike repeat it to me more than two decades ago. In fact I think I'm only really getting it now.

I've been trying to learn how to embrace my dark side -- and yes, I do have one, as we all do. It doesn't mean that I plan to give in to it completely; it only means that I understand it exists and of how being aware of its manifestations can only help me grow. It's a constant balancing act for me: trying to live with passion and love but being aware of responsibility. Of living true to oneself but avoiding the dangers of self-absorption and selfishness. Of being committed and focused but not stuck and inflexible. The older I get the more I realize there are no predetermined true-or-false answers; we all figure it out for ourselves as we go along.

A long time ago I started figuring out that what we oftentimes view as bad can sometimes be quite good for us. When we fall in love and begin a new romance we don't want to think about heartbreak and endings -- and yet everything ends, eventually. I don't think this should be an excuse so as not to commit to any relationship at all; what I simply mean is that nothing ever stays the same and that we all inevitably go through highs and lows. Why we do it, why we bother to go through it at all, depends on what we want out of our lives. I've also learned that going through loss and betrayal has made me appreciate what I have now, and of the people who remain loyal and steadfast -- and who are still here.

Recently I've been mulling over my traits and habits that hold me back from realizing the kind of life I envision for myself. I've started with the little things that lie on the surface -- like of not sleeping enough, for instance, which zaps me of the energy I need to get through my days -- and I'm now exploring the shadowy crevices of my nature and character where I could possibly get lost in. This is not about my wallowing in guilt or of being mired in negativity; it's about being aware of where my dark is in relation to my bright. But just as my art teacher taught me a long time ago, what I need to do first is to think about where my sun is -- the part of myself that gives me purpose, that makes me think about why I exist at all, and that makes this life worth living. Only then can I place my light and shadows where they belong.

THE A CHRONICLES: WHAT STRAYED THAT NIGHT

Just when I thought I knew where A and I stood, just when I thought we had settled on the nature of our relationship, one moment made me realize that it wasn't going to be so easy after all. It happened the night I met the woman he'd started seeing.

She sat beside me -- of all the empty chairs surrounding the large dinner table where we, all his friends, congregated around during dinner -- I was the one she chose to sit beside that evening. She had absolutely no idea that I had seen him the way she now saw him during their most intimate moments. She couldn't have possibly known that I still remembered the scent of his neck or how his eyes used to burn through mine when we'd stand barely a breath apart from each other. I probably looked like a warm, friendly face, the one she'd be able to talk to most easily out of all the people in the room. At least, that's the only explanation that makes sense to me even now.

As the night went on, as the stories that connected all of us (but her) continued, she'd lean over and ask me about myself. Out of sheer courtesy, and I say this not because she wasn't a lovely person but because I really didn't want to know a single thing about her, I did the same. I started fidgeting in my seat when she started telling me that she was in town again because of him, that she visited frequently because of him, and that there were even plans that he would eventually move to where she lived. As she told me this she'd lace the fingers of her left hand around his right and stroke the length of his arm. I got it, I did: she was in love and maybe he was, too.

I felt my heart tighten and twist until it felt like it was being wrung of all its blood, my face felt hot and I knew it was flushed. My breathing was shallow and I thought I wanted to get up and run away. But the truth was that I wanted her to go away, because everything that her mere presence made me feel and think only confused me more and more. But any of those too-long, too-many moments weren't what made me realize that the road map he and I had drawn wasn't only inaccurate, but that we had also forgotten about the many little paths that would keep crossing each other, and the slight possibility that either one of us could stray from the plan.

What did tell me how much I had gotten it wrong was the moment I caught a glimpse of her bra strap that had fallen from her right shoulder, which was visible underneath the sleeveless top she wore until she pushed it up again. It was well-worn and dingy, and the stitching looked like it was coming undone. It looked like the strap of a bra that was simply tossed carelessly in the washer and dryer repeatedly and could no longer offer her any support, if it ever had. Of all the things she told me about herself, her straying old bra strap told me so much more. I snickered in my head but pretended not to notice as I tried not to look while it kept sliding down.

That night, out of all the moments when I was uncomfortable, fidgety, confused, even annoyed, the one that told me that A had gotten under my skin after all was that one unkind thought I had about this sweet woman who sought me out from the small crowd because she probably thought I'd make her feel welcome. And I did, I really tried my best to do just that, even if the one thing I wanted the most was for her to leave -- and not just my side. I wanted her so far away that I could simply pretend she didn't exist at all. At least not in his life, or at least not yet.

WHERE SHE NOW LIES

I received a message last Friday that Boo's ashes were ready for pick-up at the front desk. It was a new employee who phoned me, I could tell. Not only did I not recognize her name or voice, but anyone else would have known not to leave a message that sounded exactly like those I get from the pharmacist when my automatic refill is ready.

I'm obviously new at this grief thing. I would have thought that my impulse would have been to drive over to the vet clinic and grab the box so I could take her home. But I didn't: I kept thinking of the last time I held her, just when I handed her over to her doctor. The thought that I was getting back a box of ashes just seemed so frighteningly real. But my husband reminded me gently yesterday: Boo hated staying overnight at the clinic. The last time we left her there for a few days, when she had surgery to remove a cyst, she showed her extreme displeasure at being away from home by peeing on different spots around where I'd sat watching her when we got back. I think she knew that I'd just purchased a new fabric purse because she climbed to where I'd set it down, sat on it and gave it a tinkle.

He was right, of course. I felt guilty for leaving her there for a couple of days (possibly even sitting alongside office supplies and forms) but I just couldn't find it in me to gather her ashes. I mean, I still cry every day. Not long bursts of tears, just little ones that trickle when something reminds me that she's no longer here. Usually I like to pretend when I don't see her that she's merely upstairs inside my closet sleeping underneath my pants. It's still easy to think this way, especially since whenever I pull out a pair I see thick clumps of cat hair stuck to the hem like a grey fur trim.

My friend Stacy thus had a brilliant idea: she suggested that I store Boo's ashes in the same spot where she used to take naps at. This way, when I'm missing her terribly and I tell myself that she's merely resting underneath trousers inside the closet, I won't be lying to myself. Because that's exactly where she'll be.

BOO HOO

It's the little things that get me, that grab me from nowhere and pin me hard to the floor.

Like when I come home and the garage door starts to slowly roll up, and I glance inside toward my left where her eager round face used to peek out from inside the kitchen, perhaps happy that I was home but most certainly excited that she was now going to be fed. But now her face is no longer there. Or when I stagger downstairs in the morning, half-asleep, on my way to work I still expect her to be sitting on the dining room rug waiting for me. But now I only see the still-cheerful floral appliques on the rug, well-worn and faded from all the hours she sat on them while waiting.

The day after we had her put to sleep permanently I was at Target and automatically drifted to the cat aisle section where for years I bought her litter, box liners, and treats. In the middle of the aisle, surrounded by the colorful toys and cozy cat beds, I broke down and cried. The other day I received another weekly promo email from PetSmart, where I'd shopped for the past 15 years, and realized I'd have to unsubscribe now because I no longer had any reason to go there. And besides, seeing an email from them only makes me want to cry again.

Her second water bowl still sits at the top of the stairs, its contents completely still and unchanged since last Sunday, the last time she drank from it. One of her half dozen beds still sits beside the chair that I now sit on while typing this post; every night she'd doze off to the loud clickety-clack of my keyboard. I'd never realized all the daily rituals we developed just because she was in our lives, the things we now have to stop doing because they make no sense without her.

The truth is I'm not ready to write about her and about losing her, about this profound sense of loss and grief that I'm trying to make sense of so I can deal with it. I know that she had the best life possible -- and that so did I while she was in mine. I know that my decision was the right one to make; I knew what it was going to be if the doctor uttered the words "cancer" or "surgery" because I knew her little, weak heart wouldn't be able to take any more. I knew with complete certainty that this was the only right choice for Boo -- just like I knew I had to take her into my home all those many years ago despite my horrific allergy to cats, my ex-husband's loud objections, and even if I knew nothing about how to care for her. Some things you just know you need to do.

I want to tell you how bringing Boo into my life showed me how sometimes love just happens even if there are a hundred reasons why it shouldn't, and how when you allow it into your life you discover that almost nothing is impossible. I want to tell you this despite knowing that my experience with people has also taught me that love doesn't conquer everything. I don't know how to reconcile both contradictory lessons at the moment; all I know is that my love for this barking cat was the purest kind I've ever known and because of it I was changed forever.

My 18-year old baby died in my arms peacefully, painlessly, and with dignity last Sunday -- just the way she would have wanted it I'm sure. Yet I still can't find the words to describe how hard I cried after I knew her heart had stopped, and how the pain I felt was no longer merely emotional, but physical as well. And how I felt no peace and how I thought nothing about my dignity at that moment.

Within the next few days, weeks, even months, I'll be able to explain how I can feel such intense grief and immense gratitude at the same time. For now the only thing I can tell you is that I miss her, and that it hurts -- and that although when I think of her now I feel more of the sadness, I know that one day I'll be able to remember her and more of the happiness she brought into my life. But not yet.

WHY I'M HAPPY

For most of my life I focused on what was wrong instead of what was right -- about everything, including myself. If I felt completely happy and fulfilled for even one moment, I'd soon wonder when things were going to start crashing down on me. I'd think: this is just too good to be true so it can't possibly last (and of course it never did). On one hand I'd try to relish each and every success because I knew my good fortune wouldn't last forever; on the other I'd tell myself not to enjoy it too much so that I wouldn't feel so bad when it was all gone. And yet I always had a smile on my face. I still do.

The difference in what's behind my smile, however, is that more than 10 years ago, when my first marriage failed, I made a conscious commitment to myself to be happy. I didn't know what that meant or what it would entail, I only knew that I needed the attitude shift in order to survive. Through the years I've tweaked the details and made adjustments whenever I felt the doom-and-gloom taking over me, and I'm convinced that I'd rather be positive and optimistic even if the world was ending today. 

If it were possible to measure the quality of my life quantitatively, I'm probably not better off today than I was then. I live in a much smaller house with a smaller household income, my current job doesn't appear to have any future prospects for growth, and I have more medical issues to deal with. As I type this, I have no idea if my beloved Boo, my 19-year-old cat, will make it through the night. You might think I'm crazy but despite what I just wrote, I will declare that I am happier today than I was then.

I tell myself: I'm fortunate that I have a job, that we still have our home, and that I'm slowly but steadily getting my diabetes under control. I'm heartbroken with worry over Boo, but I remind myself that she lacked for nothing with me these last 15 years and that she was my steady source of joy in return. I've resolved to take all these setbacks as an opportunity to become better, even happier. With less to lose I've decided to finally follow my passion this year and do what I've always wanted to. At the same time, with less disposable income I find myself wanting less, which frees me from the constraints of a minimum salary figure.

I don't live in a happy bubble, isolated from real life. I know that we fail, we make mistakes, we get sick, we die, we hurt people, we hurt ourselves, we don't always get what we want, and we can't have it all. But just because bad things inevitably happen is no reason, I believe, to walk around under a dark, heavy cloud. I continue to work hard, do my best, enjoy everything I love and find new things to fall in love with. Happiness entails a high level of commitment; it's not something that simply happens because of good luck or perfect timing. After all, just think of all the people who have achieved immeasurable success and/or wealth and are still utterly miserable.

I read in a recent New York Times article that experts are beginning to question the connection between happiness and (good) health, citing a study showing no real correlation between positive thinking and cancer survival.

Psychologists and others who try to study happiness scientifically often focus on the connection between positive thinking and better health. In the September 2007 issue of the journal Cancer, Dr. David Spiegel at Stanford University School of Medicine reported his efforts to replicate the findings of a 1989 study in which he had found that women with metastatic breast cancer who were assigned to a support group lived an average 18 months longer than those who did not get such support. But in his updated research, Dr. Spiegel found that although group therapy may help women cope with their illness better, positive thinking did not significantly prolong their lives.

I don't know if happiness will allow me to live longer, but the truth is I'm not focused on how many more years I have left on this earth. I'm not concerned on living a long life -- rather, what's important to me is living a good one. The way I look at it, at the end of my life -- whenever that might be -- I'm going to be reflecting on whether it was all worth it and if my being here at all made the world a bit nicer to live in. I can only speak for myself here: I'd rather be standing next to a positive, optimistic person than crouching and cowering beside someone who's just waiting for everything to start crashing down. And lastly, think of this as well: truly happy people want only the same for others. It's those who aren't who are afraid or envious of anyone else having what they themselves can't have.