GIGI GOES GAGA

23 OF 30: THE RIDE OF MY LIFE

The other day I went on my first ferris wheel ride. Big whoop, people may say with an eyeball roll and a smirk. But to me, it really was.

It's not just because I'm the furthest thing from an adrenaline junkie. Even as a child I didn't climb trees or jump over fences or, yes, get on ferris wheels or rollercoasters. My parents never had to worry about me staring into the deep abyss of a swimming pool and jumping in. I may venture into emotional peril with abandon, but I retreat from any kind of physical danger. It's just the way I'm built.

The reason I decided to get on that 175-foot wheel was precisely because I knew I'd be terrified. I have a fear of heights and, worse, a panic disorder that I can't seem to quit completely.

(Here is where I must pause and explain my last sentence. A panic attack is nothing like simply being really, really afraid, stressed out, and/or anxious. I know what it's like to be all of the above: I've been in car accidents; I've had to cross the Grapevine during an unexpected snowstorm with no tire chains or a working heater and rear window defroster -- and being the last car to make it out because getting stuck with all the others just wasn't an option; I've been attacked by muggers; I've been terrorized by a stalker; I've had a drug dealer repeatedly try to slam his body into my apartment living room window so he could avoid being shot at until he was, leaving blood all over the glass. You get the picture here. A panic disorder, oversimplified, is what you have when you get these irrational, unexpected panic attacks and you constantly fear the chance of another one so much so that it ruins the quality of your life. You can read more here and especially here.)

I'm tired of letting irrational fear control my life, so I've decided to take different steps to conquer it. I've been to therapists, I've done the drugs. I'm not saying that anyone can overcome a panic disorder without professional help; it just so happens I don't have medical insurance so I can't avail of professional assistance at this time. In the meantime, I do the best I can to manage. When I feel one coming on, I start focusing on slowing down my breathing and I start talking aloud, reminding myself that there's no real danger present. It helps a bit, but I still avoid situations where attacks are most likely to occur (ie. driving on freeways).

So I figure: if I can conquer situations that scare the bejeezus out of me but which I know to be safe, maybe little victories might increase my self-confidence and rewire my brain to perceive danger differently. It's only a theory, but I don't see any harm in pursuing it.

As soon as my friends and I were seated inside the gondola, I nearly panicked. The entire contraption was made of glass and I felt like I was going to fall off, even if it was well constructed. I was looking for something to hold on to but there was nothing; all I could do was sit on my hands. My companions started rocking the gondola for fun -- I wanted to kill them. I could feel dread rising from my gut and choking my chest, my breathing going faster, and my shoulders going stiff.

Uh-oh. I didn't want to press the red "Help" button so I could get off so I told myself not to look down and to focus on the vista above the horizon line instead. I told myself to concentrate on my friends, and then I started laughing with them -- a lot. The wheel started moving, next thing I knew we were about 200 feet above the pier -- and then soon enough we were back where we'd started. As we were off on the second revolution I began enjoying the ride; when the third was done I thought it would be okay if we did one more.

I'm thinking my next step would be to get on a not-so-insane rollercoaster ride and then perhaps a go at ziplining. It's funny how to almost everyone I know, these things are simply a way to get a quick adrenaline rush. To me, they just may be a path to reclaim my life.

Once upon a time, I used to find myself deciding on a whim, even at midnight, to drive from Los Angeles to San Francisco just for the heck of it. I remember enjoying the uninterrupted five or six-hour drive, singing along to the music blasting on my stereo, arriving with the dawn. I remember driving over bridges and under tunnels, marveling at human engineering and design instead of experiencing fear.

One day, these won't be mere memories; these will be realities for me again. One day, I'll be stuck in traffic on I-5 and I won't be annoyed; I'll be proud I've gotten myself back there. But first, a rollercoaster -- a real one, not the one I've been on for way too long now.

 

22 of 30: DRESS YOU UP

I'm all for dressing however we please; generally, it's a harmless form of self-expression and it can even be inspiring to others. My personal caveat, however, is not to let my sartorial desires conflict with basic courtesy and respect for others. For instance, I believe in dressing up for weddings to show the new couple that their event was worth getting spiffed up for -- but I always keep in mind never to outshine the bride.

I was once at a wedding where one of the guests wore a dress that left practically nothing to the imagination (her boobs were more pillowy than the actual one the ringbearer carried to the altar); not only was she the center of attention but also the topic of conversation for the entire evening. So even if she was being widely ridiculed, in a way she still was the star of the show -- not the bride.

I think that if we all dressed alike the world would be such a boring place to live in, and so I view "rules" as merely suggestions for those who do care about these things, and not as an absolute. Which is why I generally detest "expert" pronouncements on celebrity fashion faux pas: they're often cruel and indiscriminate and tend to steer us toward playing it safe.

It's just clothing, peeples: have fun with it!

I saw this on FabSugar today and had to nab it. Yes, it's an Edith Head quote from a bygone era -- but it still echoes my personal approach to getting dressed, and so I had to share it. Lately I've been revisiting old photographs of my mother when she was in her 20s and 30s and I loved how stylish she was (she still is). I've fallen in love with dresses all over again, and plan to wear them as often as I can. And when I do I'll remember this:

Here's a photograph of my mother, on the cover of a woman's magazine in 1949. I think Edith Head would have approved.

21 OF 30: NO MOMMA

One of the things I will never know is what it's like to be a mother. They say "never say never" -- but this, this I know.

Even when I should have known, I didn't. I still remember my doctor returning to the examination room; with a solemn face she said she had both good and bad news for me. This was the morning after that frightful afternoon, the one I'll never forget. The pain so excruciating that I banged my head against the headboard repeatedly so I could pass out and no longer feel anything. The pain, the blood, the complete confusion.

"The bad news is that you had a miscarriage," she said. "The good news is that you can get pregnant after all."

Which explains the prior day's confusion: I had no idea I was pregnant. It turned out that for almost three months I was, but due to my highly irregular cycles  I never suspected. Besides, different doctors had already informed me that it wouldn't be possible without extensive -- and expensive -- medical intervention.

Through the years I've been told that I'd make a good mother. I've always found that concept laughable: to this day I can't change a diaper and I don't even like Disneyland. (When my bestfriend's sons asked if I were joining them at the Happiest Place on Earth during their recent visit to Orlando, she replied, "Only if you want us to stop being friends.") When I'm at a restaurant and the host is about to seat me beside a table full of little children I whisper if I could have one where it's more...quiet.

I don't know how to do "kid talk." I figure that children can understand what I'm saying -- and they always do. I've never been the sort to run up to them, squeeze their cheeks, and tell them how cute they are. I was a chubby child, all big eyes and dimples. It always freaked me out when big people would hug and pinch me without asking me first; sometimes even if they did I preferred they didn't. So I know better, I think; I wait for children to look at me with curiousity, I smile, and they come over. But I never pinch.

And because I'm so kid-challenged I'm perplexed when people think I have maternal instincts of any kind. But I'm told this almost all the time.

Recently one of my co-workers, T, asked me if I were a mother. Although all of the girls I work with are practically half my age, they often talk to me about their dates and boyfriends and crazy nights out and how they're trying to earn enough money to stay in college. It's tickled me silly to know I can still be one of the girls, that none of them treat me like a dinosaur who used to have a life once.

So going back to T. I was having a quick bite when she asked me her unexpected question and was startled enough to forget to swallow. I looked up at her, eyebrows lifted. "Uh, no," I replied with a grin.

"I was so sure you were," she said, and then paused before turning around to leave the room. "You'd make a really good one, you know."

 

20 OF 30: MY SISTER GETS MARRIED

I just got back from a weekend trip. My younger sister got married!

She and I may only be a year apart but I've always been quite protective of her because all our lives she was so much smaller than I've ever been. She's petite, with a small frame and a tiny face that can barely hold her eight dimples. When we were kids, I used to show up at her classroom sporadically to make sure no one was picking on her, and that she was okay. When we got home from school, however, we'd fight practically nonstop just the way siblings often do, with one picking on the other and the other clawing right back.

And then one day we just stopped fighting. After I moved to the States we didn't stay in touch much at first, then soon after she came over for a few months to study. We decided at that point that we were going to be good sisters to each other. The day she flew home, I went to the grocery store and found myself reaching out to buy her favorite brand of cereal, then remembered she was no longer around to have breakfast with. I cried at the cereal aisle, wishing she didn't have to leave.

She moved here a few years ago, but not with me. After a year in Los Angeles she flew clear across the country, where she was offered a position in Washington DC. It wasn't easy for her, not in the slightest, but she endured and never gave up. Things did start getting better eventually -- nice roommates, a tiny increase in pay, and an old car given to her by friends made a world of difference -- but she couldn't help but feel that her situation had stalled in this new country of hers and so she decided to go back and try again.

And just when she made that decision, she found herself a job that offered better compensation and potential for growth. Soon after, serendipity smiled even wider. A friend of hers bumped into someone she knew but hardly ever saw -- in church -- and asked him over to dinner at home with a small group of people. My sister was seated at that table of six that night, and she and her now-husband have been together ever since.

Through the years folks have accused my sister of being too picky about men. I never thought so. The way I looked at it, she knew exactly who she was and has never tried to be anyone else -- and so she knew the kind of person she could build a life with. Once, I remember, she went on a blind date with a nice man whose idea of a fun Saturday night was an expensive dinner at a fancy restaurant followed by an art house film. "Ate (older sister)," she explained to me, "I'm more comfortable eating something simple and watching TV at home." So there was never a second date; there was no point in wasting anyone's time.

And so even if this past weekend was the first time I'd met the man she finally chose, I already knew he was perfect for her before he ever said hello to me. And he is. I can tell that they share the same values, they're both responsible and disciplined, and she laughs at his jokes. Plus he likes spaghetti dinners and has a nice large TV. I think Saturday nights are going to be just the way they like them.

It feels like I can finally stop showing up at her classroom now; she's going to be just fine.

 

 

 

 

TO GIGI AT 16

Dear Me,

I know how absolutely terrified you are to be in college now, at school with boys for the first time in your life and surrounded by people who seem to do better at everything than you are capable of.

Try to keep this in mind: they are as frightened as you are. Even the ones who look so confident and self-assured and talk as if they know everything -- underneath the surface they are wondering why it looks so easy for everyone else when they're struggling just to keep up.

I was reading your diary, full of despair about your writing ability. You are a better writer than you think, more insightful for an annoying teenager than I gave you credit for, but you're so full of self-doubt and fear of mediocrity that it paralyzes you. I hope this brings you some measure of comfort: one day, during one of the darkest periods of your life, you will find your voice. It will come out of nowhere. One afternoon you will find yourself typing out a four-page newsletter to your family and closest friends to let them know how you're coping. It will be full of humor you didn't know you still had. And mom will worry that you're going insane because no one could possibly have a laugh while losing it all. But you can.

I don't want to reveal what's in store for you these next 30 years and spoil the surprise. All your decisions and actions, no matter how wise or foolish they prove to be, will make you the woman you become, and so you need to go through them. What I can tell you is that nothing will happen for you the way you think they will. There will be times when you think you just might break, but let me assure you that you are unbreakable. Have faith that the road you are on is the right one, even when you think you've lost your way.

Your handful of close friends right now will be with you when you need them the most, so keep them. You can also look forward to forging a few very special friendships in college; these will help bring out the best in you and change your life for the better. In fact all your life you will choose your friends wisely. None of them will ever lead you astray.

Lastly, you will find love and lose it and find it again. I know, I know...you want this one to be the first and last you will ever have. But you'll get to stand at this exact spot where I stand now and realize with joy that in your life you loved so deeply -- and that you were loved exactly the same way.

Love,

Me

PS: Okay, I cannot resist. One day you will end up in the emergency room for acute bronchitis and will be asked to do a favor the next day. Don't do it.

 

 

 

DRESS YOU DOWN

I knew this gal who used to come to work looking like she had dressed herself with nothing more than Ace bandages wrapped around her torso; on certain days you thought that if she had arrived draped in a bath towel instead she would have been more fully clothed. She worked in Accounting -- not exactly the bastion of fearless self-expression in the workplace -- so it's not surprising she attracted disapproving looks and talk among her co-workers.

Perhaps because I went to fashion school and worked in the apparel industry for years, there's not much that raises my eyebrows, sartorially speaking. It didn't annoy me then that she chose to wear what she did; she didn't deal with clients and vendors and she did her job capably. And yet even if I had her gym-honed body I wouldn't have made the same fashion choices. I know that although we're all told from childhood that we're not supposed to judge a book by its cover, the real world has taught me that people inevitably do.

How we look -- all our outward characteristics whether or not we were born that way -- including how we dress, how we smell, how we carry ourselves -- influence how people perceive us, even if it may not seem fair. Maybe that's why only the youth use their looks to rebel against the establishment; once they become part of it they quickly learn that image can negatively impact their earning power and status.

Perception matters; perhaps that's why companies institute dress codes, although more attention is paid to the way women look. From the time we're in school, we are subjected to these rules more often and much more thoroughly than our male counterparts are. Our body parts are scrutinized: shoulders, cleavage, midriffs, thighs, and legs. Even at my workplace now, a store that joyfully celebrates women's sexuality, we're not allowed to reveal bare shoulders or wear skirts shorter than 4 inches above the knee. We can't wear leggings unless they're worn under a tunic top or dress. We're instructed that we can't wear "excessively tight, short or revealing clothing." Even the length of our fingernails is prescribed.

I've never violated a work dress code because I tend to be more covered up in general (although I don't understand how exposed upper arms interfere with productivity unless it's a safety issue). Even in my personal space I don't show a lot of skin, not because I'm afraid of what people may say or think but because I don't like to fidget with my clothing to make sure I'm not accidentally exposing my lady bits. I believe in dressing and adorning myself to look -- and thus, feel -- attractive, and I'm afraid that showing off my thighs and knees would only achieve the opposite goal. Once in a while, though, I will rock a low neckline and expose deep cleavage at night simply because I still can, and especially because it detracts the beholder's eye from other parts I'm not as proud of, such as my slackened jaw line and gentle muffin top.

And when I do, I'm offended if anyone would declare me as immoral and thus undeserving of basic decency and respect, and worse, claim that I'm "asking for it." There's no excuse for anyone to believe that a woman deserves to be disrespected or should expect to be violated or assaulted simply because of what she's wearing. There's no reason for that kind of behavior -- period. If a man sees a woman at a bar displaying all her goods, he's not a cad for getting turned on. He becomes one, however, if he treats her like a whore.

I read something recently on Inquirer.net, the online portal of a major daily Philippine newspaper. What drew my eye to it was the headline announcing the country as a potential fashion capital in the world, and that it was written by an esteemed economist and business leader. I realized quickly, to my horror, that his article had little to do with the state of the fashion industry in the Philippines; instead, it was a call for women to dress more modestly so as not to commit or encourage sin. He states:

Oftentimes, women who dress immodestly have no bad intentions of arousing males to think of them as sex objects. These women, however, can be accused of ignorance and naiveté. They fail to realize that there is a great difference between the psycho-sexual makeup of males and females. Women are ordinarily not attracted to the sexual characteristics of the opposite sex. What appeal to them are such features as gentleness, affection and a caring attitude. Men are quite different. The physical attributes of the female body are quick to arouse them. Women who dress immodestly should, therefore, realize that they are occasions of sin for the males who look at them. For those who have the Christian faith, they should always remember what Christ said: He who looks at a woman with lust has already committed adultery.

Therefore, he says, strict dress codes should be implemented in universities and in Church, and also for specific events and ceremonies, including one's own wedding day:

It is ridiculous to see brides and their bridesmaids looking like they were going to the beach with their backs totally bare and breasts unnecessarily exposed. In fact, the concern for the modesty of the bride should be first and foremost a duty of the parents and, not to mention, the bridegroom who should be ashamed that his future wife is showing too much of what he alone has the right to see in the intimacy of the bedroom.

Men like this writer often profess to hold these views in order to protect women, when reality is that they are intimidated of our power and seek to control us. His phrase, "of what [the bridegroom] alone has the right to see in the intimacy of the bedroom" renders us as property of our husbands, instead of independent human beings with our own mind, body, and soul. It subjugates women by asking us to be the weaker sex and capitulate to the whims and weaknesses of men. By saying that we are not "attracted to the sexual characteristics of the opposite sex," he declares us to be asexual creatures, not requiring physical intimacy, of being damaged when we have sexual urges.

His message is also a potentially dangerous one because it insinuates that we are responsible for what sins might occur because of what we choose to wear. For him, men are inherently weak creatures and if we arouse them and they act accordingly -- whether we wish it or not -- then it's our fault completely. Not the men who couldn't take control of their own decisions and actions. Ours. This is the worst kind of misogyny, one that disguises itself under the benevolent cloak of concern and protection.

There's a difference between questioning a woman's common sense in wearing a skimpy outfit to work and declaring that she is immoral and sinful because she does. We know that whenever we squeeze into a snug miniskirt we are attracting attention, favorable or otherwise, from both men and women. What we should never be expected to assume, however, is that when we do it's okay for others to announce open season against us. Even when we may appear practically naked, our bodies are sacred and belong to us alone unless we choose to share it. Anyone who disagrees is the real danger to society -- not the one who decided how she wanted to dress before going out. Even when the size of our clothing is small, we are infinitely better than the one with the small mind.

 

 

17 OF 30: HUSBANDS AND WIVES (A PROLOGUE, OF SORTS)

My friends and I were talking about husbands and wives the other night. About husbands cheating on their wives and wives cheating on their husbands. About why they do it, about the male code of silence when a buddy is cheating on his wife (they don't tell their wives, who may just tell the wronged wife), about women having affairs with their friends' husbands (an egregious violation of sisterhood!), whether or not mistresses have it so good, why anyone would cheat on a "perfect" spouse, and how you would know if your spouse is cheating on you (according to my mom: "You just know").

Enough topics to fill a week's worth of blog posts (wait -- well, that's an idea!) but I need more than 15 minutes to say what I want to say about any one of them, and unfortunately that's all I have tonight.

So I'll say this for now. Sometimes we think we know the full story, that we know who the villains and the victims are because one left the other and that should be clear enough. But we have to be especially careful not to judge, and especially not to vilify, because somewhere in the middle of black and white exist thousands of shades of gray. As the old adage goes, there's his version and her version and then there's the truth.

The only thing we know for sure is that the truth hurts.

MEN AND WOMEN: FRIENDS ONLY?

I have a girlfriend who can't name all the men she's slept with. She can remember vividly, however, a handful from early on as well as the few who came along the last couple of years (she's slowed down her pace considerably). But all the others in the middle -- more than 50 men, she reckons, although she's not quite sure of the exact number -- are nameless; some are even faceless to her now.

"How can you forget their names?" I demanded. "Not even a first name?" She shook her head.

"Haven't you ever slept with anyone you didn't know?" It was her turn to ask me a question. I shook my head this time.

"Oh yeah," she muttered. "You only hook up with friends."

I leaned back, eyes widened...and then my shoulders dropped. I had nothing to say. Except.

"I'm afraid of cooties," I said cooly. "And with guys you don't know, well, you just don't know."

After When Harry Met Sally hit the theaters in 1989, it seemed like everyone was asking the same question: can men and women just be friends? Harry didn't think so; he said the sex always got in the way. Sally disagreed -- and then fell in the sack with him during a terribly vulnerable moment. And just when it seemed that the friendship was ruined for good, they got back together when they realized they loved each other, and we all knew that Harry was right after all. At least in the movie.

What screenwriter Nora Ephron didn't get to say is that sometimes, sex doesn't so much get in the way but is along the way between two friends. It doesn't have to be a zero-sum game, where you can be only friends or lovers, and it doesn't always mean that just because a line has been crossed that you can't shuffle your feet backward across the line again. Of course, nothing's ever quite the same as it once was but I say that if the friendship was strong enough in the first place then it will survive the forward-and-back crossing eventually, if both wish it so.

That being said, I still believe that men and women can enjoy close friendships without ever crossing the line. Sure, in my life there were times I've had to hold up a bright red stop sign when a randy friend had tried to send a few signals of his own, but more often than not many of my guyfriends considered me just one of the guys (albeit nicer smelling and with soft towels and better furniture).

The other day I conducted my own (most-unscientific) survey on Facebook: I asked my friends who were online whether or not they thought men and women can remain just friends. All of them said yes; many with the caveat, though, "it depends."

My friend J, who is both a guy's guy and a girl's guy, said succinctly, "Of course men and women can be friends." He added that throughout his life many of his close friends were female and there wasn't any sex involved, only "the pleasure of hanging out together." My girlfriend M concurred, explaining that one of her best friends is a guy she's known since 8th grade: "We tell each other our secrets and troubles and get the opposite sex's point of view. We also have the same humor and tons of inside jokes... tons of history there!"

My sister J, who will never call a spade anything but, said it's possible -- but only if there's no sexual attraction between the two. Which was echoed by my friend A, who explained that once she gets closer to a guyfriend it's difficult not to become attracted to him. Thus, she maintains close friendships with men who are not her type physically or who aren't her ideal in any other way.

I also asked the same question to a couple of guys who had crossed the line from friend to lover in my life at some point. G, who has always had several female friends, had an interesting point of view: he said that once someone gets married, the extent of how close a friendship one can maintain with someone of the opposite sex depends on one's spouse, even when the marital bond is strong. And when you factor in demands of work and home, he added, the friendship invariably grows distant.

Which echoes what one of my best college guyfriends S explained to me more than a decade ago when I asked him why he didn't call me like he used to: "I don't think your husband would like it if I did." And after he himself had gotten married and had children, we never talked on the phone again.

I'm not sure what to make of R's response to my question: "I think so, we were friends first, right? Friendship only makes the love affair sweeter later on." Which is lovely to think about, but doesn't quite address whether men and women can be friends only.

And yet, his reply touches on why I've often chosen to get involved with men I was already friends with -- and sometimes, really good friends -- to begin with. You cut down the time it gets to know each other, there are usually no unpleasant surprises to deal with, and there's a high level of trust established. And what if it doesn't work out?

In my experience, at least, I become the one they talk to when they enter into their next relationship. After all, I can call them out on their shit before their new girlfriend does. Which makes perfect sense if you think of it -- because no one else knows what the women in their lives have to put up with quite like I do. And why waste a perfectly good friendship?

 

 

15 OF 30: PARDON THE DELAY

I started to write about men and women being "just" friends and found myself sitting at my desk for a bit, ruminating on my history regarding this topic. I suppose I can blame it on withering brain cells, but I find it more difficult to pluck the past from my head these days. I decided to dig into my blog archives and look for posts I've written about my past relationships and love affairs (or so to speak). And after the second or third I was amazed at all the little details I''ve already forgotten by now. I'm also quite surprised that I'd revealed so much, actually. But that's just the way this blog has evolved -- as I have -- these past eight years.

So excuse me if tonight's post will have to be tomorrow's; for now I can't stop reading. Normally I don't go back and reread what I've posted, and I certainly don't go back that far (with 570 posts and counting, it's no easy task anyway). But it's like picking one of my old diaries and seeing myself through the lens of my younger self. Since the time I posted these stories I've actually met up with some of the men I wrote about, with varied though definitely interesting results overall.

Maybe there's a book somewhere here, but I don't know if the "me" today can still say so much. Or maybe I just did.

 

14 OF 30: NEVER TOO LATE

The youngest in our family arrived only a year and three months after I came into this world. We could have been virtually twins -- except for the fact that we were nothing alike. We even looked nothing alike. While I was among the tallest in my class, large-boned, and plump, T was tiny, frail, and so thin that mom feared she had tuberculosis (she didn't). Growing up, I was such the chatterbox that I generally received low marks for Conduct (lowest was for PE); my one appearance at the principal's office was for talking in class. My sister, on the other hand, was so shy that during her only trip to the principal's office, for her admissions interview, she wouldn't say a word. Alarmed, mom had me pulled out of my first-grade class to sit beside my sister and encourage her to talk, or at least to answer questions.

My head was always buried in books; T's was lifted toward the stars. My childhood career goal was to be a writer and she wanted to be an astronomer. At 18 I left my family to study college abroad, while T remained home to finish her studies.  I transferred from school to school, switching majors a few times, collecting a couple of degrees along the way. She started and finished at the same university, and then went on to another to get her master's degree.

I swept through a tornado of relationships for a few years, many lasting no more than a few months; she can count her boyfriends on less than one hand. I've been through two marriages in 18 years, both ending quietly and civilly, thankfully, as I refuse to fight with anyone I've ever been in love with. And T, who bore impertinent questions and unkind comments about her single status for the same two decades, is getting married for the first time. And though it was somewhat unexpected for us, I knew instinctively that it was not a rash decision on her part. As with everything my sister does, it was made only after careful thought and a healthy dose of caution, even if it appeared to happen so soon.

If there's anything I've learned about this latest development it's that we've got to be true to ourselves and proceed at our own pace. Which is difficult to do when you've got so many supposedly well-meaning people imposing their own expectations on you, based on nothing about you and everything about themselves.

My sister and I found love in completely different ways, just as different as we are. I would argue with anyone who would judge whose path was the better one; both of us were simply being true to ourselves, making decisions we felt we had to make based on the risks we were comfortable taking.

It's never too late to find the love of your life -- whether it's someone or something, incidentally -- which my good friend M can also attest to. A couple of years ago, at the age of 45, she married a man who had a high school crush on her from afar and who still cherishes her to this day. Just as my sister had told me recently, M also said that she knew she'd met "the one" and, at her age, what was the point of waiting when you were already sure? To borrow a line from one of my all-time favorite rom-coms When Harry Met Sally, "...when you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible."

T and M had always known what they were looking for, but they didn't stick around waiting for it. They followed through with their own plans and lived as they wanted to -- and when they found someone to share their lives with, they happily made room for him. I think the key is to keep open to new experiences always, never believing, not for a moment, that there's a cap or an expiration date to finding happiness. And if it's love that you find, it doesn't matter when it happens, only that you do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

A HEAVY LOAD

At this moment I'm having an interesting -- quite revealing, actually -- conversation on Facebook. I updated my status with what I thought was an unabashedly romantic statement the librettist and theatrical producer  Oscar Hammerstein II made to then-Dorothy Blanchard Jacobson shortly after he'd met her:

"If I were a little boy in school and you were a little girl in school I'd carry your books home for you."

When they met in the 1920s they were both already in their 30s -- and married to other people, with children. Not the best of circumstances certainly, and even today there would be a lot of tsk-tsk'ing about the way they got together. But even Dorothy's daughter acknowledges that they probably fell for each other instantaneously, and by several accounts they remained in love to the very end.

My niece C -- an intelligent, thoughtful, highly independent young woman I'm quite proud of -- however, disagrees with my romantic take on this story. She thinks that if a boy had offered to carry her books home it would be a reflection on his belief that she's not strong or capable enough to do it herself. Plus, she says, the idea of a grown man thinking of her as a little girl is pretty creepy.

I know where she's coming from; at her age I wrestled with my views on old-fashioned chivalry versus my burgeoning feminist ideals. At her age I was living on my own, supporting myself, figuring how to do things that I'd never learned how to do. I was coming to terms with falling in love, getting into relationships, and trying not to lose my identity in the process. Surely a man didn't have to open the door for me or pull out my chair during a dinner date at a restaurant; I could easily do them for myself, thank you very much.

But as I've gotten older I've learned to live with the blurry lines and interpret male-female dynamics in terms other than power and control. But of course I know when I'm being demeaned or underestimated because of my sex -- that's something I can spot instinctively and react accordingly. For instance, if a guy sees me holding a power drill and jokes about what damage I might do with it, I may just show him how I could if I wanted to (like right then and there). Or if it's suggested that I can't replace my car's automatic transmission simply because I'm a girl I might reply that I know quite a few men, including my own father, who can't do so either. Besides, I'm not too thrilled with the idea of the monstrous thing crashing down onto my chest and pinning me under the car, where no one might find me for weeks.

So I do appreciate it when a man offers to carry something heavy for me, the same way I would offer to help anyone else I were with. The way I see it these days, it's about kindness and empathy, regardless of the sex of the person who was trying to help me. Some days I might accept the assistance, other days I may not because I'm good, really -- but I'd never take it against the guy who offered to ease my load.

I've been in relationships with men who were raised to show modern acts of chivalry with the women they're with, and I've been with those who had never met a door they liked. The truth is that I know which breed I prefer -- as long as they didn't make such a huge show of doing something nice for me and expecting something in return. When a man offers to hold my heavy bag of groceries I'd like to think it means he's thinking of me kindly, period. And it's always nice to know you're being thought of in that way.

But going back to Hammerstein's quote, I suppose it knocked me off my feet in the first place because it made me reflect on meeting the right one at the right time, before life got so darn complicated. When you fall in love when you shouldn't, with someone you shouldn't fall for, then the thing you hope for the most is that you can go back in time when everything was as easy as carrying a girl's books home from school.

 

11 of 30: TOO MUCH REALITY, AND NOT NEARLY ENOUGH

I keep wishing reality shows would just go away, that people would lose their appetite for them the way we all wish we could lose our jones for crunchy, fatty food and sugar. Unfortunately, both are guilty pleasures that many refuse to give up, and so they're here for good.

I can't keep track of all the reality shows that come and go. I try so very hard to pretend they don't exist but they keep interrupting my regular viewing pleasure with teaser ads, often showing the latest catfight (question: why is it always the women fighting?) or couples making out in hot tubs while jealous girls in bikinis shoot killer looks their way.

By now we all know there's nothing real about reality shows; we know they're scripted in varying degrees and what we see is a thin version of of these people's lives the producers want us to see. After all, if we all squabbled and argued and fought and brawled and cried and yelled as much as these "actors" do in our own world, we would be too tired, way too exhausted, to get anything productive done.

If reality shows were real I'd lose all faith in humanity. In reality world (as opposed to the real world) the one who causes the most trouble is the de facto hero who gets the most air time; the most narcissistic, manipulative sociopath always wins. This is not the place for people who don't want to cause trouble: here, troublemakers rule. In a very real sense, we're rewarding people for exhibiting behavior that normally they'd be punished for.

I have no idea what kind of long-term effects reality shows will have on society. I would certainly hope that real-life dating is unlike anything in reality-world dating, where a bunch of women fight each other tooth-and-nail over one man they barely know, whose attention and affection they would do anything for. Besides, is this dating or harem survival?

I'm not an expert on reality shows. I've viewed a few episodes here and there along the way, and always felt silly, even guilty, for watching. I couldn't say I was being entertained and I didn't learn anything either. I'd come away not liking anyone on the show enough to want to root for any of them, no matter how evil the others were in comparison. The worst part, however, was that most of these folks make more money than the rest of us simply by being the kind of people we warn our children about.

Aaron Sorkin explains best what I both hate and fear most about reality shows in tonight's episode of Newsroom. Will McAvoy (Jeff Daniels) tells his date, who's a fan of The Real Housewives of New Jersey : "Human cockfighting makes us mean and desensitizes us."

And just like real cockfighting, the human version makes so much money for the winners that we probably won't ever see the end of it. Even if it makes losers out of the rest of us.