xoxo
DD

I know it hurts, ladies & gents, but I’m going ghost for about a month to focus on the Bar! I know, I know, so soon? But chin up, kids, time will surely fly by, and this will give the slackers some time to get all caught up on The Dithering. Consider it a kindness

xoxo

–DCDistrictDiva

Jeff Buckley’s “Hallelujah” is one of my all-time favorite songs. Justin Timberlake gave this song new life in his rendition at the Hope for Haiti telethon on Friday. (Buy it here and help the people of Haiti). I have been listening to this version on repeat for hours, literally, and can’t recall if the sky’s head has been hanging low all day, or if, by natural fallacy, I have made it cold and gray outside.  But even though this song makes me immensely sad, I still marvel at the fact that every single time I hear it–even while replaying it consistently–I feel something. Mostly warmth followed by chills followed by a surprisingly overwhelming need to sit in the shower and cry.

But that’s why I believe that music is one of God’s most beautiful creations. It is simply miraculous to me that a single song, or a verse, or melody can latch on to a piece of your soul and refuse to let you go.  I’m not sure what love is, but I do believe it must be something like this.  Like no matter how many times in a row I see your face or hear your voice or let you invade my most private thoughts, I feel something.  And I don’t tire of it.

“Hallelujah” tells the Biblical story of David and Bathsheba: his lust for her, his love for her, and the destruction that comes with giving your soul to someone that maybe you shouldn’t have.  The lyrics are wholly and beautifully devastating:

Well your faith was strong but you needed proof

You saw her bathing on the roof

Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you

She tied you to her kitchen chair

She broke your throne and she cut your hair

And from your lips she drew the hallelujah

I haven’t any idea what the composer meant by the verse, or this song. But if he is anything like me, he believed that an all-encompassing, passionate love existed, but he needed proof to keep believing in it. And one day, he got it. He saw this beautiful creature and lusted after her. Then, he loved her, and then, she ruined him.  (In fairness, the Bible story is that David pretty much ruined her first, by killing her husband and making her feel guilty for the man’s death and then impregnating her and then getting her baby cursed because of his adultery…but, for the sake of the song, I guess that’s neither here nor there).

Bathsheba brought him onto her territory, made him occupy her space, and she held him there, bound up in her, as a prisoner is. Everything that was great in him, his kingdom, his throne, was ruined because of his dangerous affair with her. Like Delilah to Sampson, she cut his hair and stole his strength (metaphorically). But, in true David fashion, what else can you do but praise God when you are left with nothing?  Praise Him because you’re still standing. Because you survived it. Because He spared you; Because you got your proof:  You loved immeasurably, even if in her “everything sank,” like Neruda’s “Song of Despair.” And even if it is only a “cold and broken hallelujah.”

But then, eventually, the song wears on you. Well, not so much the song, I guess; it is still beautiful, and you still love it, and you know you will always love it and appreciate it for showing you how deeply you can feel; but that desire to keep pressing the repeat button fades at some point. And then, all you want is that overwhelming need to sit in the shower and cry to go away, already!  Because who willingly listens to a  song that makes you feel so strongly and so full in the beginning, but that you know will inevitably leave you completely drained and lifeless afterward, huddled and wet on a shower floor? Only a masochist, I would imagine.

Granted, I would take this song over a song that doesn’t make me feel anything at all.  At the end of the day, emotions are what remind us of our humanity.  But if I had to choose a way for love to make me feel—and I still believe I get a say in this—I would choose Barry White, “My First, My Last, My Everything.” I would choose Maze & Frankie Beverly “Before I Let Go,” Lionel Richie “Endless Love.”  These songs give me joy, they make me want to dance, and sing and live life, not lay down in it.  And I can play them over and over and over again and always feel just as good as the first time. And that must be what love really is. The healthy kind, at least! My faith is strong, but I’d love some proof, Lord!

Ladies & Gentlemen, Barry White to play us out: (you better be dancing!)

Unless you are late to The Dithering or my life, you are probably aware of my Grey’s Anatomy obsession, as well as the fact that I can make any scene from that show directly relate to my life (that stuff is, real, man! You don’t understand!).

Take the scene embedded above, for instance. Meredith, all sad and depressed because McDreamy chose his wife instead of her, sticks her hand inside the body cavity of a man who’s been shot full of unexploded live ammunition (A.K.A., a bomb).  The 21-year-old EMT, Hannah, whose hand was holding the bomb steady inside the man, got scared out of her mind, shouted “I have my whole life ahead of me!” and ran out of the O.R.  The other doctors and nurses ran, too, or hit the deck. But, not Meredith. Oh no. Meredith had the bright idea to stick her hand inside the body cavity, because, hey, she might save the man, and save the hospital from blowing up, or, if all else fails and she blows up, at least she won’t have to deal with that terrible thing called life without McDreamy. So, as she saw it, it was a win-win.

Inevitably, Meredith deeply regrets her rash decision. I’m certain she thought: Sure, life without McDreamy would suck, but, surely, one day, life will be worth living again.  But by the time she came to her senses, it was too late, obviously, since she had her hand on a bomb.

So then, the bomb-squad guy comes in. He wants to rescue Meredith and the hospital. It’s his job, after all. He keeps Meredith calm and focused enough to “gently” hand the bomb over to him and he walks it out of the O.R.  Of course, the bomb goes off in bomb squad guy’s face, and he turns into pink mist, leaving Meredith unscaved.

So, how does this relate to my life, you ask? Quite simply, because I used to  believe I was Meredith in the above scenario. Granted, there was once a sense of my McDreamy is gone, so what else is there? But, that is only a part of the analogy.

I once described my feelings on my relationships via Twitter (follow me!) like this:

You know when Meredith stuck her hand inside the bomb guy? Yeah…like that.

One of my fav Twitterers responded:

it’s okay! As long as you have a bomb-squad guy to take the L!

I laughed hysterically, at first. How clever! Why didn’t I think of that? The smile faded once I grasped the fact that, I kind of had thought of it.

Taking a long hard look at the four relationships that have shaped my life, it seemed like I consistently and rashly grabbed hold of a bomb by jumping into a relationship without being emotionally ready for that relationship. And all of them wanted to be my bomb-squad guy. Each in a different phase of my life, wanted to be the source to usher me into a new era. Each to help me overcome my emotional issues.  But, jumping from one long-term relationship to the next, I rarely evaluated what went wrong with the last, and certainly didn’t learn my mistakes in them, as I consistently repeated them in the next relationship (i.e., breaking up with each of them via Dear John, here’s your ass letter, two by phone and a fourth, once technology advanced, via text message). <—That part is what i would consider to be where I hand the bomb over to the bomb-squad guy and I run away to safety and he turns into pink mist.

In my defense, only some of them were actually torn up about it. If that’s really a defense…

But, well into my third relationship, I started feeling badly about this pattern that developed (not to the point where I actually evaluated any of these relationships or my mistakes in them, but just for the sake of feeling “blue”).  And bachelor number 3 picked up on this feeling, and, while I won’t give him 100% credit for manipulating me into staying in a relationship with him as a result of my blues, I will say that I allowed him to use it to his advantage.  But, I could only take so much and then it was bomb time. As the pink mist of bachelor number 3 was still all over my face, I began with bachelor number 4. Number 4 found my blues “depressing” and was–what I believe anyway–relieved by my text-message-then-phone-call-in-case-you-didn’t-get-my-text-message-break-up.

And, admittedly, he should’ve been relieved. I was absolutely not ready to get into another relationship after the disaster that was the 3rd. (Whoever said “third time’s the charm,” is seriously underinformed). And in that 4th relationship, I felt like I was trying to give the bomb back to number 4, but he just wouldn’t take it from me. Like a twisted game of hot potato, I tried and tried and tried again to give him the bomb and he refused to take it, and the music stopped and I got caught with it.  It blew up on me, and I was–at last–pink mist.

But then again, maybe I have been  misanalysing my relationships.  In fact, I don’t believe I was Meredith at all in these relationships. I am not an emotional landmine, so I need to stop thinking of myself like that.  I am not a “man-eater,” so I need to quit calling myself that. What I am is a woman with an enormous heart and an even bigger sense of loyalty and duty.  It is my terrible judgment  that gets me into relationships with guys I don’t need to be in relationships with, and it is my overwhelming sense of loyalty that keeps me in relationships long after my common sense kicks in and I realize I need to be out. It is also my horribly impulsive and childish cowardice that makes me not face up to my mistakes by looking a guy in the eye and saying, “I need to get out of this,” and actually being brave enough to stick to what is clearly the best thing for me.

No. I am not Meredith; I am Hannah.

When I do FINALLY realize that a bomb is about to blow up in my face, (i.e., being ill-equipped to deal with your: (1) low-level-drug-dealer-ambitions (2) complete lack of any ambitions (i.i.e.what are the SATs?) (3) utter break from reality (i.i.i.e. “you can’t leave me cuz I’ve been in an accident, I mean, my mom’s in a coma, I mean my dad just died of a heart attack, I mean cuz no one will ever love you like I do!!”);  and (4) obsession with perfection (i.i.i.i.e. “can I just ship my wife away once she gets pregnant so  I don’t have to see her fat?” How’s that for McDreamy?) I CUT AND RUN. And I don’t just run; I run away with hands flailing in the air, screaming, “I have my whole life ahead of me!!!”

And I do. I’m 24 years old. There is nothing but LIFE ahead of me.

I have also been the bomb-squad guy, all this time, taking the “L” by accepting far less than I deserve.  But as long as I don’t have any kids, I don’t have to put up with anyone’s foolishness, and, likewise, no one has to put up with mine.

I am also fully aware that it is not respectful or considerate to break-up in any fashion other than face-to-face, and I’ll never do that again. And, hopefully, next time, there won’t be any breaking-up at all because I will have let God do the choosing, since I obviously haven’t the slightest clue of what I’m doing.  But I am absolutely convinced of what I deserve, and I am certain that I have yet to be confronted with the physical manifestation of what I deserve, just yet.

But I’ve also completely accepted the fact that I am not done reflecting on my past relationships and my role in their demise (the fact that I–as a completely unpregnant and unmarried woman—Googled exercises that pregnant women can do to avoid getting fat, is evidence of that).

I’ve said before that I’m not dating until I pass the Bar. That’s just silly.  The Bar has nothing to do with achieving clarity in my life, it only shows that I can memorize and regurgitate laws (something I’ve already proven by graduating from law school).  So, I won’t date until I finish writing my book. One hopes that digging back through all of that crap and seriously analyzing it and coming to some sort of conclusion about what real love is, will put me in a much better position to avoid bombs of all sorts in the future, including my own.

And I’ll let Jesus keep taking the “L” for the majority of the mistakes I make, shielding me from the majority of the bombs I trigger in my own life.  That is, after all, His job.

I’ve been meaning to pay homage to my person since I started this blog. Ironically, though, the Mer to my Cristina will likely not read this post about her. Not because she doesn’t support me or think I am a great writer. On the contrary, she loves my writing and encourages everyone to read my blog. Sadly, however, she hates to read. And this is just one of many of my favorite things that  I cannot share with her (she has literally fallen asleep while I  ranted about Palin, Fox News, and anything remotely related to politics).  She is a Muslim by culture (spiritual by faith) and I am a Christian. She is a midget and I am the jolly green giant (we look RIDICULOUS in pictures together). She loves meeting people, and I question why this man in the supermarket is trying to make random conversation with me while I’m waiting in line. She is my complete opposite.

And she also happens to be my sister and I happen to love her dearly.

We were instant friends in high school, bonding in a Leadership class and as co-clock-monitors at the varsity basketball games.  When my senior prom plans fell through, she vowed to be my date, and kept her vow, even after the literal boy of her dreams asked her to be his date.

Even when I was miles away in college, we remained as close as ever. But the summer before law school, we suffered what appeared to be our “make or break” moment in our friendship.  She said something horribly offensive to me that seemed to violate what I viewed as our mutual respect and admiration for our cultural and religious differences.  Recognizing that I was too infuriated to engage in any kind of constructive discourse at that moment (it might have been the stiletto heel of my white boot directed at her eye that tipped her off) she said, “Okay, you’re mad now, but we are going to talk about this, right?” But we did not talk about it.

In fact, we didn’t talk about it—or anything else—for nearly three years.  It wasn’t until we randomly ran into each other at a mutual friend’s New Year’s Eve party at the tippy-top of 2009 that we spoke again.  If memory serves correctly, there was hugging and a forceful command to not “hold grudges! Don’t hold grudges!” And, champagne haze aside, who could resist such a loud decree from such a tiny little soul?

The next day we spent about 4 hours catching each other up on the past 3 years and have been inseparable ever since.  In fact, there have been several moments this year that I just sat in awe, wondering, what in the world have I been doing without her?

And, thankfully, I won’t ever have to ask that question again. (inshallah!)

She is my person because she sings to me (off-key) whenever there is dead-space in our phone conversations (you’d be surprised at the frequency of the dead-space, considering that we can both talk a head off).  Sometimes, she uses her “FOB” voice, and that never fails to make me laugh.

She is also not afraid to hurt my feelings.  Like a good friend—a best friend—would do, she judges me when I need to be judged, and she doesn’t hold back.  Take this gem, for instance:

“[Diva], you are this beautiful, smart, amazing person. But when it’s about [this guy], you turn into someone sad and pathetic that I don’t recognize!”

She followed-up with:

“If I hear his name again, I’m hanging up on you!”

She then proceeded to press a series of buttons on her phone with her tiny frustrated fingers,  just in case I didn’t get the message.

I couldn’t even front like I was upset with her about it. All I had in me was a shoulder shrug and a nod in agreement.

She ignores what I want to hear and tells me what I need to hear.  And afterward, she will dance it out with me on the streets of D.C. while we wait for the Circulator.

She is full of life and full of love. She can’t go a single place without making a friend, she happens to be one of the strongest young women I know, she will pray with me when I need it because she is not so narrow-minded to think that a person of a different faith can’t share the same God, and she would literally lay down her life for her family and her friends.

On paper, it seems we are as far a part from each other as our places of origin are.  But sometimes, your complete opposite is just a faithful mirror-image, displaying a reflection of who you are at your core, while simultaneously reminding you of who you have the potential to become. She is my sister from another mister.

Back like she never left.

(cue theme music)
Brooklyn & Punjabi MC (and we don’t stop)

This quote is from one of Martin Luther King, Jr.’s sermons and was cited by Coretta Scott King in the foreword to his book, Strength to Love. It would have been great to have planned to read King’s book today, in honor of his memory and legacy. But, unfortunately, coming across his book on the exact date of his holiday was but a mere happy coincidence.

On my day off, I just so happened to call an old friend from law school that I haven’t spoken to in well over a year for reasons that no longer matter.  While regaling each other with tales of our misadventures over the past year or so, I came to tell her about the book I was writing on love.  She suggested two books to me that I am sure will help me in my research on love and its practical application, one of which was King’s Strength to Love.

I retrieved and began reading King’s book very shortly after that wonderful conversation (God bless you, lady!!). I couldn’t get past the foreword, however, because the above-quoted sentence shook me so heavily: “All men are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.” Besides being beautifully crafted, it also had the privilege of being true.

I began my research on love by studying the Bible, and admittedly, was confused by the command to “love your neighbor as yourself.” In fact, I thought, with the way most people treat themselves, I would hate to be loved the way most love themselves. It sounded like pure agony and torture, to me.  But after reading this one sentence from King, I was suddenly struck with clarity.  I had been missing the essential element of duty that served as the underpinning of that verse.  Because we are inextricably linked to one another, we are obligated to treat ourselves well, be great, and live up to our potential, because someone else’s greatness and potential depends on it.  It is the ultimate understanding of community and duty, to accept that our lives are truly not our own. It was not just an artful sentence for King, it was the way he lived his life. He shouldered the burden of becoming great because he believed it would free us to also be great.  And, in many ways, it has.

That is the true manifestation of Christ’s love.  Christ lived to be an example for us and chose to die solely for our benefit. Had He not done so, we would be drowning in our sins and mistakes and our human nature.  But He would not let us fall. He sacrificed His life to save us from ourselves. Everyday that we wake up, we are given new life, new charge, new chances, and a clean slate, yet another opportunity to be great, to be the person God purposed for us to be.

This is why it is so important to not only have a relationship with God, but to know, based on that relationship, what your purpose on this earth is: the whole world is depending on it. We are all that major! Because of that, I must perfect my craft and finish my book because someone needs to read it. I must study and pass this inconvenient Bar because someone needs my skills. I must get healthy because someone needs my life and strength. Someone needs to see me move beyond failure towards success so that person can move on, too.

That is what “I am because we are” means. That is what it means to “love your neighbor as yourself.” The ultimate example of empathy and compassion and love is to be able to look at another human being and find yourself in that person.  We must try our very best to never hurt that person and to always give that person our best because every person’s life touches another life. Our lives are little more than a series of human collisions and we are consistently making and breaking each other. If you harm one person, the effects can ripple across space and time beyond your wildest intentions.  We have an unfathomable amount of power over each other’s lives, and with that power comes a duty to acknowledge it and respect it and to use it for our collective good.

Because we cannot ever be great until we see ourselves in our neighbor’s struggle with health and bills due to a lack of affordable health care; we cannot ever be great until it is our reflection we see in the homeless that stretch out at the feet of our nation’s capital; we cannot ever be great until we realize that our future hangs in the balance as long as our children are miseducated and robbed of fair chances. And we can never be great at the expense of our sister’s greatness.

It is only when we realize that there is but one reality, that we are all “food for food” and all connected through Jesus Christ, that we can be who we were born to be.  And only then can we begin to understand what it means to love.

Scott Brown on shoving a curling iron up Martha Coakley’s butt: “We can do this.” Really?? MASSACHUSETTS VOTE MARTHA COAKLEY TOMORROW!!!!

If you can sit through this video longer than 34 seconds, you are either stronger than I, or something in the water ain’t clean.

YAY to Monique winning the Golden Globe for Best Supporting Actress for her portrayal of the deranged Mary Jones in Precious. But I could’ve done without her accepting the award on behalf of the “Mary Joneses” of the world. Nerves?

Are we still supposed to be shocked and awed by the racist crap that spews from Rush Limbaugh, Glenn Beck, Pat Robertson, and Fox News in its entirety?

Wyclef Jean responds to accusations that his charity YELE is laundering money, not really helping Haiti disaster relief.  The fact of the matter is this man is on the ground in Haiti working hard. Whether you choose to bless his charity with donations for being a blessing to Haiti or not, please, please, please, donate what you can to an organization you believe in. Text 90999 to donate $10 to the American Red Cross. Also, Doctors without Borders has treated “500 patients in 24 hours.” Check out their site to donate to their efforts, as well!

Happy Martin Luther King Day!

Do most people “date in the dark,” or is it just me?  Always a  sucker for a gorgeous smile, I have a history of misdirecting my focus towards what is “good on paper” while ignoring what lies beneath (both figuratively and literally), completely raptured in a blind and lovely experience.

Until, of course, the inevitable happens—the truth escapes from its well-guarded prison—and I can no longer sit in blissful ignorance with this person who is just all sorts of wrong.

But this dating experience I just survived removed most all superficiality from me–a feat that horrible relationships with gorgeous men have, oddly enough, been largely unable to accomplish.

Admittedly, though, I did not rise above my own superficiality all on my own; no, I just went on the “ultimate blind date”:  four girls, four guys, complete physical darkness.

The rules were that first, there would be one big group date followed by two individual dates. Relying solely on my senses of taste, touch, smell, and hearing, we were all supposed to decide who we wanted to get to know better.  I found such a concept absolutely intriguing. Since I have sworn off actual dating until I take and pass the Bar–and oh yes, I am sticking to that vow–I was solely interested in the experience alone, the sociological experiment that I was a part of, (see what I do in the name of research just for you?) and I had absolutely no desire or hope to meet the future Mr. Diva at this event.

And I didn’t.  But, it was a fascinating experience, indeed.  The alias I chose for the night was Queen. To my pleasant surprise, the gentleman host of the evening–and owner of the D.C. home we were in–named himself “Prince,” because “[his] Father is the King of Kings.” Now y’all know I was no more good after that! (I’m telling you, there is nothing sexier on God’s green earth than a man who will proclaim that he loves Jesus in a room full of strangers. Not a single thing). But he didn’t stop there; he went on to describe himself with such articulation, such passion, that I was compelled to conclude: this was a guy I wanted in my circle.

Another guy who caught my attention called himself Poet, because he was a fellow writer and future book author, as well.

Oh, and there were two other guys there…Yeah.

After the group date came the “touch” portion of the evening, the part that I found most violating and uncomfortable.  The guys all sat in a row and the girls stood behind them. We were given free reign to caress their faces, heads, ears, hair, neck, shoulders, check for adam’s apples (which, we did actually do! It’s D.C., after all, and a girl can never be too careful…).  But my hands were not as free as the other ladies’, and I did little more than brush my fingertips across each of their jaw lines.

This kindness was not returned! The guys were all over my shoulders, neck, ears, face, hair, everywhere! No guy on a first date would have touched any of those areas, so I was really uncomfortable and actually hated being that intimate with complete strangers. I ended up blocking out the “touch” portion and thus cannot recall who was touching what when. So, I simply went off of hearing and chose my top two for an individual date.

Obviously, I chose Prince first and then Poet. The guys chose who they wanted, as well. To my pleasant surprise, my first date was with Prince. It was 5 minutes on a love seat in complete darkness. At first, I felt like a kid playing 7 Minutes in Heaven. But I really enjoyed the conversation we had and I loved how freely Jesus’s name flowed from his lips. Loved it. It was bible study this and men’s ministry that, and it was just wonderful to hear. I ate it up.

Of the four of us, I was the only girl who got a 2-for-2 when my second date turned out to be with Poet. I was interested to hear about the book he is writing, and I’m sure at some point he mentioned what it was about, but to be honest, I have blocked out that entire experience.  The last question he asked me was “What’s your favorite book?” ANYONE who knows me or has been reading The Dithering, knows that my book of the moment is Eat Pray Love. He hadn’t heard of the book and as I proceeded to give him a synopsis, he interrupted me (um…what???). And he didn’t just interrupt me, he said: “Oh no, that sounds depressing, I don’t want to hear any more about that!” Qqqqqwwwwwwhhhhhaaaaaaaattttt???!! No you did not just interrupt me and then diss my favorite book! I was ready to go at that point and don’t remember a thing else that simple child said.  Thankfully, the facilitator came in and said “this date is over.” You’ve got that right.

We did an unexpected third round of dating, apparently because there was a third person one of the guys really wanted to date. The third guy’s personality was the complete opposite of mine: very hyper, life-of-the-party kind of guy. Nice guy. Didn’t insult me, so all-in-all, it was enjoyable.

For taste, we sampled the food each person brought symbolizing an element of their personality.  The only interesting item was the meatballs someone had brought “because it takes a lot of balls for a guy to go on a blind date.” Riiiiiiiiiight. (<—This is another reason I’m withholding my dating from the world. I just can’t…)

We were supposed to be smelling each other on our individual dates, but thankfully no one was close enough to me to be smelled and no one was doused in cologne, so I happily skipped out on the “smell” portion of the evening.

Finally, we had the “grand reveal.” We all went back into the original room in our original seats and the lights were turned on. We were surprised. They were surprised. And we’ll leave it at that.

All things considered, it was almost liberating to just sit there and focus on a man’s voice (oh they all had deceptively sexy voices) and a man’s thoughts. To not have to question whether a guy is simply physically attracted to me was also immensely enjoyable. And also, there was this feeling of being chosen. I don’t know if its a woman’s thing or a person’s thing, but there is something to this idea that someone thought enough of you to want to get to know you better, even in the midst of a group of other people. Irrespective of the fact that I haven’t the slightest interest in dating at the moment, I was truly surprised by the relief I felt, knowing that the guys I had selected had also selected me.

Even in such a casual state, I am now fully aware of how sincerely I desire that mutuality, to have a guy I choose also choose me. A guy I love to also love me, and not just love me, but to match or exceed my love. I want to choose and I want to be chosen, not right now, mind you, but when I’m done growing into this woman I’m supposed to be.  At a time when I am so clueless about so many things in my life, it is simply lovely to at last be sure of something that I want. Especially when it comes to love.

***I give “Dating in the Dark: The Ultimate Blind Dating Experience” 3.5 out of 5 stilettos! And definitely recommend it to those in the D.C. area. There is another experience coming up in a few weeks and if you want to be a part of it, email me at dcdistrictdiva@gmail.com and I will send you the information.

I spent the better portion of the last year reliving both pleasant and painful memories.  The latter part of that time period focused on the now-gone pleasant memories, which seemed to, inevitably, leave me less happy that they happened, more sad that they were gone.

This year has been markedly improved thus far and I have yet to suffer from a memory (except, of course, in the name of the book I am writing on the definition of love).  Yet, I do remember how terrible last year could be at times; there were days I thought it would never get any better.  But, as these things tend to do, it did actually get better. So much better that I actually wondered how I could ever think it wouldn’t have. I’d love to kick myself over what a giant waste of time it was, reliving now-gone pleasant memories that left me sad afterward.

But right in the thick of it, in the midst of utter despair, would I have erased those memories forever, if only I could? Unfortunately, I think the answer would probably have been yes.

I’m thinking about this after just watching Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind, an old (if 2004 gets to be “old”) Jim Carrey, Kate Winslet movie.  In it, Carrey and Winslet have a relationship that ends badly, so an impulsive Winslet goes to a doctor to have her mind erased completely of Carrey and their entire relationship.  Heartbroken that Winslet would have him erased, Carrey undergoes the same procedure and throughout the film we see what their relationship was like, the bad memories towards the end of their relationship and the good ones at the beginning.  Half way into the procedure, an unconscious Carrey realizes that he loves Winslet and has no more desire to erase her and tries desperately to wake himself up to stop the procedure or at least hold on to his favorite memories of her.  It is a phenomenal movie, although I’m not entirely sure why it’s been dubbed a “comedy,” as I don’t recall laughing very often through it. If anything, I felt incredibly sad during and after watching it.  Sad at the thought of not only losing love, but failing again to hold on to it, even in your memories. Such cyclical loss and failure seemed like it would be quite depressing.

And then I recalled that I had been reliving my own loss and failure for the better portion of a year, and subsequently became quite depressed, indeed. I immediately added that movie to the list of things that I watch when its time to feed my sadness.

Normally, when my sadness gets hungry, my stomach isn’t far behind, and the only thing that can satisfy it is a Red Velvet Cupcakery “summertime” cupcake. So, on the metro ride over, I wondered about a fresh start. Appropriately, a giggling baby bundled up in a stroller laughed and smiled at me behind a plastic wind shelter (what is the deal with these people wrapping their babies in plastic?).  I thought about what this newborn’s blissful ignorance must be like. No one had yet broken her heart, she had no mistakes yet that she cared to relive (even pooing in her pants is not yet a source of shame). Would I willingly choose to revert back to such a state when it comes to matters of the heart gone wrong?

This is a potentially relevant question because such selective memory erasing technology does, indeed, exist! One of the main issues –as was addressed in the movie –will be the ethical standards involved, as well as whether doctors will be willing to attach themselves to such a controversy (not to mention the legality of such a procedure).

But even if the procedure was at least legal –the ethics issue, and my impulsive nature aside–I would hope that I would never undergo it.  And not just for the cliche reason that my mistakes “made me who I am today” or for the thrilling fact that: (at last!) something happened to me. But mostly because it would not solve my problem.

I possess an uncanny ability to time travel and make myself at home in the past.  Or, I can live entirely for tomorrow. It is about the only thing that I can relate to in that wretch of a book The Time Traveler’s Wife (awful book, really. Just the worst. Poorly executed, man-bashing, woman-bashing, marriage bashing. The author was really going through some issues. )  My toxic inability to remain in the present, to enjoy today, to live just enough for today, is my entire problem regarding this issue. And bad memory erasure will be about as effective on me as  gastric bypass on someone who thinks everything will get better as soon as she has a Red Velvet Cupcakery “summertime” cupcake .

Although it has taken me over a year, I think I have mastered the art of recalling the past with out dwelling on it, in a way that allows for me to appreciate that it happened, learn from it, and move forward (if this seems like common knowledge, I do apologize!). That is step one.

Step two is to remain in the present. There are so many things that I want to accomplish this year, what with writing the book, staying current on the blog, taking the Bar, succeeding at work, and possibly taking on this amazing Masters in Political Communication program that I just saw. I am so utterly excited about the future that I am missing what today is.

Today in the District, the sun is peeking through my vertical blinds. I am nearly done writing this blog post that I have been trying to finish for days. Today, my mother is doing well, except for a cold she’s been trying to get rid of. Today my father is in Dubai looking at the world’s tallest building (although he might be in tomorrow, or yesterday?). Today my sister put aside the stress of her job to send me encouraging emails about mine.  And  it is only 11:16 A.M. There are 13 more hours left in today that I can play with.  So here’s to living life Bambi style: “what we gonna do today?” And, of course, like Omar on The Wire: “a day at a time, I suppose.”

Liz Gilbert at 6&I Synagogue, January 7, 2010

Anyone who has spoken to me since November 2009 knows that I am ridiculously obsessed with the author Elizabeth Gilbert and her book Eat Pray Love. So it should come as no surprise that when I found out Liz Gilbert was giving a book talk at 6th & I Synagogue on January 7, 2010, I immediately determined that there was no place else in the world that I could be on that date than inside my very first synagogue.

The doors were opening at 6, so I made sure to get there by 5:30, and to my pleasant surprise, I was only third in line. As it got closer to 6, however, a giant mass of estrogen had wrapped around 6th street. The doors opened at 6 and nearly 1000 people descended onto the place. (Admittedly, most all of them were women or gay men, although I did see one brave guy desperately clinging to his girlfriend).

I ran to grab a seat front and center, like I always did in school, anxious and excited to hear what she had left to teach me. (As if she could change my life any more).

As it turns out, there was plenty left to learn from her.

While I waited for the book talk to begin, I ended up reading the first 30 pages of her second book, Committed, in which she grapples with marriage and commitment after finding love. I loved the introduction and was so engrossed in it that I barely noticed when a lady sat down in the reserved row in front of me. Her blonde hair was pulled back into some kind of bun with a million little black clips in it. I studied the style for awhile, trying to figure out if her hair was done that way on purpose, or if she was in such a hurry to come see Liz that she said “to hell with it,” and just came as she was, like I did.

The host introduced Liz and suddenly, the blonde head with the millions of black clips jumped up and ascended the stairway to the podium. I–and the lady beside me–said, “Oooh,” in unison, with our heads cocked to one side, but soon recovered and joined the crowd in thunderous applause.

She was dressed simply with no make-up. She was raw and honest in appearance–just like her writing–and I couldn’t help but be struck with jealousy at how free she seemed.

She started the talk with a simple plea: “Ladies…and gentlemen, if you’re out there, I have one request. And I’ve never ever asked this of anyone at a book talk before, but if you can all please, please, please, go out and buy yourself a copy of Committed, buy your friends, your parents, your daughters, everyone a copy this week. And it’s not because I’m so concerned with first week sales, I’m not, I just really, really, really want to knock Sarah Palin off the #1 spot.

(THUNDEROUS APPLAUSE FROM THE AUDIENCE)

I knew I loved this woman.

*********

She began by reading the introduction to Committed, which I had already read at that point, but enjoyed nonetheless, and could even pick out the sections that she had skipped over. The crowd laughed along with her (yes, she laughed at her own story) and I loved seeing her react to the crowd as if she still couldn’t believe that 1,000 people packed the pews of a synagogue in the middle of the District just to see her and laugh at her jokes, even though Eat Pray Love was an international bestseller.

After the reading was the part I came for: the Q&A. One would think I would have been the first up to the mic to ask a question, especially since I was right up front next to the microphone, but I just had nothing meaningful to ask. All the questions I might have had were already answered in the book or on her website or probably in the new book. But the lack of meaningful questions did not stop those who did pile up to the microphone. Some people asked dumb questions (i.e. “What advice do you have for someone about to marry a man from a different culture?” Uhhh, perhaps figure out if you want to do it before you say yes?) But there were also very meaningful questions. The one about gay marriage sticks out because her answer was so simple: “it’s coming,” yet so well put together. She explained the constitutionality of it–which, as a law grad, I loved– the common sense of it, and the inevitability of it. And I had to agree and applaud, religious beliefs aside.

Another asked her advice for young writers just starting out: be honest, tell your truth the only way you can. Know your audience before you even begin to write. There will always be a demand for a good story, so never be discouraged. Perfect your craft.

I ate it up. I must do it! I thought. I started to think of all the books I have written in my head and how best to get at least one of them on paper. I even got a little discouraged by the reminder that my 2009 new year’s resolution was to be published by 25. It’s only January…I’ve still got seven months…

“Your goal should be to get published by the time your dead.” The crowd laughed, and I relaxed. I’ve been living my whole life on a schedule: B.A. by 20, Law school by 23, married by 24, Published by 25, two kids by 28…geez. Two out of five aint bad.

And so I set a new goal that night: become published by the time I’m dead. Find a good story and write it. Since I have no discretion anyway (see the majority of the posts on this blog), being “raw and honest” wouldn’t be too much of a stretch.

But she did give me more direction for the book I am currently writing: seek wisdom from the experience of others. Though I am not nearly as enthralled in Committed as I was in Eat Pray Love, she definitely had the right idea by doing her research, a somewhat different approach than with her last book. She said she wrote the book that she wished someone had given to her at 25 when she got married. Committed is not the book I need at 24, and perhaps I will find it more useful when I’m ready to think about maybe biting the bullet and selling my soul to another person…but I definitely intend to write that book that I need now at 24.

*******

Those of my readers who have soldiered through my 2,500-word blog posts can easily imagine that I am quite the talker. Yet, when I met Liz and had her sign both of my books and then took three pictures with her, all I could manage to say was: “Thank you, so much. Thank you, so much. Thank you, so much.” I screamed at myself: say something else, you fool! “Your book changed my life, your work matters, Read these blog posts I wrote about you, something!!” But I just couldn’t think of a thing to say. My original plan was to print out my Ode to Liz blog post and give it to her, but for some reason, I just didn’t do it.

But she said, “awww” in response to the message that I wrote in the back of Eat Pray Love: “Thank you! 11/20/09″ And she signed a heart and her name underneath it. That was special.

*********

One thousand people seems an astronomical number to me. I cannot imagine touching 1,000 people. But if, through bearing my own soul and sharing my own journey, I can impact one person the way Liz Gilbert has impacted me, then that alone is motivation enough to keep writing. And never stop. I wish I had at least told her that much.