Here's to a good memory.

(I should be concentrating on work, but I feel the need to capture this piece of history herstory before too much of the memory slips away.)

When you know a relationship can't be built, sometimes the next best thing you can do is to make it a good memory.

It ended well - he was due to fly back to New York today, and I don’t think we should ever interact again, save for cursory glances across the room at the occasional work party (but I'm sure he'll come up and try to talk to me). My heart doesn't pine for him, only because he never had ownership. I never let her hand go the entire time, as I gently admonished her that she should always be vigilant - be aware of the strangers, not the candy - our ages, family situations, language barriers, my own personal barriers, his own personal barriers. I was enamored by the tales of his life experiences, shocked at his expenditure levels being social classes above mine, intimidated by his brilliance, and frankly quite surprised he paid any so much attention to me in the first place. He, already a very impatient man, went through the month-long courtship exercise (harder when you live in different cities), and then it culminated with incredible frustration at me.

“I thought we could have dinner and get to know each other better”

“All these rules! You don’t act on your passion!”

“We are drinking wine. You impose your rules, I impose mine.”  

“Stop thinking. You’re thinking too much.”

“Life should be simple.”

We share the same core personality, crazy ENFPs as we are, yet from different periods of time and from cultures and backgrounds that made our differences as vast as the oceans that separate our birth countries. I was built to expect a lot more structure and reliability in my life, while he was the most anti-structure/detail person I’ve ever met, and seemed to be accustomed to a lifetime of having his way.

(We arrived at 10.30pm, half an hour late for our dinner reservation which he managed to book on the wrong day, and were told the kitchen was closed)
"Closed?! Well, can't you just open it?"

The city of Toronto has taught me 9.30pm means 9.30pm, there is actually a directional corner to specify when you meet at an intersection, your scheduler is your third arm, itineraries (and reservations where relevant) are to be expected, and thus spontaneity is so rare, because everyone is so efficiently busy all the time.  It’s hard to describe this, perhaps I feel it’s more European of a concept, but he....liberated my mind. He grabbed me by my shoulders, spun me in front of a mirror, and put my hand to feel the cocoon that I had built around myself, the cozy husk of routine and predictable outcomes I had crafted with leftover bandages from torn-apart relationships and disappointments, and a general fear of the unknown, the unexpected. He showed me how I was holding my heart's hand so tightly, constricting her blood flow, that she didn't know how to reach out and feel real emotions anymore. I know him because I know me, and in looking away from the mirror and at him I saw what I could be (perhaps it was what I could have been? Is it too late to change?).

But what happens when you keep acting on your impulses? You accumulate all these experiences and become the most interesting person in the room. Then what? You've shared yourself with so many people, you've spent your life chasing the assortment of brightest objects within your reach, was it all worth it in the end? What happens next?

Our time together (scant as it was - a date in Montreal, a date in Toronto, phone calls, texts, FaceTime) made him caring yet distant, but as a woman with a guarded heart I made sure to have no expectations and appreciated the little things as they came. How he bought me a Michael Kors purse for my birthday, how he called me my love, how love progressed from luv to love, how he kissed me on the forehead before going to sleep, belted out the lyrics of Happy Birthday to me on his way to work Saturday morning, how he would always grab the cheque and point at me and tell the waitress “she’s the client”, to which I’d respond with “Yes, he manages me”, the times he’d say “I’ll call you” and actually call back.

“Just finished” (business dinner)
“Do you want to meet?”

“It’s too cold and I am dead love”

“Ok good – I’ve actually been dead for the last hour haha. Good night then, safe flight”

“Thanks! Good night J”

His goal was to conquer me, and my goal was to make it as hard for him as I possibly could. One might think this to be a conflict of interests, but in practice, ours were very much aligned - victory tastes sweeter the more one feels like one has earned it, right? 

He made me remember a time when indeed, life was simple, I was bold, and I acted according to my heart’s desire, nothing less. I took great strides and leaps of faith because I listened to my own directional compass and societal backlash was far, far behind in the dust of my progress. I was fearless! The unknown was exciting! And more importantly, I was so goddamn carefree and happy. 

Mens sana in corpore sano.

One of the benefits of penning down your feelings, aside from retrospection, is that you always have advice waiting to welcome you with open arms upon your next return visit, which, is usually when you are looking for some direction in the first place.

But now I realize I only the time and heart for people who have the time and heart for kindness, smiles, positivity, coffee with 10% cream, honesty.
These past few days I grew a little. I chose to do the right thing for myself instead of the one that would've been the easy way out. One of those decisions I would've messed up on at a younger age, a year ago even. 

Well, the right thing remains hard to do - it somehow never manages to coincide with the easiest path, and I do wish a lot more people were more honest sometimes. It’s like exercise, you get back what you put in. It can also sour things up really quickly if your actions never sync up to your words. It’s all fun and games till one party feels deceived, and a little disrespected.

These days I’ve been really addicted to kickboxing. What started out as a feeling of dread one evening towards the end of August (one usually feels such when commencing a diet/exercise regimen....again) has turned into making it to the gym 4 times a week and trying really hard to stop myself from continuing at such a pace because of a foot injury and the beginnings of a cold. Who knew. I’ve also started perusing body building sites to get motivation and diet tips, not that I want to enter those competitions, but I’ve reached a level where I can start looking to sculpt certain parts of my body. Again, who knew?

I’m really grateful for the fact that kickboxing has always been there for me whenever I’ve turned to the sport, and has only given me benefits, both mental and physical, that have exceeded my expectations. They say mind over matter, but for me, mens sana in corpore sano – strength in body, clear in mind, lofty in ideals. While the right thing remains hard to do – the new-found discipline instilled in me through kickboxing has managed to keep me on the right path. 

Deja Vu

I had deja vu the moment he told me he might not be able to come to Toronto next week. Je l'ai deja vu dans mon reve. The coffee cup stopped just short of my lips, and my eyes widened a little, startled at the sudden recollection.

Je me souviens

Sometimes, when the noxious fumes of a pestilent week permeate my breathing space, saturating the air, blackening out the sun, and making me a little faint, music pulls me away from the danger like a hero's hand at my waist.

The beginning notes of a good song are the earliest breaths of clean air, the whiff of fresh pastries, the brief but exciting glimmer of infinite possibilities of infinitesimal variations, and alongside, a small reminder that the rays of happiness shone on my face not too long ago.

The hook (at its very best!) is contentment in its atomic form, an appreciation of the beauty in simplicity that is best enjoyed with closed eyes: a warm blanket and a cuppa on the coldest day, the first sip of work-week coffee, the safety-net of those who care, the evening glow of the sun from the passenger seat as a lover drives, sitting on the window-sill in the cover of dusk watching the tiny flickering lights of traffic down below, all the different shades of off-white, the sweet taste of water post-workout, and most importantly, a respite from the objects and events that make me forget all these things.

The best songs inspire me to think of what can, instead of what cannot, as their melodies stir the inner dragon that slumbers in the deep recesses of my mind's corners, flints to its steel scales as an amaranthine fire, once dormant, peeks out through the metal, with each repeat making it successively difficult to quell.

A post-mortem.

 Obliging a request from a friend, we watched 500 Days of Summer the other night. Every time I watch that movie I'm always bequeathed with a different interpretation to Summer and Tom's relationship, a reflection of my current stage of life, a reflection of the new experiences I've accrued since the last viewing. This time I feel like I've reached a deeper level on understanding of Summer's actions, why she does what she does, says what she says, when before she was the conundrum, and I identified more with Tom's plate-breaking trance.

Summer: I just... I just woke up one day and I knew.
Tom: Knew what?
Summer: ...What I was never sure of with you.

 I've started to think of him a lot more often now. But I know I don't miss the relationship, rather the intimacy of it. It was really nice having him as a pillar of strength and consistency where other anchors of my life -  work, school, job interviews, moving apartments, friends, - threaten to pull me down to the seabed and drown me, constantly elbowing each other for my attention. The problem was when he wanted a significant slice of my attention, and in trying to reshuffle my priorities I sadly realized I couldn't give him what he deserved.

 So the last day of my work ended up marking the last day of our relationship. We parted amicably, both agreeing that we tried our darndest to make it work, but there were 'irreconcilable differences'. I've always felt he loved me more than I loved him, and so I was unsure of the authenticity of his accord, but when he left I felt pardoned, the remaining slices of pie became fatter and everything was more manageable again.

 I thus began the road of self-rediscovery, filling my days with activities (funnily enough not with people this time - I've become quite the content hermit), redesigning my lifestyle - buying a road bike, taking up jazz dance, looking up design opportunities, feeding the homeless, growing an herb garden, making my own meals, redefining my diet - wild instead of white rice, almond and flax instead of cow's milk. It used to be an alternating cycle of getting tired of dealing/arguing with him, followed by putting on my rose-tinted glasses during alone-time and letting my heart soften again as I start to miss him the intimacy. Rinse, wash, repeat. I checked out his facebook profile out of curiousity last night, and the moment I saw his picture familiar memories came rushing back into my head like a giant wave and I notice my vista had pink edges to it (damnit). I remember Boston, scratching his car, his anger manegement issues, his viewpoint on friends, his viewpoint on acts of kindness, his pessimism, self-deprecation, traditional Asian-mindset, and inability to come up with any alternative to the brute-force method (and getting angry) when it comes to solving problems. And of course, the fact that EVERYTHING is a problem.

 Then I discover the fortress I've imprisoned my emotions in has been quietly crumbling at its turrets, and that I've been holding my breath these past few weeks, putting on a brave front, but then getting into fights with people and subsequently purging them from my life. Some deserved it, but of course there are always grey areas. I've also developed a severe intolerance to vision-without-execution, individuals that tell you they are 'going to make it happen' but do not lift a finger (or spare a thought) to do anything to 'make it happen', except for constantly reminding you that they are, indeed, 'going to make it happen'. I know the type because I am prone to that as well, except that I keep myself in check. If I really want it, I will do whatever it takes, whatever means necessary to carry out my vision. And I will keep quiet about it until I have something significant to share. Call me bitter/pessimistic/pitiful, but at this moment it bugs the shit out of me and I've definitely been lashing out as I see fit.

 Ironically, I'm less in control of my temper and more pessimistic - and it's unsettling me.

What happens after 'happily ever after'.

The first time I broke up with him I felt a sensation of relief. My shoulders felt lighter, my inner voice told me it was for the best. In retrospect that was a pivotal point where how much courage I could summon determined the next ten or so months of my life. 

I watched Upstream Color the other day, by the same director who made Primer, his first hit at the Sundance Film Festival. I really liked the dreamy quality of the film that entranced me for a little under two hours - I've forgotten how movies can take you away from your own life, and transport you to somewhere else, anywhere else, destination TBD. Almost like a mental vacation. 

Letter to the Editor: Advice for the young women of Princeton: the daughters I never had

Forget about having it all, or not having it all, leaning in or leaning out — here’s what you really need to know that nobody is telling you.

For years (decades, really) we have been bombarded with advice on professional advancement, breaking through that glass ceiling and achieving work-life balance. We can figure that out — we are Princeton women. If anyone can overcome professional obstacles, it will be our brilliant, resourceful, very well-educated selves.

A few weeks ago, I attended the Women and Leadership conference on campus that featured a conversation between President Shirley Tilghman and Wilson School professor Anne-Marie Slaughter, and I participated in the breakout session afterward that allowed current undergraduate women to speak informally with older and presumably wiser alumnae. I attended the event with my best friend since our freshman year in 1973. You girls glazed over at preliminary comments about our professional accomplishments and the importance of networking. Then the conversation shifted in tone and interest level when one of you asked how have Kendall and I sustained a friendship for 40 years. You asked if we were ever jealous of each other. You asked about the value of our friendship, about our husbands and children. Clearly, you don’t want any more career advice. At your core, you know that there are other things that you need that nobody is addressing. A lifelong friend is one of them. Finding the right man to marry is another.

When I was an undergraduate in the mid-seventies, the 200 pioneer women in my class would talk about navigating the virile plains of Princeton as a precursor to professional success. Never being one to shy away from expressing an unpopular opinion, I said that I wanted to get married and have children. It was seen as heresy.

For most of you, the cornerstone of your future and happiness will be inextricably linked to the man you marry, and you will never again have this concentration of men who are worthy of you.

Here’s what nobody is telling you: Find a husband on campus before you graduate. Yes, I went there.

I am the mother of two sons who are both Princetonians. My older son had the good judgment and great fortune to marry a classmate of his, but he could have married anyone. My younger son is a junior and the universe of women he can marry is limitless. Men regularly marry women who are younger, less intelligent, less educated. It’s amazing how forgiving men can be about a woman’s lack of erudition, if she is exceptionally pretty. Smart women can’t (shouldn’t) marry men who aren’t at least their intellectual equal. As Princeton women, we have almost priced ourselves out of the market. Simply put, there is a very limited population of men who are as smart or smarter than we are. And I say again — you will never again be surrounded by this concentration of men who are worthy of you.

Of course, once you graduate, you will meet men who are your intellectual equal — just not that many of them. And, you could choose to marry a man who has other things to recommend him besides a soaring intellect. But ultimately, it will frustrate you to be with a man who just isn’t as smart as you.

Here is another truth that you know, but nobody is talking about. As freshman women, you have four classes of men to choose from. Every year, you lose the men in the senior class, and you become older than the class of incoming freshman men. So, by the time you are a senior, you basically have only the men in your own class to choose from, and frankly, they now have four classes of women to choose from. Maybe you should have been a little nicer to these guys when you were freshmen?

If I had daughters, this is what I would be telling them.

Susan A. Patton ’77
President of the Class of 1977New York, N.Y.

http://dailyprincetonian.com/2013/03/29/32755/

Lies

Sometimes I'm afraid that if I tell enough lies, I'll start to believe them, and lose track of who I am in the process. It would be easy to blame my environment for my actions, like somehow I was forced to adapt, and to survive I had to conform, emulate, and lie my way into social acceptance, but somehow it just doesn't feel quite right to use that excuse to completely absolve myself of all responsibility. I will say however, in certain circles here, there is such a thing as too much honesty and it tends to turn one into a pariah.

These lies range from I'll have these completed in 2 weeks - when it only takes a few days, to that dress looks amazing - when it doesn't. I imagine a secret counter working up to a magical number, unknown yet finite like the final click of a camera's shutter, the lifespan of my laptop, or the day my life (our lives) will end. Maybe then I'll start thinking that things do need a couple of weeks to complete, maybe that dress does indeed look amazing, maybe if I buy that bag I will be happy, maybe a promotion is what I want, maybe more money is what I want, maybe more friends is what I want, maybe a marriage is what I want. Maybe all these things will make me happier. Maybe I already know it won't. I haven't quite blurred the definitions between 'want' and 'need' yet, but I'm scared that one day I will. After all, successful lying comes with envisioning the lie, and then convincing reality to revise itself to fit the lie. A believable lie comes with believing it yourself; it's much easier to sell a product if you're sold on it too. 

Lately, I've taken to reconnecting with old friends, friends who I met at previous stages of my life, and listening to old songs - sometimes they freshen up faded memories. Maybe I'll remember something I've forgotten, but the problem is I don't know how much I've forgotten. Isn't it hard to know what you've forgotten if you don't remember what you've forgotten? How can I know what of my identity to preserve if I don't know the true extent of its erosion?

Things I've managed to come up with (relearn?) so far: I like listening to music. Like real music, the 95% of songs that shy away from the main stream of Top 40. I want to be an artist, always wanted to be. So I don't actually need more money or to move up the corporate ladder. I don't want a reason to work longer hours. I also don't need to be in a relationship, or get married for that matter. These should be wants. Every person in Toronto seems to feel the need to have a significant other, and those who don't have one are convinced that they need one, and spend most of their waking moments in pursuit of this holy grail with such astounding fervor. Maybe I've got it all wrong, maybe my sample size is biased, maybe I have much to learn, but it still feels right to think this way. 

I know I have more to say but my writer's winter has been long and dreary, much like the one blanketing Toronto. 

On an unrelated note, research shows that, contrary to what we think when we think of the Mark Zuckerbergs and the Nick D'Aloisios of the world, innovation is not quite 'the provenance of the young'. 

Untitled... so far.

I'm fighting sleep to say this, but I feel like I'm slowly getting back on the right track. That's all I've managed to come up with for now; creativity and fatigue are two warring factions of my body. You'll hear more soon.