New Yorking Girl

The Lost Blog...

2006-12-20T15:14:00.000-08:00

So, in order:

I left New York City, but the last few weeks were such a whirlwind that I'll just highlight:

-The Great Rickshaw Adventure. On our way to Crobar, one of the hottest clubs in NYC (if it's all right to say that), it was too cold to walk and all the nearby cabs were taken. We hailed a rickshaw, and halfway down an abandoned street the driver (a young British guy of ambiguous ancestry "I'm from Italy by way of Leeds" and professional history "I left fashion because the industry is saturated with tarted-up people") asked if we wanted to take a spin. I thought, why the hell not? And climbed into the saddle. "You're a natural!" he cried, when I nearly collided with an SUV. The wind rushed by, my friends rushed out of the cab, I rushed off the seat and forgot to put on the emergency brake. That said, if we ever need to hijack a mode of transportation, my vote is for rickshaw. (Imagine one of those dramatic movie scenes. The hero and heroine are fleeing a gang of storm-troopers/mafiosos/cops and end up on a tarmac. "We'll have to take the plane," the hero says tersely. "Let's do it," she agrees. They drop their nearest pursuers - he with a nasty right hook and she with a cardio-kick that somehow sets her tits swinging - and they climb into the cockpit. "Wait," says the hero as they swing the hatch closed, "how the fuck do you handle this thing?" The heroine snorts, climbs over him, and pushes a few levers/buttons while he stares, slack-jawed. "What," she says as the plane coasts smoothly off the runway, "you never wanted to be a pilot when you were a little girl?" Now imagine the scene again. But this time, the pursuit isn't cops, it's tourists running to catch a glimpse of Christina Aguilera, whose car just rolled by. The heroine isn't Angelina Jolie, and the plane is a rickety bike riveted to a plastic tent with wheels on it. If this second, more "indie" scene is your style, well, I can make it happen. If, on the other hand, you prefer the first, well, commercial Hollywood thrives on people like you.)

-The Punishment of Eve. And the Lord said, "Thou shalt suffer pain in childbirth, and in addition, long before that time ever comes, thou shalt encounter strange drunkards in the night, and they shalt say unto you, 'Forsooth, the fairest stars of this desert night hath fallen from Eden,' or some such variation. And by this, thou shalt know thou art a sinner." Or, to paraphrase our prophetic rickshaw driver of earlier, "Crobar? It's such a meat market."

-Naked Boys Praying. Or maybe I meant, Clothed Boys Singing. Or 'singing religious men, in various states of dress?' Sonal and I saw "Altar Boyz" her last night in New York. It's a musical about five boys trying to succeed as a Christian boy band. They were sweet, they were funny, they were well-intentioned. But when one of them placed his hand over his leather-clad heart, gave the audience a smoldering look out of his heavily-lined eyes, and crooned, "Baby, something about you makes me want to...wait..." Sonal and I couldn't hold in our tears of laughter and - yes - pain. Because honestly, there are some things girls don't ever want to hear. Not even as a joke. Not just once because you're drunk, not in a foreign language "because then it doesn't count..." and certainly not because "all the other girls at church hear it all the time and they like it."

-Naked Girls Dancing! We followed our party instinct to a garage out in Brooklyn, where several college girls were competing in an amateur burlesque competition. During halftime - I mean, intermission - the host came around with a bag. "All this money goes to the winner," he said. We declined, saying we'd rather slide our crisp Lincolns into the lucky girl's G-string ourselves. But imagine my surprise to discover that the competiton was a) not that raunchy and b) one of my old high school friends was competing! Not only did she compete, she won! Which made the reunion afterwards, un peux faux pas, which is French for "fucking awkward, but on the other hand, fantastic." The DJ spun Bhangra afterwards, and I spent a mellow Monday night unwinding with a Guinness and a gang of dance-crazy kids who had both energy and moves.

-Secret Scary. I bought a "perceptive" gift for my office Secret Santa. It was a copy of Jay-Z's newest album, which I was sorely tempted to burn for myself before I wrapped it. As part of the up-and-coming rap duo Sha G (only up-and-coming because we can't get any further down, if you catch my drift...) I thought I could learn a few lessons from the King's sublime flow. Alas, ethics intervened, and I got nothing for the purchase but kudos from my excited editor. I did get a chance to play my own personal drinking game at the party, in which I ask my nearest companion what she's drinking and then order it next round. Thus I made my way through a pinot noir, a whiskey on the rocks, and a very dirty vodka martini. I got a little too excited about ordering, I suspect. When the waiter asked me how dirty I'd like the martini (mind you, it was my third drink) I gurgled, "As dirty as possible" and he tossed me a look like maybe he regretted not asking me for identification. Note to self: "as dirty as possible" is not a restaurant-appropriate phrase, in any context.

2006-12-03T10:41:00.000-08:00

So this blog has lapsed a little because I wasn't sure anyone was reading it, and also partly because I switched to keeping a diary for about a week. To be honest, I'm not sure blogging is for me. It's definitely improved my writing, but whether it's helped my state of mind, I don't know.

That said, about last night...so I finally decided, screw this better judgment thing, and I went out with an old high school friend. We met at this place - a bit of a dive - where they served shots in test tubes and daiquiris in glasses the size of crystal balls. I didn't know anyone else there, but by the time we tottered out, we felt friendly enough that it didn't matter. The next stop was a club where another friend was spinning the opening set. The bouncer took my ID. "I'm just telling you this isn't ID in most places," he said, handing it back. "I'm from Dubai," I said, in clipped English, "it's the only ID I have." He just shook his head and I flew down the stairs before he could stop me. There were about ten people there, and so my friend bounced over and told us that it was our job to get the party started. I thought, it's dark, no one cares if things go a little crazy. The fact is, when it comes to dancing, I'm long on enthusiasm but short on training. Most people notice the enthusiasm and don't care about the training - I'm sure this applies to more in life than dancing - so it's never been an issue.

There were six of us. Two, a young couple, spent most of the evening dancing with each other. My friend bopped around the room, trying to get people on their feet. Another girl ran out to use the phone. This left me with one guy I didn't know, but he started pulling these crazy dance moves out of the air. I watched him for a while, then decided to join in. We switched back and forth, other people moving in and out of the circle. The club began to fill, the other kids were staring, and I'm going to be honest, I didn't care that people were looking at me. It's been a while since I felt so uninhibited, but also like I was learning something. (These kids all dance well, but in a style totally different from the standard rap grinding that pervades the Greek college scene.)

By the time a huge black guy was break dancing on the floor and two skinny girls in dresses were making out with each other, we figured our work was done and went home for a smoke. After that I took a cab home, with the other guy I'd been dancing with. He went to his place, I went to mine. But here's the other thing about the night that sticks in my mind, and I feel sort of bad about it: I didn't pay for anything.

Sure, I paid for my own dinner, but after that, drinks, cabs, weed - I didn't chip in. Normally I put in my share of everything because I hate girls who think they're somehow measured by what they get for free. Normally I refuse when people offer to buy me drinks. Maybe I've changed - relaxed about keeping all these accounts - perhaps because after Italy I realized that an offer to pay isn't always some grandiose statement, sometimes it's just a quick gesture and not worth noticing. It's a step for me. Back in freshman year of college I remember I went to a cafe with a friend once and I was so upset when he paid for my coffee. And I'm still torn. On the one hand, I'm glad I protested as much as I did because I do believe in fairness and equality and all that. On the other, I wish I hadn't made us both feel awkward, I wish I'd just said "thanks" and made a note to somehow repay the favor later. It reminds me of a conversation I had with two friends, both other women, about who pays for dinner on a first date. "I always split," said the first. "I don't," said the second. "I look him in the eye and say thank you." (As an interesting side note, the second one had been president of her sorority in college, the first played for years on a nationally ranked softball team.) But being neither a sorority president nor a softball player, I wonder what's the right middle ground.

And then I thought: my sister and I, we never split. One person pays for something, the other pays for something else. And it's because there's an implicit understanding between us that we have some future together in which this will all undoubtedly come out even. And perhaps I can say the same thing of all these people, if I know I'll see them again, if I know I like them. It's okay. It will all come out even.

Truth is stranger than...well, most things

2006-11-21T21:50:00.000-08:00

"Detective," I said, sidling into Angela's room late last night. "I have a problem. It's my ex-husband. I think he's trying to kill me." Angela shook her head pityingly.
"You are so strange-" she began, but at that moment Sonal tore into the room, eyes gleaming.
"Delilah!" she shrieked. "Delilah! I told you not to two-time me!"
"He looks harmless," I told the stunned Angela, "but he's really quite dangerous!" I fled, running in circles around Angela's bed. "Detective, you have to help me!" It became obvious this was true, as Sonal was catching up.
"What is going-" Angela put aside her laptop.
"You think you scare me?" I taunted Sonal, gripping the wall, arms extended. "Well you don't! In fact, you fool, my name's not even Delilah!"

And just as suddenly, we stopped and bowed. The idea came to Sonal and I while watching YouTube. In terms of D-grade homemade films, Northwestern is pretty poorly represented. Tossing ideas back and forth, we lit upon the idea of putting together a film noir. "Let's pitch it to Angie," I said. "She can be the detective." Sonal laughed - a little crazily - and countered, "Let's enact it for her. Now." And that brings us up to date. More or less.

After the scene ended, Angela took a few moments to recover. "Does it occur to you that maybe you're weird?" she asked, not meanly.

People have suggested before that I'm not the most average person, but for the longest time I didn't really believe it. But these days, I find myself more and more often in conversations that begin like,

"The other day I think I accidentally propositioned this girl at the gym." Or "I bought The Thorn Birds. The back of the book says it's a 'sweeping family saga of dreams, titanic struggles, dark passions, and forbidden love in the Australian Outback.' Good, eh?" Or "Am I that intern, you know, the vacuous one?"

And the other person says something like, "You know, you might end up in jail one day" or "Dark passion in the Australian outback? You would" or "What the fuck does vacuous mean?"

Maybe I don't really come across as normal as I thought. Maybe I'm kind of a character. A bit of a nut. An oddball. How did I not know before that this is how people see me?

And then Sonal stalked out of Angie's room, waving her arms sinuously. "I just became...Catwoman," she snarled.

At least I'm not the weirdest one in this apartment.

Prima volta?

2006-11-11T09:27:00.000-08:00

"The night's still young..." my friends will say, when we're planning something crazy. Or wish we were. "But we're just getting older." It's a cheesy little back-and-forth, but it's depressing: sometimes I feel like everyone else is moving forward with life (in work, in relationships, in general maturity) and I'm not. Being in New York was perfect for shaking the feeling: here I am, meeting new people, working two jobs, getting articles published in a real magazine and buying my own groceries!

But the feeling will come back when I get to college. So it was a bit of a thrill to open Glamour and read "12 major firsts in every woman's life." Most were just silly (even though I like Glamour and don't feel guilty about reading it, sometimes the articles are a little silly).

Number 2: The first time you get on a place because someone far away needs you.

This past weekend my sister had a scary personal crisis. I was attending a conference for Abroad View when I got her message. She was crying, pleading, begging for me to come see her. I was terrified at what might have happened, I called her back right away. She seemed calm enough, but as she told me what was happening, she started crying again. I stood in the hallway for thirty minutes, the conference participants giving me strange glances every now and then, as I tried to reassure her without crying my eyes out myself. "Anika, I'm too embarrassed to tell Mom and Dad," she said. "Will you?" And I realized that for the first time, my parents were out of the country, and she had no one but me. And I also realized that she had called me before anyone else. My sister relies on me. And so I left the conference early and booked her a flight that night itself. I called the dean of her college and explained the situation, I got a hold of our parents and told them what was going on. And when she got here I enjoyed her company, and we talked about how the world is terrible, and we also had an incongruously good time.

I'm not suggesting that anyone's life was changed. But talking to her on the phone that first day, I felt more than pain, fury or frustration. I was grateful. My sister and I haven't had a more painful past than anyone else, but we've always felt like we had no one to share our worries with but each other. And despite this "us against the world" mentality, and despite the fact that we're closer than a lot of siblings ever are, I'm ashamed because there have been times in the past when I've let her down. When she needed me desperately, and I didn't realize how deep the need went, how isolated and unhealthy she was.

I always loved being away from home. I started going to sleepaway camp when I was 10. But she didn't. And the first time she came with me she had a panic attack - there's no other word for it - and stopped breathing. We were in the middle of a campwide lecture, and she started choking, and someone brought her a straw, and she was breathing through the straw, and then one of the counselors escorted her out. And the other kids around me kept staring, and then one said to me, "Go, go, she's not well" and after a few seconds I went. But I'm ashamed, in retrospect, that someone had to tell me to go. That I wasn't sitting next to her, aware how anxious and scared she was, ready to holler for someone else at the first sign of trouble.

Again, when we were at a different sleepaway camp. We were in different tents, and every morning she came to my tent and we walked down to the showers together. But during the day I had my own age group, my own activities (this was my second time at this camp, I knew people) and the few times she came up to me I brushed her off because I was too occupied with myself to bother. And later I found out she was desperately sick the entire time. She didn't eat for two weeks, when we got home she had lost twenty pounds. And only once, afterwards, she mentioned, "Those ten minutes in the morning when we walked down to the showers was the only time I was happy at camp." And I felt ashamed, not because I didn't know, but because I was too busy to bother to find out.

There are more instances. In high school, I tested into the IB program at Richard Montgomery. And of course, I went. And two years later, when it came time for her to test, my mom said, "She's always felt insecure about not being as smart as you. Why don't you help her with the test, just help her study. She won't even go - but think how great she'll feel if she gets in." And I refused. I said it was because I had sworn at the test itself never to reveal what the testing process was like. But the real reason was jealousy and small-mindedness. And I am so ashamed. It turned out for the best - inspired by guilt, I found out about this sensational art program at a nearby high school, and pretty much forced her to go. And now she's on an art scholarship at an amazing college.

And yet, when my sister called me, at first I was just terrified and sad for her. I wanted her near me. I wanter to reassure her, to reassure myself that she was fine. But afterwards, after our weekend was over and she had left, she called and left me a message. "I had a wonderful time, thank you," she said. And although she has never said anything about all those earlier betrayals of mine, what we both realized was that this time, I stood by her. I had the chance and I didn't mess up. This is my one biggest regret (besides never playing any competitive team sports in school - ha!) and it was my most long-standing doubt about myself. What kind of person abandons her sister? I used to think.

And the final thing: I don't know what moved me so much when she called. Yes, I love her very much. When I heard her voice, even over the phone, I realized that she would be fine no matter what. But she wanted to be near someone who cared about her - wanted it enough that it was almost a need. She was always like that, but until recently I never saw it. In the past year at school, I've learned to doubt myself in ways I never thought possible. I've looked at my grades and wondered if maybe I'm not actually that bright. I've looked at my social life and thought, maybe I'm not that interesting, not that personable. I've looked at my professional portfolio and worried I'm not ambitious enough. I've watched myself in sorority skits and dances and realized I'm not graceful. I've been ignored by plenty of boys, and realized I'm not that attractive (although I guess I never thought that). I've worried about how much time I've wasted, the opportunities I haven't taken, the things I haven't done. And everywhere I looked I saw people who were more successful in all these areas. I thought, I'm standing in the same place I was two years ago. So trapped, so limited.

But while I am less confident and less secure than ever before, I'm still capable of things I wasn't in the past. Strangely enough, by leaving my sister for two years I've actually taken on her life. Learned what it's like to be the one who's overlooked, who comes second or third in people's minds, who doesn't always know she's worthy of being loved. And although the process of becoming insecure was so difficult for me, maybe I should stop regretting it. It has made me realize that life is harder than I thought, I will work more than I thought, I will receive less recognition than I expected - and that I am a sadder but better person for it.

The Princess and the Nun...

2006-11-08T11:11:00.000-08:00

The other day I saw The Queen, with Helen Mirren. It's strange to see yourself reflected in so-called historical films. The movie is about the week Princess Diana died.

I remember one of my good friends telling me that she and her family "cried" when Princess Diana passed away. And it was definitely a sad event, but I remember the scenes of mass mourning (I mean really, mass mourning) and I have to admit: I was a little surprised it became such a big deal. Now, I wasn't in England at the time, so I can't vouch for how Englishmen felt about her, or about the monarchy in general. And perhaps, in contrast to the rest of the royal house, Diana was more approachable and civic-minded. And definitely, her death(by paparazzi) exposed an ugly side in both the British and American lust for celebrity news.

What many people might not remember is that Mother Teresa died that same week. And it's true that Tess has been nominated for sainthood whereas Di has not. But I'm not arguing that either of them got more or less than they deserved. What I found interesting is that Mother Teresa's death ran on the back page of most newspapers (or at least, definitely on the inside) and there was little television coverage of her funeral, or of the flowers left at her gate by mourners.

In terms of generosity of spirit, Princess Diana could not have exceeded Mother Teresa. In terms of charitable giving, in terms of advocacy, in terms of absolute dedication to other people and to God. But even that is not my point. My point is that Mother Teresa married God, Diana married a Prince. Mother Teresa lived in the slums of Calcutta, Diana lived in a palace. Teresa neither wanted nor received media attention (most news crews would be frightened to follow her into those slums, some of the most dangerous and unhealthy places on Earth - I've been there and seen them and I still can't get them out of my mind), and Diana couldn't get out of the spotlight no matter how hard she tried.

Not to suggest that no one noticed Mother Teresa's passing. All of India mourned for her, the anniversary of her death (Sept 5) is still a day for speeches and vigils. But the average American didn't know. And I don't know why that is. Large newspapers and network news claim to give the people what they want. The people claim that the large newspapers and late-night news are full of lies and trash.

Maybe it's because the average person would have traded lives with Princess Diana in a minute. But it would have taken years of convincing before they wanted Mother Teresa's life. When Diana died, she took with her the aspirations of all the would-be Cinderellas in the Western world. The pretty girl who captured the Prince's heart but never quite made it into the bosom of his family. Meanwhile, Mother Teresa was the subject of every sermon ever written on quiet humility. She brought back memories of sitting in the back of class, counting the minutes, listening to stories of how you should be and knowing in your heart that it's not what you really want. And guilt. And I'm not writing about this to continue with that guilt. I think it's worthless to force someone to feel something they have no desire to feel. Mother Teresa's excellence lies partly in the fact that she was so rare. Princess Diana's appeal lies in the same. They were both one in six billion. The fact that we identified more powerfully with one than the other lies in their choices. But also in ours.

One of those days...

2006-11-02T14:44:00.000-08:00

I took off work because I wasn't feeling well. I went to yoga class instead, watched Moulin Rouge, tried to conduct an interview, organized the caterer for my parents' upcoming anniversary party.

Now I'm standing in my kitchen in the middle of an almost entirely dark apartment, still in my yoga pants and sorority sweatshirt. No one else is home. I'm drinking Riesling from the bottle and reading Anais Nin's "This Hunger." Thinking that I didn't like Moulin Rouge, partly because the heroine almost had to die in the end to justify the ludicrous melodrama of the film, partly because she says to Ewan McGregor at one point, "I am the Hindu courtesan, and I choose the maharajah." My question is, what does her profession, or her choice, have to do with being Hindu? Is this something I should really be worrying about? I mean, there's only one black actor in the cast, and his character name is Chocolat. Maybe my complaint is a small one.

Thinking that Anais Nin is a good writer. As here: "She fell in love with an extinct volcano" or here "From the first, into this void created by his not wanting, she was to throw her own desires, but not meet an answer, merely a pliability which was to leave her in doubt forever as to whether she had substituted her desire for his." This is good writing, even if it is opaque and oversensitive.

Also, I hear Sonal talking, yesterday night, when we were standing around in the hallway. She was wearing a towel, arrested on her path to the shower by our conversation, and soon enough all five of us were in the hall, standing and sitting on the ground, waylaid by a discussion too good to pass by (this happens a lot in our apartment.) "Don't you just want to corner him? In the elevator? Don't you?" And Becky, "Oh my God, who?"

One of my favorite songs these days is "The Back Of Your Car." The refrain goes, "you're not yourself, you're not yourself tonight..." And features heavy open piano chords accompanied by a drum that sounds like an plastic pipe hitting a wooden floor over and over. That said, I like the song.

But enough dispatches from my mental twilight zone. I'm off to watch "Henry and June," based on the work of the aforementioned Anais Nin.

Saying Goodbye to SIM...

2006-11-01T11:15:00.000-08:00

I admit it - I don't like technology. I want to toss my cell phone into a lake, just to watch it sink. But I'm realizing it's hopeless, this quest for digital isolation, and so today I sucked it up and opened the box containing my new cell phone.

I've had the same cell phone since high school. It was my first - I chose it myself, against the advice of most everyone I knew. It was tiny and bronze, long before tiny and bronze were popular. It didn't take pictures (hell, it barely did text messaging!) and that's how I liked it. Maybe it wasn't fancy, but it was cute. It fit in my pocket, it stuck by me despite being dropped, lost and once, forgotten in a strange Puerto Rican restaurant. It went everywhere with me. If that SIM card could talk, it would tell stories that would leave your hair standing on end.

So of course, I felt nostalgic letting go. I wouldn't have been able to do it, I wouldn't even have wanted to do it, but my old service provider has terrible coverage in NYC. It was necessity that drove me into the arms of Sprint, I swear!

But the most difficult part wasn't switching my phone number from one to the other. Sure, I felt like a traitor when the first time I thought, Hey, this keypad really is more comfortable than the one I had before or At last! I can send text messages directly through my address book! The most difficult part was transferring my list of contacts.

I subscribe to a web service that makes this process easy - at least physically. But I had more contacts than I had time on my hands or energy in my fingers, and besides, there were people in there I didn't even know, or had only talked to once or twice. Who was going to go?

I set myself an arbitrary limit: if I could see myself needing to talk to them again, they were in. And so I put in my roommates, my sister, my parents, my relatives. I tossed in my professional contacts – references and bosses from the past. But the moment I started on friends, the process got gnarly.

There are those people I talk to regularly. Some of them I love, and will keep on loving, at least in the near future. And then there are the others. The for-the-sake-of-old-times friends. One time at the beach we licked whipped cream off each other. And took pictures of it. We told dirty jokes in the back of history class. We hiked the Appalachian Trail in the rain and slept together at the ‘Milford Pla.’ And I love many of them. But there are others I can't bring myself to tell the truth to: that the love died long ago, and now it's just habit and history that are keeping us going. (Some people might argue, of course, that habit and history are love, especially as you get older. This kind of thinking makes me sad.) The point is, what do I do? I’m at this crossroads, because I know that at some point, we have to break up, but if we break up, what do I have? Maybe they can stay in my phone book just a little bit longer...

And what about the almost-friends? We'd really wanted to hang out, really really wanted to, but somehow we'd just been too busy. Or maybe we had hung out, once or twice, just not often enough to get really close. And now, looking at their numbers, I think, it can't hurt to leave them in a little longer! Who knows, next quarter might be the quarter!

And then there were those people, the never-friends. We didn't hang out. We never will. But something about them – personality, charm, ambition, good looks – makes me want them. Maybe I got their phone numbers through some shady exchange. Perhaps we worked together, or were in the same study group. I can leave them in my phone book, right? That's not strange, or creepy?

And what about the useful friends? The girl with the ID that looks just like me, or the really nice apartment, or the attractive older brother? Let's be honest – this isn't what a real friendship is made of! But it's so hard to let them go. Who knows when I might need an emergency drink/party/date? It might be wise to keep them around...

In the old days, before contact lists, you kept phone numbers written down. And because you needed to take your physical phone book everywhere, and because it could get heavy, you were constantly in the process of prioritizing. Tossing people out, adding people in. You had to. There was no other way to keep your phone book from taking over your purse.

And most of us – myself included – eschewed the heavy phone book in favor of memorization. That's right – there was room for no more than 20 numbers in my head. The people I called most often. I was my own traveling address book and phone list. It was heaven!

They say that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Nowadays, I suspect, it's not your life at all, but every contact list you ever made. A parade of digital grotesques. It's all there – your personal history of pride, lust, ambition, success, unrequited love and misery. The people you called, the people you called but didn't want to, the people you wanted to call but never got around to, the people you wanted to call but never had the balls to, the people you forgot to call, the people you wish had called you.

In the end, I chucked everyone I absolutely didn't recognize and left all the others in. It's just too complicated. It raises questions about what I really want in life, and that's always awkward. It's strange that I can't do the same thing twice, but for some reason, I still can't stand variety.

The Immaculate Confection

2006-10-29T21:14:00.000-08:00

So if I were to write an autobiography of my life, the last few weeks would be a series of recipes. While the first few years would have titles like "Treatise on Misplaced Idealism," "Melodrama for Dummies" and "How to Lie for Fun and Profit" (just kidding, of course!) the last week would be something a little more edgy. More like Isabel Allende's provocative book "Aphrodite: A Memoir of the Senses." (And for those who still don't believe in the importance of marketing, consider what sales would have been for the book, "Aphrodite: The Programming Language You Never Knew You Never Knew.")

But clever subtitles aside. My tongue is still tingling from the delights of the week. It started when we (the roomies and I) decided to bake a German chocolate cake. Anyone (or at least Nigella Lawson) could tell you that boxed cakes do not make for tasty desserts. But for some mysterious reason (consistency of the batter? temperature of the oven? interference by forces beyond our mortal ken?) this cake emerged moist and light. We decorated the cake, flinging tablespoons of frosting here and there, leaving sticky trails all over the kitchen. By the time we were done, we had a cake that looked like a oversized white beret, top layer flopping over the bottom, inches of frosting covering every surface. And here is the strange part: this haphazard thing was delicious. We ate several slices, licked bits of frosting off ourselves, and in general made a mess of the process of eating. It was wonderful. And I don't even like cake.

Then, because all good things have to happen at once, I went on a great date. Let's be clear: I went with Alix, who's a girl, so the only thing keeping this one date from being exceptional is the fact that it wasn't, in strict fact, a date. But let's be imaginative, for a moment, and say it was. This is how it went. We left my apartment at 9:30 and I was swept off my feet...by the hard, gusting wind blowing outside. "We have to stop somewhere warm," said Alix. "And get Halloween costumes." So we stopped by the costume and wig store, where I tried on short black hair, an Afro, and flowing blonde waves. None of them really fit me, although Alix got some great photos. I have to admit - I'm no longer curious about how I would look as a blonde, redhead, or (as the salesgirl put it) sister.

We left, to find the wind had only gotten stronger. It was nearly midnight. 11th Street was all but abandoned. We saw a set of stairs leading to a door, tucked intimately below street level. Pushing past the curtains in front of the door, we came into a small, cozy Italian restaurant. Mostly tables for two, a single candle burning in the middle of each, low warm reddish-yellow light. Green herbs hanging in bunches from the ceiling and the exposed brick walls. At the far end I could just make out an enormous fiery portrait of a nude woman. (Imagine I'm an art student of Italian descent, trying to set the mood. This is how I would decorate. Maybe play that song "Si, mi chiamano Mimi" softly in the background...you know, the one from La Boheme, where Mimi tells Rodolfo she "lives alone." And I don't even like opera.) The restaurant was nearly abandoned. We ordered from a series of waiters, all with impeccable Italian accents. The food was amazing, but the next part was even better (and to think it almost didn't happen). On a lark, we ordered dessert. We asked to share the chocolate mousse. The waiter brought out an elegant, long-stemmed wine glass and two tiny silver spoons. By now, there was no one else in the restaurant. The candles had burned down and our hands and feet were finally warm. I slid my spoon into the glass and licked mousse off the end. "Oh, my God," I said, closing my eyes because the room had started to spin, holding onto the table because my knees were actually weak. "What is this?"

Think five minutes in an alley with Henry Miller, a road trip with Erica Jong or one time at band camp with that girl from "American Pie." Besides alcohol, I don't think there's anything you can consume that'll turn you on more than this. "We need boys right now," said Alix. I was thinking the same thing, along with If they could put this in a pill and sell it... But the only other people in the restaurant were the waiters, and the mousse wasn't quite that good. To be honest, I have never felt that way about a dessert before. Normally I don't even like mousse.

We finished the evening looking for Halloween costumes in various adult video stores (we only wanted cat ears, these stores had them cheaper), talking about how we both felt too awkward to ever rent pornography.

The next night, we went down to this famous bakery and got raspberry cheesecake. Again, the blend of marzipan and sugar was so sexy it was awkward eating it in public. I don't know what these New York bakers add to their mixes, but as Alix put it, eating too much of it might get you pregnant...

Devil on one shoulder, heaven's hottie on the other...

2006-10-17T19:30:00.000-07:00

People who read this blog probably remember "Bond Day." Oh, that one day when we dusted off our fishnets, shined our leather boots, cleaned our sheets, and polished our handcuffs. And then made it all into an outfit we could wear to school. For some people, of course, Bond Day wasn't a holiday, it was a way of life. For some, it still is. But for the rest of us, we're left smacking our foreheads and thinking, "trench coat? knee-high boots? fishnet? ass-shorts? Why the hell would you put those together?" (If you dressed up for Bond Day all four years and don't regret at least one outfit, I have a street corner to sell you in Brooklyn. You'll just have to battle the coke dealers for possession.)

I didn't do it freshman year, because I wasn't in the drama program. But I count it as my first Bond Day, because when all the cool girls waltzed in (or stumbled, more like) in boots that picked up where their skirts left off (and believe me, their skirts left a lot off) I thought, how cool. I thought, sexy? Really? Because when you're 14, do you even know what sexy is? You're willing to take someone else's word for it.

So needless to say, I looked forward to participating in it sophomore year. It wasn't just a chance to show off, it was a chance to represent the team. It was, in a sense, a duty, much like pulling off good grades and volunteering for charity. I went conservative, considering the times. Slinky red shirt, maybe a little too lowcut, black skirt (but nothing too scandalous) fishnet and boots. To be honest, I thought it was classy.

Sure, there were signs over the years that Bond Day might not be in the best of taste. There was the time Barry (you all remember him) sat on my lap and unzipped my boot. In the middle of class. Still, I persevered. There was that time, in drama class, when I stood up to make an announcement about the upcoming play. At the end, I got only one question. "Is that your costume?" asked one of the guys in the back. The teacher quickly gestured at me to sit back down. "No," I squeaked. "No?" she repeated, looking worried. Laughter rumbled through the room.

There's more. (I'm going to get all this off my chest, because I know for once I have a sympathetic audience, you did it too, don't deny it!) How about that one day, walking down to the art classrooms (through that shady parking lot and down that slippery hill) and I heard one girl say to a friend, "What is she wearing?" And the other replied, "I don't know. I've seen a lot of girls dressed like skanks today." Or perhaps the fact that a friend's mother referred to it as "Casual Sex Day." The sad afternoon when I waved to Sam (E., Ben's brother) in the hall, and he averted his eyes from my creepy cork heels and shorts ensemble. Oh, there were signs. The crowning glory was senior year, when a few of my friends came to school in nothing but jewelry and sheets, the latter tucked up under their arms and wound around a couple times.

"Why sheets?" I wanted to know.
"Don't you get it?" My friend trilled. "We just got out of bed. After having sex with James Bond."
Oh. And then our history teacher refused to let them into class, and by afternoon the sheets had been unraveled, the boots had been packed away, Bush had been elected, and we were all on a trajectory towards higher necklines and more serious manners.

I have to admit, I wasn't one of the girls in the sheets. I almost was. I seriously thought about it, and then, that morning, something changed. I looked at the sheet, I looked at my jeans, and I remembered a story I once heard from an abstinence counselor (whose efforts, by the way, were wasted at our high school). She said, "every aspect of your femininity is a gift. You're born with a basket full of gifts. And every time you share one, it's like you're giving away a gift. And do you really want to arrive at the altar and have no gifts left to give your husband?"

Just kidding, of course. But I didn't feel right about it anymore. Instead, I wore a dress over jeans.
"You know," a friend told me in sixth period, "I think you're the classiest Bond girl today. I mean, not showing any skin." And I wasn't thrown out of history class!

By the time Halloween (which to most college girls is the same thing Bond Day was to us in high school) rolled around, I realized I had to go modest. I borrowed a friend's costume. It was Fiona the ogre, from Shrek. I even put on the horns. And since it was a child's costume, the neck came up nearly to my chin, and the hem fell at my knee. Going out that night, I saw plenty of women dressed as Playboy bunnies, fluffy tails and corsets galore. Even my friends, Can-Can girls and Matrix characters, looked more extreme than I did.

Shopping for Halloween nowadays, I see costumes that boast knee-high boots and fishnets. Nurses and witches alike wear skirts that barely cover their bums (remember nurses? They wear scrubs and flats. Witches have warts and stringy hair, and they stir smelly cauldrons). Halloween isn't about being sexy, but the costumes beind peddled to us aren't real. They're strange erotic fantasies, cops in a world where cops flash their boobs rather than enforce the law. And that's great, of course, except that your middle-aged neighbor and her kindergarten-age twins don't want to see your boobs. In fact, a very limited number of people actually do. And of that number, still fewer are people you want to show your boobs to. Right? So what's with "Horny Hermione" and "Peekaboo Pocahontas"? And for the big question: are we really getting closer to our sexuality, to our so-called sexual selves, when we submerge ourselves entirely in someone else's idea of sexy? (Don't get me wrong, some women enjoy being so submissive, so passive, but most of us need a little more room to breathe.) Right?

Darfur and the City...

2006-10-12T20:53:00.000-07:00

It was a day that could have been filmed for a documentary, or at least a subpar reality TV show where attractive people get into unfortunate situations involving whipped cream and desert islands. Just kidding.

Thinking tonight was going to be pretty slow, we strolled into the Hilton yesterday night and asked the Concierge if he knew where the nearest video store was.
"Just around the corner, 28th and 6th," he said. Then he paused, looked us over, and blinked. "Wait, what kind of video store?"
We didn't end up finding one. But it wasn't a problem after all, because today was one of the most interesting days I've had in New York.

My roommate knocked on my door at 5 am. "Are we still eating?" she asked. One of my roommates is an observant Muslim, and she's been fasting regularly all through Ramadan. We'd promised her that we'd keep her company today. I staggered into the kitchen and the three of us worked our way through cereal and bagels. "This is my only meal until tonight," I said. I've never been one of those people who can't eat because it's too early or too late or I'm too full. My stomach is a bit of a revolving door (that metaphor is too strange to examine up close.)

At 5:45 we washed up and I put on long pants. She unfolded her prayer mat. When I was in India, I often saw Muslims praying in the streets, on the trains, in the alleys between vegetable stalls and department stores. In the morning I heard the muezzin's call to prayer coming from the nearby mosque. I heard it five times a day. But I'd obviously never answered it before. It was dark in the living room and we didn't turn on the lights. She angled the mat so we each had a place along its side. "I can lead or we can do it quietly," she offered. But we asked her to lead. I watched out of the corner of my eye so I knew when to bend, bow and touch the ground. She chanted the Arabic softly, but the syllables sounded to me like the Hebrew I'd heard at Seder, or the Sanskrit that Hindu priests use for every ceremony. It's possible that it would also remind me of classical Latin, if I'd ever heard it. The thing that moved me, when I was standing in the dark, in my pajamas, was the fact that it did sound so much the same. That prayer is so similar between people, or at least it's always the same thing to me.

At work, I tried not to look at the parade of muffins and cookies moving down my co-workers' desks. Around 4 pm I started getting very hungry, because I was fasting. By 4:30 my muscles (such as they are!) were starting to twitch. By 6 I was ready to dash out, man I was that ready to break my fast. Of course, that's the moment my editor decided to review one of our articles. I flipped pages, tapping my palm against my knees like I had a nervous tick. "Listen," I said at last, "I have to go eat. I've been fasting for Ramadan." He looked alarmed. "Were you doing it all month?" "No." "I didn't realize you were-" "I'm not." "Eh?" "My friend is." "What?" But I was out the door before our Mad-Libs of a conversation was over.

I squeezed into the iftaar dinner late. I tried not to inhale my food, nodding politely as everyone else actually made decent conversation. One of the speakers made me laugh. "You think Ramadan will be forever," he said. "You think, I'm going to spend a whole month giving up all the stuff my parents look down on? A month without eating during daytime? A month looking the other way every time I see a pretty girl on the street? No way." He paused here for dramatic effect. A month is a long time. 1/12 of the year. 1/888 of the average human life, since we're getting technical. That's a hell of a long time to be looking the other way and passing on the drinks. But then he laughed. "But now it's Day 19 and I'm thinking, it can't be halfway over already! I'm still a sinner!" It's true, too. The more I observe religion of any kind, the more I feel like the captain on a sinking boat, insisting on going down with his ship. On the other hand, I also feel safe. Go figure.

The next speaker sent shivers down my spine, and not because of his heavy, unplaceable accent. "I've lost fifty relatives to the genocide in Darfur," he said. "Two are - were - my brothers, one, my sister." Most speakers about world events flatter their audiences, but perhaps this man didn't have energy for flattery. "We are all Muslims in Darfur. 100%. But our brothers - the Muslims - have done nothing for the people who are dying every day. The Arab nations have done nothing. In Islam, it says, "He who kills one man, it shall be as if he has killed all of humanity. And he who saves one human life, it is as if he has saved all of humanity." I have to say this much: it is worth it to fight the genocide in Darfur, on whatever level and to whatever degree. There are definitely people who argue that a handful of college-age liberals aren't going to end this crime against humanity. But then again, what exactly do the critics expect? Miracles? Rains of frogs? A plague to wipe out the Sudanese president's firstborn son?

And after that presentation we were off again, this time to a chic Chelsea press event held in a newly-opened club. (My other roommate works at a publication that gets invited to events like these. She's the one I went to the Four Seasons with.) Waiters in black kept handing me cups of passionfruit creme brulee and gourmet chocolate sauce. Bartenders served up cosmos and champagne
(I, keeping with the Ramadan theme, looked the other way). Women in very high heels toasted themselves with glasses decorated in fresh daffodils. Mood lighting, low music, delicious food...it was an evening of Sex and the City-like elegance. At the end, on our way out, we got goodie bags full of little gold candies and card cases.

In one day I fasted for Ramadan, contributed to Darfur, and scored free chocolate. I can promise you one thing: no one else in the entire city had the same day I did (except for my two roommates). I'm beginning to see what people like about New York.

And for an update...

2006-10-04T20:42:00.000-07:00

...on the "Men of Adventure Sports/David Beckham shirtless" saga. So today our editor-in-chief walks by and goes, "What is this?" And as I leap bravely into the fray, ready to tear the offending pamphlet from his hands (because David Beckham turned into a series of adventure athletes, in varying stages of undress, with a cover that read 'the men of adventure sports' in bold lettering) he started flipping through it.
"I'm so sorry! I am so embarrassed," I kept saying to him, trying to edge in front of the raunchy pages. "It's just a joke between her and me."
"It's okay," he said, standing up and staring at us both awkwardly. "I can handle it." To which no one knew what to say, so he just sort of ambled on out, leaving the two of us to stare, in red-faced humiliation, at the windows.
"We better take that off the corkbaord," she said at last. And so I did. But I'm afraid it may already be too late. I may already be that intern.

Give the People What They (Don't) Want

2006-10-03T13:36:00.000-07:00

By which I mean, today's topic is: (drumroll please) sexual harassment. I know what everyone's thinking: Anika, please, this is embarrassing! What happened to nights at Marquee and receptions at the Four Seasons? What happened to cocaine and Bungalow 8, fashion models and sleeping around?

What can I say? I'm losing my edge, and now I'm starting to sound like a corporate recruitment flyer. Soon enough I'll buy a Volvo and listen to NPR all day long and drink only nonfat lattes. Or something.

The point is, sexual harrassment. When I left for TM in New York, I was worried because they included a little flyer on this pleasant subject, and then I heard (through the mysterious Medill grapevine) that a girl had, in fact, been harassed on TM and it had resulted in all kinds of unpleasant litigation. So of course, the first thing I did when I reached New York was weed my wardrobe. Skintight camis? Out. Micro-minis? Gone. I mean, who wants to be the office "skintern"?

It turns out I had nothing to worry about, the people in my office are almost unnervingly professional all the time. But that's not always been the case. I still remember one summer job I had a few years back. I worked in an all-female department, but the office was full of men. One day, one of the men dropped by our cube to talk. We discussed the weather, politics, recent movies...and then he mentioned that he had just bought new pants.
"Wait, the ones you're wearing?" asked one of my supervisors, pulling her glasses down her nose to get a better look. He shifted (perhaps uncomfortably) and said,
"Yeah. I like them."
My supervisor ran her pink nails through her blonde hair and said,
"To be honest, ____, I think they're a little risque for [this office]."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, they're quite tight. I can definitely see the shape of your butt." And she laughed while I, the man, and the other woman in the office all picked our jaws up off the floor.
"Uhh..." he said, and fled back to his cubicle. We didn't see him again for weeks.

Or, for example, I used to go to a bank where the tellers (mostly women!) wore lingerie to work. And I don't mean lace-trimmed blouses, I mean transparents shifts and high heels. Turns out this bank was actually famous for this. But the point is, walking up to deposit a check, I felt like I was being harassed by their painted-on goo-goo eyes. (It later turns out I wasn't the only one.)

Move over Clarence Thomas, you're playing with the big girls now. In fact, I'm starting to worry that I might be guilty of this heinous crime. Let me explain. Days in the office tend to be long, and occasionally dull, and there's never really enough work to go around. I mean, at least, never enough work to go all the way around to me. So yesterday, I was sitting at my desk, and my officemate and I started talking about David Beckham (I'd just seen Bend it Like Beckham). And I said, "Too bad soccer isn't an extreme sport, that would be a fun photo shoot" and she answered "Well, maybe something can be arranged..."

The point is, there's now a picture of David Beckham on our wall. Yes, we did waste company resources printing it. But before anyone gets too freaked out, I'd like to say (in our defense!) that he is wearing pants. But not much else. In fact, nothing else. So my question is: is it possible that our male colleagues, forced to stare at this image every time they come into our office to ask us for even the smallest thing, might feel harassed and offended?

Digging up what lurks beneath...

2006-10-02T07:46:00.000-07:00

It goes like this...

One dark and stormy night about five years ago, a Mormon boy leaves home on a quest to "find himself." A few months after the trip begins, he finds himself in love...with a man. Unable to tell his family, he cuts off the affair and returns home. But as Kelis would say, sometimes "there's no turning back." So the closeted Mormon boy takes out an index card, colors it with all the shades of the rainbow, and writes, "I wish I weren't a gay Mormon, but I am" on the front. He mails it to a guy he's heard speak on the radio. Frank. Frank posts the anonymous card on his website.

Or sometimes like this:
500 well-dressed guests are taking turns toasting the bride and groom. The maid of honor stands up, giving everyone a chance to admire her pea-green bridesmaid dress, and begins, "I knew Lindsey had found love when..." but the entire time all she can think about is the fact that she slept with the groom...in the bathroom of a hotel...at the rehearsal dinner...a week ago. And unable to expurgate her overwhelming sense of guilt, she slips into the ladies during the reception, takes an index card out of her beaded purse, and writes, "I am so sorry for betraying my best friend" across the front. She addresses it to Frank, and drops it in the mail.

Frank collects these anonymous confessions and makes public art out of them. These posters demonstrate the power of secrets, he says in his lectures and speeches, to limit and transform. When I imagine the scenarios behind these postcards, I come up with scenes that read like outtakes from Desperate Housewives. But I'm being facetious, because the first time I heard about Frank's project, I was deeply moved.

I was in Barnes and Noble when I found the recently published PostSecret book, full of these strange, bizarre and intimate sentences. I settled down with a coffee and opened the book on my lap. I felt I was being sucked further and further into the twilight zone. About half of these urgent secrets involve sex, another quarter involve theft, and the final quarter (the most interesting) involve no combination of the other two. Nonetheless, these secrets are ordinary. There's obviously no postcard that reads, "I regret invading the Rhineland" or "I killed my mistress and her lover" or even "I inflated my company's stock prices and made millions raiding my workers' pension funds." It's along the lines of, "I sabotage my mother's relationships because I don't want her to fall in love again" or "I haven't told my family that I converted to Catholicism" or "I'm finally passionately in love with someone but I can't tell him because he's engaged."

When you share a secret, Frank suggests in the intro, you become more, rather than less, powerful. I thought, hell, there's no time like the present (I was in Barnes and Noble on a Sunday afternoon, there really was no time like the present) and so, lacking index cards, I took out a sheet of notebook paper and tried to phrase my various important secrets in single-sentence form. The power here is summary: most secrets don't need background or explanation. When boiled down, we're all keeping the same things to ourselves (how ironic!) But here's the funny part: after I had filled three or four notebook pages with one-line secrets, I tucked the paper into my bag and went home. I didn't feel better, but I figured maybe that was because I hadn't mailed any of them yet. Two days later, going through my bag, I remembered those sheets and reached for them. They were gone! I lost my most important confessions, the secrets of my soul, etc etc! Let them slip out of my purse like junk mail. (And then I remembered that one of my secrets was, I'm a horrible flake and lose things all the time, but I want everyone to think I have it together. Ha.) I started wondering who had found them, where they had ended up, whether they were all together.

But my fears proved baseless. I didn't get any letters from long-lost friends, no reprimands from family members, no knowing looks from strangers on the street. The truth is, my roommate, the janitor, someone probably picked up my papers, read a few lines, thought, what the hell? and dumped them in the trash. The so-called secrets of my soul have likely been recycled into napkins at Cosi's.

I think the real secret is this: although some secrets have the power to transform our lives, most don't. The fact is, you can send yourself out into the world and get nothing back, because (and I'm not trying to be sad or pathetic, just honest) most people have their own business to attend to.

In a way, it's almost reassuring.

Pride and Public Transportation

2006-09-30T20:18:00.000-07:00

There's something irresistibly old-world about the train. I can't explain it, but as I climbed aboard the shiny Morristown Line at Penn Station, I felt like a Jane Austen heroine, headed to a mysterious boarding school in the pristine mountains. I have all the time in the world, and no altitude adjustments to make, I thought. I settled my black weekend bag at my feet, rearranged my coat, and put my bouquet of flowers across my legs. If I were in a novel, I thought, that bag would contain all my worldly posessions, and this coat would be too shabby to keep out the cold. In fact, I was shivering a little, but only because my jacket was too trendy for the weather. So what if I'm not poor enough for romance? I decided to enjoy the view. The city gave way to green countryside and suburban parking lots. I had just settled into the pages of my decidedly quirky Zadie Smith novel when I heard a strange man's voice behind me.

"No, man, it's totally going to be you," he said. Who, me? I thought. Can this be?
"Why, cause I'm the most approachable?" It was Stranger #2. Oh, I thought.
"No, you're the most desperate." Stranger #1.
"Mike's the one who looks desperate, in those pants." It was Stranger #3. Desperate for what? I wondered. Naively.
"Who, me? I'll bet you five whole bucks - shit, I'll even buy you a drink - if a hooker comes onto me before one comes on to Dave. I will buy you a drink." The mysterious desperate Mike.
"I mean, you could just pay her."
"Yeah right, five bucks?"
"It's Atlantic City, man."
"Huh. That's cheaper than the lunch special at [some Chinese restaurant.]" Long pause while everyone worked out the financial implications. And then Stranger #1 chortled to himself and muttered,
"Hey, so my uncle told me a really filthy joke about this Atlantic city hooker once."
And that was when I stopped listening.

I turned instead to this tried and true passage from Pride and Prejudice, in which Mr. Darcy expresses his affection to Elizabeth, "I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. Unfortunately an only son, I was spoilt by my parents, who allowed me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.''

While I turned the page Mike finished telling the joke about the hooker, and the old man next to me finished his copy of Men's Health and started to snore. Well, I thought, I may be riding a dream train into an imaginary sunset, but at least I'm getting out of Manhattan for a while.

Topless rodeo...

2006-09-27T19:52:00.000-07:00

...guilty pleasure or marketing ploy? Or both?

The other day I was reading Glamour magazine, and one of the sections was titled, "Guilty pleasures it's okay to indulge." And I thought, where did the idea of the guilty pleasure come from?

The Puritans would say that it doesn't matter what pleases us, spending too much time indulging ourselves with pleasurable things is the sin in and of itself. It's selfish, it takes time away from pursuits that bring us closer to God. (You'll notice there aren't that many old-school Puritans left in the world. Much like Communism, denial of earthly desires is great in theory but not much use on the ground.)

And then there are the hedonists (harking back to the days of gluttonous Roman orgies) who argue that pleasure is a form of worshipping God, and there's no guilt in it any of it. (There aren't too many Romans left either, proving perhaps that utter indulgence of the senses doesn't leave enough time for practical concerns like defense and resource management.)

But then there are Americans, descendants of both cultures, the city on a hill with provinces that stretch out to Gaul and beyond. We're not Puritans, we're not hedonists, we're capitalists. That strange blend of both viewpoints, a compromise that (if the political landscape is to be believed) tries to please all but secretly pleases none. What's my point? That if pleasure is consumption, then Americans are guilty of most indulgences on earth. But then there's this strange justification (maybe not so strange) that since consumption drives the economy, it's really a form of public service. For example, if I eat one of the Lindt truffles sitting on my counter and savor each buttery taste of white chocolate and each drop of creamy filling, I'm being a sensualist. On the other hand, if I eat it but think instead of the Brazilian cocoa farmer who will now be able to send his daughters to college, and the Swiss distributor who, thanks to my small purchase, will haul himself further out of debt, and even the chocolatier whose commissions will finance his aging mother's care, then I'm actually doing a good turn for my international neighbors. I'm taking one for the team, so to speak.

It's the same idea behind "Breast Cancer Month" bracelets and perfumes and scarves. Of course I think curing breast cancer is a worthy cause, but I'm not sure I believe in the good intentions of people who pay $5000 for a dress and rest comfortably in the knowledge that 10% of the proceeds will go towards the Cure. I'm guilty: I believe in the all-or-nothing mentality. A good deed should be its own reward, and a scarf should be a pretty thing to keep you warm in winter. I understand why we mix the two, because you can't live in a black-and-white world (or pink-and-white, in this case), and charity should be fun as well as serious. But having engaged in serious acts of charity before (mainly because I can't afford the fluffier kind) I have this to say: it's only as serious as you make it. I would argue that the people who write a straight donation for $1000 and then go buy whatever the hell scarf they want are probably happier, because they don't feel the oppressive need to justify their pleasures.

It's like children of immigrants (I can use that phrase because I am one) who speak one language at home and another at school. Are they hypocrites? Who says you need to pick one and stick with it? Since when are we so intractable, so inadaptable, that we need to be one philosophy all the time?

I know the argument some people will make. Anika, they'll say, what you don't realize is that there are tons of people out there who would never donate to the Cure unless they were getting something out of it. My response is: they won't anyway. It's not worth relying on that fickle demographic, charity ballers. And my other response is, since when do we have so little faith in people? Seriously. People who complain about human nature have forgotten one key fact: we are moving forward. Each generation progresses toward more open-mindedness, tolerance, responsibility and generosity than the last. Yes, this past century has seen genocide, war and pollution. But so has every century before it. Let's not fall into the trap of bewailing the modern day. And if the world is getting better, then people must be making it better. It's a struggle against our baser nature, but it's not hopeless.

Go ahead and eat the truffle. It's delicious. And then spend an hour teaching a homeless kid to read. The balance - the meld, if you will - will be fantastic, and not compromising on either will make the both infinitely more satisfying than some bullshit cause like "Truffles for literacy: 10% of profits go to putting books in urban classrooms." I mean, in my opinion, the people who come up with causes like the latter are really just trying to sell you something anyway.

Red Shoe Diaries 134: Finding the One(s)

2006-09-24T11:16:00.000-07:00

So when I was six, my favorite movies were, in order, The Ten Commandments and The Red Shoes. The plot of the first closely resembles the Biblical story by the same name, although the original had no special effects, nor Charlton Heston. The second movie, slightly less well-known, is the story of a classically trained ballerina who leaves ballet to marry the man she loves. Unfortunately, she can't put aside her love of dance, and when she dons her famous red shoes one last time and ascends the stage, she ends up plunging to her death (or maybe she catches on fire). (Just as a side note: the scene in Disney's Aladdin where Jafar imprisons Jasmine in an hourglass nearly made me sob with fear, but the slavery of the Israelites, the death of Pharaoh's firstborn son, and Victoria's fiery suicide did absolutely nothing for me. Interesting.)

The point is, even then, I realized that red shoes had a passionate, storied significance. Women who wore brown and black leather became investment bankers and internists. Women in red shoes, though? They became the artists and lovers of myth. (Or, in some cases, the artists and lovers of adult film. Oh well.)

So for the past several years, perhaps without even realizing it, I've been looking for the perfect pair of red shoes. I'll admit I've given in to all kinds of other colors and styles, bought them, worn them, and given them away to charity. But somehow I knew that I wouldn't be able to do that with the red shoes. When I found them, it wouldn't be casual. Needless to say, the people closest to me questioned my judgment.
"You know," my mom said delicately once, "I know you're growing up in a different culture, but don't you think you have...you know...too many?"
"Mom," I said, "If I don't try a lot of different shoes, how will I ever know what I really want?"
"Yes, but if you're looking for red heels, why settle for yellow chiffon flats or bronze peeptoe wedges or black leather boots?"
"I'm just waiting for the right ones to come along," I said defensively. And then she got very serious, looked at me across the span of the generations between us, and said wisely,
"One day, this instant gratification won't be enough anymore." She waited to make sure I understood. "One day, you'll realize you want shoes you can rely on. Shoes you can take to work, to home, to your parents house. Shoes you can pass on to your children."
"Mom, I don't want to have children anytime soon!" I cried, just so she knew.
"I know, but you have to realize you will never find perfect shoes. The heels will be too high, or the toes will pinch, or the color will be a little off. And you'll have to love them anyway."
"What are you saying?" I asked, alarmed.
"That there's no such thing as the ones. One day, you'll have to learn to settle."

But I refused to give in to that fogie logic. You might have settled, Mom, but I never will! I thought resolutely. I combed flea markets, discount warehouses and designer boutiques. I tried wedges, flats, boots and stilettos. I looked at leather, suede, canvas and satin. I looked in the United States, in Italy, in India. But I couldn't commit! At first my friends were excited to help me look, to sit with me when I rejected yet another pair, to start the search again. But eventually they grew tired. They had their own feet to take care of. I saw friend after friend purchase expensive pairs and walk away satisfied and I thought, what's wrong with me? Why can't I be happy like everyone else?

And then, last night, I walked into the Aldo sale shop on Fifth Avenue. And from across crowded aisles, I caught the gleam of flourescent light on a a red satin bow. I stopped breathing. The faces around me grew blurred, and as I moved towards the shelf, I thought that every moment in my life had somehow led up to this one. It can't be, I thought, pulling a pair of strappy red satin stilettos off the shelf. I sank onto the trial bench, knees weak.
"Can I...try these?" I asked the salesman. When he took them from me, I felt a strange pang of loss and another of jealousy. Don't touch my shoes! I thought. I looked at all the other people in the store, moving about their daily lives, and I thought, how can they not know?

He came back with a box. I unfolded the tissue and slid the shoes out of the box. Red satin, slim four-inch heels, tiny red gems and a bow on the toes. But really, no description can do them justice. I tried them on and realized that yes, they were a little uncomfortable, but I could learn to walk in them.

"Damn girl, those are hot," the salesman said.

"Oh, I know," I replied. I walked up the counter, a place I never thought I'd reach, and handed the box to the saleswoman. The blip of the scanner filled my hearing.

"These are on sale for $19.97," she said, and I looked up and I thought, This is the sign I've been waiting for. I handed her my credit card. I turned to my friend Angela, who had come in with me.
"Thanks," I said, "for waiting for me to do this." She smiled.
"I'm glad you're happy," she said.

This morning I got up and looked at those shoes again, and they looked just as good (if not better!) than the night before. Sure, they're pretty, rather than practical. But practical is what all the black flats are for. Mom, I thought, you were right. But some things are worth waiting for.

You will go blind...

2006-09-20T12:58:00.000-07:00

…and other myths.

Not on the level of Eros and Psyche, but how about this:
1. Women don’t check each other out. I was walking down the hallway today, skirt swishing, when I was immobilized by a brief but powerful up-and-down flicker. I looked the giver in the eye only to realize I was exchanging not-so-sexy glances with the middle-aged blonde who delivered our office supplies. Yeech! I quickly looked away, but I have to admit, this $10 dress has stood up to a lot of stares.

2. New Yorkers are unfriendly. Maybe it’s because the rest of the country has ribbed them about it for decades, but New Yorkers are actually pretty nice, considering that you can’t really generalize about an entire population of 8 million people. For example, the other day on the subway I heard one man say to his friend, ‘maybe one of these ladies would like your seat.’ Of course, I was later informed that said seat was on the friend’s lap, but I suppose if I’d been pregnant or handicapped I would have considered the offer godawfully considerate.

3. There are no straight men working for magazines. Or if they are straight, they’re unattractive. Or if they’re attractive, they’re obsessed with sports. Or if they’re attractive and multi-faceted, then they’re really just gay/not manly enough to fix your pipes or change your tires or whatever the hell else women need. There are lots of straight men in my office, but it’s an adventure sports magazine. So are we back where we started?

4. It’s easy to look busy, especially when you’re not. Believe me, typing furtively in your AIM window/checking your gmail account/reading erotica convinces no one. Yawning at the computer screen is especially unconvincing, and will get you slapped with a five-hour filing project in no time.

Putting the "I" in Id...

2006-09-11T19:50:00.000-07:00

So it happens like this: they give you at least 100 multiple choice questions. You stare at row after row of ovals, remembering high-school aptitude tests, and try (like always!) to find the right answer. Should you represent your best self, or your worst? Which is real? Do you know? Does anyone know? Is it possible that all this while, you didn't really know yourself? Is it conceivable that a functioning adult can be so thoroughly and sytematically misunderstood?

Maybe it's not this angst-ridden for everyone, but I find personality tests to be both tedious and misleading. For one thing, I was (I know this sounds arrogant but I'll say it anyway) too smart for them (or at least, for the Myers-Briggs I used to take). I know I manipulated my results, because I went through an INFP phase, an ENTJ phase, an ENFJ phase, etc. Why? INFP's are sensitive artists, ENTJ's are astronauts and inventors, ENTJ's are presidents and CEO's. I don't think a person's personality changes depending on her career goals, or on what her friends are at the time. Bubble skirts, skinny jeans, neurotransmitter structure...some things can be blamed on the times, others can't.

I always shied away from the label "introvert" because I thought of introverts as modern misanthropes, living in cabins in the (fast disappearing!) forests and nursing lame grudges against the world. The nasty neighbor who chased kids off his lawn on Halloween? Introvert. That stringy-haired high-schooler who thought SIMS domination meant world domination? Introvert. That 50-year-old guy who boarded up his windows after his wife left him for a Chippendale? Introvert! Introvert = outcast, a 21st century Van Gogh, cutting off his ear and giving it to a prostitute in a poorly calculated gesture of affection. And while Van Gogh's paintings are worth millions today, at the time he was a lone wolf, a silent revolutionary, a man who lived in his parents' attic and gave off the funk of disillusionment.

What I'm getting at, with all these wordy allusions, is that I thought to be introverted meant to be alone, and more importantly, lonely. So of course, having been lonely (cue slow song from any chick flick ever made) I thought, this sucks. Why do it on purpose? But I've been wrong all along (this being the part in said flick where the boy runs after the girl's departing airplane/convertible/llama). I'm so sorry, introverted self! I messed up when I rejected you! I want you back! Introversion has nothing to do with loneliness, lifestyle or career. Most introverts love people, they just don't love all of them. They just don't get that sudden bloom of energy from shaking a hand they've never shook before. To be honest, I'm not sure I get it anymore either, and that worries me, because (the hero curses his own stupidity while the heroine listens with sympathy) I never realized I could change. But maybe it's true. Our needs change, our personality evolves, the child becomes the parent and the Myers-Briggs totters from E to a shocking but unmistakable I.

Is it possible that all this while I just never really knew? (The hero and heroine ride off into the introverted sunset, which in fact looks like a sunrise...or am I just kissing the dictionary's ass at this point?)