Status Change: Engaged

i wasn’t expecting this. ok, maybe that’s not entirely true, because i never thought this was out of the realm of possibility. i just didn’t expect it to happen for another year, maybe two. we hadn’t discussed marriage much before. so when he got down on one knee on the deck of our house under a full moon, on his birthday, i honestly thought he was doing a lunge. we had spent that day at Disneyland and came home complaining about our achy backs. “that looks like a good idea,” i said right before i was about to join his lunge. then a ring appeared and rendered me motionless.

i’m not really sure he asked the question and i think my first flustered response was “where did you get that ring?” which was followed by several more flustered responses including “are you sure?” and “are you serious?” while he remained kneeling and looking at me sideways. finally, there was a “yes,” or something like “well of course i’ll marry you. duh,” followed by hugs and happy tears and me trying not to hyperventilate. very romantic!

taken roughly 10 hours before the proposal at the happiest place on earth, where Tico (real name: Warren) and i spent his 36th birthday. 

but let’s back this train up a minute and start at the beginning with the story of how we got together, a story i’ve never shared here out of respect for his privacy. but now that he’ll be the husband of someone who’s kept a blog for over 10 years, i think it’s safe to say this will have to be his first sacrifice for our marriage.

so once upon a time (roughly 4.5 years ago), in a neighborhood very much like my own, two people met randomly at an art gallery one night. the lady was there upon the invitation of a friend named Juan, whose then-girlfriend’s art was hanging on the walls. the gentleman was there because he was one of the partners running the gallery. but there was an extra element at play that night: a magical plastic chicken (appropriately) named Pollo Magico.

Warren receiving the magic chicken in May 2010, taken the night we met

let me stop a moment to acknowledge how ridiculous this chicken story will sound. let me also stop a moment to stress that this story is 100% true, because the story of the love between Milla and Warren, like so many other love stories, is seeped in magic (and delusion). in our case, the magic came in the form of a plastic chicken our mutual friend Juan was mass producing and passing out to all his friends that year, telling them it would make their wishes come true. he even created a Facebook page for the chicken that disseminates inspirational messages daily and wrote a manifesto he emails to every new recipient.

the principle behind the magic chicken is no different than the principle behind The Secret, in that we can attract whatever we want into our lives by asking the universe. the chicken is just a prop to get us visualizing our desire and then stating it in clear terms, accepting that it will happen on its own time and “with ease and grace,” which is the ending one is supposed to close every request to the chicken with.

naturally, as i listened to Juan tell me this while handing me my very own magic chicken, i rolled my eyes.   

taken the same night at the gallery moments before i received my own magic chicken and met Warren. (of course, i was hoarding the cheese.)

as my friend urged me to remain open-minded and try it out, Warren walked by us. i’ll confess my eyes followed him across the room while the rest of my body registered an immediate attraction. he was pretty goddamn cute. as a joke, i looked at the magic chicken in my hand and told it i wished that this dark, handsome stranger would kiss me (confession: the R-rated version in my head was a bit more robust but let’s keep it PG for the kids).

at that time, i was in the throes of a Big Breakup and wasn’t looking for a new boyfriend as i still had a broken heart to nurse. but i did want to get my groove back after many months of celibacy and solitude and figured a kiss from a sexy, bearded man might help. plus, he had really beautiful lips.

later that night and without knowing my first request of the chicken, Juan introduced us. we exchanged a cordial handshake, said “nice to meet you” and left it there. there was no kiss and sparks did not fly. the whole exchange was rather unmemorable. soon after, i went home alone and didn’t give Warren nor the chicken much more thought.

but i did return to the gallery over the months that followed. a second saturday art walk seemed a good reason to get out of my empty house and i did appreciate much of the art, eventually buying some to hang at home. plus, i kept running into old friends, as Warren and i had more than our crazy friend Juan in common. i also took various friends along with me, saw Warren there most times, chatted with him sometimes, felt my crush on him intensifying and went about my business without trying too hard to make much happen.



first photo of us taken at one of the parties at my house.

then things started happening. we began chatting on facebook messenger, which led to the occasional phone chat and him coming to my parties. still, it took a while to get things off the ground as i kept playing the part of disinterested girl while stealing glances at his lips. of course, i did recall my early wish on the magic chicken but shook my head at the ludicrousness of it all and kept it to myself.

eventually, that kiss came (around October 2010) and kept coming for about a year. the first eight months of that year were spent in this gray zone of dating but not really Dating, where we agreed to keep things relaxed and casual. there would be no expectations nor declarations of exclusivity and undying love. and i was comfortable with this.

until i wasn’t, because the heart wants what it wants and mine could no longer deny the fact that i enjoyed spending time with Warren and that meant something significant, even as i tried to convince myself that it didn’t.

game-changer day we spent together in February 2011 frolicking in the snow with my dogs. i remember coming home afterward full of feelings. a few months later, we had “the talk.”

the talk happened the weekend of memorial day in 2011, fueled by drinks and an intimate dinner when we managed to confess our growing love for each other. i even told him about my wish on the magic chicken. several lengthy talks later and with our heads spinning, we agreed to be in an exclusive relationship. 

but there was trepidation. he didn’t seem fully invested and that kept me cautious, with my instincts warning me to stay detached as his behavior alternated between loving and aloof. i could tell he cared for me but felt conflicted about committing. by October 2011, he called it quits.



my 36th birthday, June 2012

the quits calling hurt but it didn’t hurt like hell. it was kind and respectful, with him saying he couldn’t offer me the things he thought i needed in a partner and me nodding silently in resignation. it was not a bad breakup and we resolved to stay friends. but staying friends got muddy when dinners turned into breakfasts and i attended his family’s christmas gathering. so after more kind and respectful conversations, i requested a no-contact policy.

that kept us in our own corners for a little over a year, but not easily. i missed him terribly but wouldn’t admit it. he missed me and would admit it, often asking if we could hang out, even just for coffee. with a few exceptions, i refused. so he began stalking my Facebook page and if ever i complained about having a cold, a tupperware container full of homemade soup would appear on my doorstep. i found it slightly creepy but mostly romantic because i still cared too, immensely so, but i didn’t see a future together so i became set on getting over him with online dating.

cue the laugh track because my three months of online dating was a laughable experience. but it seemed to stir him into action and me into softening my stance, because after more than six months of not seeing each other, i agreed to meet him for lunch — as friends. three months later (June 2013), we were in a relationship again. by the end of that year, we were mostly living together, and nine months after that, he would be on one knee proposing to me on his birthday.

if you ask Warren the story of how we got together, he’ll likely say, “she put a curse on me with a magic chicken” and that isn’t entirely untrue. certainly, i asked the chicken to bring him into my life, and given the initial success, i did also ask it for a lifelong partner. that time, i was sitting on the edge of my bed, single and despondent over my lackluster love life, as Warren and i had split up over a year earlier and online dating wasn’t going very well.

i pulled the chicken out of its secret compartment in my wallet, where it still lives, and said, “ok, chicken. i’m tired and getting older. bring me not just someone, but the one. surprise me if you must. deliver on your own schedule. but make it real, make it right, make it long-lasting and make me happy. with ease and grace.”

(it should come as no surprise that i’ve asked this dirty piece of magical plastic for much more since and will continue to in the coming years.)



Dre Day Los Angeles, February 2014

ok, so what now? there’s a wedding to plan, details to iron out, guest list to create and many questions to be answered. the true response to all of this is i have no idea how this will look. ok, maybe i have some idea but i don’t want to think about it much. i would rather have an invitation show up at my house a few months before and then arrive at the appointed day and place in a classy white dress with perfect makeup applied by elves, who also sucked 20 pounds out of me.

this fantasy is fueled in large part to the myriad married people who, after finding out i became engaged, advised me to save myself the expense and headache and just elope. i could get behind the eloping idea but my beloved wants something more substantial. so we’re thinking a very small ceremony populated by family and close friends followed by a big party for all friends, but probably not until 2016 due to extenuating circumstances to be mentioned later. then we can ride off into the sunset together and live happily ever after, as getting married will surely solve all our relationship problems, right?

on a boat in Costa Rica, September 2013

when i consider what marriage means to me, something i’ve been doing a lot of recently, my answer is “i’m not really sure.” this is not meant as a copout nor a red flag, but i honestly don’t believe any newlywed can speak about marriage with authority. that is for people who’ve had long marriages and have plenty to reflect on.

that is for people like my parents, who’ve been married 45 years, most of them happy but many of them rough like the first 10 when they were two of nine people living in a three-room apartment in soviet russia. of that time, they said they fought every day and likely would have separated if they didn’t have children. i’m not sure i could have remained as strong.

my parents — who are thrilled by my engagement as they love Warren as much as i do — have been full of marriage advice and, for the first time, i’m listening. first among it is staying committed to the commitment, which is what carried (or maybe dragged?) them through those first 10 years. they also remind me that marriage is not 50-50 and that i shouldn’t expect to get my needs met all of the time. depending on life’s circumstances, it could be 70-30 or even 100-0, and that’s ok as long as the scales shift back eventually. they tell me to choose Warren, to really really choose him in heart and mind, and envision the rest of my life only with him by my side. 



top of the rock in New York City, January 2014

Warren and i have also been having lots of conversations about what marriage means to us, not all of them pleasant but all of them necessary. through our talks, i’ve realized how much i’ve been clinging to the idea of myself as the independent single girl who doesn’t believe in the permanence of love. it’s the mindset i’ve entered all my relationships with, probably to my detriment, and despite finding myself with a ring on my finger and a man who really loves me, this useless outlook still informs many of my thoughts and actions.

i’ve been working hard to overcome this and heeding my parents’ advice of really choosing Warren with the sense of finality that accompanies entering into a marriage as i am not looking to ever get divorced. not that anyone ever looks to get divorced before they marry, but in my case, the bar was raised so high by watching my parents’ marriage that i convinced myself i should never risk taking the plunge lest my marriage crash into disrepair like all of my prior relationships with men have. 



being crabby in San Francisco, August 2013

thankfully, it feels different this time. it feels healthier, primarily because of our communication. with rare exceptions, Warren and i have managed to work out our disputes with maturity, a stark contrast to my past relationships where even a minor disagreement could erupt into a world war. but now, there is kindness in the honesty, respect in the delivery and openness to the responses. we go out of our way not to hurt each other. 

plus, i really love hanging out with him. we have fun together, share plenty of common interests and make great travel partners. my heart still quickens when i hear him opening the front door and slows when it’s pressed against him in bed. with Warren by my side, i feel calm, safe and at home, regardless of where we are. he’s funny, sweet, passionate, motivated, sensitive and, just as i suspected when i first saw those lips while holding the magic chicken, the best damn kisser of my life.  



in front of a world heritage temple in Kyoto, Japan, May 2014

so now comes the happily ever after part. i’m excited about all that and (marginally) excited about planning a wedding, but if i’m totally honest with myself and the internet, i’m most excited about the other and perhaps more pressing major development in my life: the arrival of a son, due next March.  

My First Half-Marathon

i suppose the title implies that there will be others and i assume this much is true, though i still can’t seem to click on any Sign Up buttons just yet. my fingers always navigate away from the webpage before it can happen, likely encouraged by the lingering pain in my foot, the soreness of my shins and tightness in my hips that my body still feels almost a week after the fact. i guess this is what “muscle memory” is all about. but let’s go back to the beginning.


Vegas, baby.

my cousin, Gitella, and i had been talking about a girlie getaway for ages, finally solidifying plans this past spring to meet in Las Vegas for a weekend. i’m not sure how the Rock ‘n’ Roll Vegas Half Marathon made its way into our plan, which was, in her words, “to get away from men and children,” but it did. i agreed to it because i wanted to get into better shape, and a half-marathon seemed just the push off the couch i needed. so we signed up and started training.



about an hour before the horror show began.

well, her training started and (smartly) consisted of completing a few other half marathons in addition to the full Portland marathon. my “training” consisted of weekend hikes at my local trail with my dogs and intermittent jogging, but mostly walking, around the Rose Bowl. at no point in my training did i complete the full 13.1 miles involved in a half-marathon. the greatest distance i ever traveled at one time was eight miles and that was only once, with a handful of six-mile walks also completed.


view from the hotel room makes it look like i’m in Paris — if Paris had obese Americans eating at buffets in every hotel.


casual friday on the Strip

let the record reflect that i really hate Las Vegas. everything about the place reeks of unhinged gluttony and douchebaggery to me. the hotels are overpriced, gaudy and smoky, and the visitors seem hell-bent on creating a “whatever happens in Vegas stays in Vegas” secret they can recount among their friends and future offspring to prove they had a crazy youth, when the reality is closer to a visit that produced more empty pockets and hangovers than wild tales (with the occasional side of VD). 


nothing like a saturday night in Las Vegas to remind me why i never visit.

trash-talking aside and included, it had been roughly 13 years since my last visit to Las Vegas, a long enough time to ease my hatred and make another trip palpable. more importantly, the half-marathon (and also full marathon scheduled for the same day) took place on the Las Vegas strip at night, a huge draw for my non-morning person self who didn’t want a 7am start time.


seen on T-shirts at the local fitness expo, where we picked up our runners’ packets and stuffed our pockets full of Power Bar samples. 

 
incredible dinner with the most tender filet mignon cooked medium rare to perfection.

we went to CraftSteak, the restaurant of famed Top Chef head judge Tom Collichio. the service was impeccable, wine amazing and portions giant. we left with stuffed bellies and several to-go containers after enjoying a night of girl talk and giggles. then we fell onto the hotel bed with pants unbuttoned and complaints about how much we overate. it was an incredible dinner, to be sure, the type you want to have on a Saturday night in Las Vegas, but probably not the type you want to have the night before a half-marathon.


the point in the weekend when i should have said, “how about we just go drinking instead?”

this will surely sound stupid but i’ll put it out there anyway: completing a half-marathon was a lot harder than i thought it would be. it’s not that i thought it would be effortless, but i did think that having two working legs would be enough to get me to the finish line. in theory, this proved true. but in practice, i grimaced through every mile and felt every step.


some of the colorful characters who raced alongside us.

in my “training,” my shins always hurt the first mile, and in this half-marathon, they decided to nearly cripple me during the first three miles, rendering me wobbly-legged, expletive-laden and slightly panic-stricken, as i worried i would have to bow out of the race during mile two. if only i had done my research and discovered a miraculous product known as a shin support, which runners often use since shin splitting is a common issue.

 
another T-shirt from the fitness expo that sums up what i was feeling throughout most of the half-marathon.

after i (heroically) Pushed Through the Pain of the first three miles, my left foot went numb, which was a blessing as that meant i no longer had to deal with the shin issue. naturally, i decided to start running because, at that point, i figured i was already tampering with my body’s wellbeing so why not just go for total annihilation?

the running was intermittent but helped us make up for lost time, taking our initial and pathetic 20 minutes/mile average to a slightly less pathetic 18 minutes/mile. clearly, my Cousin the Marathoner could have smoked me during this race but kindly stayed near my side offering encouraging words aimed at moving me the hell along.


Elvis greeted us at mile six with offers of a quickie wedding. i think we disappointed him when we told him we were cousins.

at mile seven, i ate some Power Bar booster thingy that tasted like apple sauce, hoping it would help me combat the nausea that seemed to intensify after every sip of Gatorade and water i took from nearby well wishers. (it didn’t.) instead, i enjoyed renewed energy likely due to a placebo effect. by mile ten, the energy had worn off, leaving me newly tired, still queasy and suddenly mute.


almost to the promised land.

though counter-intuitive, the last mile zoomed by. at that point, we had been making our way back toward the busiest and most lit up part of the strip, where crowds cheered us along, speakers blasted songs like “Bust a Move” (which now holds a new meaning for me) and the finish line was in plain sight. i felt a light-headedness bordering on delirium and let out a howl that sounded very much like a dying donkey when i crossed that finish line.


only in Vegas: medals modeled after poker chips.

four hours were given to complete the half-marathon (full marathoners got five hours), otherwise some shuttle of shame was said to drive by and pluck you off the path. i’m happy to report that Gitella and i made it in 3 hours and 56 minutes. {crowd applause} this averages to 18 minutes per mile. i realize that seasoned runners can complete a mile in a third of that time. whatever. 

the finishers area held a multitude of free treats that are commonly found at the end of such races, i learned, such as chocolate milk (oddly refreshing), apples and bananas, six packs of bagels, pretzels for nausea, bottles of gatorade and space blankets. we loaded up as much as we could carry and started the slow hobble back to our hotel room, where i proceeded to drop to the carpet to stretch my spasming muscles through gritted teeth. at that point, i felt a blend of pain, pride, foolishness and euphoria. (but mostly pain.)


thanks, Vegas. (sorta) 

i assured Gitella that i wouldn’t need to eat after the half-marathon, given my continued nausea and the bewildered state of my body that rendered a normal activity such as eating too complicated to imagine. she chuckled briefly before excusing herself for a half-hour — a time when i took a hot shower, put on my pajamas and collapsed onto the bed — and returned with pizza and ice cream, which we devoured quickly.

lying in bed afterwards, i’ll confess that whatever sense of accomplishment i felt was not overwhelming enough to offset the pain in my body. i probably could have spent my life never knowing what it felt like to complete a half-marathon and died just as happily (or sadly, depending on how things go).

a week later, i’m not sure my sentiments have changed. i keep telling myself i’ll do another one, one i actually train for so it won’t hurt as bad during and after, yet i still can’t manage to click that Sign Up button. maybe i need a few more weeks to help me forget because, right now, everything about it sounds like a masochistic idea. in the meantime, i’ll fit my workouts in between trips from the couch to the refrigerator.

My 15 Minutes

 

i’ve been living in a state of heightened reality this past week, where colors are brighter and food tastes stronger. i can see dancing in the shadows and the moon smiling at me. stars have been giving me high-fives just by twinkling. i know it’s the electrical current that’s been running through my body since the publication of my Modern Love essay in the New York Times. it’s a mighty powerful current, one that’s thrown my head into the clouds, feet off the ground, hands in the air, wave ’em like you just don’t care.

about an hour after my essay was up, i made my way to San Diego to attend Comic Con International 2012, where i worked the GEEK booth (i copy edit the magazine), wandered the main floor taking photos, attended one panel, and went drinking every night with the GEEK squad. being at Comic Con only intensified the surreality with its costumes, crowds, noise, events and general overstimulation (more on that in a future post). i spent three days there, having a ridiculously enjoyable (yet exhausting) time, and returning home the night before my essay came out in the sunday print edition of the Times.

that morning felt like christmas — or what i imagine christmas would feel like if i weren’t a jew and actually celebrated that silly little pagan holiday. i woke up early after barely having slept, excited to unwrap the sunday paper as though it were the lego set i wanted all year. my parents took me to brunch and told the waiter about my essay. i spent the afternoon with friends celebrating my big day at a local bar and returned home to find my inbox flooded with emails from people who had read my drivel.

i’m not gonna lie, that part has felt pretty damn good. of course, i expect my friends and parents to sing my praises as readily as i would sing theirs, but having strangers reach out to congratulate me has been the icing on an already very sugary cake. the emails i’ve received have been overwhelmingly positive, with only a handful of downers in the bunch, which is expected and doesn’t at all diminish the awesomeness of this experience. they seem to fall into a few general categories:

• the other Goldenbergs: to date, i’ve heard from about six, all of whom told me my essay had been forwarded to them by numerous people and one of whom tried to sell me an “obama watch.” (?)
• the writers: most have been single women in their thirties, though there have been a few men as well. the emails usually offer a warm congratulations and discuss the writer’s own desire to also be published in the Modern Love column; a few have included questions.
• the married men who agree: i’ve been most surprised (and delighted) by these. in fact, i think more married men than women have emailed me to say their spouse didn’t change her surname upon marriage and couldn’t understand why any women would. sweet!
• the single dudes asking for a date: i’m assuming this happens to anyone who writes about love and relationships, but i’ve received a number of invitations, some subtle, some direct. none will be accepted.

i’ve also been monitoring the noise on twitter and was happy to see my essay retweeted countless times. depending on who you believe, it’s either the best modern love column ever or the worst. some people found it hilarious, others found it sad, some thought it was lame, and still more thought i sounded crazy. one of my favorite tweets from the week: “that’s a lot of thinking before a first date.”

regarding all that thinking: i’m not saying i didn’t mean every word, but i definitely played up the “crazy” to make for a punchier essay. despite the neuroses i parade for your amusement on this blog, i like to think i’m fairly down to earth in real life and i think (hope?) my friends would affirm this assessment of myself. of course, i was excited to meet my namesake and hoping for the best, but i was also well aware that things could go south and not all that terribly devastated when they did. i bounced back rather quickly, as i tend to with these things, and now think about the events from that time not at all.

my larger point, which i hope doesn’t get overshadowed by all the gratuitous crazy, is that whole name-changing thing, which i feel very strongly about — not enough to picket weddings or try to pass laws forbidding women to take their husband’s last name, but enough to write this essay and hopefully get people thinking. it’s something that’s never felt right to me and i feel beyond lucky for the opportunity to express my viewpoint on such a big stage. 

other cool things that have happened as a result of the essay:

• i was interviewed by the Highland Park-Mount Washington Patch, which i’ve also blogged for, in an article titled Highland Park Writer Published in The New York Times. 
• for a friend, i signed my first (and what will probably be my last) autograph. 
• one of the other Goldenbergs wrote this awesome piece about our surname for Jewcy.com: My Life as a Goldenberg in Five Charts. (my parents really dug that one.)
• i received a request to be interviewed for a project about love and relationships, which amuses me to no end as i’m hardly an expert on the matter. i know as much or as little as the next person and am really just making it up as i go along. still, i agreed to the interview as i’m a fame-hungry whore who wants to put my surname everywhere.

sadly, the one email i most hoped to receive, the one offering me a book deal, never came. i guess that means i’ll have to keep writing to keep my good name out there, which i intend to do. as always, thanks for reading. please don’t ever stop.

36

this birthday seemed to creep up on me, linger for a minute and then whiz right by. it occurred during a whirlwind week where so much other stuff was happening that it became just another thing to check off the list. “turn 36,” the agenda item would have read. so i turned 36 on june 26, right on schedule, another deadline met. 

it fell on a tuesday this year, which i spent away from work and at the korean spa getting scrubbed, rubbed and pampered. the evening was spent with my parents who bought me dinner and gave me a gift card. the next day i returned to work and to new deadlines. a party at my local bar followed that friday, where friends came to watch me get sloshed and meet my parents, who were the real stars that night. on saturday, i was at a dodgers game with my pops, talking to him about the next 36 years.

overall, it was a very good birthday that topped off a very good year of a very good life. this is something i will remind myself of this every time the mood to be melancholy tugs at me, which it often does. i blame all those years of being a teenage goth. if i could just go back to tell her how much better life would be at 36, how she could be happy by choice instead of consumed by a “depth” she thought was impenetrable and unique. not that it would have mattered when her middle finger was waving in front of my face. 

now that finger rests idle at my side, replaced by a smile. it’s been a good fucking year, ending on a good fucking note as something i have written will soon be published in The New York Times. (more on that in a future post.) 

it’s been a year of hard work and dedication, a year of an endless home remodel that still has no end in sight. it’s been a year of family and good friends who are like family. it’s been a year of up all night and hikes in the fresh air, of getting rowdy and sitting quietly while watching the horizon. it’s been expensive and decadent, full of triumphs and missteps and, at times, it’s been incredibly lonely.

but above all else, it’s been a year when i finally grew into my own skin and learned how to trust myself. it’s been a year when i stopped apologizing for every damn thing in my personality, when i’ve squashed those nagging self-doubts like i’m playing a game of Whac-A-Mole, when i learned how to not feel awkward in a room full of strangers. it’s been a year of razor-sharp intuition and bursts of creativity, a year when i could high-five the universe, when i could walk along my path and separate the light from the shadows.

if the last 36 have taught me anything, it’s that i have both more and less control over my life than i think. it’s still a balancing act i’m learning how to master, this art of manifesting what i want while also stepping back to make space for the divine surprises. my inclination is to take over every situation. letting go is still so hard for me. but my faith is strengthening and all this LA asshole mumbo jumbo i’ve been incorporating into my life these past few years has helped me grow as much as it’s humbled me. through it, i’ve found a religion of sorts, the “everything’s gonna be ok” religion where everything really does happen for a reason. 

sure, it’s a cliche, one i’ve rolled my eyes at numerous times as a teenage goth and probably last year, too, but simplicity makes sense to me now. nature is simple, emotion is simple, and life can also be simple if i stop resisting. that’s the goal for next year (and every year): to live simply, fearlessly, ethically, honestly and with my whole heart. 

Acupuncturing

because meditation, yoga and a meatless february haven’t rendered me boring enough, i figured that adding a little acupuncture to my life would be just the thing needed to complete my transformation into a humorless hippie. soon, i’m sure i’ll be living in an ashram in Big Sur, where i will eat twigs and be known by the name of Fairy Dust. (or maybe Farty Dust given the amount of vegetables i’ve been eating lately.)

the acupuncture was really a whim, initiated only because a new martial arts/chinese medicine center opened in my area and offered a discounted session for first-timers. i hadn’t thought too much about acupuncture before, only heard (mostly good) things about it from various friends who’ve indulged. i didn’t even have a specific health problem i needed to resolve.

i was simply curious, so i went in and met with the nice white doctor specializing in chinese medicine, who asked me a slew of questions far more detailed than any western doctor has ever asked me. we spent nearly an hour talking about things like my sleep patterns and skin, my periods and stress levels, my diet and family medical history. there was some talk of yin and yang, chi and heat. he looked at my tongue (yellowish coat in the back, not good) and took my pulse in four different places (kidney pulse very weak).

when he asked what i hoped the acupuncture would achieve, like any self-respecting, body-conscious woman in los angeles, i said i wanted to lose weight by speeding up my metabolism, which has slowed to a snail’s crawl since i hit my thirties. i also told him i wanted more energy, more balance, more youthful vigor and general zen-ness-ness.

with that, i got on the massage table and prepared for the needling. in general, i’m ok with needles as long as i don’t see them pierce my skin, so i kept my eyes closed for the whole affair. he started by putting a little alcohol on the spots where the needles would go — eight on my lower legs and feet, one in my belly, four in my forearms and one at the top of my head. except for the needles in my belly and head, the placements were symmetrical, so if my left wrist got a needle, my right wrist would too.

i didn’t feel too much pain beyond a little pinch when the needle was inserted and then twisted slightly to deepen its reach. placing the needles took only a few minutes. the doc left me alone for about 20 minutes after he was done, a time when i felt very little occurring in my body beyond a general swirling and swooshing of energy. it’s hard to describe because the sensation was so subtle, almost imperceptible, but something was definitely happening. mostly, i felt very, very relaxed — with any tension i was carrying in my body fleeing from me like cockroaches in the light.

the bliss continued after the doc came to take the needles out (totally painless) and even after i paid for the session (sixty bucks). the feeling was heavenly and glorious, similar to one i’d get after emerging from a two-hour massage at the day spa, not a half-hour interlude of being stabbed with needles. everything was amazing — i felt calm and clear, like a mistress of zen (“radiant” is the word the doc used to describe the dumb look on my face). i was so ridiculously joyful, in fact, that i bought a discounted 10-pack of sessions on the spot. the doc could have asked to see a boob or borrow my car and i probably would have obliged. i was feeling that good.

three sessions later and i’m still feeling mighty good. i realize it could all be psychosomatic, but an artificial high is still a high, so i’ll take it. i’ve also had more energy, better sleep and a generally pleasant disposition — a stark contrast to my usually cynical self. (am i an LA asshole yet? is it time to be taken to the back of the barn and shot? just let me know.)

my appetite has been ravenous so i think my metabolism has indeed sped up. now if i could just stop overeating to compensate, i think i would lose some weight. thankfully, the meatlessness has shaved a few pounds off already, and my body has felt so lovely that i decided to extend the nonsense into march. this makes two whole months of no meat, which is a record for me. though i can’t claim that i’m not dying for a steak cooked medium rare and topped with a gorgonzola sauce, i know that i’m not dying without one (despite thinking about it nonstop for the past 31 days).

and while i don’t think i’ve sworn off eating dead animals forever, i have inched closer toward the healthier lifestyle i’ve always envisioned myself leading — one that’s kinder and gentler, cleaner and leaner. hopefully, i can go meatless for a whole three months next year, which would be a personal miracle for me. i think all ashrams are vegetarian anyway, so it makes sense to get ready for it now. in the meantime, i’ll keep acupuncturing, keep meditating and will take the steps i need to take to officially change my name to Fairy Dust.

Of Zen and Men

yeah, baby. cue the sexy music. it’s the update on my romantic life, an update you have surely been breathlessly awaiting, you voyeuristic pervert. but before you bring out the box of tissues to shed a tear or do whatever else you might need tissues for, pause the sexy music and put your binoculars away because i’m not revealing much.

truthfully, there isn’t much to reveal. i am still single — and happily so. the worst of my breakup is decidedly behind me and i’m finally beginning to feel like my old self again, the self i’ve always known myself to be. that self enjoys answering to no one and relishing in the freedom that has always suited me so well.

and now that i’m living alone again, among my two furries, in my own house, where i get to hog the bed and take comfort in the fact that every item is exactly where i want it to be, the thought of entering another serious relationship soon is as inviting as a cold sore.

that’s not to say there aren’t many things i miss about being partnered, and i don’t doubt that i’ll find myself in another serious relationship eventually, but until then, my plan is to focus squarely on myself and do the things i always tell my single girlfriends to do when they find themselves delightfully unattached.

so far, i’ve been doing just that: spending plenty of time with myself, my friends and my dogs as i exercise, shop, socialize, read, write, loiter, lounge, indulge in spa days and prepare leisurely meals for one at home. at times like this i can understand why people stay single forever. i’ve found myself in this rare place only a handful of times before, where my heart is neither swelling nor aching.

but i know my heart all too well. i know it’s only a matter of time before it will want to wander and climb and soar and sink until it finds a pocket to burrow into. and i’ll allow that — eventually — but for now it will remain grounded, relegated to stay locked up home while i go out and... date.

yes, i’ve begun dating again, whatever that means. it doesn’t mean going out on a lot of bad dates with a lot of strangers as i refuse to dabble in the online personals this time. in fact, i’ve gone on very few dates so far, choosing instead to spend my time with one costa rican cutie. but that’s not a story for today.

today’s story involves the general weirdness that comes with dating at 34, which, i will admit, is far easier than dating at 24, when i would agonize over an unreturned phone call. as a single 34-year-old, however, there is far less agony and far more perspective. i keep my expectations tempered and my outlook realistic, which protects me from becoming too disappointed when things don’t turn out perfectly.

i’m sure that sounds cynical, but it’s actually been very liberating. it’s allowed me to appreciate good times as just that — good times to be cherished. bad times are also just that — brief and fleeting moments that are in no way indicative of times to come. thankfully, i’ve had more good than bad times in recent months, and i’m sure this has something to do with my rosy outlook that doesn’t take anything too seriously.

the last time i felt this footloose and fancy-free (in 2004!), i was dating multiple men without a second thought or feeling. (old-schoolers might remember the “harem.”) and while i don’t have the time, energy or interest in reverting back to those old ways, i have found that a few long dormant habits have reawakened themselves in recent months, particularly my guy-like superficiality that draws me to looks over substance, that keeps me unwilling to commit and uncomfortable with heavy emotions. i’ve also begun to hear things i’ve heard too many times before — that i’m bitchy and hard to get close to, that i act as though i need no one. “self-possessed” is a common refrain as is “control issues.”

i wish i had a defense for this beyond “i don’t know how to be any other way,” but i don’t. all i can say is that i’m working on it (sort of). more to the point, i’m keeping the faith that things will work themselves out as they are supposed to, that i’ll eventually encounter someone who will ruin my life by making himself indispensable to it, offering a space for my heart to burrow, where it will stay and do the things it was built to do.

but until then i’ll continue to enjoy the lightness of being, which isn’t so unbearable.

Bloggers Block

i know how terribly interesting this must be to read: a blog post about how i don’t feel like blogging lately. writing about writing is the very definition of uninspired writing — it’s interesting only to other writers but only barely since it’s not very interesting at all. far more interesting are well-written stories about a riveting, enviable life, which is why i’d understand if you stopped reading this entry immediately to search for a blog that characterized such a life.

nowadays, there isn’t too much going on with me, which is probably why i’ve been reluctant to sit down and commit some words to the screen. there’s simply nothing to commemorate. all that meditation mumbo jumbo has turned me into a stable bore. any flux that enters my life passes through like a gentle breeze. there are no tornadoes. i like my friends and my parents. my job is stable, my dogs are healthy, and my house is cozy.

perhaps that’s the news of the day: i’m happy. for the first time in a long time, i feel genuinely content, stable and optimistic. i like how things are and i like that i have a say in where they are going. no singular emotion is crowding me right now and putting me at its mercy. i’m not depressed, worried or anxious. i don’t feel so heartsick anymore. i wouldn’t say i’m overjoyed with every aspect of my life, as there is much to be desired and improved upon, but i’m not obsessing over those details right now.

that’s not to say i won’t obsess over them again (as i’m prone to), or that something won’t suddenly surface to thwart the good vibrations that have been reverberating for many weeks now. in fact, i’m sure that something will, which is why i’ll take comfort in this small victory — where i can sit contently and type out an otherwise boring blog entry while listening to my dogs snore nearby. somehow, today, that’s enough for me.

(but if i begin to sound too much like an LA asshole who spouts off daily affirmations, please kick my ass.)

Chakra Kadabra

needless to say, these past few months have been a bit wonky for me, with fallout that i’m still trying to process. if i’m proud of anything at all, it’s that my process as a 34-year-old is so much healthier than it was at 24 when i was more prone to self-destructive behavior. all i will say about that time is thank god this blog didn’t exist back then.

today, my process is much tamer, borderline boring even, as i meditate and do yoga through my stress. i’ve also been spending a lot of time alone, working mostly, but also sitting and thinking, with a restlessness pulling at my insides. it’s a restlessness i know all too well, nondescript but imposing, this time pulling me toward something rather than spinning in place as it has before. until about a month ago, it had been pulling at me nonstop. my choice to attend the Landmark Forum in april was likely a part of its pull, drawing me toward anything that looked like it could help me through my flux.

it’s a mixed bag for me, this self-help stuff. generally, i like some of it, up until the point that i begin to hate it, at which point i hate all of it with a passion. Landmark was a good example of this hatred, with its churchy dogma and stupid lingo of affirmations that required me to submit to them at the expense of everything i knew to be true. fuck that.

self-help books also evoke this hatred, as i cannot get through a single chapter of a self-help book without wanting to vomit. to me, they are like romantic comedies — with the same predictable formula dressed up in new packaging. uninspired and insipid. you’ve read one, you’ve read them all. fuck them, too.

i hear therapy is good, though i’ve never been despite all my closest friends telling me i should go. (what’s up with that, anyway?) but i worry that my bachelors in psychology will render me the Worst Patient Ever, one who will get up and leave the instant i hear the shrink say, “that must have been really hard for you. talk to me about how that made you feel.” yeah, fuck you, too.

i don’t do pills either. i don’t doubt that others need theirs and i don’t judge them for it. they can take their xanax, valium, prozac, lithium and oxycontin. i really don’t care. personal choices are personal. and my personal choices will have me finding joy in my dogs, my friends, fine food, good music, books and art. the meditation, yoga and time alone have also worked wonders. but still, that damn restlessness keeps pulling.

recently, its pull led me to the door of a psychic, who was really more of a healer. she came highly recommended, so i traveled to Cambria for an overnight trip with a friend to see her. i met her for about an hour and a half of conversation and a clearing of the chakras. i’ve seen my fair share of psychics before, one of them very good, but most of them bad to average.

as a psychic, Darcy wasn’t particularly extraordinary. she did see a few things about the future, none of which i care to share here and all of which she qualified with the disclaimer that she’s taking my temperature only on that day and that we could have a different reading on another day. free will and those pesky personal choices make very few things in life preordained.

we talked a little about the past, which i already know, so there’s little point in talking about it. she did see a few things, among them my father’s recent heart problem, which she said has resolved itself for now, which is good. she said my own health was also good. then she told me that one of the “guides” watching over me is a grandmother whose name has an E and N in it. (my maternal grandma’s name was Eugenia.)

then i laid down on a massage table for the chakra clearing and that’s when she really earned her wage. the seven chakras are new agey shit i can really get behind. yoga and meditation had introduced me to them already, but i never had them cleared so i didn’t know what to expect.

Darcy started at my base chakra and worked her way up to my head, her hands not really touching me, just hovering over my body. as she moved up my spine, she would stop and see things. she saw where i was in my cycle, she saw that the titanium rods in my back were near my heart chakra. she said i was too tethered to the past and needed to let it all go, and at one point “pulled out the tethers.” she saw where there were blockages (my third eye chakra) and where there were none (my throat chakra, which she said was clear because i “speak my truth”). she finished by “shooting some light into my spine” and sending positive energy through my body.

the clearing must have lasted less than half an hour. oddly, i didn’t really feel any sensation in my body during the process, not even tingles. but when she was done, wow, did i ever feel amazing. my back felt super straight, my head clear and light, my body perfectly balanced. i was relaxed but awake, calm but energized, as though i had just emerged from a spa. and that pesky restlessness had finally ceased. i took a walk in town afterwards, drank tea (which i rarely drink) and bought a moonstone ring at a local shop. everything was wonderful and illuminated. i was happy and serene.

that evening, i enjoyed a laughter-filled dinner with my friend and a night of dreamless sleep. as we drove back to LA the following day, the goodness didn’t subside, staying with me for an additional few days. then the tide turned and the bloodletting began.

apparently, chakra clearings can produce some intense side effects that include crying fits, feelings of dread and obsessive thoughts about failed relationships. of course, this disclaimer was nowhere on the warning label. but here came the sorrow, pouring out of me like a fountain of vomit and, despite my best efforts, i could not stuff that genie back in the bottle. i was a mess. so i let it pour and pour it did. for two solid weeks, there were tears, vodka drinks and the replaying of far too many sad songs. it was awesome!

actually, it sucked ass, but it also needed to happen. i knew i had been avoiding the heavy processing i needed to do — taking refuge in work, in my bravado, anything that would distract me from the restless pull that needed to pull me to the ground. of course it won out in the end, as it always has, pulling me to the door of the healer who worked her magic on me and gave me not what i wanted, but what i needed.

now, four weeks after the clearing, i am feeling loads better despite the occasional pulls into mess mode. but i don’t fight them anymore. i let the visits come and snake around me, suffocating me momentarily before releasing their grip and taking the sorrow with them when they leave. i know the visits will become less frequent with time. and i know i’ll keep pushing through them because i have to.