the itch

It’s taken longer than expected, but it’s predictably arrived, a little over 2 years since I returned to America.  The tardiness of the itch (overdue more than 6 months) is a testament to how happy I’ve been these past two years (along with the serious dearth in blog posts–a busy ho is a happy ho ).  And though I searched and feared for its imminent appearance, the itch always manages to creep up on me until I find myself lying awake at night, consumed with thoughts of starting a new life and leaving everything I know behind.  When the itch comes, I stop sleeping.

So I lie here in bed and try to plan my next move, but it won’t play out like that.  My new life is never a result of careful planning and reasoning.  Instead, the inertia of my old life will herd me into a corner until I am about ready to suffocate, which will lead to the inevitable rash of bad decisions comprising my escape route.

But I am always successful.  The dirt underneath my fingernails is a small price to pay for the fresh air above my grave.

I roll over on my side and watch Wm. sleep.  For the first time, I’m unsure whether my old boyfriend will be part of my new life–traditionally, they have been kicked to the curb as part of the catharsis.  But I don’t feel his pillow over my face this time and Wm. makes me feel free when we’re together.  Then again, maybe Wm. is just a new kind of prison, suffocating me in a way I don’t yet understand but will kick myself later for in hindsight.  Must be vigilant about not settling.

I know California is where I’ll go.  That’s something, I guess–some direction.  How to get there?  Not just career-wise, or life path-wise, but like logistically…holy shit, moving across the country is a nightmare logistically.  How did I move to Singapore?  I had friends then, storing things for me in Boston.  Lugging my suitcases to the airport.  Packing up my life…I don’t even think I can drive a U-Haul to California.  I mean, I’m a fucking terrible driver.  Nina did it, but she had her mom.  Who would I have?

I shift my leg out from under Wm.’s leg, accidentally rousing him.  ”Mmmmmm…you want to cuddle?” he murmurs, half-asleep.

I cuddle obligingly, and stare at his closed eyelids with wide eyes that give away a restless mind.  Silence. “Would you drive with me across the country?”

I’m annoyed that I gave in to my girlish tendencies–I mean, what the hell kind of question is that?  There’s really only one right answer–it’s such an insecure girl sort of question that isn’t actually a query for knowledge but a plea for reassurances and reciprocated feelings.

Wm. grunts.  ”In a Wienermobile?”

I laugh though I know he already can’t hear me in his near-deep sleep.  I begin to drift off myself…because wouldn’t that be quite the adventure.

first run

My feet pounded on the pavement to the beats of Lily Allen as I rounded the curve into Cambridge, a wave of euphoria washing over me at the sight of the glowing Royal Sonesta sign.  I grinned to myself; it was good to be back.  I would miss the rush of adventure and infinite possibilities that constantly filled my head in Singapore, but for now, there were no thoughts.  Just the river breeze streaming through my hair and city lights dancing across the midnight water.  And easy running.  Distracted by my self-absorbing content, I missed the hard left and ended up running towards Kendall Square instead of back down Memorial Drive.  Bummer, this was going to cut down my mileage significantly.  Hypotenusely, actually.  Wish that was an adverb but I guess it would only be useful in distance situations.  But metaphorical distance situations too…

I considered turning back to take the adjacent and opposite legs of the triangle-route.  I rather needed it; Singapore had done awful things to my appetite.  Namely, I had grown accustomed to overeating.  Food was cheap, and anyway, how many opportunities was I going to get in this lifetime to eat stingray?  And chili crab?  And mee goreng?  Besides, even though I was most likely consuming upwards of 3000 calories a day, I was probably sweating off at least 200 or so just standing around in the heat, right?  That’s how the justifications went in my head.

The endless flashbacks of all the beautiful food I had gorged on in the past 3 months weighed me down, and the spring in my step bated as running became a chore again.  Screw turning back–I was already on Main Street, might as well just head home.  I could see the familiar “projects” growing bigger as my lead limbs clunked along.  The cluster of low brick buildings wasn’t really “the projects” per se, but it was government-subsidized housing, and relative to the rest of Main Street, the sketchiest block.  I liked the projects, for no particular reason other than they were a landmark reminding me where I lived.

I jogged past a tired mother pushing a stroller alongside an older girl of maybe 8 or 9, who skipped blithely in synch.  As I easily surpassed the stroller, a black bullet shot out from behind me, streaking down the sidewalk.  The girl’s braids flopped haphazardly in the wind, the plastic of her colorful barrettes knocking against each other.  Ha.  She was racing me.  I kept my pace steady, knowing my longer legs would outstrip her once she could no longer sprint with abandon.  As I came even with her, I looked down, and she grinned at me happily, not in the least concerned that she was losing, her arms flailing about without rhythm in perfect childlike form.  I laughed.  She wasn’t running to compete with me.  She didn’t run to get somewhere faster, or to lose those extra winter pounds so she could feel comfortable with her naked body during sex with her boyfriend.  She ran to be free.  To have fun, and maybe play with a stranger.

I glanced over my shoulder, and saw her waiting on the sidewalk for her mother, bouncing up and down impatiently.  She swiveled to look at me one last time, and I waved, silently thanking her for the reminder.

trading

I am not ashamed to admit I order the Thai peanut tofu at Goosebeary’s. Sure, foodtruck food is sketchy; they use the same “special sauce” on everything, but it’s $3.50 and I’m not a picky eater. Clutching my white Styrofoam box and plastic fork, I did my quick grad-student-walk to the Biocafé tables and plopped down next to my labmate Robbie, careful not to spill any sauce over the sides of the Styrofoam.

“Whatcha got in there?” I asked, peering nosily into his plastic grocery bag.

“Salad, manicotti, chocolate chip cookies, and homemade cheesecake Megan made last night,” he replied, as he assembled his Tupperware nicely in the order of execution. My mouth watering, I felt transported back to the third grade, when I’d regularly barter my extra tater tots for one of Brooke Rosenbaum’s pizza Lunchables.

I offered to trade my tofu for Robbie’s wife. He declined and handed me a cookie, which I thought was pretty fair and not wholly unexpected, especially as tofu << tater tots.

Married grad students have it made. It’s not just the better lunches. They’ve got two incomes and cleaner apartments. Maybe even a car, for those trips to see the fam on special occasions. Granted, you won’t be spotting them at Underbar on Friday nights, but that’s because they’re participating in the glorious regular sex privileged upon newlyweds. Glorious, hot, condomless sex—without the three $12 drink minimum required to bag a girl at Gypsy Bar. And there would be no STDs or hangovers the next morning, allowing the married grad student to maintain both superior hygiene and a diligent work schedule that starts before 10 AM.

But aside from these superficial differences, they exude a general aura of…composure. Of poise. Maybe it’s the inherent maturity that comes with marital responsibility, but my gut says there’s something else. While other grad students exist in a constant mode of restrained panic, the married appear to be somewhat immune to the perpetual undercurrents of stress at MIT. More self-assured, their emotional well-being seems less bound to the rollercoaster progress of their theses. Perhaps this emotional stability is just a result of having a steady supporter cheering in their corner. Or maybe to them, graduate research feels more akin to a real-life job, a source of income—instead of a personal investment upon which our egos and self-fulfillment rely. Those three letters attached to our names translate to a certain identity that defines us—something that once won, can never be taken away. I wonder if ‘Mrs.’ renders the same, or at least a competitive, effect.

Committing to the love of your life undoubtedly puts things in perspective and reorganizes your priorities. The Western blot can be left for tomorrow when dinner with the future mother of your child is waiting. Too many of us choose lab at the end of the day, giving up sleep, concerts, wine with the girls, spring break (the WOO HOO! kind), and movies with old friends. Later, we say. After oral exams or quals, after we finish writing up that paper. We make these little trades every day. There is a pervading sense of putting our lives on hold for 5+ years. Sacrificing now for a better future: a quicker, stronger debut into the “real world”. Are we losing the battle to maintain balance and sanity? The married aren’t. Whether they realize it or not, they’ve developed a foolproof strategy for achieving this. While the rest of us are essentially waiting to begin adulthood, they have already reached out and grabbed life by the horns—even if in a most ordinary and conventional way.

But alas, here I sit: single, possibly losing the battle. Hung over on a Sunday, wallet light from last night’s activities. Nursing my headache with a Bloody Mary at brunch, and consequently, getting a late start in lab of course. I look around. Then again, so will Matt. And Alex. And Nina. With my fork, I spear a home-fried potato chunk marinating in grease off Nina’s plate. If love is all about timing, then I suppose our synchronous tardiness makes us soulmates. Watching my comrades chatter and laugh, I decisively shove the fork into my mouth. I am unwilling to trade this potato, this moment. Besides, my husband would have to eat some pretty shitty homemade cheesecake.

if the world should end today

Yim: No one checks [Facebook] in academia.
Me: I’m not going into academia, Jesus Christ how many times do I have to tell you?!
Yim: If the world ended today, you would die an academian.

I couldn’t argue with that, and thus nearly exploded from laughter at my frustration with this undeniable truth. If the apocalypse were to descend upon us, I would die a graduate student. Anthropologists would find my mottled remains next to a flagrantly large pile of virus fiber, and that’s what I’d be known for. History doesn’t record our hopes and dreams, history is NOW. It is ignorant of my cynicism of science, my dark humor, and my overeager pornographic imagination. It doesn’t care what I think or say, only what I do and have done.

Lately I’ve been leading a double life, which is a strange and unwelcome experience. It makes me wobbly and kind of seasick. I miss the comfort of E.’s arms, of well-worn career paths, of actions = person. I’m not a sellout, scientist, retail whore, failure, or cheater. When did my body start lying? All of a sudden, I’m rationalizing, explaining myself to confused parties who aren’t sure where I stand anymore. It used to be that the world could end any day and I would be ready to perish as exactly who I wanted to be.

As it is, I’m hoping for a summer or fall 2009 Judgment Day. Maybe by then, I will be an employee, and not a student. A quitter, but with passion. A lover. A Pulitzer-Prize winner. But if all else fails–and I am yet an academian come 2010…should a nuclear bomb detonate, I must have confidence in surviving comrades, who may speak the truth of my wit and candor. To them, I have not been unfaithful.

first-year admissions

For a very brief moment, it was almost worth it to see the look on my mother’s face. I could sense her mentally struggling to decide between ripping me a new one and bestowing mercy in light of my apparent distress. Her brow contorted and her mouth hung slightly open, nostrils flaring heavily. This is the expression of an overachieving Asian mother who has just found out that her similarly overachieving golden spawn has failed out of her graduate program, sliced with one dramatic F.

She settled on a passive-aggressive response. “Well, I guess it’s not a big deal. Some people just aren’t smart enough.”

We hear rumors about the small percentage (unless you’re in physics) of classmates who fail their quals one too many times, or who are forced from the Ph.D. track into a terminal Masters, or who just plain couldn’t cut it in their core classes. It’s such a negligible number of students. Upon embarking on the journey that is five years in doctorate hell, you never believe you might be in the statistical minority. But sometimes you roll snake eyes.

My mother’s words didn’t sting. Instead, I felt a kind of affirmation in that statement, relief that someone said aloud what I had been thinking all semester. The burden of my festering secret—that I did not belong or deserve to be at MIT, despite having spent four years here already—was lifted off my shoulders.

“So I guess I should ask…what happened?”

I studied. My dog didn’t die. My professor gave me a fair grade. I wasn’t having trouble finding study buddies or “adjusting”.

“Well, sh*t. Grad school is hard.”

I received a letter soon after informing me that I was on academic probation, and that because of my unsatisfactory performance, I would not be allowed to take the qualifying exams. I wryly laughed to myself as I filed it away next to the letters from MIT congratulating my straight-A semesters.

After Christmas break, I told my friends, mostly other first-years in my department, about the big F and my dire situation via mass announcement on the GSC ski trip. They took the news in stride (my mother could learn a few things from my friends), and within days, failing thermodynamics grew to be an inside joke.

I became comfortable again in my own skin, a skin two standard deviations below average. I no longer stressed about keeping up with my classmates, or proving I belonged at the #1 school for materials science. I asked stupid questions, and I was honest about being stupid.

But this is not a story about how once I stopped pressuring myself, my GPA improved—my grades are still at best, mediocre. This is a story about confessions.

“I’m afraid my advisor thinks that I’m the dumber one of the two new students he took on this year.”

“I want to go into consulting, but everyone will think I’m a sellout.”

“I’m not doing what I thought I’d be doing when I joined this lab.”

“I wish I had gone to law school.”

“I don’t think I’m built for science, but now I’ve wasted 7 years on it, and I can’t start over.”

“I finally have this Ph.D. which is supposed to be my ticket to a great job, but I haven’t heard from any of the companies I interviewed for.”

“I just feel like I need to go to a less demanding grad school.”

“I failed thermo too.”

My candor encouraged others to voice their fears. I discovered that even the aloof international student who scores 101% on all his tests is hiding skeletons of doubt in his closet.

And yet, no one talks about it freely, least of all the Institute.

MIT does not discuss failure or exit strategies. While the graduate student handbook may intimate that a C is “unacceptable” by “institute standards”, consequences are never fully publicized. They sidestep the issue on paper and in person; more than a few faculty are ignorant when it comes to the process of dishonorable discharge or reapplication to graduate school. The names of final authorities are wishy-washy or otherwise conveniently on sabbatical. We get it, MIT. You’re not going to coddle us; we screwed up so you aren’t doing us any favors.

Whilst the powers-that-be exclusively foster an environment of winners, students gossip in hushed tones with raised eyebrows at hearsay of so-and-so who is job-hunting in his second year. And those who might voluntarily bow out of a doctoral degree remain quiet among the grim whispers, silenced by the mere thought:

What if people will think less of me?

So we repress it deep down inside of us. We question if this is the right path, but it’s difficult to make decisions with no one to guide us. We chalk it up to how this is a “natural phase” for all grad students–that everyone considers leaving at some point, that it’s normal, near admirable, to be unhappy and cynical. We shut up to fit in. And besides, if we were to somehow muster up the courage to speak, whom could we confide in, who would not judge us and be disappointed in us—for quitting?

Go ahead, plaster on that smile, that scientific curiosity, and chug away. Accept that you’ve painted yourself into a corner and keep chanting “only a couple more years”. Maybe that’s the life you choose, but at least see the choice.

Because, as it turns out, stepping on wet paint isn’t the worst thing in the world—even though it feels like it, you aren’t standing alone.

ed hardly

The painfully uninspired white guy has found a new fashion victim. There were the vertically-striped button-down shirts. The random logo tee. The trucker hat. And of course, we are all permanently blinded by the p*nk throw-up. While these other fads may have given off slightly unfavorable impressions–lameness, questionable sexual orientation, Midwesterner–this new one stinks distinctly of something much worse:

Douchebaggery. The most recent craze I’m referring to is of course, the Christian Audigier insanity. Besides being the only person in the picture above with a grown-up pair of cahunas, Christian Audigier is the designer for several rock-and-roll-style brands, including Ed Hardy, Smet, Crystal Rock, and his self-entitled line Christian Audigier. Even if you have no clue what I’m talking about, you’ve seen his influence in lower-end collections from American Eagle Outfitters and Von Dutch. But as Ed Hardy and Smet become common household names, these over-the-top, excessively blinged-out tattoo fashions are saturating B-town nightlife, to the point where I would kill to see a vertically-striped p*nk shirt just for visual relief. The rules of p*nk should apply to the C.A. fad (i.e., white people should just never wear this shit), in addition to several more guidelines:

1) You are never allowed to wear more than one piece of any C.A. brand. No one needs to know that during your mid-life crisis, you splooged all over the Ed Hardy shop and dropped your life savings.

2) Just because it says “Ed Hardy” on the front doesn’t make it okay to wear anywhere. Put a goddamn blazer over that shit when you roll into a nice venue. Even though you spent 90 bucks on a t-shirt, it is still. a. t-shirt. It is made of the same crap that your Fruit of the Looms are made of.

3) Lay off the jewelry. I am calling out the ethnic crowd here. In what world is it acceptable to wear 50 gold chains over a shirt with 50 more gold chains printed on it?! Remember: Smet is only one vowel and a necklace away from being Smut.

4) Check what your entourage is repping that night before you break out the Christian religion. I know that it may SEEM like your BFF’s Ed Hardy t-shirt is like, totally different from yours, like, not even the same colors dude. But trust me, they are the same. Puking apples looks the same as puking oranges. It’s all puke. When you are whispering sweet nothings to your man-date at some club while wearing matching Ed Hardy gear, your d-bag potential ass-ymptotically approaches infinity.

Please keep in mind that even if you follow all of the above rules, you are still a d-bag. That’s right. You still spent a bajillion dollars to look like every other D-list celebrity in Hollywood and every other wish-he-was-street wannabe in Boston. For the more frugal consumers out there who would also like to be “street”, consider trading in those five Ed Hardy t-shirts for a gun. Instant cred without others questioning your heterosexuality, and also, it is not a fashion faux pas to wear jewelry while you massacre people.

Update: Because he has not infiltrated the nightlife scene enough, Christian Audigier has decided to open up a new club in Vegas named Christian Audigier, the Nightclub: http://www.audigierlv.com/

crazy/beautiful

“Sometimes I wonder why I don’t have more female friends, and then I remember, oh YEAH, it’s because girls are unreasonable and INSANE.”

Having a zillion male friends and anal typeface handwriting are probably my two biggest claims to fame. There were those couple years in undergrad when I sported Flava Flav-sized watches and then my brief stint with the asymmetrical haircut, but really, when people think “Jeezy, the bomb diggity”, they think of me writing up equation sheets in readable size 8 font while being Eiffel Towered. That might be an exaggeration; I can’t really write in size 8 font.

“Yeah, they are, but it works,” admits Number 2.

Number 2 is a perfectly reasonable and normal friend of mine who dates crazy-ass women. Why? We don’t know. It just happens.

“Everyone wants what they can’t have, and crazy girls make it difficult to be had,” he goes on.

Correction: IIIIII don’t know why he dates the crazies. Number 2 is apparently clear on what attraction is. It’s not just the crazies–really, I am baffled by men who date: demanding women, high-maintenance women, me-me-me women, women who make them carry their purses, ice-queens, airheads, spoiled brats, socialites, celebutantes…the list is endless.

I think subconsciously, this is my main beef with women. Up front, I have no problem with the female sex. I like girls, love a few, and have been known to develop chick crushes. But it cannot be denied that even at a very early age, I surrounded myself with sausage. Something buried deep down inside me resists estrogen, and I’m pretty sure I know exactly who is to blame: Isaac Holbrook.

Ok, not solely and entirely, but at least a little bit. Isaac Holbrook was a brilliant talent at the International Institute for Young Musicians, a piano camp I attended during my teeny-bopper years. With a shock of white-blonde hair, clear blue eyes, and pale arms the size of toothpicks (for some reason, I had a fetish for pasty, uber-skinny guys in middle school–friends call it my “cancer patient phase”–I like to think I was just ahead of the curve on the emo fad), Isaac fit cozily into my Aryan fetish. Coupled with his sense of humor and gentle, concerto-mastering fingers, Isaac Holbrook was positively dreamy. I immediately befriended him. He immediately fell in love with my roommate Lulu, who thought he was a freaky-looking kid with awkward conversational skills. I felt bad for Izzy, so I did what any ugly friend would do in a chick flick–convinced my roommate he was a great guy and hooked them up, effectively condemning myself to a summer of torture.

Lulu is a fabulous tour de force today, but at the age of thirteen, she was a complete space cadet. I, on the other hand, was quite manipulative, always scheming and harboring ulterior motives. I took advantage of Lulu’s impressionable psyche. In under a week (ah, how I miss the days of changing your mind at every whim), I had her obsessing over what to wear on their pseudo-dates. And the real genius of it all, the part I reeeally congratulated myself on, was that neither Lulu nor Isaac knew it was I who pulled at their marionette strings.

It might seem like I was playing the martyr, the self-sacrificing friend, but let’s be honest here, thirteen-year-old girls do not know balls about charity. I wasn’t Cupid, I was waiting. Waiting for Isaac to spend enough time with Lulu to realize she was flakier than his morning cereal. Waiting for them to have a neverending awkward pause in conversation. Waiting for him to wake up and say “oh my gosh, the right girl has been under my nose the whole time.” For him to choose funny and smart over witless and tits.

I know, it makes no sense to censure an entire gender for the blindness of the Isaac Holbrooks. But somehow, I am mad at the Lulus, not the Isaacs. It just isn’t fair, that a pretty shell can win the public over, no matter how empty it may be. Number 2 is close with his unattainability theory, but not quite. It’s much more cliche and obvious, what men want. Men like beautiful women. These women are not unattainable because they are crazy, but because they are beautiful. They just HAPPEN to be crazy much of the time, because they can be. Society and the Isaac Holbrooks will never demand otherwise. These women don’t have to be nice. They don’t have to be intelligent, or make clever banter. After all, who cares about outercourse when intercourse is involved?

It’s been five years since I’ve made a close girlfriend, and it hasn’t made a difference–a decade of being “one of the guys”, and I’m still waiting, playing Cupid.

self-help is for little bitches

Let me say, first off, that I have never read a self-help book. But I did happen to skim the first chapter of “He’s Just Not That Into You” by Greg Behrendt and Liz Tuccillo online recently. For those of you out of the loop, this was a madly popular self-help book published in 2004 that chicas purchased by the truckloads to figure out why they haven’t met Mr. Right. It was a New York Times bestseller, Oprah loved it, and women all over the world pay homage to its words of wisdom about the male psyche.

If Chapter One is any indication, I have to say that this book is horseshit. It is. From what I gather, their message is basically guy not asking you out = guy not into you. I can’t argue with that in general, I mean, that’s like an identity relation. There are however, extenuating circumstances that preclude this, such as:

1) He has a girlfriend/you have a boyfriend
2) His best friend fucked you first or would like to fuck you first
3) One of you just got over a long-term serious relationship
4) Superior/subordinate working relations

Now, I’m pretty sure Greg and Liz could refute all these reasons, rebutting with their omnipotent “if he likes you, it doesn’t matter”, but this is only true if the guy in question is a complete jackass. Any decent guy, even if he wants to heart you 4ever, will be put off by 1-4, and will check himself before asking you out. Conclusion: this book is designed to snag your average tool, not necessarily Mr. Right.

Most of you who know me well are aware that I have no patience for beating around the bush, flirting, or hardball game-playing bullshit. When I like a guy, I like a guy, and he knows it because I usually make the first move. I’m all about the knowing what you want and going for it. According to Greg and Liz, I have been living a lie. Girls shouldn’t have to ask out guys; if a guy is into you, he’ll do it. What’s more, if a girl asks a guy out, their relationship is doomed:

“We did an incredibly unscientific poll where we polled twenty of our male friends (ranging from ages twenty-six to forty-five), who are in serious long-term relationships. Not one of their relationships started with the woman asking them out first. One guy even said that if she had, ‘It would have spoiled all the fun.’”

I asked out both M. and E., and you know what, they were damn successful relationships. The fact is, not every courtship begins with both parties crushing hard on each other. Usually there’s an imbalance, though of course, some attraction is required on both sides. So maybe you’re head-over-heels for some dude, and maybe he likes you but not at that same magnitude. Why not ask him out? If he doesn’t learn to love you the same, whatever, it won’t work out. But sometimes you get lucky, and he comes to realize: you’re exactly what he never knew he wanted.

And now, coming to my biggest gripe…why do guys get all the action? As if our fun isn’t “spoiled” when a guy asks us out? Newsflash: women like the chase too. We’re not all empty-headed damsels waiting for a man to validate us. We also like to test our boundaries; see how much quality ass we can get. Why should we be denied life, liberty, and the pursuit of mega-hotties?

Self-help books are a complete misnomer. It’s not self-help. It’s someone telling you how to think or act, and then you being a little bitch and doing exactly as the book says. These books prey on the weak-minded, and only propagate this susceptibility. Women aren’t learning to think for themselves, they’re learning to think like other supposedly successful people. At best, these readers can only achieve what others want, not they themselves.

You will never attain what you most desire if you can’t be true to yourself.
The man of your dreams will pass unnoticed.
And you will die a lonely carbon-copy of Greg and Liz.
Try that on for self-help.

red cars

Every Christmas (yes, the holiday posts are coming up, readers!), I receive one small piece of snail mail addressed to me, 14052 Ladue Rd., Chesterfield, MO 63017, US of A, Earth, the universe. It is from my middle school gifted and talented teacher, Tim Cerutti, inviting me to his annual open house where we shoot the breeze with his family and generations of pupils. I haven’t missed an open house in eight years.

There are a lot of reasons why kids like Mr. Cerutti. On his desk, next to the ever-present can of caffeine-free Coca-Cola stands a candy jar full of Tootsie Rolls to be awarded to children who said something smart, funny, or just plain cool. He teases his students but teases himself more, assuring us we would grow up to surpass him in success, wealth, good looks, and brains. “I teach the gifted, I’m not a gifted teacher” remains one of his favorite jokes to this day, though we would beg to differ.

Some topics we covered in his class:
1) How losing at Tic-Tac-Toe is impossible unless you’re an idiot
2) Animal Farm
3) How to build tiny, tiny civilizations, bury them, and then dig them up
4) Dead Poet’s Society
5) Zach Hyatt (seriously, he was discussed a lot)

And much, much more. Though he doesn’t know it, his most memorable lesson to me is about red cars.

I am in high school, and it’s Faculty and Student Trivia Night. Needless to say, I am pretty damn stoked. It’s not faculty vs. students, it’s pick a faculty member to be on your team, and who better to choose but my ex-teacher-of-the-gifted-but-not-gifted-teacher Tim Cerutti? We’re sure to win. He sits down, introduces his wife (spouses are allowed to play too), and seeing his big toothy grin that re-wrinkles his many wrinkles, I know we’re money.

“What was the most popular color for cars purchased in 2000?” asks Chris Ottolino, head of the academic trivia team and emcee of the night. Our table huddles close to discuss. “Red,” one kid whisper-shouts. “Yeah, red,” we all agree, bobbing our heads up and down. We look to Mr. Cerutti for the final say.

“Actually, I don’t know, I think it might be white,” chirps Mrs. Cerutti. We shoot each other “wtf” glances. It’s definitely not white; we all know it.
“They say you see three white cars for every red one,” she continues.

Who does this woman think she is, wife of teacher-of-the-gifted-but-not-gifted-teacher? Who is “they”? She’s so wrong, everyone knows she’s wrong, wrong wrong wrong! Every other team is going to get red because the answer is obvious; we can’t put down white and risk looking like dumbasses. But out of respect, we still look to Mr. Cerutti for what to write down, because after all, maybe she’s right. Maybe it’s a trick question only the sage and wise would know; it did seem too easy.

“Let’s go with white.”

The man says white; we’ll go with white, because he is a great man. The answer is read, and it’s red. 6 out of 7 teams replied correctly. We are livid inside. Mr. Cerutti rubs his wife’s back and lightly proclaims, “You know, they really do say you see three white cars for every red one.”

I knew he knew the answer was red, and I felt a little bit cheated. This was our leader, who had taught us the right answers all throughout school, and to throw that out the window to appease a woman…I was jealous. Jealous that he had chosen his wife over his students, over those that worshiped him, were loyal to him. Jealous he had a life outside of Parkway Central, that we might not be his first priority.

My parents would have argued. They once had a huge blowout about whether skim milk had the baby blue or pink cap in the supermarket. There’s no way in hell my mother would have surrendered to white, let me tell you.

So I guess I feel lucky, because someone once taught me that though red cars may be the correct answer–once in awhile, when you really, reaaaally like a girl, you swing with the white.

in pieces

I am really good at being friends. I mean it. I have never met a man or a relationship where at the end of the day, we couldn’t be buddies. Some would say I like to keep my exes “wrapped around my pinky” but that isn’t my game; I’m fingerless and ready to pal up, whether I’m the dumper or the dumpee. I have loved all the men in my life, hard. They have been my best friends, typically for 1 to 1.5 years, which is a nice percentage of my 22 years. And I couldn’t imagine them not being in my life after the fact.

Weeks following the breakup, it’s customary to rehash those nitty gritty habits you despised about your ex and wonder why you ever found him attractive, why you even dated him. Years after, you think how you’ve outgrown him, how young and stupid you might’ve been. I’ve never regretted any of my relationships, despite shouldering three over the past four years. They were all handsome, funny, smart, and wise men whom I will always love in some capacity. I don’t wonder about my past choices, I remember: his goofy smile and warm brown eyes, his salsa moves, his strangely sexy white lab coat. These things are committed to memory so I don’t fall into the trap of loathing what I once loved. You lose faith in your own judgment if you practice this too often.

It’s a tricky matter, to confess that you’ve been in love multiple times. People don’t like to admit it; they like to check the “once” or “twice” box. Check the “many times” box and you obviously:

a) don’t know what love REALLY is
b) are a whore
c) are a diehard romantic (which is interpreted by most men as desperate/needy)

Most multiple-timers are accused of option a), mostly because it seems the least offensive, and well, it appears logically pandemic for most young whippersnappers who haven’t yet “seen the world” or “gained perspective”. I say, bullshit. The big L is one thing, and one thing only: when you believe it completely inside and out, in that very moment, then you’ve got it. Who cares about longevity, stamina, staying power? Romeo and Juliet didn’t have to prove their true love by surviving 30 years in a sexless, supportive-yet-judgmental marriage. Oh sure, we assume it would have worked out, but c’mon, how do we really know? That whole double-suicide tragedy seems a LITTLE too convenient for me, Shakesy. (You want a real tragedy, let’s read about Romeo getting fat and unappreciative, Juliet growing into a paranoid nag, and how they eventually resort to incest to satisfy their sexual needs. Billy didn’t have the balls to write that one. But that’s neither here nor there.) Yeah, el-oh-vee-e is elusive. You wonder if you really had it after parting ways. I mean, we couldn’t have, right? Otherwise we would’ve made it, we would’ve walked the distance, because the big L is all-powerful, all-conquering, isn’t it?

None of my relationships ended in a dramatic double-suicide, but a small part of me dies inside every time. I give away pieces of my heart, pieces I can’t recover. But I see them, dangling in front of me, when I eat with exes, when I drink with them, go out with them. And I am tempted to reach out and snatch back my piece, my bloody, beating mass of pain. It would be so easy, to slip it back into my chest, like the edge segment in an unfinished puzzle. I want to, but I know it won’t fit like before. The curves are all wrong, and the cardboard is frayed at the corners.

I am afraid, as I lose more and more pieces, that I don’t have enough left in me to love someone new. How do I turn back time, make myself whole again, love as blindly and passionately as the first time?

But then I check inside, and I am surprised to find other puzzle pieces. Ones that don’t match my heart–but they are blood-red and robust. Looking up, I see E., see him staring at his piece, dangling inside of me, catch temptation flit across his gaze.

And I understand, and am afraid no longer.