3031 Miles Away

Admit me!

2011-12-30T09:09:00.000-08:00

I procrastinate. A lot. Maybe it's because I have ADHD or maybe it's because I'm just a lazy American-- whatever it may be, I give the word "dawdle" new meaning. But this Christmas a miracle happened-- I finished something I started. For five years I've said I am going to apply to graduate school, and yesterday, I did. I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up, but with any luck I'll have three delightful years of grad school to procrastinate figuring it out! Fingers crossed. Here's my personal statement.

Creative Nonfiction MFA-

My mother insists on reading me my horoscope. Against my protests she’ll call to explain what the planetary alignments mean for my future. Supposedly I’ll have luck in finance during an eclipse in Sagittarius, I shouldn’t sign any contracts when Mars is in my fourth house, and I must not worry about my love life when Mercury is retrograde.

When my third grade teacher, Mrs. Trapp, wrote on my report card, “Rachel cannot remain seated,” my mother blamed the zodiac. “This isn’t a good year for you restless Geminis!” But two decades of various planetary alignments later and I continue feel the truth of Mrs. Trapp’s accusation—I cannot sit still! I’ve lived in five cities in five years. Through my journey I’ve roofed houses, registered voters, planted gardens, planned galas, and drove golf carts at a zoo. My parents implore me to pick just one direction, but each time I put my resume under a microscope I cannot seem to find the common thread of my interests.

On that same third grade report card, Mrs. Trapp also wrote, “Rachel is the classroom storyteller.” To this charge my mother happily credited my astrological sign. “Of course! Geminis are the zodiac’s best communicators!” With ink stained fingers I spent each night of my school years writing anecdotes of classroom events, essays on the hierarchy on the seventh grade Bar Mitzvah circuit, and comedic vignettes about my experiences as the black sheep of my family. Since those early school years I have found a sense of self-worth in my ability to perceive social details that others overlook, and I am fascinated by interpersonal relationships.

After college I put my passion for writing on hold and restlessly sought out the next great adventure. I collected characters, scenes, moments, and themes like they were little precious gems—because somewhere I intuitively knew that I would return to writing. In 2009 ink stains on my fingers were replaced with coffee stains on my keyboard and I began to write again. I enrolled in journalism and creative nonfiction classes, and in the middle of 2010 I moved to Seattle with the intention to spend long rainy days in the back of coffee shops beading my collection of gems into a cohesive necklace. Most recently I have been writing a blog about the human interactions and experiences I’ve had working and traveling throughout America.

I suppose we Geminis do in fact like too many things. But as I typed away in the back of one of those Seattle coffee shops I realized that there is a common thread that weaves through all of my adventures and interests—the story. And I know now that I can pick one thing—writing. So with that intention I am earnestly seeking admission to Portland State University’s Creative Nonfiction Writing Program. I am only at the beginning of my journey as a writer, but I will arrive with a unique voice and a sincere willingness to learn. The Pacific Northwest has brought out the best in me, and it is my hope that I will be able to continue to hone my natural Geminian abilities at Portland State University.

As for my 2012 horoscope? According to my mother the planets have written an exciting year for Geminis. And while I admit in finding a bit of cheap solace in hearing her predictions that my love life will blossom when Mercury goes direct, I am not prepared to just sit still and wait for the rest of this tale to unfold. I don’t know exactly where it ends or who will write my paycheck in three years, but if there is going to be a name written on the byline of my story—it’s definitely going to be mine.

D-BID

2011-10-17T18:55:00.000-07:00

He asked me the question while we were having dinner in the back of a crowded, dimly lit pub. Up to that point we had been under the enchantment of Friday night freedom—and each other. It was all giggles and blushing and below the table knee grazing, and I was adorable, and he was dashing, and Monday was a millennium away. Around us, the loud weekend cheer coming from the boisterous grad students melted into a sweet soundtrack that I hoped to hear later while we walked home holding hands, stopping to kiss under the street lamps.

But then he asked a question that made my whole body shift—I abruptly remembered that I was wearing two pairs of Spanx and control top stockings over my overpriced lacy underwear. I squirmed. And it suddenly felt like a Monday morning where I had overslept, and was disheveled, and desperately racked my brain for some kind of excuse.

“Ummmm. I didn’t quite hear you, can you say that again?” I yelled over the obnoxious law students and post-docs.

“How are you still single?” he asked again with a condescending smile. At first I thought he was being ironic. But he was from South Carolina and I didn’t think sarcasm was in a Southern Gentleman’s bag o’ tricks. Simon was actually being sincere.

I had already had three drinks—well, four if you count the shot of tequila I downed before I left my house. But before I could answer his question I waved down the waitress so I could order another.

“Well, you know, so, ummm….” I began.

Gee, Simon. In my estimation, my state of single womanhood stems from debilitating insecurity and socially awkwardness, not to mention I’m also critical, cautious of men, and unable to commit to anything that lasts longer than an episode of Dawson’s Creek. So. Thanks for asking.

But my answer ended up coming out a lot more like, “Well, you know, I’m pretty busy at work and really value my independence.”

Right. That’s totally why I was still single.

“We’ll see what we can do about that,” he said with a wink that dissipated any discomfort. And then he told me we were going to go to his apartment so I could try some of his home brew beer and we could listen to Stevie Wonder records. It wasn’t a question. It didn’t need to be.

So in true Bridget Jones style I excused myself for a moment, and weaved between overcrowded tables to the bathroom where I klutzily peeled off both pairs of Spanx in the handicap stall. I shoved the inhibiting layers into the bottom of my purse and fished out an Altiod before I weaved back through the tables to the front of the pub. Simon helped me with my coat—such a Southern Gentleman—and hand in hand we stepped into the Cambridge night. At each illuminating street lamp the sweet soundtrack of Friday night was sealed with a kiss.

Sighmon.

My relationship with Simon had begun a couple weeks before while we were both waiting in line to buy a frozen yogurt. He was wearing a bright blue Piggly Wiggly t-shirt, which I felt compelled to compliment. I had spent time as an AmeriCorps member living in South Carolina, and had full appreciation for the Deep South’s favorite super market chain. Simon was impressed with my southern knowledge, and also agreed that Piggly Wiggly was a gem of an establishment. After I ordered my Saturday afternoon usual - original flavor frozen yogurt with mango topping - Simon said that he had full appreciation for my devil-may-care smile (“they allllways do” Meredith would say later) and the bit of paint that was left in my hair from my Saturday morning volunteer project.

Classy, Rachel, I thought to myself as I frantically attempted to get the paint out.

Simon just laughed, “Volunteer project, huh? So you’re a real do-gooder?”

“Eh…something like that,” I said picking out bits of yellow; it looked like someone had done spin art on the right side of my head and I hadn’t even noticed. I was so embarrassed.

I had officially known Simon for nineteen minutes, but I heeded his advice when he told me not to worry about the paint. It was cute. He liked it. It was fair to say that I immediately like him too.

I learned that Simon was a romantic literature scholar at Harvard. Our relationship continued to develop when he began sending me emails at 5:30am after he got up to bake bread and go bird watching (I couldn’t decide if this was geriatric or totally charming). And many days later, I was, was tickled with enchantment in Simon’s apartment drinking a home brew beer and dancing to Stevie Wonder. He read me Victorian poems he was teaching to undergraduates, and confessed that he was secretly obsessed with Elizabeth Barrett Browning. And then I confessed that I was secretly obsessed with Michael Bolton. In hindsight it didn’t seem to be quite comparable. But regardless, Simon fiddled with his iPod, pulled me to my feet and twirled me around his living room while we listened to “How Can We Be Lovers If We Can’t Be Friends” three times in a row.

Maybe it’s because I shed those layers of oppressive Spanx, but I felt at ease with Simon. Not only did I feel excited to be with him, but I also felt like I had heeded the advice everyone gives you before you go on a first date—just be yourself. I was! The whole night felt right. Being with Simon felt right.

The next day I recounted the date to my roommate, Alicia. “Jesus Christ!” she exclaimed after I told her each detail. When I finished she bit her lip before saying, “The whole night kind of sounds like it’s perfectly scripted. I mean almost too good to be true. Ya know?”

I wanted to tell Alicia it wasn’t too good to be true—it was true! But I knew what she meant. All things considered, my experience with Simon had been almost… surreal. If I were to make (okay, who am I kidding, when I do make) lists of all the traits I admire in men, Simon would get an A+ next to every line item. I mean, the man twirled me around to Michael Bolton! If my beloved Nora Ephron were writing a compatible male lead for me, I was pretty sure she would write Simon.

But I also had an aching inclination that something about this scenario did seem familiar. Simon was not the first man who sparked my sense of enchantment. I had been convinced that I had discovered my perfectly scripted male counterpoint before. I declared my love for a Teach for America fellow who studied philosophy and handwrote letters by candlelight. And then there was my endless infatuation with the farmer who campaigned for National Parks, grew sunflowers, and told me “flowers are food for our soul.” Then came the captivatingly charismatic Harvard professor, who taught me a thing or two about our national health care system… and gave the best forehead kisses. They all sat on pedestals that were sky-high, and inevitably they all came crashing down.

So was Simon, with his A+ in every column, too good to be true?

I decided to just let time tell. And it certainly did.

The next week Simon cancelled a date with me…twice. He was extremely caught up in his dissertation work…the ongoing demands of mentoring undergraduate Harvard students….and his baseball league. I said it wasn’t a problem. Then he invited me over at 10pm on a Saturday night. I was suspicious of this late night timing so I suggested another day.

And then Simon didn’t call me for three weeks. I was disappointed, but had decided not to obsess I would just write him off as the perfect first and last date. Not an easy feat. But as these things tend to go, the moment I cast Simon out of mind was the moment he decided to resurface. He caught me completely off-guard when he called on a Saturday morning. I was watching reruns of Project Runway and weighing the pros and cons of eating a second bowl of Frosted Mini Wheat. When I saw his name on my phone I scrambled to pull back my hair and put on my bathrobe, as if he were at my front door.

“Really sorry for my absence. Truly!” he said approximately seven times followed by a long list of Harvard and baseball related excuses. “Are you around tonight? We can do whatever you want!”

I was hesitant, but I remembered just how right it felt to be with Simon only a few weeks before. I crossed my fingers with strained hope and I invited him to go to a party with me. But he wasn’t up for a party, and suggested a movie. I really wasn’t up for a movie, but caved and suggested the new Alice in Wonderland, but he didn’t like Alice in Wonderland.

“How about Repo Men? You know, it’s supposed to be a great futuristic sci-fi action thriller,” he countered.

Oh, because if there’s anything that would be better than Johnny Depp or Lewis Carroll it would have to be a futuristic action thriller about men who repossess artificial body organs. Right. And then something didn’t feel right. I wanted to take it back. I did not want to go to the movies with Simon. I wanted to eat that second bowl of Frosted Mini Wheat and return to Project Runway.

“If you don’t want to go to the movies, we can do this another night.” He must have heard the hesitation in my voice.

Oh no, you don’t! We were having this date. So I caved again, and told him Repo Men sounded like a great choice—I’d meet him at the theater.

During the opening credits Simon put his arm around me, and whispered, “I’ve missed you” into my ear. Against my better judgment I felt myself slink into the nook of his arm, and was glad that he was unable to see me blush through the darkness. I decided that I would be optimistic. I forced myself to think about all of Simon’s impressive A+ qualities.

“Psssst, Rach,” he said half way through the movie, “Can you rub my shoulders?”

Excuse me? Was Simon asking me to give him a him a back massage in the middle of the multiplex?

“I’m having a lot of shoulder pain. You know, baseball. Can you massage it for me?” he asked again.

While Jude Law and Forrest Whittaker blew up buildings and cars on the big screen I awkwardly massaged Simon’s shoulders in the dark. And when I stopped after 15 minutes, and he asked me if I could go a little bit longer, I blew up any notion that Simon was an A+ guy.

The next morning when I (again) recounted the details of my date to Alicia, she (again) said “Jesus Christ” over and over. Except this time it had a much different tone.

“What a douchebag!” she concluded.

And that’s when my real confusion began. I knew Simon was bizarre and inconsiderate, but was he really a douchebag?

I had always operated under the notion that I had excellent douchebag radar. They were easy enough to spot—fake tan, popped collar, white sunglasses, hair gel, hair gel, and more hair gel, and they usually strutted within a bubble of pretension and inflated self worth. I grew up in a community that bred douchebags the same way towns in Arkansas breed NASCAR fans. It is just part of the Long Island culture. When I was 13, I started referring to the boys who wore head to toe Tommy Hilfiger and had no regard for anyone who wasn’t in their 1997 Bar Mitzvah party circuit as D-BITs—that is, douchebags in training.

“Oiiiii Rayyyyyy. Do you have to use such a crass term?” my mother would say mortified anytime she heard me say the “D” word in public. “You sound like a truck driver. Can you please try to act lady-like?!”

But my mother and I did not have the same regard for this “D” word culture. She was in an adult version of the 1997 Bar Mitzvah party circuit and wasn’t offended by the large doses of arrogance that came after the Manischewitz wine. And since I did (yes, Simon was right) consider myself to be something of a do-gooder I found the average douchebag’s blatant disregard for anything outside of his bubble (in addition to his excess use of cologne) offensive and off-putting. And because I grew up in this enemy’s training camp I thought I knew exactly what I was dealing with—I had thought I had a successful rate of avoidance.

So when Alicia told me she thought Simon was a douchebag I really had something to consider. I had seen Simon’s clothes, there was no VonDutch or embroidered jeans; he didn’t use a cheesy one-liner to pick me up, he didn’t strut, and he definitely had an awareness of issues that were bigger than himself. From what I had seen there was no evidence that Simon was a douchebag. I wouldn’t go for a guy like that…right?

Yet experience spoke for itself. My relationships with men like Simon—men who I had the utmost regard for—men who were supposed to be decent— had continued to leave my emotions feeling like they had spent the night on the Jersey Shore.

In the years since the 1997 Bar Mitzvah circuit, or even high school or college, I have watched those little precious D-BITs blossom into full-grown assholes. Not shocking. Seeing their Facebook pictures from the Goldman Sachs holiday party is kind of like driving by a car accident. You try to look away, but you just can’t—the spray tans just entice you in! But on other (less frequent) occasions I have been surprised to see boys who were arrogant and conceited D-BITs turn into sincere thoughtful men that I totally respect, even if they still have some VonDutch lingering in their wardrobe.

I began to think that if being a douchebag could in some (rare) cases, just be t-shirt deep, then could it also work the other way around? Could the men that I am attracted to—these allegedly upstanding individuals—just be douchebags in disguise? D-BIDs?

These scholars, and farmers, and international volunteers don’t pop their collars- instead they are charismatic intellectuals who care about worldly issues, but it seems that under their sheep’s clothing these men strut. From national parks to reforming the health care system to Romantic Era literature, D-BID’s each have their own version of the Bar Mitzvah circuit, and their inflated sense of self worth makes it easy for them to disregard everyone and everything else. And I had been so blinded by sunflowers, wit, and published New York Times Op-Ed pieces that I mistook worldliness for good character.

Perhaps I am (in my own pretentious way) too hung up on what qualifies as goodness. Just like a perfect Friday night, it is easy to become enchanted by the possibility of men who I deem to have worthy careers, political ideology, interesting passport stamps, or whatever quality represents my new cause of the moment. But I continue to hear (and fear) the “too good to be true” warnings. Too good somehow always equates to not good enough—for every Stevie Wonder record there would be a cancelled date, for every perfect forehead kiss there would be a month’s worth of ignored calls, and for each twirl around the living room there was the expectation that I’d be ready to see Repo Men and willing to give out back massages at the multiplex.

It is embarrassing that I wanted (and at times, still do want) the men I admire to acknowledge that I am amongst their ranks—that I am intelligent, and interesting and worthy and putting forth good in the world. It’s an even a greater source of shame that nibbling from their egos has allowed me to inflate my own. Amongst friends and obnoxious relatives who ask me about my love life at family gatherings I will happily poke fun at those D-BIDs and the D-BID trend in my life, occasionally giving my mother cause to nag about my truck driver mouth from the next room. But in private, when all humor has gone to bed, I must continually remind myself to look down from the sky because in spite of their “good” accomplishments men who are D-BIDs do not deserve pedestals.

And the next time a seemingly A+ guy sincerely wonders why I am still single, and then asks me out after ignoring me for three weeks, I might just pick up that second bowl of Frosted Mini Wheat, and say “Douchebag!” before hanging up the phone.

What? Is that not very lady like?

Not a Hufflepuff

2011-10-02T17:22:00.000-07:00

One night, my junior year of college, during a commercial break of The Real World-Road Rules Challenge, my two closest friends called me a Hufflepuff.

“A Hufflepuff?!” I wailed as the blood rushed to my face. They giggled and stood by their claim.

I stormed out of the room- slamming the door loud enough for them to know a Hufflepuff accusation was no laughing matter. I immediately picked up the phone and called my mother in sobbing hysteria.

“Wha, what is?” she asked with parental horror. I could hardly get the words out.

“Natalie and Christine called me a, a, a…Hufflepuff” I blubbered into my tiny Nokia phone.

“A wha?” she was clueless. “Is that something in the sorority?”

“Ugh. Forget it.” I threw down my phone and ran up to my room for book three. I spent the rest of night on my futon furiously underlining the passages that would prove I was no Hufflepuff.

Except in the back of my mind I worried that I was.

For my mother, and anyone else who has never basked in the joy of Harry Potter, and spent a bit of childhood (or full grown adulthood for that matter) speculating about what the Sorting Hat would say, well, I strongly recommend a Google search (followed by an immediate trip to Barnes & Noble). But for those of you in the know- for those of you who have maybe even stumbled upon a Facebook quiz promising to tell you your true Hogwarts colors- then you know the implications of Hufflepuff. It’s the ultimate geek sized dis.

Compared to brave Gryffindor, clever Ravenclaw, and even cunning Slytherin, the “hard-working” Hufflepuff’s were the duds! Mediocre leftovers. The personality-less characters. Might as well be Hufflefluff. So during that MTV commercial break, when my two best friends accused me of being amongst the ranks of Ernie Macmillan, I was offended, I was distressed, and in Hogwarts style I wanted to hex them with horrible curses. Furnunculus, I thought to myself.

Natalie and Christine were the people who knew me the best…couldn’t they see I was brave, I was adventurous, obviously, I was a Gryffindor! I gave them the silent treatment for two weeks.

“Oh come on, Rachie Face,” they’d say poking fun at my tantrum. “Just think of Cedric!”

But it was too late for joking, their accusation had triggered me to slip into full soul searching mode. I sat in the library each day procrastinating my homework in lieu of reading psychology textbooks about the nature of personality. I thought I knew the exact dimensions of my personality- I thought I knew who I was- I thought my friends knew who I was. Where was the disconnect? Admittedly, showing your true colors amongst 95 other “I’m a star!” sorority girls was no easy task. There would always be someone at Friday brunch telling a way better “black-out” story from the night before, or a girl with that perfect orange/leather tan, or someone who got caught in a compromised position in a neighboring frat house.

The competition for recognition was fierce, but I had always assumed I fared well. I thought that because my voice carried the rest of my self did too. But a fictional label had totally unraveled me. I didn't want to be a mediocre leftover. I wondered, if the people closest to you can’t see who you are, then who do you become? If I act Gryffindor-esque in a forest, and no one is around to see my actions, does it count? Or am I still a Hufflepuff?

I eventually eased up on the silent treatment, but was sure to pepper each conversation with “remember that time…” examples that demonstrated my sheer Gryffindor valor. Natalie and Christine would forevermore know each time I went into the unfinished part of the basement when it was really late at night or approached a very intimidating professor. I hoped they would eventually see my true red and gold spirit. But before long their attention had moved onto the girl with the latest spray-tan-gone-awry saga.

Recently I went to Poquito’s Mexican Café for happy hour with two of my closet friends in Seattle. Over large Margaritas and a nice sized bowl of guacamole we deliberated one of those really thought provoking questions: Which Disney Princess would you be, and why? Yes, we are 27 years old. Yes, we were in public. No, there were no children involved. We were just three adults debating Disney… and drinking tequila. But I knew this was not a question I needed to ponder for very long. Since the moment our eyes met at the Westbury Cineplex in December of 1989 I’ve always known I was Ariel at heart.

“You think you’re the Little Mermaid?!” Liza said with serious trepidation.

“Well, I mean, sans red hair and the ability to fit into a seashell bra or sing in tune- yeah! I am totally Ariel!”

“No you’re not!” she retorted as if my claim were a total joke. “You’re Mulan.”

I was taken aback. Maybe the tequila had confused her, or maybe she hadn’t encountered the animated classics in a while. I immediately blamed that oppressive Disney vault.

“MULAN?! What?! No! Pious, boring Mulan…no, no no! I’m Ariel. We both have the same sense of adventure, and curiosity, and propensity for mischief. And oh! Let’s not forget the very obvious Daddy issues we both share.! I’m so Ariel! Don’t you know me at all?”

But the thing is, Liza did know me.

This friendship began when Liza and I were forced to spend eight hours a day in a shared office space. Our daytime proximity made us realize we also shared the same sense of humor, astrological sign, and love of Fox Tuesday night television. And before we knew it we were also sharing food, accessories, a short hand language, and on some days, what felt like a brain. So, if Liza couldn’t tell I was Ariel, well, then, maybe I wasn’t.

As I walked home from Poquito’s that night all I could hear ringing in my ears was Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff, Hufflepuff. I considered putting my agitated sense of self to rest by adopting an “I think-therefore I am” mentality.

Sure. I thought. I can be Ariel. I can be a Gryffindor. I can be whatever the hell I want! But I couldn’t help to find the flaw in this mantra. Anyone who has dappled in online dating knows that we –the general public- aren’t always who we think we are…and we definitely aren’t always who we proclaim to be. For instance, take ‘Mr. I’ll-keep-you-laughing-all-night’ who took me on a date and spent 75 minutes demonstrating his new state-of-the-art pedometer. He promised me he was the funniest person he knew. But if that were true I wouldn’t know how many steps there were between Kendall Square and the Back Bay T stop. And I was left wondering if he whole-heartedly thought he was funny or if his proclamation of humor is just an “I think- therefore I am” hope.

Earlier this year Liza and I slurped up a few more margaritas and contemplated another thought provoking question- how could I possibly still be singe?

“Well,” I confessed to her after my third drink “I think it just comes down to this- dateable men (and others) think I am unapproachable.” I would be lucky if that were the only reason.

“You’re not unapproachable!” she challenged.

At first I thought Liza was trying to soothe my fear that I repelled boys. But after we argued for what seemed like hours, I realized that Liza really believed that I was an approachable, friendly, affable person. She was delusional. And wrong. I was bossy, and loud, and had more barriers than Fort Knox. I knew that I knew myself; and I knew that I was unapproachable.

Months later the issue resurfaced. I stumbled into our office, rolled my chair over to her desk and declared victory.

“Welp,” I said as blunt as ever. “I win.” She had no idea what I was talking about.

For a change, I had been seeing someone. A real life man. And I had come into work each morning with a Dates of Our Lives update. The night before me and said real life man, had a long, emotionally draining conversation about my inability to be vulnerable. “You’re just so unapproachable!” he yelled at me shortly before we called it quits.

“Oh pal, I’m so sorry!” Liza said sincerely after I recounted each he-said, she-said comment. She assumed that I was devastated.

“Don’t be sorry. I told you I was unapproachable.” There was now a trickle of accomplishment in my tone.

I certainly wasn’t devastated. I felt justified. I knew that I knew myself, and this proved it. But as I sat on my ‘I told you so’ throne I wondered what exactly I was proving. I believed that I was unapproachable, and then I was unapproachable, and then I was alone. So exactly what function was my knowledge of self serving?

All the way home from Poquito’s and over the next few days I continued to stew over mermaids and wizards. And I really couldn’t figure out why I cared so much. What was it about these arbitrary (and fictional!) labels that totally agitated my sense of self?

Last year, after I moved from Boston to Seattle everyone from my closest friends to third cousins twice removed inundated me with “you’re so brave” commentary. Ha! I would think to myself after each courage-related comment, I wish Natalie and Christine could hear this! It was seven years later and I still felt the inherent need to be right about the Sorting Hat. As I continue to swim forward, I am left to wonder what would have happened if I had conceded to be a Hufflepuff during that MTV commercial break. Or what if I conceded not to care? Have I only been able to summon heaps bravery over these years because I simply didn’t want to be thought of as a dud? And now, do I continue to cling to other labels, like ‘unapproachable’ because I really have no interest in letting my guard down?

Knowing myself well has always been a source of pride, but I also carry a secret worry that knowing myself well is a burden. That for better and for worse, holding onto the things I know about myself will never allow me to let in some of the things other people know about me- never leaving room for surprises- for mystery- for change. Maybe it wasn't really so bad that my college friends thought I was a loyal, friendly, hardworking Hufflepuff.

It is on years of built up principle that I say- I will never concede to be a Hufflepuff! I think there some self-identifiers that run too deep to challenge. Nor will I ever again play “Which Disney Princess are you, and why?” with Liza. Perhaps 27 years is the final cut off age for that game. But I wonder if I can now do what I couldn't seven years ago. Can I accept that real life (unlike the fictional worlds we love) does not have such hard, definitive categories? In this world labels are limiting, and there is room to be brave, and friendly and loyal without being written off as a dud. And as I sit here and type, type, type about me, me, me it becomes abundantly clear that sometimes our first person self-perspective is skewed- my knowledge of 9,057 steps between Kendall Square and Back Bay serves as proof. So for a more interesting story with more dynamic characters collaboration seems key. Just look at Harry and the gang. Because even when we're certain we’re right, it’s helpful to let the people who really know us, actually share what they know.

Rule of the Road #5: Slow Down (Part 2)

2011-09-25T18:45:00.000-07:00

Part 1

Merely an hour later and I had regained my sense of speed... so much for engaging in a deliberate appreciation of nature. We were on foot, and I weaved in and out of large tourist busses, pushing my way through the crowds of unloading passengers. I was making haste to find Old Faithful- Yellowstone’s most famous erupting geyser. “Whaaaat? I’m a New Yorker!” I’d say in defense after pushing small children out of the way. But despite my sense of urgency I was not above stopping to ask for directions after becoming lost within a sea of photo snapping Japanese tourists.

We stumbled upon one of the parks’ old hunting-lodge-esque hotels, The Old Faithful Inn. As we walked through the faux-rustic foyer to the guest services desk I paused to attend to a momentary déjà vu. I might have been in Wyoming, but my memory was stuck on Sagamore Hill- the Long Island home of President Teddy Roosevelt. As a student it felt like we were shuttled over to this beloved President’s home at least once a year. I think our teachers hoped for us to learn that Long Islanders could (like Teddy) love nature, become great presidents, or were capable of “speaking softly.” Or perhaps they just wanted us to learn that there was more to the name Roosevelt than Roosevelt Field Mall.

At Sagamore Hill we were led by docents (who were likely as old as Teddy himself) and taught about this 26^th Presidents progressive politics and unique (albeit once living) home décor. Who knew there could be such historical significance in an elephant foot umbrella stand? My more sensitive classmates were quick to throw their hands in front of what they assumed were my very sensitive vegetarian eyes. But I had always been able to stomach (and even admire) this president’s respect for nature- even if it meant animal head chic.

I would not be surprised if the interior designers of The Old Faithful Inn were amongst the Long Island school children that were forced to visit and revisit Sagamore Hill. The likeness between the two was uncanny. I could have certainly pictured Teddy here. He’d be in front one of the hotels many crackling fires- stroking a hunting rifle on a brown studded leather couch, and pausing to pat his rotund belly and let loose a hearty laugh.

When I took notice of the guests who were actually congregated in front of the hotels cracking fires, I had to let out a hearty laugh. All the strollers, and fanny packs, and foreign language tourism materials certainly did not suggest Friend of the Rough Riders. I was totally tickled at the thought of those tourists (or me and Meredith for that matter) interacting with the pioneering adventurers of yesteryears. And I couldn’t help to wonder if most tourism experiences today were in fact the contrived re-creations of once organic adventures. Could there – would there- be any new and unique frontiers for us to explore? Did people like Teddy (who didn’t need to locate the guest service desk to find their way through a park) still exist? I wanted to find those people, because as I approached a sign that said ‘Park Information’ I knew was certainly not one of them.

“Hi.” We said in unison to a middle aged man standing behind that very information desk. Like all other seasonal park employees this man wore a badge indicating his name and city of origin. This was Stan from Dixon, Missouri.

“We’re looking for the geezer.” I said.

“Geyser” Meredith corrected as she had done many times before. “It’s a geyser, not a crotchety old man” she would insist. I never did master those old 5^th grade social studies terms.

“We’re looking for Old Faithful.” I restated

Of course we were looking for Old Faithful! Stan exclaimed pulling out a map of this part of the park.

“You’re here,” he said marking a big X in front of the hotel. “And you just can’t miss Old Faithful! You’ll see her!” he enthusiastically added. He marked another X in front of the geyser in question, and drew lines connecting the two. Stan handed us the map Meredith and I awkwardly swayed in front of the information desk while he eagerly questioned us about our trip “Boston to Seattle! We’ll isn’t that something girls! Isn’t America just something?!” he said slapping the top of his pleated khaki slacks. We exchanged grins before agreeing in the affirmative. “Oh it’s something alright.”

Too bad Stan couldn’t have been around for Mitchell City.

“Okay, now you’re going to want to head out” Stan said looking at his watch “Old Faithful is going to erupt in just about 25 minutes. And girls,” Stan said in a hushed tone as he leaned over the desk. “Don’t worry. If you get lost, just follow the Asians. They’re just everywhere snapping their cameras. But they’re all headed to the geysers. So when in doubt just follow the Asians and you won’t miss Old Faithful.”

Stan stood up straight, smiled, and waved us goodbye.

Uhhh?

We hastily made our way back outside where freezing rain drops had began pelting the earth.

“Did he…? Did you just hear…? Is he allowed to…? What the…?” Meredith and I both quickly questioned and talked over each other between bursts of awkward laughter.

So Stan the information attendant from Missouri was a racist. His map, on the other-hand, was incredibly accurate. We soon found ourselves amongst a bevy of other Old Faithful tourists. Sure, there were Asians, but I picked up Scottish and Australian accents, bits of European languages, and I definitely heard a few Canadian “pardons.” And based on the college football paraphernalia worn by Yellowstone’s visitors we also had full American representation. Everything from sweatshirts to visors (“I know, I know,” I preemptively said to Meredith after multiple visor sightings. Nothing agitates or perplexes Meredith more than the thought of someone opting out of wearing the top half of a hat) were branded with the NCAA’s most beloved teams: Michigan, Ol’ Miss, Notre Dame, ‘Bama Crimson, Nebraska, Purdue, Iowa, Texas A&M, Wyoming, Auburn, Kentucky… so even if there wasn’t representation from the whole of America, there were at least residents from 91% of football loving red states.

“Lot’s of Mormons, huh?” I whispered to Meredith over Old Faithful’s pre-eruption grumbles. How could I know such a thing she asked accusingly… like I just received a text message from one of the sister wives.

“Look.” I motioned to three separate groups that were decked out in Brigham Young University gear. “And over there too.” Meredith’s eyes followed mine and landed on another cluster of children and adults decked in BYU sweatshirts waiting for the Old Faithful explosion.

“Oh...” she said in understanding “the male-female-child ratio.”

“Precisely.”

“How many of them are there?” We pushed two hacky-sack playing Vermont hippies out of way to get better view of the group. After we counted three times we agreed that there was one man, four women, and 13 obedient children. Both of our wheels began spinning to make sense of this family. Was it one family? Were they really his wives? Was this filming day...was Bill Paxton around?

I mean, I am no nineteenth century bigoted Evangelical. I didn’t want to chase the Mormons out of Yellowstone- but my natural curiosity was piqued! How did they get here, did they drive a bus or was a there some sort of caravan system in place? What games did they play on those renowned Mormon family game nights- I couldn’t quite picture all 18 players around a Monopoly board. When the kids went to school and the husband went to work was it like sorority life- did the women all get their periods at the same time and fight over time who needed to delete their television shows off the DVR? Did they talk each other out of going to the gym and into eating multiple baked goods a day (the ultimate sabotage)? What was the sleeping situation? Did he take turns… was there a schedule…were there ever…ahem… more than two people in play?

Faster, and faster, and faster my wheels turned thinking about these Mormons. Just as I was gasping at the thought of their weekly grocery bill I heard the collective gasps of each Mormon and, each Asian, European, stoned hippie, NCAA fan, protesting 14 year old on family vacation, and Meredith. I was so preoccupied with writing an explosive Mormon plot line that I missed the explosion right in from of me.

I felt like I owed it to myself and to Mother Nature to relish in some more outdoor activity before returning to the comfort of climate control. “How ‘bout a quick hike?” I asked Meredith. Her head was smothered in her arms guarding herself from the piercing rain. I really knew that I had a better chance of getting her to chain herself to the top of the car for the rest of the ride to Seattle than I had getting her to climb up a mere mountain, but was worth a shot.

“Okay,” I reneged before she could vocalize the threatening expressions she sent in my direction.

In anticipation of living in hilly Seattle and the mountainous Pacific Northwest I had started incline sprinting at my neighborhood Boston Sports Club. I settled on the fact that we would drive across the country, unpack our belongings, and climb Mount Rainier. In that order. And since I had never gone hiking or camping (yet another symptom of a misspent suburban youth) I was determined not to arrive to Seattle unprepared. So I ran and ran uphill (my glutes continue to experience post traumatic stress) but after spending a week squashed in my car consuming the fine delicacies of Middle America, I wasn’t sure my legs could handle solid - let alone inclined ground. I still pressed on though and insisted we walk up a short scenic trail to an overlook.

Meredith unenthusiastically agreed. Before long we were amongst a group of Yellowstone visitors that were migrating from Old Faithful to the trails. From my periphery I saw my Mormons heading in our direction. I stopped in my tracks to nudge Meredith – making a small spectacle “Look, do you see the Mormons? I’d seriously be willing to be they’re polygamists. Look! What do you think? Polygamists, right?!” I have never been accused of being subtle. Meredith had seen them head this way and implored me to stop gawking, and just walk. Meredith had in fact been praised for her ability to make a discreet observation- a skill she would later struggle with after encountering one too many mystifying transgenders in Seattle.

I would have liked to believe I spent the day in Yellowstone climbing a mountain, but Meredith was quick to remind me, it was just an inclined path. Semantics. It was with considerable effort that we attempted to conquer the incline. But the incline seemed to conquer us. “If this isn’t a mountain,” I said veering over to the nearest tree “then why” inhale “am” exhale “I” inhale “dying?!” After we put ourselves on a timeout to recover a normal heart rate, each member of the Mormon family gracefully marched right up the trail and encountered us with warm salutations. “hi, hi there, hia, howdy, greetings, hello, afternoon.”

“Hi, yes, hi, hello, afternoon.” we responded politely. And after each of the Mormons passed us I felt recharged. I might not have been outdoorsy, but I was a New Yorker, I was genetically mandated to be pushy and have a propensity to win. Just look at the Yankees.

“The Mormons are kicking our asses! Even the littlest ones!” I said throwing myself off of the tree and back onto the trail.

“It’s not a competition. They’re Mormons, this is the outdoors; it’s what they do. ” Meredith insisted.

Ha. Would Teddy Roosevelt have leisurely strolled up a mountain, or would he have moved with gusto to explore those new frontiers? Clearly Meredith new nothing about my inherent New York spirit.

When we finally arrived at the overlook the Mormons were already there admiring the view of a very wet Yellowstone. “Isn’t it wonderful?!” the presumed father of this Mormon posse said to us.

“Great.” I responded. I took a quick look around and gave a wave to the Mormon, “Well, we’re off.” My eyes motioned from Meredith to the trail down and I started moving again with full speed ahead.

“Weren’t you the one who wanted to soak up a little nature? Didn’t I hear something about relishing in the awe of it all?” she said matching my new hasty paste.

“I don’t want any of those tourists to beat us back down!” I said. My feet were moving faster than any brain activity. And my muscles seemed to have memorized the steps to a complicated wildlife cha cha-Step, step, shuffle to the left, tree branch, duck, step, step, step to the side, squirrel, step forward, watch the rock, step, step, step… and then I erred.

I saw the thick protruding tree trunk in what seemed like hours after my body encountered it. For the second time that day everything slowed down and I flew from the tree trunk through the air in slow motion. I landed on my hands and knees and everything came to a complete stop just in time for the procession of Mormons. One-by-one they passed me and offered me a hand up, but I remained frozen on all fours.

And on the cold wet earth of Yellowstone I most certainly changed my holiday wishes. Queue up Mariah again. All I wanted for Christmas (or my birthday or Kwanzaa or the Chinese New Year) was climate control and car snacks. Meredith emerged from behind the offending tree after the parade of Mormons and other tourists stepped over me. She had not attempted to conceal her fits of schadenfreudic laughter.

“Time to slow down?” Meredith suggested.

And there, ass in the air, face to the ground, I thought about Teddy. Clearly the field trips didn’t pay off. I was so not meant to be a Rough Rider, or cowboy, or even semi-occasional weekend hiker. I finally pushed myself off the ground and slowly limped the whole way down the trail.

As it turned out, the scenic path was, in fact, scenic.

Down the scenic trail, past the geyser and The Old Faithful Inn, and back in the car I nursed my scrapes and wounds. Blasting the heat I decided that the American Old West wasn’t quite the frontier for me to explore. After all, I still needed to pioneer through Seattle and the challenges of a new city. And there would be challenges. In just two days I would be in Seattle without outdoor expertise, tech savvy, incline acclimation, friends, a job, barista skills, anything seemingly useful. Yellowstone started to seem a lot more manageable than my own unique frontiers. My heart beat a little faster and inclined paths grew into mountains. And I was suddenly in no rush to get anywhere.

Rule of the Road: Walk slowly and carry a big map.

Rule of the Road #5: Slow Down (Part 1)

2011-08-31T13:09:00.000-07:00

Any on-looking stranger would be able to tell that Meredith had never been sent to the principal’s office. Worry froze each muscle in her face, and sallow yellow replaced a week’s worth of lobster sunburn on her perfectly innocent cheeks. All that moved were her eyes. They paced along the dashboard of the car as she waited to hear the punishment for this first time offense.

“New Hampshire, huh?”

Amusement tickled his tone. He looked from Meredith’s driver’s license back into my dirt-smothered Toyota Corolla. This highway patrolman’s perfect-to-stereotype large tinted sunglasses captured our very character revealing expressions. While fear bounced off each of Meredith’s pores, from the passenger side, my own facial muscles twitched and contorted themselves many many times. I imagined this patrolman assumed I had forgotten to take a month’s worth of necessary Terrets medication. Little did he (or Meredith) know that I was attempting to conceal my very schadenfreudic smirks and giggles. Unlike Meredith, I had spent many a long middle school days passing time on that chastising bench outside the principal’s office door. Trouble and I were too well acquainted. I quite liked not being in the hot seat for once.

“A’right girls.” he said like it was a complete sentence. Clutching Meredith’s driver’s license he adjusted his (again) perfect-to-stereotype large cowboy hat. But we were in Wyoming after-all and it seemed that here stereotypes were comprised less of biased judgment and more of accurate cultural customs. The highway patrolman walked back to his car and ruffled a stream of dirt in the air behind him.

“I’ve never been pulled over before!” she blurted out the moment he was out of earshot. “The road was so empty- I didn’t even realize how fast I was going.” Meredith continued… as if pleading her case to me would make a difference. I walked fast, talked fast, thought fast, finished a beer quicker than any boy I knew, and with a right foot comprised solely of led- well- I was certainly not in a position to be judgmental of speed. I was more than certain that Meredith would not be served her first traffic violation, but I felt like she was going through and important initiation. We were about to be roommates- living with me had its hazards. This just might be the ‘avert danger!’ sign she needed to survive what was about to come.

“I was in New Hampshire once…” The patrolman said with worldly accomplishment after he shuffled back to the open driver’s window. “What are you doing all the way out here?”

“We’re moving to Seattle.” Meredith widened her eyes with a smile and briefly engaged this patrolman in a conversation on New Hampshire tourism. ‘Atta girl’ I proudly thought. I waited for her skillful small talk to end and the verdict to be delivered. But once they landed on the topic of New Hampshire’s beloved gem, ‘Polly’s Pancake Parlor’ I knew without a doubt she’d be off the hook.

And of course, she was.

“Just slow down girls,” this forgiving officer reiterated. So we were off! And we were slow! We crept along the single lane road that hugged the curves and turns of Big Horn National Forest and held up the long procession of out-of-state tourism that followed. And when rain turned to snow and then back to freezing rain we made senior citizen’s driving to Sunday morning church services look like they belonged in the Indie. But Meredith accepted each ‘hurry up’ honk as a badge of her civilian safety.

“I don’t care who’s eager to start their camping trip,” she said (mostly to herself) peering in the rearview mirror at the large SUV from Illinois that had been tailing us for miles. “I’m not dying on the slippery roads of Big Horn… or getting pulled over again” (pausing briefly to consider which consequence would be worse) “because they’re ready to set up camp, pitch a tent, and crack open a Bud.” So we inched our way through Wyoming. Never again would the sirens of trouble tarnish Meredith’s gold star status.

The next day I was back behind the wheel, and we flew out of Cody on a mission to discover the Wild West. Thus far we experienced the panorama of these United States like any good American tourist- from the comfort and confine of our vehicle. We had snacks, we had tunes, and most importantly- we had seating. So as we approached Yellowstone National Park it was more of the same- enjoying nature from a nice climate controlled environment. But on the outside, nature was anything but controlled. Through big sunny skies snow had been heavily dusting trees that were grander and older than I ever had seen. (“of course you’ve never seen trees this big...there’s no room for trees between the Long Island strip malls.” Meredith would snarkily reply to each of my ‘ohmyyygod, look at nature!’ gasps.)

The phrase ‘postcard perfect’ had never been more applicable. I wondered whether Mother Nature had specific stake in the tourism sales industry- She certainly enticed many us into more than one of Yellow Stones many gift shops. We loaded up on mittens, travel mugs, and hot cocoa. I was gearing up for summer, but all I wanted to do was belt out “Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow!”

“How about some ‘NOW! That’s What I Call Christmas. Volume 1?’” I suggested when we were back in the car.

“Oh. Mind meld.” Meredith said and took appreciative action. The picture was complete- with the heat cranked we sipped on chocolatey perfection (okay, so it was probably Swiss Miss) and hummed along with Mariah Carey’s Christmas classic. Nature always seems to catch me off guard-certainly another symptom of my suburban upbringing. I would have never thought tall trees and a little snow could provoke such earnest awe. I slowed down- gracefully turning each corner and even coming to a complete stop to take thoughtful snap shots of Yellowstone’s splendor. I somehow found it within myself to restore my damaged sense of gratitude for this country, and in that moment of appreciation I whole-heartedly meant the words I sang…All I want for Christmas is you... Yellowstone.

Shame Train. Part Two: Mitchell City

2011-05-16T20:48:00.000-07:00

“Rachel?”

I could feel the intensity of Meredith’s stare piercing the side of my already sunburned face.

“Mmhmm?” I acknowledged. I tightened my grip on the nine and five position of the steering wheel and kept my gaze steadily fixed on the miles of nothingness ahead of us. We had been driving through South Dakota for five hours. It seemed like five weeks, and I was beginning to grow exhausted by my new and intimate relationship with the sky. Blue turned dusky turned starry - it was endless. I occasionally felt the need to glance at the Starbucks cups and American Apparel cotton wear that littered the floor of my Toyota Corolla to remind me that there once was, and would likely be, urban civilization again.

“Rachel?” Meredith pressed again. “You’re not talking.” The constant stream of chatter that had thus far characterized our cross-country trek had suddenly been replaced by the constant swoosh and spray of my windshield wipers. Thousands of South Dakotan kamikaze insects had spent the afternoon hitting us head on. Perhaps those endless skies had overwhelmed and exhausted them as well. The wipers were sedulous, but no amount of swooshing and spraying would clear the remains of those death-seeking insects.

“I’m sorry.” I felt frozen, and the mere task of uttering a simple apology took my lips considerable effort.

“It’s just that,“ I turned my head to watch Meredith as she carefully chose her words. “I’ve never heard you be… you know…quiet.” Then she hesitated before asking, “Should I be worried?”

Huh. Should she be worried? My foot sank deeper onto the accelerator, and I didn’t make a sound. I thought that an increased speed would allow for a quicker return to lighthearted banter, but there seemed to be no evading the sound of those wipers or the engulfment of that never-ending-sky.

***

Four hours earlier Meredith and I were deeply and passionately engrossed in debating one of the most polarizing questions of modern times: Who was the superior boy band: N’SYNC or Backstreet Boys? My inner 16 year old grew riled as I listed off all of the merits of the No Strings Attached album.

“Ahhh. RIP, TRL…” Meredith lamented.

“Should we have a top ten memorial countdown?” I asked as I began to queue up a 2001 playlist.

“I think it would be irresponsible not to.”

“I also think it would be irresponsible not to soak up some of this local South Dakotan flavor,” I added as I pulled a Google map out from under my seat. Earlier that week my encounter with Mauston, Wisconsin helped me realign my expectations of the American Heartland. But despite my earlier disappointment, I still felt determined to uncover what made this part of America so… real. Rupert Murdoch should have sent camera crews.

I searched my Midwest travel materials for local dining options. I hoped we would stumble upon one of those real gems - something on a barren dirt road that served the best pecan pie a la mode in the county. The type of place where locals sat at a counter and swung their heads in unison every time a stranger walked in. The type of place that had a continuous loop of John Mellencamp songs playing on the jukebox. The kind of place my American road trip fantasies were made of.

“I’m getting pie,” I prematurely announced, and directed Meredith to drive towards Mitchell City, a town not too far off of South Dakota’s I-90.

“Oh, samezies.” Meredith agreed (more out of hunger than a pressing desire to experience Mitchell City’s unique local charm).

We merged off the interstate and headed through the main strip of Mitchell City. I was hoping for a new American experience, but it did not take long for me to realize that there was something very unappealingly familiar about this town: McDonald’s, Ruby Tuesday, Pizza Hut, Dairy Queen, Walmart. Wait a second. Where were the dirt roads and wafting aroma of roasting pecans?

“No, no, no!” I declared in disbelief. According to my travel materials there’s definitely a Main Street bustling with local business. I grasped my Google map and instructed Meredith to make a left after a Perkin’s. She rounded the corner, and sure enough, things seemed to get a lot more...local.

Meredith pointed at a strip of what seemed to be once thriving Mom and Pop shops. They were all vacated. Could this be a repeat of Canada’s Victoria Day? Was there a South Dakotan holiday that we didn’t account for? But as we drove by each lifeless corner and boarded up shop, it became clear that these stores weren’t closed for the day… they were just…closed.

Street after street of would-be businesses were barren. “Well. This is what my hometown looks like,” Meredith said matter-of-factly after I let out sigh after disappointed sigh. Meredith is from a small town in Northern New Hampshire. She never shared my obsession of discovering the local American flavor. “And this is what a lot of small towns look like,” she added. Meredith was well versed in the consequences of Walmart.

“I just don’t believe it,” I continually repeated over the sound of “ouuuing” and “ahhhing” boy bands in the background. I felt sorry for Mitchell City.

“Two?” the hostess of Perkins asked us ten minutes later. I had accepted that my desire to find Mitchell City locals at a diner counter was a wayside dream, so we surrendered ourselves to corporate sustenance. The hostess’s short thick fingers clenched two menus that were as large as her squat frame. She must have been working a double. Maybe a triple. Dark circles swallowed her tiny eyes, and I couldn’t help to think that the color of her teeth, hair, and skin all matched the same muted gray color of a frozen beef patty. My eyes quickly jetted around the room appraising the Perkins clientele. In a moment of incredible vanity I felt super model thin when I compared myself to each of the Biggest Loser-eligible Perkins’ customers. Meredith and I politely smiled, and then asked if there were vegetarian options available on the menu.

“Vegetarian?” the hostess repeated flatly. Her face grew even grayer while her expression seemed to say, “Goddamn hippies,” as she heaved the large laminated menus in our direction. We silently scanned the colorful pages of photographed hamburgers. We looked back to the hostess, nervously muttered, “thanks,” and scuttled out the door.

Okay. So we weren’t a smashing sensation at Perkins. Back in the car we agreed to circle the town once more. We drove past the half mile long Walmart, back through the desolate Main Street, and then, in my periphery I spotted the strangest sight.

“What. Is. That?” Meredith exclaimed and slammed on the brakes. She slowly reversed and rounded the corner. Grandiose earth toned onion domes, minarets, pillars, and flagpoles stood erected in front of us. A sign reading, “Mitchell Corn Palace,” hung above the entrance.

“A palace?!!” We both asked.

“Do you think Aladdin and Jasmine are home?” I snickered in amused confusion. Could Mitchell City, with its roads of closed businesses and foreclosed homes really have a palace dedicated to personifying and celebrating corn? I quickly consulted my South Dakotan tourism material.

Yes. It most certainly could.

We couldn’t help laughing when we rounded the corner and passed a person wearing a smiling corn on the cob costume. But in that same moment something began weighing on me. I quickly recognized the heavy feeling Mitchell City was beginning to trigger. It’s a feeling that makes my shoulders raise and my stomach sink. A feeling I have been evading for the better half of a lifetime- a feeling I never wanted to feel. I quickly resorted to humor and mockery to squash all emotions.

“Look! Shakes ‘n Stuff!” Meredith said motioning to a lone standing business. “Annnd it’s local!” she added.

“Well, you know I am always available for a shake. And stuff,” I said quickly rebounding from my temporary emotional analysis. But when we stepped into Shakes ‘n Stuff I immediately heard those, “Be carful what you wish for,” warnings reverberating throughout the corners of my mind. Shakes ‘n Stuff was certainly local. Unlike Perkins, the entirety of this menu was written on a small chalkboard above the counter. Three generations of women standing behind the register were friendly and eager to help us identify the vegetarian selections (although in the end we all agreed grilled cheese was the only viable option). Each member of this daughter-mother-grandmother Shakes ‘n Stuff managing trio was larger than the next, and their welcoming smiles were rather lost within their rotund cheeks.

This little eatery was as small as the living room in my first hole in the wall Manhattan apartment. Rickety wooden tables were surrounded by wobbling plastic lawn chairs, and I worried that given their customer base they were in immediate jeopardy of breakage. “Asshole,” I thought to myself as we sat down. At the table next to us a mother and father were having dinner with their young son.

“Eat your vegetables,” the mother said earnestly. She scooped some ketchup onto a waffle French fry and handed it to her son.

Wait. Back up a second…or two decades. Hadn’t America outgrown that Reaganite ‘ketchup is a vegetable’ mentality? I mean, wasn’t that why we had Jillian Michaels and Whole Foods? But I guess in a town centered on corn culture, corn syrup was king… or vegetable…or whatever you wanted it to be. Meredith and I sat in highly communicative silence. She knew why my shoulders were slowly creeping up, and every look she gave to me said, “judgey-wudgey,” as if she were yelling it directly into my ear.

I couldn’t stop staring at each Shakes ‘n Stuff customer and employee. But it was the youngest (and largest) of the women behind the counter who really captivated my attention. Her head was tucked squarely into her chest and speckles of grease clung to her apron and skin. She swept the floor with slow hesitated movement, and each time she lifted her gaze off the floor, she pushed her tiny glasses back up the arch of her nose, exhaustingly refocusing the world. I have never worked in food service, and as my many ex-roommates can vouch, I rarely sweep a floor, but I became very aware that there was something all too familiar about this young woman’s defeated motions. Watching her was like looking directly into a window of my past.

I knew I had been passing unfair (and maybe even cruel) judgment on this town, this family of women, and especially this girl. And I was harshly judging myself for being so damn judgmental. But I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t they help themselves? Didn’t they know the dangers of Walmart and high fructose corn syrup and red meat and Fox News? Both empathy and anger surged through me, and I continued to stuff down any uprising emotion. So when our grilled cheese deluxes and shakes arrived, that’s exactly what I did. Stuff and stuff and stuff.

“It was the morbid obesity, right?!” Meredith asked as we left Shakes ‘n Stuff. I knew she wanted to confirm the source of my shoulder raising anxiety so we could talk it out, make a joke, and move on. But as she tossed me the car keys I knew I would not be the self-deprecating, jokester travel companion she hoped for.

As my best friend, Meredith was well versed in the causes of my shoulder raising anxieties. She knew too well that my messy relationships with food, the number on the scale, and the reflection I saw in the mirror (or tagged Facebook pictures for that matter) were the number one triggers of a disproportionate ear to shoulder ratio. When I buckled my seatbelt and looked over at Meredith I only hoped she understood that it wasn’t my intention to be judgey-wudgey or unkind in Mitchell City. God knows I could just hear my mother say, “Come’on Rayyyyyy, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones.” But my very short visit to Mitchell City had set off a very deeply seeded feeling. No matter how I grow (or shrink) into adulthood, part of me will always see myself as those women in Mitchell City - defeated, depressed, and debilitating big.

Shame.

Back under the big sky of I-90 I pushed the accelerator pedal nearly as far as it could go. I watched the speedometer climb, and when I felt that old familiar sense of velocity building, I started thinking about those incredibly rapid moving trains in New York City. It was aboard one such train four years earlier when I slammed into my awareness of shame. During that time, and even in the years since, I have repeatedly tried to ride away from that heavy emotion, but no matter where I go or how fast I push the accelerator of my life, shame follows.

It was safe to say my windshield had now become a mosquito graveyard. I tried soothing my mind by listening to the constant swoosh and spray of the wipers, but just like that South Dakotan sky, the agitation in my core grew to be all encompassing. Shame was rising up and I couldn’t run, hide, or stuff it back down. And that’s when I thought of Lain.

Lain, my very Zen former New York therapist spent years imploring me to identify my feelings instead of pushing them away. During the Lain period of my life I did not have the emotional bandwidth for detecting and reflecting upon my various moods. But in the years since the time I lived in New York, I have spent a pretty therapy penny on improving (but definitely not perfecting) my relationship with emotions. Despite my psychological strides, whenever I slightly experience the feeling of shame I become emotionally stunted, and an expert in the art of escapism.

As we continued to drive though South Dakota, and as Meredith became increasingly worried about my state of quiet, I wondered, what exactly happened to me in Mitchell City? The evening had started so well! Boy bands were temporarily making a comeback, and the promise of discovering local America was on the horizon. So did I just become ashamed and embarrassed that I once resembled the average Mitchell City citizen? Or was I disappointed that I have yet to gain a mastery over my ongoing issues with food and reflective surfaces? Or was my shame triggered by something bigger than just bigness?

Anyone who has ever seen my blood boiling reaction to Fox News commentators would be astonished to learn that I had been on a Palin-esque mission to discover, “the real America.” While I would never want to tarnish my bluer than blue reputation, I knew that in our drive across the country I was eager to find something more wholesome, more earnest, and less intricate than those concrete urban jungles and over indulged suburbs I had come to know so well. I wanted a Normal Rockwell painting. But instead Mitchell City presented a first hand look at failed businesses, foreclosures, Walmarts, corn culture, human exhaustion, deep fryers, and simple minds. And with each moment I spent there, I realized what I saw in Mitchell City wasn’t just Sarah Palin’s “Real America.” What I saw in Mitchell City was (to my great regret) really America.

Like most young liberal Americans I have often been ashamed of my country. Usually the mention of patriotism or the American Dream or the troops is enough to send me into a fit of eye rolls. But the longer I spend getting better acquainted with this part of the country, the more I discover that I am a lot like America herself. This country is booming big, and (to my great dismay) so am I. My thoughts, ideals, aspirations, mistakes, accomplishments, personality, voice, gestures, expressions are all big. Huge. I wasn’t exactly on the Oregon Trail, but I was moving to Seattle with the grand hope of discovering exciting possibilities and etching out a new life. It was all veryyyyyy American.

I could tell my quiet contemplative state still had Meredith utterly panicked. Although it was against my incredibly chatty nature to sit in silence, for once I didn’t want to just talk for the sake of talking. I looked in the rearview mirror and noticed we were the only vehicle on I-90, and the static scenery made me feel like I wasn’t gaining any ground. And just like my car, my own personal windshield wiper defense system was slowing down. In South Dakota, dodging shame is an exhausting sport.

With each red, white, and blue I-90 mile, I recognized that the line between big dreams and big failures was very thin. Were my big aspirations and bigger personality going to be a big failure on the West Coast? Was I doomed to become like Mitchell City? Like America – a large colorful vessel of nothingness? Lots of words and little content?

I continued to drive through the vast sky until I finally exited for gas, and pulled up behind an extra large pickup truck. The truck was completely covered in insect intestines too.

“How about a Swedish Fish?!” Meredith coaxed and pulled a full yellow bag of our favorite road trip candy out of her purse. Surely the offer of refined sugar would snap me out of my quiet lull. It didn’t. We traded spots. I sunk into the passenger seat, leaned my head against the window, and although I wanted to avoid eye contact my eyes met the dark sky. Unlike my escape from shame years before in New York, it was not so easy to hide from feelings in South Dakota. I couldn’t joke. I couldn’t laugh, get lost on the subways, hide under skyscrapers, mindlessly chat, sing along with teen pop, eat my feelings, hide or run from them. It was us and the road and the sky. And shame.

It was new, but it was certain - I was feeling my feelings. Back in bustling Manhattan, Lain would be so proud. I looked at Meredith and was finally able to vocalize a simple explanation that I only hoped she would understand.

“It’s like the Mitchell City shame train express.” I said, “feeling your feelings at 75 MPH.”

She nodded in understanding. I closed my eyes and continued to sit with the feeling of shame. Shame for the person I once was and shame for the person I was fearful of becoming. But in the midst of my discomfort I felt a speckle of relief. What if I wasn’t entirely on the same road as America? Maybe finally feeling my feelings is a sign that (unlike arrogant politicians and Fox New commentators) I am capable of acknowledging my mistakes and making small but real changes. Maybe I’m capable of filling that colorful vessel with meaningful content, and riding through the scariest places, because maybe, feeling the effects of a debilitating past can provide a road map for an invigorating future… or at least a path out of Mitchell City.

Shame Train. Part One: New York

2010-10-24T18:27:00.000-07:00

“Rachel?” Lain nudged.

Always fidgeting, I had been pulling on the split ends of my endlessly long hair while swinging my feet up and down off the edge of the sofa in her office. I could tell that she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

“Rachel?” she pushed again.

I avoided looking at her and began snapping my hair elastic against my wrist.

Snap.

I had heard Lain, and I knew it was my turn to make a move. I never needed an invitation to chat, but this was more than a request for simple conversation.

Snap.

“Rachel.” This time she almost whispered my name. Lain’s voice was serene and smooth, and like the wafting aroma of incense, it lingered in the air even after she spoke. I stopped snapping my now stinging wrist and scanned the perfectly feung shuy room. I knew this office too well. Each piece of furniture and decorative trinket had become so etched in my brain that I would regularly interrupt climatic conversations to say, “Hey wait a second—you moved that chair!” or “Oh! That picture is new. Who’s the artist?”

I counted on my remembrance of this room for the exact purpose of derailing our conversations before they reached point awkward. Of course, my well-timed disruptions were not particularly well-timed for Lain, who spent a large part of 2007 encouraging me to talk about something –anything –not related to her office décor, Grey’s Anatomy, or my developing crush on Barack Obama.

“I really feel like he is the most attractive politician in a century. I mean, given the opportunity, I’d be the next Monica,” I’d very regularly emphasize to Lain. “What?!” I’d add with preemptive defense, “Didn’t you want me to talk about my feeeeeelings?”

I walked (or perhaps more accurately, I was pushed) through Lain’s office door for the first time in January 2007. After years of claiming to be ‘anti-feelings,’ that winter my suppressed emotions seemed to have gotten the better of me. My behavior became more erratic than ever, and although I argued that I was fine, (“Fine. Fine. Fine. Leave me alone. I’m fine.”), with an unstable mood, contorted relationship with food, and body image that was skewed, it seemed that I was, well – screwed. There is not enough room on the Internet to give a detailed account of the particular variety of complicated crazy I was experiencing. Suffice it to say, Lain had her work cut out for her.

Lain and I had spent the past several weeks in her Manhattan office skirting in and out of conversations about my family dynamic. This was a loaded topic I could only ever approach with copious sarcasm and mockery. Although talking about my relationship with Fran was a nice break from analyzing my relationship with my pant size. Gap trousers are not nearly as imitable as my mother.

As I sat on Lain’s couch, I would channel the spirit of both my Italian and Jewish ancestors by giving mile-a-minute accounts of the "he said/ she said" door-slamming facts of the past. Despite my animated retellings, I knew that Lain wanted to uncover more than just a dramatic plot line. Lain was on the hunt for those deeply seeded, perhaps even unfelt emotions that, to this day, continue to affect me. “Rachel, try to dig a little bit deeper,” Lain would say whenever I stopped talking to come up for air.

“Deeper?!” I would cry in outrage. “I just spent over an hour telling you how mad I was about a fight I had 1997. How much deeper can I get? What, did you want me to reenact the moment I kicked a kitchen chair?”

Secretly though, I also knew I was holding back. Ever since our discussions moved onto my family, I would leave Lain’s office in a fit of agitation. I would aggressively dodge pedestrians, taxicabs, and this new heavy feeling all the way to Penn Station before hopping on the first express train to Syosset. The faster the train moved, the less I felt the need to emotionally articulate this new mystery feeling. And for my own protection, I was determined to keep up the speed.

It was on an icy March Thursday when I began to lose velocity. I had been sitting on the Long Island Railroad dreading my pending visit with Lain. I was sleepy and gently leaned my forehead against the frosted window to watch the changing scenery as we moved from station to station. Suburban sprawl slowly turned into the grittier Queens streetscape. When the train stopped at Jamaica, the switching point for all Long Island commuters, I felt myself transitioning into a different mode too. Waking up.

“Attention all passengers. We’ve got a stalled train in front of us. We’ll be here for another ten to fifteen minutes,” the conductor announced throughout the train. I was already running ten minutes late, and I began to feel a little bit on edge. My gaze anxiously jetted around the train until I focused straight ahead on the NBC News 4 New York advertisement. And then, as though I were the one who slammed on the breaks of the train, I screeched into awareness—I was in New York!

I mean, of course I knew that I was physically in New York. I had been in New York for months, but somehow the huge significance of this place had escaped me. I had thought that after I graduated college the previous May I would never have to confront New York again. I thought I would swing into town twice a year for a Broadway show and mother-daughter pedicure then flee town before things got—tricky—complicated—loud. But here I was.

A colleague once told me that I had a large personality because I was a New Yorker, as if I had to actively compete with the skyscrapers and Broadway shows for attention. To this charge Meredith laughed and said "As long as you are comprised of Fran's genetic makeup and have access to your collection of showtunes you would have a large personality in the sub-Saharan desert." But my colleague was right. There is a distinctive part of my personality that is large, loud—New York.

While it was no secret that I considered myself an anti-feelings adult, this was not always the case. I come from a family that is booming loud. Potential holiday dinner guests are warned that they might incur hearing loss by the time dessert is served. But it is not only our decibel level that is booming; our feelings, actions, and reactions are also large. And mine tended to be the loudest and largest of the bunch. And it made me feel big. And I was. When I graduated high school I was as large as an NFL defensive tackle, and I just couldn't take the weight of it all anymore. I fled New York to the woods of New Hampshire, and resolved to end my relationship with emotion. And carbs. I resolved to shrink. I thought I did. But there on the Long Island Railroad, the picture of Sue Simmons and the rest of 4 New York team reminded me that I was in New York and hadn't successfully escaped from those large feelings and that utter sense of….

Shame.

And that was it. That was the feeling I had been dodging. It was not a word I liked, and I immediately fell into a state of restless discomfort. The train was still sitting still, and I needed it to move full speed ahead. I desperately needed to get off, and escape into the concrete playground of Manhattan. I needed to swing from the cover of one protective building to another, squeeze though the passengers of the overcrowded 2/3 Express Train, glide between the cases of books at 66th Street Barnes and Noble, and hop from one midtown pretzel vendor to the next until that word eradicated itself from my vernacular. It remained in my unspoken vocabulary for weeks though, and my mind and my body had become grossly bloated. I was surely going to bust, and Lain could tell.

One day, as I was snapping that hair elastic against my wrist, and describing a saga that had left me sobbing in the seventh grade girls bathroom, Lain asked me the question I was dreading. And after three failed attempts to get my answer, Lain asked me again.

“Rachel—how does that make you feel?”

“Feel? I don’t know.”

I knew, but I still could not say it. So instead I said the biggest and scariest words I could say.

“I feel large. Obese. Morbidly obese.”

Snap.

I expected Lain to tell me, ‘Rachel, large or full or hungry or skinny or obese, or even morbidly obese, are not feelings.’ Well, duh. And I was not morbidly obese. Especially not then.

She didn’t say anything. Instead she waited for me. Lain’s patience was perhaps her strongest, if not most annoying attribute. But generally after enough time, noise, frustration, and failed attempts, Lain’s patience would prevail, and she would be able to get through to me. I was kind of like AOL 2.0.

“I’m ashamed,” I confessed. My shoulders inched up so high that my neck had all but disappeared.

Snap.

Lain: 1. Rachel: 0.

Acknowledging this word did not offer me a sense of relief nor comfort. And it certainly did not relieve the feeling of shame. If anything my admittance of shame made me feel more ashamed. I was once a plus sized person who had plus sized feelings. And even though I claimed to have squashed feeling now, I still responded to any lurking emotions by making plus sized mistakes.

Snap.

Lain still did not speak. I was becoming very aware of the silence in her office. “Ummmm. Soooo,” I said as I fidgeted, “no big deal.” Then against the honking cars and drilling jack hammers coming from the midtown Manhattan street below, Lain delicately said, “Rachel, you need to feel your feelings.”

Wait a second.

Feel my feelings?!

Isn’t recognizing an emotion indicating that you are in fact, feeling? Couldn’t she be satisfied that I just said I was experiencing shame? Didn’t she know how many uncomfortable train trips I had because of this emotional discovery? Not to mention the fact that I could not longer watch the NBC 11 o’clock news. God! Sometimes I really hated Lain. My feet began swinging, and my eyes began scanning back and forth from the door to the window. I was more than ready to escape to the solace of the streets below.

“Anyway,” I detracted, “I like your sweater. Is that new?”

It was certain. This conversation had come to an end because Lain knew, just like in those old, precarious Internet days, after much patience she might be able to get through, but she wouldn’t be able to stay connected for very long.

Rule of the Road #4: Quality

2010-06-06T21:47:00.000-07:00

The Mall of America might not have made it onto the itinerary of our cross country trip, but I have always counted on the fact that all malls in America are reliably the same. Since Michigan’s I-90 is not laden with cutting edge adventure, we sought out the Briarwood Mall in Ann Arbor for a perfectly standardized shopping excursion. When we pulled into the parking lot I felt quite at home in this bit of commercialized suburbia. I knew exactly what my shopping day would entail – the five for $25 high cut brief special at Victoria Secret, a $12 manicure at a Korean nail salon, the smell of buttery delicious carbohydrates wafting from the Pretzel Time vendor, and mass produced cheap chic at Forever 21.

Just as I loved to hate, (or was it hated to love?) the strip malls and box stores that clutter the roads of Long Island, I similarly hated to love the colorfully cluttered racks of Forever 21. Despite its massive popularity, I had boycotted this store for years. Of course everyone loves a bargain, but when Forever 21’s cheaply made, scantily cut, pre-pubescent clothing started triggering my body image anxiety and my 'this-was-made-in-a-sweat-shop' guilt, my therapy bills doubled. In the end, I wasn't getting such a deal. But eventually, my need to own cheap neon clothing and accessories suppressed my better sense of ethics and sanity.

I would never describe myself as a Material Girl, but there is just something about owning new things – even if they are cheap new things – that is incredibly gratifying. Although I tried to resist the temptation, it was only minutes into our Briarwood Mall excursion before Meredith and I were baited by the Forever 21 accessory sale. Like any ongoing bad relationship, I knew opening that door to Forever 21 would cause me upset and wasted money, but I couldn’t help myself! The window displays held such promise! I needed to buy something, and a $9.90 faux leather black belt became just what I had always wanted!

Later that night, in our Chicago hotel room, I was rushing to get ready. I am a notoriously bad time manager, and I had lost all sense of time by indulging in the hotel’s copious cable offerings. I hastily dried my hair, threw together my clothes, and kept that yellow Forever 21 bag in the corner of my eye. Forget Meredith, that belt would be my hot Chi-town date – but when I picked that bad boy up and ripped off the tag, the belt buckle snapped in two pieces.

“Ahhhhhh!” I hollered in pain.

“Are you okay?” Meredith shouted from the bathroom. Given that I am prone to accidents, she naturally assumed I had stubbed my toe or walked into a wall.

“I’m fine… just disappointed,” I griped as she came over to assess the damage.

“It’s Forever 21. What do you expect?” she said while trying to piece together the two halves of my belt. It was easy for her to say. She got to wear her new purchases, and I felt like my date had stood me up. How could I go out on the town now? Accessory-less. Alone. Vulnerable.

But Meredith was right. I knew exactly what I would get from my continued relationship with Forever 21: disappointment. But love is blind, and I’m not the only smitten fool. You’d be hard pressed to find a twenty-something woman – make that a twenty something on a budget – who is not drawn in by the promise of affordable trends. Just as often as Forever 21 excites our fashion conscious hopes, its products quickly rip, pill, shrink, and fade. Yet we go back! And just when we’ve sworn off those cheap things and vowed to end the cycle, their colorful racks and clearance sales entice us back. We think it will be different this time around. This time we’ll get a well constructed garment! This time it will last. And sure, your new floral dress might hold up for awhile, but eventually, when you’re counting on it the most, it will fall to shreds.

In fashion and in relationships, why do we turn a blind eye to the big picture in order to gratify our immediate desires? Wouldn’t our closets be fuller and our hearts more satisfied if we added one well made, well matched garment at a time?

Rule of the Road: Quality not quantity.

Rule of the Road #3: They had it coming

2010-06-05T13:39:00.000-07:00

I have been a vegetarian for eleven years. Despite this status, I must admit, I am not always fond of animals. Sure, I adore puppies and bunnies and giraffes at the zoo, but I really cannot tolerate the raccoons in my garbage or classroom hamsters or biting insects or chirpy birds when I am trying to sleep at 5:00 AM. My friends tease my vegetarian hypocrisy, but my response is always the same – I don’t like crying children or irrational Republicans, but I don’t want to eat them. I care about their well being. I want them alive – okay, maybe we could do without Rush Limbaugh.

All ethics aside, with just one moment of my distracted driving, over a decade of consideration for animals went flying out the window (or should I say, tumbling under the car). It happened right before the American border on 401 South in Canada. The highway was empty, and Meredith and I were channeling our light-FM-inner-rock-star selves as we lip-synced to the classic, “I’ve Had the Time of my Life,” duet. I had gotten very caught up putting on by best Patrick Swayze, and I began to drift. Before I could resituate myself between the proper lane lines, a raccoon shot out of the densely forested roadside. It was too late to slam on the breaks. The little critter became my first road kill.

I felt awful. My guilt consumed me for the remainder of 401 South all the way to Michigan. I had spent a decade being respectful of animals. I had even gone as far as bringing the spiders crawling in my bathroom to outdoor freedom. Now I was a Canadian raccoon murderer.

After the incident we turned off the Dirty Dancing Soundtrack, and I tried my damnedest to stay in one lane – a difficult feat. But from the corner of my eye I noticed that my raccoon (RIP) was not the first victim to 401. Somewhere before Detroit it became abundantly clear that the animal kingdom was not particularly invested in roadside safety. Squirrels, deer, raccoons, possums, and skunks all crossed the highway with no regard to the cars passing at 85 MPH. I remained cautious of them though even if it meant additional swerves in my driving.

By the time we reached South Dakota, my animal saving loopty-loops had left Meredith and me nauseous. The birds were flying low and the four-legged critters were popping up fast. The perpetual state of car sickness halted my road kill guilt. Eventually, when one of those low flying birds hit my windshield at full force, I merely shrugged. Call me a hypocrite, but I was more invested in lip syncing my heart out to light FM than I was in swerving for animals who were walking the line of danger. Rule of the Road: They had it coming.

Chivalry is Dead in Wisconsin

2010-06-04T00:38:00.000-07:00

Bump.

Drift.

Swerve.

This was more than the wind.

Bump.

Burning rubber.

This was more than my usual bad driving.

Schreeeeeeeeech.

Ut oh.

It was day five of our trek across the country and Meredith and I had just spent the night in Mauston, Wisconsin. This was a town comprised of highway exits, gas stations, and an excessive presence of the Motel 66 chain. I had recently become obsessed with experiencing the local cultures on our route to Seattle. In an effort to stay true to the local flavor of Mauston, earlier that morning Meredith and I ate an abundance of saturated breakfast foods at a truck stop restaurant. We were sluggish, greasy, and Thanksgiving style full as we dug our stretchiest stretch pants from the back of my Toyota Corolla. When we slid ourselves into the front seat we had a game plan of making it through the American Heartland in time to see the Mount Rushmore night show.

But after the screeching I had an ominous feeling about the status of my tires and the plan for presidential fireworks. I pulled off to the side of road. For a moment Meredith and I sat paused in vacillation. Our faces flashed from expressions of concern to despair to amusement. We hesitated to open our doors- Wisconsin cars were speeding by at an alarming rate. But eventually, with physical and emotional caution, we proceeded to the back of the car.

I am regularly scolded for making light of situations. Over the years I have learned to turn despair into amusement with the wink of an eye and the crack of a joke. Naturally, when Meredith and I discovered that we had a flat tire- make that an exploded tire- on the side of I-90 outside of Mauston, Wisconsin, I was the one who let out the first stifled giggle. I knew that in most ordinary situations the thought of being stranded outside of Mauston would have Meredith in a fit of laughter too. But this had not been the first bump or explosion of our cross-country trek. In the moment it took me to look over at Meredith, I wondered if my giggles had been too soon or too insensitive. But following one serious eyebrow raise, Meredith also let out a stream of disbelieved laughter. I was relieved to know that a tire could not deflate our sense comedic appreciation.

Five days earlier we had four fully inflated tires and a game plan for the smooth American road ahead. It is a well-known fact that I love a game plan - or GP as it has been coined. I regularly ask friends, co-workers, total strangers, what’s the GP? What are we doing? Where are we going? When are we leaving? Who will be there? And a litany of other questions that will help me better align my expectations, or at the very least, figure out how late I can manage to arrive without receiving nasty glares. When Meredith and I devised our trip to Seattle, we had a solid GP. We spent long nights on the phone asking those important questions- Do you want to go to Niagara Falls? What about Detroit? What is there to do in Minnesota? How about the Mall of America? Who can we visit in Chicago? What about camping? Thoughts on Canada? Do you think there is such a thing as too much Journey on a driving playlist?

You know, the really essential stuff.

I even prepared an entire binder of material dedicated to the cross country GP. In accordance with plans, five days earlier, the Delta Moving Company semi-automatic truck squeezed down my tiny street. Carlos and Juan, our non English-speaking movers, cleared my apartment of all of my fine Ikea furniture. After Carlos handed me a bill that was twice as much money as I expected to pay, my reaction was similar to the stifled giggle I had on the side of I-90.

You are kidding me, right? Este no es serio, verdad Carlos?!

But Carlos gave me the international expression for ‘I’m sorry, you’ve just been duped.' The inflated bill had not been an error. Even then, when I understood that this was a moment of tragedy and loss, my giggles would not be stifled. So I laughed on.

In the weeks that led up to our move I had spent many hours communicating with Eddie, our Delta Moving Company sales associate. Each time I would call Eddie with a concern associated with the cost of this long distance move, his response was always the same.

“Tell ya what,” Eddie would say in his heavily accented Brooklyn vernacular, “I’m gonna give you a deal.”

I love hearing that I am getting a deal. So, I would listen and accept Eddie’s vaguely explained answers without asking him many follow-up questions. And if I did, Eddie would say the same thing.

“Ya know…I’m givin’ ya a deal…ya know, this is a family business.”

I considered that maybe Eddie way playing to the fact that I’m a sucker for supporting family businesses. Or maybe Eddie knew I was just a sucker in general. But I believed him. I really thought he was giving us an honest price. If every family has their secrets, then the secrets of the Delta Moving family lived in the fine print, because for each cost I expected to pay there was a new mandatory additional cost typed in Time New Roman font size six on my bill.

So we called Eddie. What happened to the deal? We tried to rationalize. We tried to renegotiate. We tried to explain – we are young and moving all the way across the country and on a budget. In the name of good business and human kindness, wasn’t there anything he could do?! All Eddie could do was hang up the phone. Yes, this sounded exactly like family.

We were having limited success with the Delta Moving Company. My laughter turned into hyperventilation, and soon enough the worry and grief that I am so accustomed to feeling, (but so used to supressing) manifested on my face. I had expected smooth sailing to Seattle, but we were nearly knocked out by a huge wave before we even left my Cambridge kitchen. We quickly rebudget and reconceive our plan- any excessive hotel, or restaurant reservation, or day trip needed to get cut. Goodbye Mall of America, goodbye Niagra Falls, goodbye four star Marriots.

I instinctively knew that our trip would still be chock full of amazing moments, but my overwhelming flood of disappointment could not be stifled. Before very long, I was sprawled on my barren kitchen floor sobbing for the loss of our money, and our GP, and our trip to the Mall of America. If tears could fuel a moving truck we would have no problem getting all of our possessions to Seattle. But since they can’t, we waited for the ink and tear stains to dry and handed the check over to Carlos.

Back on the side of I-90, we got the giggles and the jokes out of our system, and then I asked Meredith if she knew how to change a tire.

“Absolutely not.” She responded straight-faced. “Do you?”

“Please.” I said in feigned insult and dialed AAA for roadside assistance.

Call failed.

I tried again.

Call failed.

“No service!” I shouted.

I tried again with Meredith’s phone.

Call Failed.

I tried again.

I straddled the inside and the outside of the car, tilted my head to the left, and held the phone at a ninety-three degree angle to the sky, and I was finally able to connect with an AAA representative. I answered her basic questions, but could not be very specific with my location or I-90 exit number. We hadn’t passed a sign since we entered the highway. I had become so reliant on car technology- I had not counted on the fact that Wisconsin was the place where satellite signals and 3G technology came to die.

“Ummmm,” I said to AAA. My arm was growing tired from holding the phone at such an awkward angle, “Is it helpful to know that we were in Mauston earlier that morning?”

No. That was not helpful.

The time passed and no matter how we tried to manipulate the position of our car technology, we still could not identify our location. Then Meredith became annoyed. I didn’t know whether it was the lost 3G, or the saturated Wisconsin breakfast, or Eddie himself that made her storm proactively out of the car. But before I could even yell “Stop!” Meredith, in her favorite stretchy pant-flip-flop combination, went sprinting down the side of I-90. From the rearview mirror I watched, both thankfully and nervously, Meredith fight against the wind and the cars in search of our exit.

When she fell out of view and dozens of more cars went racing by, it occurred to me- we had been on the shoulder of the road for nearly an hour. Our flashers were signaling, our tire had exploded, and not one Wisconsin driver stopped to help us. If we were in the heartland, then where was the heart? Where was the kindness? Where was the chivalry? I expected more from the value voters.

When Meredith came back into sight, I watched again, as she fought through the gusts of I-90. This time, she was motioning to me. She held up three fingers, and then she held up six fingers. Numerical deductions were never one of my strengths, so by the time I comprehended that three and six meant thirty-six, a very winded Meredith had jumped back into the car.

“We,” inhale, “are,” exhale, “at,” inhale, “mile…”

“Thirty-six,” we said in unison. Meredith was talking to me, and I was talking to the AAA representative. Astoundingly, she had stayed on hold. While we waited for the tow truck to arrive we looked from one passing car to the next. It seemed like Meredith and I were having a mind meld, because when she eventually caught her breath and readjusted her stretchy pants, all she could say was, “Chivalry is dead in Wisconsin.”

I knew each second we waited was a second that took us further and further from the Mount Rushmore night show. The tow truck finally arrived an hour later and I mourned the lost time and the failure of yet another GP. Meredith and I squished in the front seat of tow truck on our way to the local Walmart tire center. Now I was the one who was annoyed and frustrated. I sat in that front and questioned the whole point of having a GP anyway. What had been the purpose of all of those hours I had spent laying out plans for moving, and seeing presidential fireworks, and visiting the Mall of America, and having a career, and dynamic relationships, and a meaningful life. I suppose it is true that I make light of situations, but this habit was learned- or rather born after years of feeling disappointed that nothing I really wanted or painstakingly planned ever came to fruition. And I wondered, was my constant need to still devise a GP really just a G—a Game? A joke? A wish?

When we arrived at Walmart, everything from the tire and the Massachusetts license plate, to Meredith’s purchase of Mystic Pizza, and my vegetarian sandwich order were appraised by the local Wisconsinites. "You wanted a taste of the local flavor." Meredith reminded me as we also appraised the mullets, camouflage t-shirts, and high volume of motorized shopping carts at Walmart. In any other circumstance I would have been genuinely amused by my surroundings, but I was too distracted with the continued unfriendliness of the locals. I wondered if my Long Island accent was really that offensive.

I had only hoped that I caught Wisconsin on a bad day.

We didn’t see fireworks that night- we didn’t even try. It turns out, America, like my life, is not a place that really fits into a cleverly conceived GP. It’s not a place you can calculate. The roads are coarse and the tires (especially the Walmart tires) are cheap. But if you tune in to the right classic rock radio station on your trip through the brilliant cities and sprawling plains, you might just learn from an old band that you can’t always get what you want –a little kindness on the side of the highway, an envy inducing career, and a visit to the Mall of America.

But sometime—when you’re stranded outside of Mauston, Wisconsin, with a friend who also defies the GP and expectations when she runs down the side of the interstate— you just might find, you get what you need.

Rule of the Road #2: Speak the Language

2010-06-03T14:39:00.000-07:00

Our first stop was Toronto. We thought, Canada- great- they’re nice, and they speak English! Eh? It turns out our neighbors upstairs don't always speak with an American accent.

1. In order to best speak any language, you will actually need to be able to speak. The night before we left on our cross-country trek my friend Allie stirred together the remnants of my refrigerator and poured a multitude of goodbye drinks. I drank each glass, and I put on my best 80’s dancing flip-flops before heading to the Phoenix Landing. I sang with all of my heart to the very best of Madonna, Tiffany and Wham!. The next morning when I woke up on my bare living room floor I realized I left my voice at the Phoenix Landing. For the entirety of our trip I made Anne Bancroft sound like Michael Jackson. Weeks later and I am still not sure my voice is fully restored. Rule of the Road: Do not sing “Love Shack” at the top of your lungs in the bar the night before you drive across country. Your lost voice will only prevent you from being able to belt out all the best of Jefferson Starship in the car the next day.

2. Garmin does not speak Canadian. Neither do American Google Maps. Rule of the Road: www.google.ca/maps

3. A U-Turn is the international move for- Whoops! And Canadians will understand if you cut them off. Rule of the Road: When in doubt make a U-Turn.

4. American ignorance is not bliss on May 24^th. It is Canada's Victoria Day. Everything, including beloved American fast foods chains are closed. Rule of the Road: Consult international calendars.

5. Braggers. Canada is full of braggers. Sure, you have gay marriage, and health care for all, and functioning banks, and the tallest building in the hemisphere…yada, yada, yada, yada. But we have Jersey Shore and the KFC Double Down. Rule of the Road: God Bless America.

Rule of the Road #1: Learn to Drive

2010-06-02T22:02:00.000-07:00

Unlike most teenagers, my sixteenth birthday came and went without me showing any interest in learning how to drive. In a parent-child role reversal, my mother began to repeatedly ask me when I wanted to visit the DMV. “Not now, I don’t really want to wait on that line.” I would unenthusiastically say each time she tried to incentivize me to get a driver’s permit. The same way parents panic when their toddler does not walk or talk at the developmentally appropriate age, Fran was entirely nervous that her sixteen year old daughter was stalled- how could I not want to learn how to drive?!

I might not have had an interest in driving, but I regularly dreamed up daring adventures and intimate trips on roads far and away. I requested to go on foliage car rides in upstate New York, and I studied maps of California’s Route-1. I longed to whip around the curves of the mighty Pacific with the salty scent of the ocean lingering on my upper lip. I even pictured myself driving a vintage car on the left side of the road as I travelled through the majestic and mysterious English moors. In comparison to my grand dreams of exploration, the thought of learning to navigate my parents’ car down 495: The Long Island Expressway (with the smell of McDonalds and suburbia wafting through the windows) was less than thrilling.

But all great roads and journeys must start somewhere, so I learned to drive on the Long Island Expressway. In an attempt to be kind to my sixteen-year-old self, I will just say, I didn’t take to the art of driving very well. The swerving, drifting, and speeding that characterize my current driving style were all in a heightened state during those early lessons. When I made my first really illegal move- accidentally driving through a red light- my father vowed to never practice with me again. Fran was slightly more patient, but she clutched onto the drivers side door with such terrorized force that I wondered whether she was trying to heave herself out of the car or remain safely in it.

“Rayyyyyy!! Rayyyyy!! Rayyyyychel,” she would say through clenched teeth, “you don’t need to be Mario Andretti.”

Months of practice and many maternal heart palpitations later, I began to understand the basic principals of the road. The week before my seventeenth birthday I went to the DMV and attempted to get my Driver’s License- that bit of laminated gold teenagers hold onto with a sense of hubristic accomplishment. When the DMV examiner slid into the front seat of my car, and instructed me to pull away from the curve, I felt those unnerving butterflies corroding the interior of my stomach. During the test I thought I had been doing well. Okay, so I momentarily forget the difference between left and right and continued to drive for two blocks after the examiner told me to bring the car to a complete stop, but at least I wasn’t putting anyone’s life in jeopardy, right? But when I began making a left turn into oncoming traffic, and the examiner grabbed the wheel out of my hand with the same terrorized force as Fran, I knew I had failed.

I went home and cried. Wailed, actually. I guess I wanted a bit of that laminated gold too.

Before my second road test I made so many practice left turns that I seemed to come full circle, but I tried to exude confidence as I manipulated the car in the area around the Hicksville DMV.

“Parallel park behind this car.” The examiner said while motioning me over to the side of a residential road. I put on my flasher, and twisted the wheel, and twisted the wheel, and twisted the wheel, and went in reverse, and- thump! I looked over my right shoulder to see that had hit a telephone pole.

Ooops.

This time I didn’t intrinsically know the test was over, but when I asked if I could try parallel parking again the examiner held back her laughter. Who knew that when you get in an accident on your road test you automatically fail? On my third try to get my drivers license, I passed. And like every other teenager, I displayed my Drivers License with pompous pride. I all but forgot about the days I didn’t want to be seen cruising the Long Island Expressway.

After living along the car-cluttered streets of Cambridge I can finally say that I know how to parallel park. I am still working on driving inside the lines- I suppose mastering driving is a continuous art form. And although my journey of 3,031 miles is starting in Massachusetts, if I didn’t follow Rule of the Road# 1 and learn to how to drive on Long Island, I could still be dreaming of bold adventures instead of having them. Who knows how many more miles I will travel after Seattle, but if the time should ever arrive, I will be all too prepared to cruise the English countryside in a vintage car.

Schwinn City

2010-06-01T21:41:00.000-07:00

The night that I met him, I was, for lack of a better term, a hot mess. I could count the number of hours I had slept that week on one hand. I had forgot the last time I washed my hair, and I had just consumed three consecutive large coffees and two diet orange sodas. It was two days before Thanksgiving of my senior year of college, and I was frantically attempting to retrieve some last minute research for my antebellum literature term paper. The library was scheduled to close in fifteen minutes. I panicked while I began quietly cursing Harriet Beacher Stowe and the online card catalogue system. I eventually stumbled off my chair and up to the reserve desk with a list of eleven books.

“Please tell me you have these,” I said as I handed the library attendant the list of books. I smiled and showed him my very tightly crossed fingers to really emphasize the importance of E449 .R35, Religion and the Antebellum Debate Over Slavery. He took the list and returned five minutes later with the high pile of books.

“You’re in luck!” he said and smiled as he peered to the side of the books. I didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed that I would be engrossed in research all weekend long.

“So what are you writing about?” he asked after he checked out each of my books. I explained the intentions I had for my term paper and added appropriate eye rolls to underscore just how ready I was for graduation that May. I was in good company –he was also a senior who was going to be spending his Thanksgiving weekend immersed in Immanuel Kant’s theories on ethics. We had been lost in laughter and chatter when I finally looked at the clock and saw that I had spent the better part of twenty minutes with this library employee. The only person left in the library was Britty, my very patient friend and study companion.

“Well, Happy Thanksgiving,” I said as I tried to balance my books.

“You too!”

“I’m Rachel, by the way.”

“Mark.” And there was that smile again.

When I walked out the door and down the steps of the Dimond Library, I felt a new and strange sensation pass through my core. I tried to shake it off, but it lingered.

“You were flirting with that guy!” Britty accused on our walk home.

I didn’t know how to respond to this charge. I was an English major who lived in a sorority house – I hardly ever came in contact with members of the opposite sex, let alone flirted with them.

“Him? The library guy? No. No. No." I felt uncharacteristically defensive as I gave an explanation of why Mark was just not my type.

And he wasn’t. Mark was short and balding and wearing an old flannel shirt and grass stained pants that were awkwardly rolled up. "It looked like he just escaped the flood!" I argued on our walk back home. No, Mark wasn’t the type of teen-heartthrob-look-alike that usually made my heart flutter.

“Okay…” Britty said, as if she already knew we would be revisiting this conversation again. So I put Mark out of mind, travelled home for the holiday, and gained a very thorough understanding of Harriet Beacher Stowe and her position on Christianity.

When I returned to bitter cold New Hampshire for my last semester of college, I had limited expectations. My friends had already started making teary declarations of “I am going to miss you so much,” and, “I want to stay in college forever,” but I was more than ready to end the Durham chapter of my life. And with only five months left, I did not foresee any new and colorful chapters beginning. I really wasn’t expecting anything but an easy ‘A’ when I walked into my ‘Shakespeare in the Cinema’ class. But as I slid into an empty desk in the back of the room, I saw a pair of rolled pants and a dirty flannel shirt sitting next to me. Smiling. And that strange sensation returned to my core.

So I befriended Mark, or maybe he befriended me. However it went, we became friends. Our “heys!” and “his!” eventually evolved into longer conversations. When we weren’t bemoaning our Shakespeare professor’s grading system (it turned out to not be such an easy A), or talking about his participation in the Organic Gardening Club, or my recent acceptance into Americorps, I would watch, with curious fascination, as Mark walked around the library to turn off all the desk lights that were carelessly left on. “Do you know how much energy they waste?” he would say calm but impassioned when I asked him about this lamp habit.

“You’re flirting again!” Britty would accuse after I’d leave the reserve desk with a large pile of books that I didn’t really need. I would deny the flirtation over and over again.

“Yes, he’s very nice, but he’s a little weird. Do you know he’s like… a farmer?”

“A farmer?!” Britty asked just as mystified as I was. It was as if Mark were an alien invader from Mars. We were from the suburbs. There were no farms. In this pre Food, Inc./All things Michael Pollan time, the idea that someone was a farmer was mystifying and foreign and weird.

Despite the perceived weirdness I had been spending more and more time in the library. I felt almost a physical yearning to be there – to be in close proximity to Mark. He was an infectiously good person. He made me want to turn off lights, call my grandparents, compost, and find the closest locally grown vegetable. And I noticed that the more time I spent talking to him, the more I found myself trying to channel my apathetic senioritis into goodness too. I wanted to be worthy of a friend like Mark.

One winter afternoon I sat on the steps of the Dimond Library. The sun had emerged long enough to create a false sense of spring hope, and I was appreciating the moment. In the distance I spotted Mark on an old red Schwinn bicycle. I had little knowledge or even interest in bicycles, but seeing Mark on that bicycle changed something in me. That Schwinn represented everything Mark stood for and the values I was beginning to embrace as well. Sure, Mark was not no proverbial teen heartthrob, but he was substance and character and kindness. And that was so much more. And after I saw him, and after he smiled at me, my denial was over.

Over the next months I would tell any one of my ninety-seven sorority sisters (or actually any human being who would listen) about Mark from the library. “Mark was an organic farmer and worked in the library and studied philosophy and English and went to Honduras to, “ya know, like help people,” and he was smart and interesting and kind and rode a Schwinn. Mark. Mark. Mark. Mark.

Maybe it was because they had never seen me gush over anyone besides Joshua Jackson or my Edward Norton look alike English advisor, or maybe they were also perplexed that there existed human life outside of the Greek system, but suddenly, ninety-seven sorority girls were personally invested in seeing a romantic relationship with Mark come to fruition for me. They encouraged me to continue flirting. So I did.

We did.

We flirted, we giggled, and we passed notes to each other as he walked by my table to turn off those wasteful lamps. And my feeling of affection for Mark grew. And I stopped eating and sleeping and socializing. And I obsessed. And my feelings grew more. And the only thing better than really, really, sincerely, truly, honestly liking Mark, was thinking that he really, really, sincerely, truly, honestly liked me back.

“You two are like…. totally going to date,” my friend Emmy would say each time I checked out a book or found any possible excuse to experience just one flirtatious moment with Mark. I trusted Emmy. Emmy always had a boyfriend. If Emmy said Mark and I were going to date, well then we were totally going to date.

But just as I became accustomed to that strange sensation in my core – the sensation that Mark’s smile triggered – Mark suddenly stopped smiling. He became unfriendly and sullen. He stopped passing notes when he walked by my lamp at the library. He stopped telling me stories about the Organic Gardening Club. It all just stopped?

What had happened?

I was determined to rectify this hiccup in our relationship, or at the very least, figure out why Mark had become so distant and cold. So, like any good sorority girl, I attempted to express my feelings with complex craft projects and baked goods. I made Mark a card with nine different types of scrapbooking paper and invited him over to the sorority house for the delicious treats our house mom whipped up.

Nothing.

I talked about my extensive philanthropic involvement loud enough for him to overhear.

Nothing.

I regularly ate locally grown organic fruit in his presence.

Nothing.

I even tried backing off. Still nothing. And I couldn’t take it anymore.

So, again, like any good sorority girl, I left the library, found a box of wine, went to a fraternity party, and drank. And drank. And drank. I am not entirely sure what my initial objective was for that night. I think I hoped that a little alcohol would allow me to say something to Mark that the all the hours in the library and the crafts and the baked goods just didn’t convey. I think I intended to have a few sips, gain a little nerve, and go to the library to ask Mark what had happened. Did he still like me – did he ever like me? Years later I have realized that I didn’t need Franzia to give me courage to ask a question. I think I needed the wine to give me the courage to accept that I already knew the answer.

But it was too late to psychoanalyze my behavior. The wine kicked in quickly, and soon enough, I was stumbling and serenading everyone with show tunes, trying desperately to recruit a midnight study group. And just as those ninety-seven sorority sisters were encouraging me to flirt with Mark months before, they were now all pleading with me to go to bed.

So I left.

As Britty and I walked home, I caught a second wind of energy and diluted hope. And I ran on it. Literally. It was past 1:00 AM, and I made a go for it. Running all the way to the library.

I arrived disheveled, out of breath, and missing a flip-flop. The moment I forcefully swung open those library doors, I could feel dozens of intensely studious faces shooting in my direction, but the only person I could see was Mark. Suddenly I didn’t feel so confident in my ability to address this man. I stumbled around the library contemplating my next move, but my plotting was cut short. Britty had arrived soon enough.

“Rachie! We need to go!” she said in a whisper strained by desperate exaspration.

“I am not ready to go!” I argued. “I am trying to compose myself!”

“Mark knows you’re here. Say what you need to say, and let’s go home!” she pleaded.

Ohhhhhmyyyyyyygod. Saintly Mark knew I was drunk at the library! No amount of alcohol would have been able to take the edge off of the terror I felt at that moment.

“Hey Rachel!” Mark said animatedly from behind the reserve desk. Apparently, we were friends again.

Mark didn’t seem angry. Actually, he seemed rather amused with my state. I felt like the Mark I adored so much – the one who didn’t think I was too bad either – had returned.

“I have to tell you something,” I said. I then spent the next minute whispering in Mark’s ear.

Four years have passed since that night in the library, and that one box of wine continues to block the memory of what I spent a full minute saying to Mark. It could have been something simple like “I am glad we’re friends,” or, “I admire all the sustainable work you’ve done around campus,” or, “I like your bike.”

But judging from Mark’s reaction, I think my sloppily whispered sentiments were a little more revealing. They probably sounded a lot more like, “I just adore you,” or, “I want to make out in the stacks,” or, “ninety-seven sorority girls are planning our farm-themed wedding.” I have no idea what I said. The only person who knows if I made a declaration of love or friendship or appreciation that night is Mark.

“Goodnight, Rachel,” Mark said after a moment of intensely communicative silence. So Britty and I walked away from the counter and left the Dimond Library.

Mrs. Trapp, the same third grade teacher who used to tell Fran I needed to reach my potential, also loved to say, “Rachel never learns her lesson.” After one episode of a failed Franzia-inspired library confession, I should have learned that public drunkenness was not the way to win Mark’s affection. But I didn’t. After leaving the library, I felt unsettled and agitated. So, for the second time that night, I ran away from Britty and back to Mark. This time, when I swung open the doors to Dimond Library, now barefoot (having lost my remaining flip flop),it was more than students who were glaring at me. The old, crotchety night manager had been on the look out for the disruptive student at large. After quickly appraising my barefoot and tousled state, he deduced the disruption was standing front and center.

“What do you think you are doing young lady?” he demanded to know.

I may have been drunk, and I may have been heartbroken, but just as if it had been any other night of obsessive studying, I said, “What does it look like I am doing? Research,” and walked straight over to Mark who had been watching the interaction in horror. I can say with certainty that he was no longer amused.

“Rachel, you’re going to get in trouble,” he said before I even approached the desk.

“I know, I know,” I said, blowing off his concern. “But before I leave, you have to pinky swear you’re not mad at me.” I couldn’t believe it. A pinky swear was my grand plan for redemption.

“Rachel….”

“Just pinky swear me…” I pleaded as I held out my finger still watching the befuddled night manager from the corner of my eye.

“I promise. I am not mad at you,” Mark conceded as we linked pinkies. I shot Mark and the night manager a devilish smile and sprinted out the door of the Dimond Library all the way back to the house. I spent the rest of the night with my head in a garbage pail. I sent Mark a heartfelt apology the next day, but I knew it was in vein. He never responded. Yet a naïve and infatuated and love-drunk part of me still clung to the hope that one day, Mark and I would be holding hands and picking sunflowers in his organic garden.

In the years since college, my self-deprecating retellings of this story have spawned heaps of laughter. But my private recollections of Mark and that night in the library have caused me to hit my head against the wall over and over and over again. While I might be able to give myself a free pass for being naïve and infatuated and drunk for one college semester, it is difficult to accept that I still cannot learn a lesson from what happened with Mark. I am still embarrassing myself to get the attention of men I admire. Obviously Mrs. Trapp was right. From holding out hope for romantic sunflowers strolls to holding out hope for cozy couple game nights, nothing has changed.

Meredith recently told me that Seattle is one of the country’s most bicycle friendly cities. I'm still no cyclist, but Schwinn's continue to trigger that sensation in my core. After I heard this information I inevitably started thinking about Mark. And I was still thinking about him last week as I obsessively examined the locally grown strawberry selection at Whole Foods. Despite the time that has passed, when it comes to Mark, it seems I can never forgive myself for being so daft. But that day in Whole Foods, when I had finally settled on a nice looking box of locally grown strawberries, it occurred to me – Seattle is known for bicycles. And bicycles mean flannel. And flannel means sustainability. And sustainability means organic produce and liberalism and –Mark –oh, my! Seattle is Mark!

I almost knocked my shopping cart over. As I regained my composure in the produce section, I realized that maybe there was a lesson here after all. Okay, so clearly, I have still not learned how to behave with men. But the reason I scour the locally grown produce and turn off my lights before leaving the apartment, and the reason I feel the constant need to be a better person, are all because of Mark. If I had simply sailed through my senior year getting easy A’s and avoiding teary goodbyes, if I hadn’t opened that vibrant new chapter of my life, and if I hadn’t developed real feelings for a man of substance and a man of character, who knows who or where I’d be? I might still be pinning pictures of Joshua Jackson and other teen heartthrobs on my wall or rolling my eyes at farming or tossing away grass stained pants instead of making them a wardrobe staple. I’m certain I wouldn’t be so excited to move to Seattle. It is Schwinn City after all.

Maybe now I can forgive myself for being such a fool. Lessons, conclusions, morals of the stories all take time to learn. So for all of the obsessing and naivety, for all of the false hopes, and discovered gems, the flirting and pinky swears, for the grass stains and the Franzia, for substance and character, craft projects, and the library, for vibrant colors and mortifying embarrassment, for kindness and the red Schwinn, local strawberries and flannel, and for Mark, for Seattle, and for the future, I will say to Mrs. Trapp, and the crotchety Dimond night manager, and any other questioning naysayer exactly what I have said once before – What does it look like I am doing? Research.

Roger's House

2010-05-22T08:05:00.000-07:00

“Mike! You brought jailbait?!” Roger exclaimed the moment we walked through the cloud of smoke to the back of his five car garage.

“Huh?” Michael and I said in synched confusion.

I quickly assessed the garage scene. It seemed that I was the only stranger amongst the summer vacationing college students that filled Roger’s garage. I soon realized Roger thought that Michael, my twenty-year-old brother, had brought along his younger sister to this gathering, and I didn’t know whether to be insulted or flattered by this accusation.

“Oh, Rayyyyy. Don’t worry about it,” Fran told me later that weekend as I obsessively stared in the mirror. “It’s a compliment. It just means you have nice youthful skin,” she added. I was skeptical, and my anxiety was building as I evaluated each of my youthful pores.

Michael is my younger brother. He is younger by over five years—an age difference that continues to be an irritation in our relationship.

When I was a teenager Michael was unable to empathize with or understand the concept of angst.

“Are you seriously crying again, Rachel?”

His limited emotional range made him view me strictly as his irrational and crazy older sister. After I outgrew the teen angst, Michael hit puberty at full force and finally began to comprehend the dramatic highs and lows that come along with it. By then I could only consider his teenage recklessness obnoxious.

“Michael, Who goes streaking on the side of the highway?”

Even as Michael became the irrational teenager he still considered me his crazy older sister. I wish I could say that as we get older we find more common ground. We don’t. Now that I am well into adulthood and Michael is almost through with college, our conversations are often characterized by my preachy life recommendations and his defensive know-it-all reactions.

“You should take a semester abroad! See the world! Move to a new city after you graduate!” I often suggest—mainly because I would like to live vicariously through his undergraduate opportunities. But Michael cannot fathom that there is worthwhile life beyond the Metropolitan New York area. How could he ever move away from “the city”?

“Rae. How can you live in Red Sox Nation?!” he is often heard asking me during a contentious sport season. As if I even notice sports. When it comes to his loyalty to Long Island, political apathy, and dislike of ethnic cuisine, I cannot understand how Michael can be so close-minded. How can anyone related to me claim, “I don’t really care about health care.”

Just wait until you don’t have it.

Despite the differences in age, gender, and general ideology, I am hard pressed to find a person I have more devout affection for than my brother. Perhaps because we both know what it is like to deal with Fran, or because we both have ADD, or a joint love of choreographed boy band dance routines, but there is no one I am more comfortable around. In front of Michael I would not hesitate to burp, pick my nose, make a fart joke, make a sex joke, make a slightly racist joke, throw a hysterical temper tantrum, eat four pieces of pizza, complain about my friends, complain about my parents, complain about men, tell him he is an asshole if he disagrees with me, and tell him “I love you” on a very regular basis. A sentiment I almost never utter.

When I was visiting Long Island this past weekend, Michael and I had both been lazing around my mother’s house when we decided to have an impromptu adventure. Within ten minutes we ended up in the back of one of Michael’s friend’s Lexus SUV's. I was attempting to be a good sport that night. I said I would be flexible. I told him he could call the shots. I was trying to be nice. This was inherently against the nature of our relationship, and I was exceedingly uncomfortable.

During the fifteen minute car ride, I listened to my brother and his friend chat in the front seat. I learned that we were going to Roger’s house. I had never met Roger, but from the excited chatter up front, I got the impression that Roger and his house were a significant part of the summer social scene. The way Michael and his friend adoringly described Roger’s house reminded me of my own college summers spent in my friend Michelle’s backyard.

Of all of my friends’ big homes and grand estates, Michelle’s house was by far the biggest and grandest of them all. Whenever I told Fran I was going to Michelle’s house, her face grew heavy with the look of parental terror. Michelle’s house had a pool and a hot tub and a waterfall and 824 channels of cable and a movie theater and a multitude of guest rooms. Oh, and Michelle’s mom still bought fruit snacks. I still consider the summer nights I spent gazing at the stars and passing out in lawn chairs in Michelle’s backyard to be the most experimental, freeing, and thought provoking times of my life. In Michelle’s backyard I decided to major in English, volunteer for Americorps, and never to get married. I accurately predicted the ending of the Harry Potter books, got over my teenage obsession with Joshua Jackson, and recognized that my previous commitment to be drug-free and celibate made me boring. In hindsight, I have recognized that many of those feelings of youthful empowerment may have been induced by the combination of pot brownies and Mike’s Hard Lemonade, but there is something to be said for being eighteen years old and discovering the interests and intricacies of the adult you are becoming.

Roger’s neighborhood was veiled in darkness. There were no street lamps or house lights, and I suddenly wished I hadn’t told my brother that I would play along with his plans. When Roger’s house finally emerged from the darkness, I gasped with realization that his home was almost greater and grander than Michelle’s. Over the past eight years I have spent so much time away from Long Island that sometimes I forget (as my mother likes to say) ‘the norm.’ Roger’s house was approximately fifty times the size of my Cambridge apartment. Actually, his house might have been as large as my entire block. But as I stared in jaw-dropped amazement, my brother didn’t even flinch.

“What’s wrong, Rae?” Michael asked in a way that made me recognize, and begrudgingly accept, that for Michael and Roger and all the twenty-year-olds congregated inside of Roger’s five car garage, Roger’s house was the norm.

After we walked into the garage and past the cloud of smoke, after I took stock of the fact that I was at a college ‘gathering,’ and after Roger accused me of being jailbait and I admitted to being 25, I situated myself amongst a couple of girls named Jordana and Rikki. I listened as they recounted their semester abroad in Florence while rolling joints on top of their $400 purses. It was then I caught my brother’s face. It had the warning, ‘Behave’ all over it.

The moment I get off exit 45 of the Long Island Expressway it is not uncommon for the likes of Michael and Fran to whisper phrases like “behave,” “don’t embarrass me” and “please be nice” into my ear. Because it is then, that exact moment that I get off exit number 45 into Woodbury that I forget how to relate to people. I forget what houses look like. I forget that my brother doesn’t care about health care. I forget that my mother doesn’t recycle. I forget ‘the norm.’ I slip into fits of glaring, eye rolling, jaw dropping and sarcasm. And I often try to outline a few bulleted points about social responsibility and environmental sustainability.

“A'riiiiight, Rayyyyyyyy. You can get off the soap box now,” Fran often says after one of my impassioned choruses about the evils of her mink coat.

But since I love my brother, and since I wasn’t going to see him for an undetermined amount of time, I decided to not roll my eyes at Jordana. I decided to ‘be nice,’ ‘not embarrass him’ and ‘behave’. As the night passed though, I began to feel more and more out of place. As I listened to this group talk about their summer plans I began to feel old. Just plain old. And with each deep breath of marijuana I inhaled, my pangs of discomfort and blatant social awkwardness began to rear themselves. I started talking. And talking. And talking. And I just couldn’t stop. I gave Jordana and Rikki a full account of the trials and tribulations of the quarter-life crisis syndrome, I told them every stop I was going to make on my way to Seattle, and I discussed the importance of being able to construct a well written resume. One thing was for certain, I was still Michael’s crazy older sister. But when I looked over at my brother to give him an unspoken apology, I noticed that he was passed out in a lawn chair.

It will officially be summer on my twenty-sixth birthday. I will be in Seattle, and it will have been five full years since I stargazed or passed out on a lawn chair in Michelle’s backyard. The next day, as I obsessively examined my face in the mirror and ignored Fran’s declarations about my ‘youthful skin,’ I discovered a very small facial wrinkle. My first. It was then that the paradox of Roger’s jailbait assumption set in. The smoke must have made me look younger than I actually am because these past five years have aged me. I am the adult I was slowly discovering those summer nights in Michelle’s backyard. I graduated with a degree in English, dutifully served time as an Americorps volunteer, finished reading Harry Potter, and had a Joshua Jackson relapse obsession.

I doubt I will ever be able to understand how someone has an aversion to Indian food or travel or does not care about global warming or the two ongoing wars. But after Roger’s house I can empathize with the stage my brother is at. I would be a much different person, maybe even a fur clad Manhattanite, if I simply accepted Fran’s preachy life recommendations or perspective on the world. I am glad Michael has a place like Roger’s house to discover the intricacies and interests of the adult he is slowly becoming. But I can only hope that one hot summer night, when he is stargazing and contemplating the deep and wondrous mysteries of adulthood over a plate of pot brownies, Michael will add liberal politics and world travel to his list of interests. I would be only all too thrilled to have an impromptu international adventure with my brother. The two of us in all of our attention deficit glory would certainly make a mark on the world—even if it were only by drawing a crowd performing our best rendition of an N’SYNC dance routine. After all, there are some phases that we never fully outgrow.

The Immigrant in my Basement

2010-05-20T21:51:00.000-07:00

Me: I mean growing up I was like the odd ball of Woodbury. And I was kind of a latchkey kid. I was alone all of the time. After school my brother and I watched like eight hours of TV and then Zeal made us pasta and then--

Meredith: Wait, Zeal?!

Me: You know, the immigrant that lived in my basement?

Meredith: An immigrant?!

Me: Yeah, like someone from St. Martin or Antigua or Jamaica who lives in a finished room in your basement and cleans and cooks?

No. She didn’t know.

Meredith: Sometimes I feel like I don’t know you at all.

An immigrant lived in my basement.

Me: Yeah, sometimes I feel like I don’t know myself either.

After Meredith and I had this late night conversation about our youth, I started thinking about my childhood. Feelings of loneliness and alienation pervade each one of my childhood memories, but the truth is, most of the time I was not alone. It was actually multiple immigrants who resided in the basement, or as my mother, the Real Estate Queen of Long Island, likes to say, “the ‘maid’s room’ - a small addition that can greatly increase the value of the home,” and let’s be honest, what she fails to say, increase the status of the neighborhood. Oh sweet irony. The Arizona State Legislature would be in bliss if they only knew how many illegal immigrants resided in the basements of my hometown.

The first immigrant to move into my basement was Lyndora.

At the ripe age of eight years old, Lyndora became the first black person I knew, and I quickly began to consider her a goddess of culture. In 1992, Lyndora gave me my first Fresh Prince and DJ Jazzy Jeff CD, and let me watch “Martin” and “In Living Color.” That summer Lyndora spent hours braiding my thick straight hair into cornrows. I showed my new hairdo off to my white suburban neighborhood with a proud feeling of urban status. At the time I thought they were glaring at my head with tremendous jealousy. In hindsight, I realize it was judgmental dismay. Since I had always felt out of step with my suburban peers, I was delighted to have these new braids showcase my differences and I thought I might even be able to qualify as the token ethnic kid on Clemson Drive.

It was during that same summer of 1992 when I think my father experienced his first real Rachel-induced heart palpitations.

“Can I move to the Bronx?” I genuinely asked my parents.

The question had been building up after I spent two hours in a state of quiet contemplation- a highly unusual occurrence for me. My parents had brought me along to drop Lyndora off for the weekend in the Bronx.

“Lock your door,” my mother would always mutter after I buckled my seatbelt.

As we drove through this unfamiliar part of New York City, I became captivated by the people on the sidewalks and streets, the graffiti, and the ethnic vendors. I had spent the entire car ride in the backseat of my parents’ gold Mercedes devising a plan of how I could possibly taste some of this fresh new flavor. When my parents allowed me to get out of the car and see Lyndora’s apartment, I carefully studied each bottle of hair product on Lyndora’s dresser. I picked up each framed picture of her family in Saint Martin, and I adoringly eavesdropped on her neighbors’ accented conversations. I wanted to find a place in this exciting world. But of course, the answer was no. I could not live in the Bronx. I must go home to Woodbury.

As a ten-year-old insomniac, I spent each sleepless night attempting to find the dramatic possibilities of my own home. For a brief period in 1994 I became convinced that Lyndora and my father were having an affair. I scripted each scene in my head as if I were penning the pages of a daytime soap opera. In hindsight, the thought of such a relationship is laughable and makes me realize what a heightened sense of dramatic irony I possessed even in the fourth grade.

After Lyndora there was Joy.

Joy wouldn’t braid my hair or facilitate my viewing of Queen Latifa. When she lived in the basement I completely lost touch with the best shows on UPN - not to mention my newly urbanized self. My hair returned to straight ponytailed locks.

Joy attempted to control my sloppiness and insomnia, but the attempt at such battles only made me hate her all the more as I laid acutely awake in the dark for eleven hours a night. I was more convinced that Joy could not possibly live up to the meaning of her name when I discovered she had been hiding Chips Ahoy cookies and Halloween candy from me. Maybe Joy couldn’t handle me. Or maybe it was that I couldn’t handle her. Or maybe it was that she got knocked up on her weekend off. Whatever it was, Joy did not live in the basement for very long.

Then there was Zeal.

Zeal was my ‘girlfriend’ or at least that was what she told me every morning when she woke me up.

“Hey Girlfriend! You got to go to school today!”

Zeal and I spent long nights on the pink beanbag chairs in my bedroom having girl talk and eating popcorn. Through this girl talk Zeal taught me Michael Jordan was ‘fiiiiiiiiiiine’ and the proper way to tell my French teacher I forgot my homework. “Désolé, j'ai oublié mes devoirs” - a phrase that got a lot of use. But for all of the girl talk, Zeal completely evaded answering one question, “What does going to Third Base mean?” – a mystery that still keeps me up at night.

Zeal understood my insomnia, and allowed me to watch Nick at Nite for as long as I wanted. This continues to directly contribute to my expertise at local trivia nights when there is a Bob Newhart or Mary Tyler Moore question.

By the time I entered high school there was Fanny.

Fanny didn’t actually live in the basement. Instead, she took the Long Island Railroad to my house three times a week to do the laundry and make my brother macaroni and cheese.

I could tell when Fanny had spent the day cleaning the house because all of the clock radios and stereos were tuned into 92.7—Nueva York, La Que Buena—the local Latino radio station. Fanny loved to share stories in broken English about the culture of her home country, Guatemala. Ten years after these story times, my cousin Joe remains traumatized from the time Fanny told him his guinea pig was considered a fine delicacy in her country. (“En Guatemala es delicioso!”)Fanny and I very rarely spoke (mostly on account of the very broken English), but even as I entered adulthood, I had no quandaries letting her make my bed and fold my unmentionables – a thought which now causes me to cringe.

When I was home last weekend, my conversation with Meredith still had me agitated and I confessed to Fran that I considered myself a latchkey kid. Before the words fully exited my mouth Fran was in a fit of outrage.

Didn’t I remember Lyndora? What About Zeal? Fanny?! She paid good money for Fanny! Fanny made a nice Chicken Marsala!

Fanny was all the rage in housekeepers. Fran had to convince her to leave someone else’s basement to work for us. How dare I claim to be a latchkey kid?! We had Fanny!

I have always believed that I have a very sharp memory. When it comes to birthdays, phone numbers, names, and places I am a highly reliable resource. In fact, I am often embarrassed about how much more I remember about others than they remember about me. I couldn’t believe that my solid memory hadn’t accounted for the immigrants in the basement! After Fran’s rage I spent the entire night thinking about why I cut these women out of the story of my youth. I think that in the years since my childhood, my overactive imagination has warped the memories of what actually happened. When I consider my youth I see my younger self in a scenario most fitting a Louisa May Alcott heroine. I often picture a young Rachel spending long hours in an attic writing stories by candle light, lovingly devouring Dickens, and improvising clever theatricalities with a collection of vintage dolls.

If I am being honest, this is not the first time I have accidentally (or purposefully) forgotten or rewritten my childhood memories. I might have a solid remembrance of other people’s lives, but when it comes to my own youth, I have difficulty accounting for all the facts. And the memories I do recall are often shrouded by those overwhelming feelings of loneliness and alienation that I cannot see beyond. As painstaking as it is for me to be wrong, I will concede to Fran, that during my formative years, there was not a key tied around my neck, and there often was an adult at home. But everyday of my teenage years (make that everyday I managed to attend school during my teenage years), at 3:00 PM, I punched the code *3746 outside the garage and let myself into the house. The remainder of my day was not exactly Alcott-esque. My afternoons were characterized by Carson Daly, “Growing Pains” reruns, and high fructose corn syrup. The only Dickens I begrudgingly read was Cliff’s Notes’ account of Hard Times. The only stories I wrote were the retellings of each days detention through Instant Messenger. And the only theatrical improvisations I did involved once throwing a glass on the floor during a heated fight with Fran.

In no present circumstance would I ever consider myself a loner. I am naturally gregarious and effervescent, and I often lose track of precious time simply by being with others. But when I return to Woodbury something shifts—I become a quirky outsider, a moody sixteen year old, an insomniac, an arguer, the one standing in front of the snack cabinet mindlessly eating handfuls upon handfuls of Chips Ahoy and Golden Grahams. And even when surrounded by family and friends, I feel that sense of sadness I experienced as a child. I might know the names of the streets and all the characters, but my return to Woodbury always makes me feel like I am entering foreign territory. Sure, this might be my hometown, but Woodbury is not like any other place I have lived since – a very purposeful choice. Woodbury is a land where parents drive the family Hummer down strip mall lined roads to PTA meetings. A place where women interrogate frozen yogurt shop employees about the difference between non-fat and fat-free, and the simple sentiments of ‘Please’ and ‘Thank you’ were long ago replaced by “American Express’ and ‘Visa.’ It is here that emotions and wrinkles are kept firmly in place by Prozac and Botox. And yes, Woodbury is a place where immigrants live in the basements and do the cooking and cleaning and cable TV monitoring.

I have always known that the values of this town were not in line with my own, but this does not explain why I would cut large chunks out of my childhood memories. Perhaps I imagined myself alone in the attic because that scenario offers some reasoning as to why my childhood is tinged with feelings of loneliness. But whatever the reason, I think that considering the immigrants in my basement, or the overindulgences, or the state of chemical induced happiness of my hometown helps me better understand why I have always felt the need to distance myself.

My father is still furious that I am moving to Seattle. He is of the belief that the only way to love and appreciate your home and family is to be in close physical proximity to them. He would beam with euphoric delight if I ever announced that I was moving around the corner and was available for having Sunday lunches with him and my grandparents at the local diner. This will never happen. Not because I don’t love my family - I do. And, in some twisted way, I even appreciate Woodbury and all its basement-ed immigrants. But as I said in response to one of my father’s recent “Why Seattle?” interrogations, I think it is important to recognize the place and people you’ve come from – really - but there has to be something said about the place you're going and the people you will find there. Why Seattle? Well, why anywhere else?

I think that my eight-year-old self with her cornrowed hair and new sense of urban culture was smarter and more perceptive than I have ever acknowledged. Maybe when I gave my father heart palpitations eighteen years ago, I was merely preparing him for the heart palpitations I would cause him later. Because maybe that eight-year old already sensed that from UPN to Nueva York, in the Bronx and in the world, there is a multitude of possibilities that extend far beyond strip malls. In 1992, I must have already known that I didn’t want to feel like a quirky outsider or a moody insomniac, and I must have been captivated by more than just the Bronx streetscape, because eighteen years later, I am still in search of distant possibilities and wrinkled faces.

Sleepless Until Seattle

2010-05-18T00:17:00.000-07:00

"I’ve just counted three Clay Aiken CDs.”

I nearly swerved off the road.

“No way,” I denied as I attempted to get back into one lane.

“Oh, yes!” Noah reaffirmed. “And this particular homemade Clay Aiken CD has little hearts drawn all over it.”

“Ummmm….” I said as I attempted to swat my bulky CD collection off his lap and onto the floor of my Toyota Corolla. “It also seems that you have a fond affinity for Ethel Merman,” he snickered as he maintained hold of the CDs. “Who knew there were so many different recordings of Annie Get Your Gun?”

When taking a road trip with a man who makes your heart go pitter-patter, which is worse:

A. Having him discover you once spent endless nights on 'American Idol' message boards with the chat name ClayMate21

B. Having him discover that you once aspired to be the next Ethel Merman

Blood rushed to my face, and I swerved again. In my case it was,

C. All of the above.

My humiliation hindered my already precarious driving skills. In general my driving is characterized by speeding, drifting, swerving, general oblivion to other cars, inability to locate turn signal, and the failure to stay in one lane. “I’m a bit like Mrs. Pacman,” I confessed as my car gobbled up each of the dashed lane dividers at 91 MPH. He had noticed. But despite my poor driving and the embarrassing musical discoveries, I was pleased with the progression of this road trip. Earlier that morning I was suffering from an acute case of worry. What would we talk about? What should we listen to? What should I wear? I stumbled around my apartment in search of my keys, my sunglasses and my sanity. I found my keys, broke my sunglasses, but after twelve-wardrobe changes, I abandoned hope that this day would be infused with any sanity.

On multiple occasions Noah squashed my hope that our relationship might develop into something more than occasional friendship. To think my t-shirt selection would change this was ridiculous. But it seemed that unrealistic and ridiculous expectations were a key motivation in asking Noah to accompany me on this road trip. Although I attempt to veil it, I am a romantic comedy junkie. I am convinced that sometime in the early 1990’s, Nora Ephron and company implanted messaging into my brain that ruined any chance I ever had at realistically envisioning the way a relationship should unfold.

Today’s Unrealistic Romantic Fantasy:

Noah (who in my imagination has now become Hugh Grant) and I would cruise down I-95 together. Sparks of romance would be suggested every time our hands accidentally met while reaching for the radio. He would awkwardly look away, and I would resort to self-deprecating humor to defuse the sexual tension. Somewhere in Connecticut my car would breakdown on a remote road. The only auto shop in town would be closed for the night, and begrudgingly, we would be forced to stay at a quirky but charming local inn. There would only be one room available - the honeymoon suite. We would both feign annoyance, but as the night progressed, we would find ourselves sitting at the foot of the bed confessing secrets and offering tear-jerking explanations for our erratic behaviors. Noah would offer to sleep on the floor, but we would end up in the bed together. Queue Van Morrison soundtrack. Hollywood, is that you?

“Explain Seattle,” Noah said after we drove out of Cambridge. I gave him the standard explanation - Meredith, adventure, change… then I hesitated. I’d like to believe that I had always been the best version of myself around Noah, that all of my remarkable qualities were illuminated, and my blatantly irritating traits were muffled like a dull cough. I know this probably wasn’t the case. I succumbed to fits of nervous chatter, engaged in gross moments of defensive sarcasm, and there was that one time, at a trivia night, when I correctly answered every question in the trashy reality TV category. I had never been dishonest, but I regularly held back revealing truths: tidbits that highlighted my insecurity and naivety and just how much I really liked him (although I am sure the fact that I turned lobster red every time he entered a room was revealing enough). But on that Saturday afternoon car ride, my middle school driven compulsion to seem ‘cool’ had somehow dissipated.

“I am actually pretty scared,” I heard myself adding after some over enthused sentiment about how much I love the rain. I instantly knew that once I confessed anything other than self-assurance and utter excitement, the floodgates of Seattle-related trepidation would swing right open. And they did.

“I don’t have a job.”

Pause.

“And no prospects. And I need to get off the parental financial teat. It’s awful. In one month I am going to be 26 years old and I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up and I still let my mother send me money so I can buy groceries and underwear.”

Ut oh.

Was this too much?

In a split moment I went from confident woman moving to Seattle in the name of adventure, to a crazy girl talking about affording underwear. But Noah just said, “Damn quarter life crisis,” in a way that made me feel validated, not cray cray.

We shared an awkward half smile, and then against my better sense of discretion and coolness I kept talking. I explained to him that there were times I felt almost defeated by self-doubt. How I wanted to do so many different things with my life in Seattle, but the fear that I might not measure up was paralyzing. Like an 8^th grader about to enter a new school, I confessed to him my worry that no one would like me, and how I thought my personality and sense of humor wouldn’t translate. As if west coasters couldn’t appreciate sarcasm or irony. “Perhaps all this secret worry is in vein,” I said trying to mop up a little bit of my verbal spillage. “But I feel like I am at the point where I should have a direction, a path, have some successes under my belt, but I don’t feel like I do.”

“You know Chris Pine, Captain Kirk, from the new Stat Trek?” he asked. I nodded, wondering if my intense rant had forced this Star Trek conversation change. “He lived in my dorm freshman year. He was absolutely covered in acne, like the Accutane before picture, and he used to come into my room to read comic books with my roommate. Total geek. But, last year I was at a Burger King and I looked at my soda cup and there was Chris Pine, right on the cup. Captain Kirk. And I thought, holy shit. Here I am, a program manager for some little NGO, and Chris Pine - geeky Chris Pine - is the captain of the Starship Enterprise! Like, he’s the captain, and he’s on a cup! That was my quarter life crisis moment. Right in the middle of Burger King. Right next to the soda machine with the smell of fries in the background. I was totally crippled with this fear that I wasn’t doing anything and wouldn’t be anything.”

Noah has led me on for three months. He pulls me in and then disappears. And it’s maddening. But if we were making confessions at the foot of a bed in a Connecticut inn, I would whole-heartedly admit that despite how much I absolutely want to hate him, I can’t. He is by far the most interesting person I know. He has been everywhere, and been everything from an archeologist, to a fisherman, to a teacher. He is charismatic and talented and intriguing and I could gush about him for days. And I have. But to hear that a Burger King cup made him question just how interesting or capable he is, was both absurd and comforting. Mostly comforting. I didn’t know what to say. Thank you would have been appropriate, but instead I just changed the song on the radio for the third time in the past minute and said, “Sorry, I have radio ADD.”

Apparently my very obvious ADD was hilarious because Noah couldn’t stop laughing. And then I was laughing too. And then he was rubbing the side of my arm. And then I stopped laughing. And his hand was still there. And I felt absolutely safe.

And his hand was still there.

And for a moment the paralyzing fears lifted off of my shoulders.

And his hand was still there.

And I wished with all of my might that my car would break down. But it didn’t.

Silence came over the Corolla for the next hour. Maybe it was the bad music or the jerky driving or something else, but it was deafeningly quiet. I opened my mouth fifty times, but couldn’t say anything - not even a bit of self-deprecating humor. “What are you doing in New York?” I finally forced out as if he were a passenger next to me on the Chinatown Bus.

“I am going to see my friend Angela graduate from Columbia.”

“Oh,” I said with artificial interest. Then it occurred to me, Noah had mentioned Angela before. Angela was his ex-girlfriend. I was giving Noah a ride to his ex-girlfriend’s graduation. Fuckkkkkkkkkkkk!

And then he wouldn’t stop talking.

She was graduating with her master’s degree. They had taught English in the Pacific Islands together. She was a good friend of Chelsea Clinton. She was moving onto a summer internship at the United Nations in Geneva. And he was spending the entire weekend with her and her family.

It took every ounce of control I had to keep the car on the road.

Months of being Stop and Shop finally caught up with me. I felt like a fool. I was the long-winded, insecure, bad driver who suffered from ADD (the radio and regular variety). And I was attempting to create my own version of ‘Sleepless Until Seattle’ with a man who was going to spend the weekend with someone who was brilliant, and igniting world peace, and BFF with Chelsea Clinton. Angela was polished and mature and I (as Mrs. Trapp, my third grade teacher, loved to say) still needed to reach my potential.

Like most girls hear from their mothers or teachers or Seventeen Magazine, as a little girl, Fran constantly told me ‘just be yourself.’ She said it so many times that eventually the words grew meaningless. But decades later, fits of nervous chatter aside, I think I act in a manner that is true to myself and my interests - even if those interests once included the musical styling’s of Ethel Merman. But what my mother (and Seventeen) failed to prepare me for is, what happens when yourself is not enough? What happens when you are a rusty penny next to a shiny quarter trying to fit into a slot machine? What happens when the person you want in your passenger seat wants to sit next to someone else? Someone who is going to Geneva. Someone who has already reached her potential. What happens then?

Later that night I recounted the entire car ride to Meredith, who was in Seattle. And as I sat in my childhood bedroom I decided to type Angela’s name in my Google search bar. Sure she may be the next Nancy Pelosi, but I would feel a whole lot better if I knew she had a snaggle tooth or a lazy eye or cankles or something - anything awful. Meredith became committed to this project too, but hours of bicoastal Google stalking later and all we could find was a blurry 2001 prom picture. This girl had a highly intact internet reputation. But it didn’t matter. That afternoon Noah gave me a hug, told me we’d catch up in Cambridge, and hopped out of my car in midtown Manhattan. And I knew the way my mother calls me at three in the morning when she knows something is wrong, we would never end up confessing secrets in the honeymoon suite, and I wouldn’t be seeing Noah again.

As I fell asleep that, night I felt myself focusing all of my energy on the polished and accomplished Angela. Even Nora Ephron could not have scripted a more perfect anti-hero to this story. But the next morning when I woke up distracted and agitated, I thought that maybe trying to find the wrongs with Angela was just another symptom of my Hollywoodized mentality. How could I hate Angela? I didn’t even know her. The person I know, the person that has been causing me all of this unrest and confusion is myself. I wish I could moralize and write that being yourself, even the best version of yourself is always worth it. That being yourself will make you get the guy and protect you from pain and help you find what you want or even what you need. I am not convinced that it does. I wish I could go through the Seventeen Magazine archives and find an article that would take the edge off of this feeling of not measuring up. It is hard to be on that road alone.

It is certain Hugh Grant will never star as Noah. The only person who can play both the hero and the anti-hero in “Sleepless until Seattle” is me. It seems that the feat of not only being yourself, but accepting yourself (even when there are Angela’s out there), is much more complex (and worthy of sleep deprivation) than orchestrating an evening of romance in Connecticut. I would be lying if I claimed that I didn’t want Noah, the man who makes heart go pitter-patter in the passenger seat with his hand on mine. I think I need to start gushing about myself though before I can loose sleep over Noah - or any other gush-worthy man for that matter. But if I want to go on a car ride with a man who makes my heart go pitter-patter, I will always have Clay Aiken. And in someway that’s almost as good.

Stop and Shop

2010-05-15T08:18:00.000-07:00

My therapist told me it was a bad idea.

“Okay, but just to clarify,” I asked, “do you think it’s a bad idea because I keep harping on his Gap model-esque good looks or because he just wants to have sex with me?”

She thought I was too hung up on his attractiveness. She thought I shouldn’t seek out his company. She thought it wasn’t going to make me happy. She thought I should go home and watch an episode of “RuPaul’s Drag Race” and forget about it. You know your problems are peculiar when your therapist suggests a dose of the trannies to help soothe your mind. She also thought I wasn’t going to listen to her. She was right.

At 9:00 that same February night we met up for a beer. 9:45 we were having another beer. 10:30 we were chugging wine out of a bottle in my apartment. 11:00 we were making out in my living room. 11:04 we were making out in the kitchen. 11:07 we were making out in my bed. 11:09 our clothes littered my floor. 11:13 I awkwardly confessed, “My therapist thinks this is a bad idea.” 11:14 we paused to reflect and by 11:15 we were having sex. At 12:20 we were doing it again. So much for RuPaul.

Noah: irritation and charm zipped up in an American Apparel sweatshirt. The problem with Noah, my fixation with his smile aside, is that I liked him. He was adventurous and charismatic and with his sharp sense of the world and sharper sense of humor, it was safe to say that I liked him more than a stale Oreo. I liked him a lot. And when he encouraged me with genuine interest to discuss my closeted obsession with the Bronte sisters, I gushed like an acne-ridden lovesick teenager as I explained the literary differences between Charlotte and Emily.

I felt like I was turning a new leaf with Noah. Maybe I didn’t need to live in extremes with men. Maybe I could slowly develop feelings for him. We could develop a relationship and date and fall in love and host game nights together… and then live happily ever after. Okay, maybe my black and white thinking wasn’t entirely to the curb, but I felt like this was a little bit different, like it might actually go somewhere besides my bedroom. This was until one Tuesday when Noah sent me an e-mail ominously entitled “Hey.” He thought I was fun, attractive, engaged in the world, blah, blah, blah. The only words I could read and re-read were, “we click, and we're in the same neighborhood…we should try being friends with benefits.” I read it, and read, and read it again. I hoped each time the meaning would change, or at the very least, the words would sting less. They didn’t.

“Are you a grocery store?!” my friend Ashley asked in outrage. “Are you supposed to be his convenient neighborhood fuck?” Ouch. I tried to join Ashley and my other friends in choruses of “What an asshole!” but my heart just wasn’t in it. I still liked him. And although I wanted to seem cool and objective that day in my therapist’s office, deep down I knew that from milk to flour to sex, I would give Noah any benefit he wanted even if it made me Stop and Shop.

I have difficulty accessing sincere feelings for men. In the complete history of my life, not counting Philip Allen Bogan my nursery school boyfriend, I had only felt a shred of affection for two men. The first ended in the middle of the night with me drunk and rejected at my college library. The second ended with me drunk and rejected at a Britney Spears concert. It proved tricky for me to like someone, and now I did. And although I knew I was being daft, I couldn’t discard the feelings- it was only the third time I’d ever felt them!

So that night, after the beers and the wine and the making out, I gave him the benefit. And then Noah fell off the radar. I panicked. Did he think the sex was bad? Did he still want to be friends? Did he still want the benefit? What did it mean if he changed his mind? And worse, what did it say about me that I was still willing to give him something for nothing? In the weeks that followed our romp, I wanted to protect myself from obsessive contemplating. I jumped from distraction to distraction. I ate multiple bags of Costco sized M&M's, watched three seasons of “Mad Men,” and slept with a Transylvanian, a Brazilian and an Indian. While Don Draper and escapades in the Screwnited Nations certainly occupied my time, they couldn’t really put my unrest to rest. So I ran, I ellipticaled, I lifted, I rowed, I zumbaed. My body became exhausted, but my mind still raced. And still no word from Noah.

It was consuming my mind one night at the gym. I had finally acclimated to a slightly uncomfortable 6.8 on the treadmill, and I looked up at the elliptical machine facing me. Noah. Before I could do a double take, I dropped my iPod off the treadmill (loudly). A spilt moment later I too fell off the treadmill (louder). And at my loudest moment yet, in a knee-jerk reaction, I yelled, “Fuck!!!” from the floor of the gym. Every exerciser swung their head to look at me. Everyone except Noah.

I still don’t know if he didn’t’ see me, or if he just didn’t want to see me flailing off the treadmill and onto the floor. Later that night after I escaped to the safety of a rowing machine I caught his attention. When he walked over to me he was all smiles and charm and I wondered if he was being sincere. He had been travelling, he had been swamped at work, he had been applying to graduate school, and he was going to come over to watch the Olympics the next night. I had cable, right?

Over the next 24 hours, I indulged every guilty second of radiating joy I felt in the fact that we were going to have a night of Olympic glory. I ignored the choruses of “It’s a mistake,” “Abort,” You’re a doormat,” “He’s using you.” Instead I engaged in hours of meticulous grooming and cooking (okay maybe I didn’t cook, but I invested in some great snacks). I know I should have listened to those naysaying warnings- of course he didn’t like me! But when he walked through the door I was all smiles and charm and although it made me hate myself, I couldn’t help but be sincere.

My denim Ikea couch was spotted with guacamole stains from the last party I had hosted. During bobsledding Noah and I sunk into the couch on top of one peculiar looking stain. We were joking, laughing, calling each other pal and smoking what was in hindsight, too much weed. During snowboarding I was as high as a Shaun White and I noticed that Noah had inched away. As the lugers took to the slopes I began to play connect the dots between the many guacamole stains between us. When our hands accidentally grazed, as we were both reaching to the bottom of a box of animal crackers, Noah flinched and moved even farther. When the last luger crossed the finish line we were at opposite ends of my Ikea couch. There were so many guacamole stains in between us I started craving tortilla chips.

Which is worse:

1. Being friends with the benefit of sex

2. Being friends with the benefit of cable TV and snacks?

I couldn’t decide, but I knew was that by the time NBC played the heart wrenching mini bio of the South Korean ice skater I wanted him gone. I wanted to crawl under my bed. I wanted to hide. I wanted to sob. I wanted a cookie. Every emotion flooded through me because I knew nothing was going to happen between us. And nothing did. He stayed for five hours, hugged me goodbye and e-mailed me a thank you the next day. Figures, I didn’t get a post-coital e-mail, but I got a post Olympics “thanks for the snacks.”

I had been undateable, and now I was unfuckable. I didn’t know Noah very well. Our relationship was hardly worthy of my upset, but he triggered a buried feeling of affection in me. I might not be an expert on men, but I do know that when you feel affection for someone, you don’t want them to be on the opposite end of the couch. I decided that it was far worse to be used for the benefit of cable TV. I already had HBO, so what benefit was I getting from being rejected and left stoned and alone?

“Well then what happened?!” my friend Stephanie asked with heightened interest as I told her this story a few weeks ago.

“Nothing,” I shrugged.

She couldn’t believe that after all that build up, that was it ... “How anti-climatic… ” I too was disappointed with the ending of this tale. After we watched the Olympics, for the sake of my sanity and my friendships, I forced myself to implement a Noah quota. I let myself think about him in very limited doses. I have only seen him once since our night on my Ikea couch, but we still keep a checkered correspondence… a dirty text message here, a middle of the night conversation there. He always initiates, and I always respond promptly. Then he slips away again, and I slam a door. Months later I continue to be confused by his intentions. “What does he want from me?” I can often be heard mumbling to myself in the middle of the night.

Today Noah and I are going on a four-hour road trip together. Last night I mentioned that I was making a trip to visit my family in New York, he was going to New York too. I hesitated, and then I threw away rational thinking, “Do you want a ride?” He gladly accepted. Was I merely saving him from a long ride on the Chinatown bus? Just call me Stop and Shop- I already bought car snacks.

BOYlimia

2010-05-12T19:23:00.000-07:00

I’m leaving Boston. Well, I am leaving Boston in a week. And as I pack each box, I can almost feel the weight of my time here. I have lived in this city for two years and while my first year seems like just a bland extension of any other year in any other city, this year, year two in Boston and year 25 in my life, has been my most explosively dynamic year to date. I am almost embarrassed to say why.

Most of my adult life I shied away from men. I had said I was socially awkward, I said I was bashful, insecure, uninteresting, I asked if had you seen the size of my thighs?! No, I surely did not have the grace or confidence to deal with the opposite sex. This year something shifted though. Call it self-esteem, call it maturity, call it the power of an orgasm, but men began to make their way into my life.

I live in a world of black or white thinking. One or the other. Never gray. To quote another Long Islander, Billy Joel, “I don't know why I go to extremes...Too high or too low there ain't no in-betweens.” Gray is murky, gray is awkward, gray involves complicated feelings, self-doubt, and phrases like "bitter-sweet." When I began interacting with the men of Greater Boston, I avoided those in-betweens and maintained my same sense extremism. I would go through months of dating, dating, dating, meaningless dating, and (as my mother would say) behaved in a manner most befitting a three cent hooker. Then I would have other months where I was so sexually reclusive I made Mother Teresa look like Jenna Jameson. Simply put, I was binging and purging men. Boylimia.

Just to spell it out, boylimic episodes include, but are not limited to:

Excessive dating
Excessive sex
Excessive dating
Sleeping with phone, eating with phone, working with phone in case said dates are trying to make contact
Sexual creativity
Google stalking
Facebook stalking
LinkedIn stalking
Twitter stalking
General obsessing
Loss of female friendships
Loss of weight

Followed by long spells of:

Not looking at men
Not talking about men
Not talking to men
Giving men dirty looks when they attempt to talk to me
Sweatpants
Ice Cream
Disappearance of phone

Just like those stale Oreo’s you might find yourself excessively consuming when your lonely or bored at 3am, I didn’t necessarily date these men because I savored the experience of their company…. I was alone and they were there. And despite my blase feelings I continued to date. I pined over every word I said and wrote. I obsessed. I experimented. I contemplated. I screwed. Eventually I became so ashamed and embarrassed, not just of my actual behavior, but the way I allowed meaningless relationships possess my mind, that I would be forced to purge the opposite sex. Then a time would come, a week, a month, a season, and I would feel bored or lonely again and the thought of company seemed, well... comforting. And a boylimic pattern was born.

A year ago, my intention was not to date the masses, or get a licentious reputation, or a great story. I genuinely wanted to have real feelings for someone, but I couldn’t. Even more so, I desperately wanted someone to have sincere affection for me. No one did. There were two men who did force me into that gray zone of emotion and my time with them drove me to believe that ‘butterflies’ were actually more than romantic comedy legend. But like most feelings, my girl like adoration of those men passed, and my jaunt into that complicated gray zone made me feel uncomfortable and out of control. Like Billy, I was much more at home in extremes.

One year, 23 men, and no boyfriends later, the only person who I developed more feelings for was actually (and shockingly) myself. I’ve known who I was (in the Erik Erikson sense) since a pre-adolescent age, but to know myself with someone else was entirely new. It was scary. It was the stuff “He’s Just Not that Into You” was made of. Through each encounter though I discovered that I wasn’t as socially awkward as I claimed, my thighs weren’t deal breakers, and I was a lot more interesting than the vast majority of people on match.com. As I continued to realize that most of my insecurities had little merit, I found that some of the qualities that I thought to be my best were not always so endearing. Who knew that enthusiasm could be too much and that biting sarcasm could be off putting?

Sometime this spring it occurred to me that maybe, just maybe, I avoided men all those other years because I feared I would be rejected not on the basis of my thighs, but on the nature of my personality. And it is way easier to live in the dating extremes than swallow that murky gray pill. So I’ll leave Boston in a modified purge. Since my night in the campervan I mostly avoid men, but I don’t exactly give the barista a dirty look when he asks me how I take my coffee. Maybe when I am settled in Seattle I’ll be ready to discover the opposite sex again. Perhaps those long rainy days can inspire me to adopt some modified gray thinking. After this year, I suspect that no matter how extreme I am, when it comes to the opposite sex, gray is an inevitability. But hopefully somewhere on the west coast, amidst the gray rain, there is a man who loves biting sarcasm with a side of excessive enthusiasm.

So far away...

2010-05-10T22:40:00.000-07:00

We were engulfed in a sea of mustaches and bouffants. As we shimmied through the fanny pack clad suburban couples to our nosebleed seats, I got a horrifying feeling that I was peeking at my future. I made an internal vow that I would never sport stonewashed pleated jeans. Tonight we were celebrating Meredith’s 24^thbirthday at the James Taylor and Carole King Troubadour Reunion concert. We settled into our seats and shoved our bags and coats under us. It was tight quarters, but I think the juxtaposition of midlife and quarterlife side by side, appreciating the same musical sentiments added an extra layer of meaning to this evening.

Okay, so this night of musical entertainment doesn’t scream youthful exuberance the same way a Ke$ha lyric might, but Meredith and I had each loved James Taylor and Carole King since young ages. For my eighth birthday I was allowed to pick out my two first CD’s. It was easy, Sweet Baby James and The Sister Act soundtrack. Most wouldn’t put Whoopi and James in the same sound library, but I continue to think that my selection represented what would become the two very contrasting sides of my personality. Outrageous and pensive. But I digress. This night was about Meredith’s birthday. I wanted to give her a present that screamed HAPpy Birthday! And also, welcome to Seattle life! I knew I wouldn’t be able to get Pearl Jam to jump out of cake, so I thought a night of mellow music at the Key Arena would be second best.

It had been two months since I dramatically announced to my family and friends that I was going to move to Seattle with my friend Meredith. My father would declare “Why?! Why?! Why, God Why?” as if I was breaking the news that I had been diagnosed with some terminal illness. I briefly wondered if my father’s dismayed reaction stemmed from him prematurely missing me, or prematurely missing the money it was going to take to get me to Seattle. “Well…” I would start to explain, and then just jump into the facts.

1. Meredith was offered a job in Seattle.

2. I said I thought the West Coast sounded interesting.

3. She asked if I wanted to go.

4. I said yes.

5. She said great.

He wasn’t convinced that this was the real reason one would elect to move 3,031 miles away. “Is this because you don’t have a man?” he accused. Please, if he only knew about the men. “No!” I would yell in insult and annoyance before I reaffirmed that I just thought Seattle sounded interesting. But there was a thread of truth in his skepticism. There are a great many cities that I think are fascinating, but I’m not considering or willing to move to them…(yet). This true reason that my father was looking for me to articulate was much less precise than a five point list.

I had spent this past winter in an agitated rut. The uncertainties and insecurities that characterize being a twenty something had taken their toll on me. The pace of my life had shifted and I was becoming uneasy with the gains and losses. Although I had done more work, ran more miles, been more places and dated more men than ever before, I felt that those ever precious interpersonal connections I had counted on were few. Four years ago at college graduation I felt for the first time in my life, popular. My friendships were numerous and despite the solid GPA, it was those connections that defined the success of my college years. This year the harsh reality of those relationships began to settle in. Taco Tuesdays, twenty-five cent pitchers, and Grey’s Anatomy might be enough to ignite the bonds of friendship when you’re an undergrad, but you need more common ground than McDreamy and low-fat sour cream to sustain a relationship over time and space. I distanced myself from those static relationships. It wasn't enough for me to be friends with someone in 2010, because I was friends with them in 2006. I just wanted more.

Although Meredith and I first became friends in the TV room of our sorority house, our shared interest in liberal politics, Greek cuisine, and off color humor brought our connection past the gossip of sorority walls and into our adult lives. I wanted to hear how her co-worker broke the office copy machine, and she wanted to know every detail about the dirty old Transylvanian man I was sleeping with. (“Ouuu! How very Kristen Stewart of you. Does he bite?!”) To quote Forrest Gump, she "was my best good friend and even I knew that ain't something you can find just around the corner."

So when Meredith told me about her Seattle job offer a flurry of thrill and panic flew through me. I was overcome with an attack of the I’s. First, there were the, I want a new city, I want a new job, I want new relationships …kind of I’s. Then there were the What am I supposed to do? Who am I going to confide in? Who am I going to watch Bridget Jones with?...sort of I’s. Although I generally chalk most of my innate feelings and motivations up to jealousy and selfishness, I knew this situation was slightly more complex. Yes, I wanted to make a dynamic change, but at a time of my life when friendships were characterized by states of stale or shallow, meaningful connections were gold. I couldn't afford to lose one.

I am not often a sentimental person. My knee jerk sarcasm often combats dreaded feelings and tears. I didn’t even cry when Mufasa died, but ten minutes into the concert, after spending this trial week with Meredith in Seattle, Carole struck a chord with me.

So far Away

Doesn't anybody stay in one place anymore?

It would be so fine to see your face at my door

Doesn't help to know that you're just time away

I often have contradictory emotions (it's the James and Whoopi in me), but at that moment, listening to Carole King at the Key Arena, I could almost feel my battling sentiments divide me at the core. I want the adventure, the change and the miles between me and all places and relationships that are static. But as she sang 'So far Away" and I battled to keep each tear behind my quivering eyelashes, I knew I really did miss those Taco Tuesday friendships. Proximity will not bring them back though, If I am being honest with myself, Seattle or not, I had already moved 3,031 miles away from 2006. And those connections didn't survive the time. As I cursed the emotion that rushed through me, I felt some escaped tears fly down my face, under my chin and down my neck. Why is it that in order to move towards one thing with the full speed, energy, and enthusiasm novelty always sparks, you have to be moving just as fast away from something else?

I have difficulty sitting still. Perhaps because I've read On The Road too many times, but my eyes are glued steadfast on the horizon. It is a rare moment that I check the rearview mirror (anyone who has ever traveled in a car with me can testify to this scary truth). When Carole King sang, it was as if I was being forced to look in that rearview mirror for the first time. And I wanted to hang on to each fleeting second and memory with both hands. I felt sad, but I don't think I was alone. The mustached, baseball capped suburbanite in front of me was a weeping into his wife's shoulder. I looked around the audience I noticed a lot of working tear ducts. Maybe this midlife crowd with all their fanny packed wisdom, knows that despite the excitement of moving forward, there will always be melancholy for the passing years, miles and connections. Maybe in 30 years I'll go to a Ke$ha concert and cry to my senior citizen date that I no longer 'wake up in the morning feeling like P.Diddy.' Maybe tonight's crowd was a real glimpse of what my future holds. But as I scanned the audience I made another internal vow, no matter what, I will never wear socks and sandals.

We've been paging you!

2010-05-05T13:41:00.000-07:00

It had not been eight minutes since my flight to Seattle had landed before I had a cup of Starbucks in my hand.

It was a Chai. Soy. Grande. And an extra shot of espresso.

“$5.79” the barista said.

Pricey. It was only 11:00am in Seattle and I was already in need of an aromatic, stress relieving, celebratory, caffeinated, pick me up... So, when in Rome… Right?

It was a long day that began at 6:45 this morning when airport security confiscated my cup of yogurt. I’ve become accustomed to starting my day with a Stonyfield Farm. I spent my entire T ride to Logan airport looking forward to the very berry blend that awaited me after take off. Apparently the complex mixture of natural organic ingredients was a security threat and Helene, the dutiful airport employee needed to dispose of my breakfast. The thought of a yougurtless flight was upsetting, so I made my way through the terminal to find a replacement. Six dollars and one Dannon Lite later, I put the yogurt issue to rest and called my mother, whom I soon discovered had already left me six panicked voicemails.

Voicemail: Fran: 5:59 am: Rayyyy. Are you up? Call me.

Voicemail: Fran: 6:12 am: Rayyyy. Hiiii. It’s Mom. Wanted to make sure you didn’t over sleep. Call me.

Voicemail: Fran: 6: 31 am: Hiiiiii. Looking for you. Wanted to make sure you made the flight. Call me.

Voicemail: Fran: 7:02 am: Just looking for you. Call me. I’m home. It’s mom.

Voicemail: Fran: 7: 17 am: Rayyyychel. I will be very upset if you missed this flight. Call me. I’m home.

Voicemail: Fran: 7:30 am: Would you please call me.

My mother, Fran, worries. It has been many years since I’ve lived with Fran on Long Island, and she is forced to demonstrate her parental concern by affixing her finger to the redial button on her Blackberry. Her compulsive need to hit redial to be instantly gratified when she wants to know the location of her children reminds me my own phone compulsions and desire of instant gratification when I am communicating with my last date. I often wonder how Fran would cope in a pre-Blackberry age, but I think that somehow all of this technology just adds fuel to her fire. When my college aged brother updates his saturday night Facebook status with an ominous "Out", it is only moments before I receive a phone call from Fran-

"What do you think that means? Are they drinking? Do you think he's okay? Should I call? I'm going to call. I should call, right?"

Fran has become known as the Real Estate Queen of Long Island. Open a local newspaper or magazine and you won’t be able to escape her perfectly airbrushed portrait. Her smile certainly suggest 'Of course you can trust me with your three million dollar home!'

And they do.

As a local celebrity Fran feigns modesty when you chat with her in the bagel store, but in private she’ll remind you she has been the top producer five years in a row, and goddamnit, she deserves that company Mercedes. I, accordingly have become termed the real estate princess of Long Island. The irony is outrageous, but the joke remains.

When I call the kingdom of luxury homes and estates, Fran picks up after the first ring. I do my best to quell her Seattle related anxiety, but no amount of Xanax could ease the worry and convince her that this move is a good decision. My parents believe that the best way to cure my quarter-life crisis is to find a solid job with nice benefits.

"What is wrong with corporations?!" they genuinely ask when I roll my eyes at their suggestion I work with a corporate headhunter. "Nonprofits don't make any money!!" they aggravatedly remind me.

Well, obviously.

Today I am flying to Seattle for the week to explore the city, find an apartment, and interview for jobs. I talked to Fran and listend to her worries as I paced the terminal, meandered through Hudson News, bought a pack of gum, ate my yogurt and checked my email- each moment reassuring her that she has no need for panic.

“Arrrriiiiight, Rayyyyy” she seemingly concedes, then hesitates and reverts, “But are you absolutely sure this is the right decision? I hear something funny in your voice. You can change your mind.”

AHHHH! Just when I thought I was making progress. The time of my flight was approaching, so I made my way over to Gate A-12. The boarding sign read “Charlotte”. Weird. I took my time, continued to listen to Fran (“Uh huh. Yup. Uh huh”) and meandered back to the departure board.

Seattle. 8:00am. Gate A-12. On time.

Curious. I meandered back to Gate A-12.

“Hold on a sec, Ma” I said as I turned to the JetBlue employee in front of the Charlotte sign.

“Excuse me, is this not the gate for the Seattle flight?”

“Are you Rachel?” the JetBlue employee said anxiously.

Ut oh.

“Yes.”

The airline employee was relieved. “We got her!” she said into her walkie talkie, before she turned to scold me.

“We’ve been paging you! The flight is about to leave. Everyone is waiting for you.”

“Ohhhh…sorry!” I said dumbfounded. Obviously, I heard no such page. I nervously searched through my pockets for my boarding pass and from my phone I hear “Hellllooo? Rayyy? Rayyyyy? What’s going on? Rayyyychel!” I hit the power off button as I hand the flight attendant my pass. She practically pushed me down the boarding ramp.

As I made my way up the isle to my window seat, every passenger and flight attendant on the JetBlue flight to Seattle stared at me with acute disdain. The two women in the center and isle seats, got up and shot me a look that said 'Don’t even think about asking us to get up for you again.' It was going to be a long flight.

Of course I didn’t hear the pages for me at Logan airport this morning. I am, as a fact, oblivious. Combine that with the distracting anxiety on the other end of the phone, and my yogurt upset, it was a huge stroke of luck that my very full bladder and I made it to Seattle. When I exited the plane I was stepping foot on West Coast territory for the first time. I had arrived and no source of yogurt thieving security, anxious parents, or angry JetBlue passengers could take that away from me now.

So yes, when in Seattle I will do as the Romans do and celebrate with a pricey Starbucks. The only logistical flaw I have yet to reconcile, is what happens when Rome becomes home? At $5.79 and 300 calories a cup not even the Real Estate Queen of Long Island could afford this daily Roman habit.

After the camper van

2010-05-01T22:06:00.000-07:00

This morning I woke up in a camper van. It was frigidly cold and lying next to me was a scrawny naked man. As I fought off the blur of my hangover to remember his name, I became very aware of his bony kneecap jabbing into my thigh. More and more frequently I have been finding myself waking up next to strange men, in strange surroundings. Despite this trend, waking up in an arcticly cold vehicle parked in the middle of a city was unprecedented. My instinct was to leave, but I wasn’t sure of the proper morning-after campervan etiquette. Could I climb over whatever his name was, scoop up my clothes and sneak out the passenger side door without making a sound? Not likely.

I remembered. His name was Michael and he was a Phoenix Landing find. This Cambridge bar was the best place to get your fix of 80’s and 90’s classic hits. Michael and I discovered one another while we both did our best version of the running man, he wowed me with the sprinkler dance move and then after ‘Don’t Stop Believin’’ brought down the house, this musically kindred spirit and I made our way outside of the bar for some much needed air. He said he was 22 (I was doubtful) and from a little town in New Hampshire. Earlier that day he drove his recently purchased campervan to Boston to take Salsa lessons at a local dance studio. As an avid Zumba-er I was thrilled to be able to practice my Cuban hip movement with a partner, so we braved the smell of vodka and sweat and found our way to the dance floor… just in time for Madonna.

It has recently occurred to me that I am a collector. Some people collect antiques, or pennies, or if you were in Mrs. Schwitzer’s 1993 4^th grade class, Saved by the Bell trading cards. I collect stories. So when Michael (last name still unknown) paused in the middle of a rousing chorus of ‘Like a Prayer’ to ask me if I wanted to see his campervan, I said yes. The opportunity to spend the night parked outside a Dunkin Donut’s, seemed like it could be a fine gem in my story collection. I could just hear it now, “This one time, in a camper van…”

The campervan had a brown, orange and maroon color scheme, and reminded me of Mike and Carol Brady’s living room, Michael explained that he purchased it earlier that week for a mere $650. By the looks of the van and the sound of the engine, he was overcharged. As the night progressed and the many seasonal Sam Adams I consumed wore off, I became acutely aware of the fact Michael was perhaps younger than he claimed. He kissed me with the same puckered lips he would use to suck a lemon, only pausing to chug out of a large can of Arizona Iced Tea. The only audible sound was the smacking of lips and when he eagerly pulled a condom out of his wallet I actually paused to consider that maybe we were breaking in more than just the camper van.

So I didn’t sneak out of the passenger side door this morning. Instead I pulled some extra blankets on top of us, (only to discover they were curtains that fell off the wall in the middle of the night) and waited. And thought. What motivates someone like Michael to buy a campervan? Travel? Were options so limited in Derry, New Hampshire that he had to take to the open road to find salsa, The Immaculate Collection and sex? Would an SUV or sedan just not do the trick?

I don’t have a campervan, but in three weeks I am getting in my Toyota Corolla (a non faulty model) and am traveling 3,031 miles away. Moving to Seattle, actually. I’ve been told that I’ll just lovvvve the Pacific Northwest. This is good to know, because I’ve never been and since I made the decision to move to Seattle, everything just seems to be going a little bit fast . I actually don’t even remember why I decided to go in the first place. Cambridge, Massachusetts is not like Michael’s Derry, New Hampshire. Here there are opportunities and diverse people, and an abundance of 80’s music. And I like Cambridge, a lot. But at the ripe age of 25 and three quarters, I think I like the idea of burgeoning possibilities and a potential good story a lot more.

Eventually last night’s good story began to stir. When he woke up, Michael considered me with vague recognition before stumbling out of the camper van to relieve himself behind the Dunkin Donuts. At that moment I briefly panicked: is this what all great stories and exciting possibilities turn into? Illegal pissing and a hangover?

As he drove the camper van down my street, we talked about the weather and feigned interest in each other’s weekend plans. Then, with real interest I asked,

“Michael, why did you really buy this old camper van?"

“No purpose, but it felt right.”

“Oh.”

I said an awkward goodbye and slid out of the passenger side door and into 474. In three weeks I am moving 3,031 miles away. Without purpose. But, perhaps when you’re 25 and three quarters and you are in search of a good story, (not to mention a fulfilling life), your purpose comes in what feels right... and interesting and fun... even if it is 3,031 miles away. I can just hear it now…“This one time, I moved to Seattle…”