Whammy

I was mugged today.

OK. I was gonna say technically I wasn't mugged because he didn't succeed in robbery. But then I looked up "mug" and the assault itself qualifies.

I was on a quiet street in plain daylight just going from the subway station to my destination only a block away. Had done it on more than one occasion. Even though there are plenty of neighborhoods in the city that should not be considered safe, I had never had abject fear walking down the street alone in broad daylight. Been going out alone since I was in my teens.

I used to say "famously", "If I have to wait for someone to do something with before I do it, I'll never do anything." I was always proud to be self-reliant and of the fact that I enjoyed my own company. (Well, as an introvert, that trait should not count as impressive I guess.)

You've heard these mugging stories so many times, you are numb. They come running, from seemingly nowhere. You never saw them coming. They grab your purse. They may do worse, hurt you, on purpose. They target older women, perhaps older Asian women in particular, because a lot of us are petite, deemed to be old and feeble. Each an easy mark.

It's happened to women I know, women I care about. My heart has broken for them. For a full grown man to prey on a defenseless woman likely smaller and lighter than he. Just... how could he?

When you're young and feel strong and (inaccurately) invincible and safe, these incidents happen to someone else. Not you.

Well today I was that older woman perceived to be weak, and I was selected.

The young man came from behind, grabbed hold of the straps on my purse and made a run for it. What he didn't realize was that as someone who has lived in Asia, I am well trained. I am not slinging that thing, brother. I have a firm grip on it. Sometimes, in Asia, I have such a firm grip on my purse ALL the time, I have neck and shoulder pain at the end of the day.

With the momentum of his dashing forward, I fell and landed on my knees. I am not sure exactly what happened in the next few seconds. I know I hit the back of my head. I was on the ground, being dragged. I am not sure for how long. I wasn't reacting as much as acting instinctively. I hung on to my purse for dear life. It wasn't like I had a thought process going on. It was like, It's my purse. I'm holding on to it. Pure logic. I wasn't even feeling defiant or anything.

In a flash it did occur to me I wasn't sure how much longer I could hold on.

And it was probably a quick second (RJ hates that expression). As quickly as the attack had started, it ended. Next thing I knew, there was no more tension on me. I was... still. Still retaining a firm grip on my purse, I semi got up and witnessed the guy run away. The pitter-patter of my perpetrator's escape was a deafening echo in my head.

My next thought was, "What the fuck? What the fuck just happened?"

And honestly it was like a moment later then it sunk in I had been the victim of an attempted robbery. It was so surreal.

The criminal was black. "How did he have to be black?" I lamented in my head. "Why did you have to perpetuate the stereotype?!" I was so disappointed in him for that.

In a lot of pain, I limped the rest of the way to my destination. It was only half a block away now. I could see it. It hurt so much especially at my left hip and knee that I had to stop and take a break. A few sites on my body were throbbing like you see in a Warner Bros cartoon when someone accidentally hits their thumb with a hammer and it inflates and deflates rapidly like a red balloon.

I wanted to tell someone right away, "I've been mugged." I pictured myself telling the first soul I run into, the need to share was so urgent.

I sat down at the restaurant I had picked out earlier, and winced with every movement. I was a bit shaky and still in shock. I felt weepy when I imagined accounting for my experience with RJ when I got home. I had some anger but it quickly dissipated.

I am not sure why I didn't stay angry longer. Pretty sure, though, had the man succeeded in taking my purse, I would be plenty furious. That would have been terrible. It wasn't just money. Take the money. The hassle of accounting for every card and having to replace them, house keys, car keys... I had precious photos on my camera and phone I hadn't even gotten a chance to load on my PC yet. I would have been beyond pissed.

He didn't win! Try as he did.

So I walked away feeling strong (even though it is an illusion), and brave (even though how I handled the situation was not a conscious choice at the time), a survivor. Circumstances could have been far worse. He could have kicked me in the gut, bashed me in the head. So many things.

Later Elsie noticed my limping and asked. We concluded the guy must have been an amateur opportunist, a small timer.

Of course now I am even more paranoid when out and about in scouting my surroundings, looking behind in addition to around. I will say that the next dozen of Americans of African decent I encountered, I felt irrational fear leap to my throat from my stomach. I HATE that the one person who did me wrong has turned me into a racial profiler. It is not right. Because I know this was an isolated incident and we should never lump a group together and generalize based on skin color, ethnicity, heritage, etc.

Today I was that feeble old lady who was targeted. I will grow older, feebler, and likely be targeted again. It is not a happy thought. Maybe it is time to take that self defense class that I have always talked about and put off.

Le Péché Originel

I had a long and elaborate dream this morning in which I was infatuated with House.

Yes, House, the cavalier character played by Hugh Laurie. Not the actor. The fictional character.

I knew that I was drawn to the character the year I watched nothing on TV but the weather portion of the morning news on Channel 2, and House.

I am not drawn to bad boys per se. But someone who's deeply troubled, someone who's been hurt and fucked up... Sign me up!

I had this notion that my love could heal these troubled souls.

During my dream this morning, as I tried time and again to win House's love, to no avail, I realized it was not about House. It was about...

What's his name? It would take me from dawn till dusk to remember: Matt*.

Once I realized it was about Matt, Matt took over in my dream. I can see the parallel: both House and Matt are lean and have eyes that peer into your soul. Both are brilliant, unattainable, and can be obnoxious.

I woke up profoundly reliving sadness and hurt.

I was shocked. Are you kidding me? We barely dated. We didn't even sleep together.

Well, we literally did sleep together. But we didn't fuck.

I used to refer to him as "Older Guy" when I talked to Denisse about him. The man I was crushing on at Merrie Lore where I worked.

How much older? 13 years? 14? I could have told you exactly back then. I could have told you the birth dates of his three kids. I was always a bit obsessed with numbers. OCD, Autistic and INFJ - the best of all worlds.

I was in my mid thirties and everybody age 50 and over was, well. old.

My then friend Rob warned me about Matt. Matt was shallow, Rob said. Matt had a type: bombshell blonde with large boobs. And I clearly did not fit the profile.

But Matt had that mystique, a wicked sense of humor (even if it could be cruel at times) with mischief in his piercing blue eyes, and just the right touch of vulnerability (or so I thought I saw when we were alone just the two of us), a killer combo that I found irresistible.

Never mind that it was against company policy to date interdepartmentally. I found every excuse to get closer, sought opportunities outside of work, gave him every "in" to ask me out. And... nothing. Except his heartfelt appreciation for the work I was doing. He sang my praises with my boss ALL the time. It was embarrassing.

Until one day, months later, out of nowhere, he suggested an outing, in the weekend, just us.

He told me everything about his life over the course of an evening at his house over a game of billiard, including that he'd been diagnosed with Dissociative Identity Disorder. His ex-wife used to tease at times, "Will the good Matt come out and play?"

There was pain in his eyes. I couldn't be more intrigued, and moved.

I later half-joked with Denisse that the gigantic crucifix in the hallway leading from the foyer to the living space of his house should have sent me running for the hills.

I left my earrings on his nightstand as I got some shut eye for a couple of hours before taking off. That was my M.O. then. I never stayed the night.

I wondered which Matt had kissed me on the lips before mumbling "We don't have to have sex" and dozing off that night.

And I never got a third date. It would take me 6 months to get my earrings back.

One day at work, after I had long transferred out of Matt's branch, out of the blue, I spotted him in the parking lot with his arm around some blonde chick's waist. She fit the bill: long golden locks, well dressed, voluptuous.

It was like time had slowed down and I watched the two of them in slo-mo as they approached his car. He was grinning from ear to ear. He looked so happy.

I thought I'd forgotten about him but I felt my heart broke then. It broke so loud, I could hear it. All muffled up in my chest.

That night I had a good crying session over Brian McKnight on repeat. (Sounds comical now.)

That was nearly 12 years ago. Are you shitting me I am not over that?

The takeaway may be... I have not learned to heal from all the incidents of hurt in my life. It's almost like my brain likes to hold on to the pain even though the episode and the person involved should no longer mean a thing today. I have moved on. Why hasn't my brain? Does this even make sense...

It could be that my brains mistakes pain for romance, the two have been so intertwined in my past. After all, is it even a good story if a few tears have not been shed?

I once imagined that my love had the power to heal any broken soul. It hasn't healed my own.

Toward the last scene in Call Me by Your Name, the father of Chalamet's character gave one of the best pep talks in cinematic history (I can only paraphrase): about how it's okay to allow yourself to feel even if it means to feel pain fully because...

What is the alternative? Not feeling. That's just no way to live.


*Not his real name

The GF Dept.

Sometimes I recall a friend from my past and wonder how they are doing today. Has life been kind? Are they happy? Sometimes I obsess. I must know.

In mid December, I searched for Ava*, my lab partner in Human Anatomy 101 in college. She aspired to be a nurse. I had to fulfill the biology sector of General Ed, and wanted something not boring. Huge mistake. I was in over my head.

Even though I had grown up in Asia, where studying for exams meant memorization and more memorization, those Latin terms in Anatomy 101 I found nearly impossible to remember. In lab, where we were supposed to pick delicate muscles apart and identify them, I tore them and hoped that no one would notice.

Great. I guess I am not qualified to be medical personnel. That's one field ruled out.

It didn't help that class started at 8 a.m. Monday, Wednesday and Friday and I was still mostly a night owl then. As the day grew shorter in the fall, I started to skip class quite regularly. In the lecture hall setting, the professor didn't take roll and couldn't care less about attendance. I studied the textbook on my own.

"You should come to class!" Cooed Ava. "It's fun!" And she insisted that there was a lot to be learned in class that wasn't in the book.

I managed to pass and, not long after, moved away from the college town. Years later I realized I never forgot Ava, her positive outlook and enthusiasm. I didn't have many friends then. And she actually wanted to talk to me. The wild excitement in her eyes talking about where her passion lay, the kindness.

Through the years I've had more than a handful of loving, meaningful, platonic relationships with women. Sometimes so intense I have an urge to kiss them, but not in a sexual way. No wonder, since it is the mind I fall in love with. Connection is connection. Doesn't need to lead to romance.

17 days after I messaged on FB an Ava with the same last name as my college mate, she wrote back to confirm that indeed she was that Ava.

"You have a good memory!" She wrote.

"I remember only good people," I replied. And earned a virtual chuckle.

She had switched from nursing to social work and psychology, she informed me. I always knew she'd do great things, I told her. She asked me where I lived. It was a short conversation. There was no "Let's meet up sometime!" or "If you ever find yourself in [this area], hit me up!" Not even feigned elation that I had found her.

I wonder if there was a creepy factor in looking for her.

I have to conclude I don't have much luck in the girlfriend department. (Luck has not much to do with it, I am sure.) Years later, I still don't have many friends. (That's a joke. Do I have any friends? Not nearby, anyhow.)

Last year, I was on Bumble solely for their unique BFF feature - designed for women looking for platonic friends. It was like white girls central. Specifically, white girls looking for like minds. And by like minds, we mean white girls.

Not daunted, I looked, and swiped. I went on a few dates. Yes, friending felt a lot like dating: the jittery bouts, the insecurity, the uncertainty about etiquette... You want to appear confident yet approachable. You don't want to come across as desperate.

I never got a second date. Not once. There were a couple of women I would have loved to hear from again. But perhaps I wanted to connect deeply too soon and scared them away. I've done that with guys, too.

There was this one woman with whom I stayed in contact for months and months. Neither of us ever brought up meeting up again. Or we did but the timing was off. After a while we would just randomly chat, seemingly pointlessly. I didn't want to lose touch. She was driven, intelligent, impactful. Yet I wasn't dying to make plans to see her again.

On a recent Sunday, I texted her like an old friend, "Are you going to the [city where she lives] farmers market today?"

She didn't reply. I guess she's had enough of a relationship that is not real friendship.

With introspection I have to entertain that perhaps I don't want friends badly enough to make time, or break routines for. Perhaps I just like the idea of having friends.

Earlier I was reading an article in the Modern Love section of the NYTimes submitted by a millennial who happened to be polyamorous and bisexual. She confessed that crushing on a woman can be more nerve-racking that on a man because women are intimidating in that they could see through your efforts and vulnerabilities. Somehow that resonated.

I may never get good in the girlfriend department.


*Not her real name

Alpha Numeric (For Good Measure)

The other day RJ and I talked about sex.

I acknowledged that I was aware he was not getting as much as he would like, and there was guilt.

Not intending to create additional guilt, he said, "I have only about 15 years (of sex) left."

I was shocked and sad at the same time. And also feeling a bit absurd. "You've done the math!" I exclaimed.

"So you expect to have sex up till age 80," I added after having done the math too. (RJ would correct me in that it is arithmetic, not math. Then I would say but isn't arithmetic a subset of math?)

RJ expressed that it was reasonable. I agreed. But... the number just made me sadder, realizing it was not a lot of time.

RJ has always half joked about foreseeing longevity because the life expectancy in his family has been high for generations. Sometimes I do the math on how many anniversaries I can count on. The conclusion is the same: not a lot. Not enough.

That's what you get when you meet later in life. At the time, I was near 40. In my head I had been 40 a while. RJ looked really good for his age (I hate that expression). I thought he was 50, maybe slightly over. Not a problem.

Turned out there were 17 years between us. Was it a lot? Doesn't matter when you're older? Depends on whom you ask.

But we were so similar in temperament and emotional age (I guess?) and we shared plenty pertaining to the outlook on life that it just worked. Seamlessly and happily.

And, yes, we fucked like minks.

When I see people blast their 40th and 50th anniversaries on social media I think, RJ and I will never have those. It is realistic to hope for a 20th. Lucky if we get a 30th.

That's what you get when you meet later in life.

There was a time, not long ago, when 65 sounded so old. RJ will turn 65 this year. And I don't look at him and see "old". I see the brilliant, fun, tender and unique person I fell in love with. The cliché does apply: age is just a number.

I am counting down to myself turning 65 these days, to retirement.

Some couples look forward to retiring and traveling the world together. When I retire, RJ will be 82, two years past the projected sex brim. Can he travel? Will he? Will he want to? Will we have stopped having sex? If you travel but don't have sex, isn't that sad?

So many unknowns. When I wonder out loud about these aspects of our future, though (not in so many words), RJ will remind me: Who's to say he'll go first? True.

When I decided to be with him because it was so obvious because I wanted to, because it felt good to the core, I didn't do any math in my head. I dove in.

Perhaps I was a fool then. Or perhaps this kind of math is for fools.

Gorge

Had an inflammation, needed antibiotics. While waiting at the pharmacy, grabbed a healthy snack that was nuts as I'd need to eat prior to taking meds.

Came home and excitedly waved my bag of salted pistachios at RJ. "Shelled!" I announced, big smile, wide eyes.

"But that is the fun part!" Replied RJ.

I felt sad then. "I used to feel that way," I said.

I was taken back to a fond memory of my mother, my brother W and me sitting around cracking open pistachios. Pistachios were a novelty then, a new import from the U.S. of A. I wouldn't have imagined that years later I'd be living where those pistachios had come from.

"Happy nuts", my mother called pistachios. (And other Canto-speakers did, too. But it didn't matter.) Because they appeared to be grinning.

Cutest thing!

It was gratifying to peel them one by one, stuff each precious morsel in your mouth, until your tender fingertips hurt and you didn't care. You kept going. And it was oddly satisfying to watch a heap of moonlight-shade shells grow on our glass-lined dining table, debris and all. My mother has OCD and that must have been a rare occasion of a devil-may-care attitude of hers toward what would generally be considered a mess.

Of course, I didn't know what OCD was, or that my mother had it. All I remember is savoring the umami in my mouth. It was the taste of happiness. I don't recall speaking much at the table while enjoying pistachios, but, if that wasn't love!

I don't have many memories of genuine bonding with my mother and this was one of them.

I recall that W was the one who introduced me to shelled pistachios, decades later. He could chuck a voluminous helping in one sitting. Nothing to pop, nothing to clean up. How convenient! We agreed.

I had forgotten the joy of shelling pistachios.

Have W and I both eschewed the peeling ritual because our mother is not in the vicinity to participate? I am not certain.

And by not in the vicinity, it's more like an ocean apart. Not having my parents near - I am not sure I am ever getting over the sense of loss. And the overwhelming sadness that comes with it that I have denied for over thirty years.

There is no reconciliation. Just the relief of having cherished memories. No much relief, really.

Detached

While visiting my parents on my annual run, I spent 5 or 6 days with my Aunt Teresa.

My Aunt Teresa was my primary caretaker until I was age 9. We slept in the same bed. She was the one who would have to get up in the middle of the night when I'd wet my bed (which I think stopped by age 5...) She came to my grandma as an orphan in her teens. She might have been 13, 14. Nobody knows for sure now.

Long story short she married my mother's brother and stayed with the only family she'd known.

For all intents and purposes, she remained a maid to the family. We've remained close and that is an understatement. She will always have a special place in my heart. Irreplaceable.

Aunt Teresa used to be ebullient and loquacious. ALL the time. She probably didn't finish beyond 3rd grade and according to my grandma, was not deemed bright by the nuns running the orphanage. By the time I was in 3rd grade I realized that my aunt's intelligent or intellect did not surpass mine. It was something to grapple with.

But she loved me more than she loved anyone else. Or so it seemed. And I adored her. I loved engaging her in conversation because the adults didn't take her seriously as a peer - that was obvious from early on even to a child.

I gave Aunt Teresa positive feedback whenever I could, on her cooking, for instance. Because no one else seemed to be expressing gratitude toward her. My mother, for one, offered nothing but criticism. Constructive criticism in her view, no doubt.

Aunt Teresa lacked confidence and acted like a timid child most of the time. Over the years, she's learned acceptance and a sense of purpose not at home but within her Catholic community, with volunteer work and more.

After my grandma died, and a few years later, her husband's demise, her religion and work at church was all that she had.

When I say she kept busy, she was almost never home. Well if I was living alone and had no one to come home to, I probably would stay out as much as I could, too. (Unless you are like me; in my case I'd probably still enjoy my own company very much.)

But Aunt Teresa needed people.

When I first saw her again this year and said hi, Aunt Teresa couldn't have been farther from enthusiastic. It was barely a lukewarm hello back.

What?! This is me we are talking about. She's usually stoked to see me.

We spent the next couple of nights sharing a hotel room. She was kind of not there. Kind of in a fog. I had to coax her to come out of her shell. She was quiet.

Quiet. Aunt Teresa! Usually you couldn't shut her up. This is someone who could go on and on, non-stop, easily for an hour, whether or not you are listening.

Even my Dad commented that Aunt Teresa appeared to be... slow.

I wasn't sure if it was age or something else.

The good news was she did want to see me. I kept reaching out to her, making eye contact, asking questions about her. She started out distant, even jolted as I touched her hand. It was jarring to me. I'd ask a question and she'd basically respond with, "Why are you asking?" I didn't know this person before me.

By the 3rd or 4th day she warmed up. I'd complimented her on her new shirt. She liked that. She shared her taste on fashion. She smiled.

She no longer shied away from physical contact. We had a head leaning moment, à la Rainman.

I watched her from afar and she did come across as a bit lost.

The church community had grown demanding and perhaps not as personal (or personable). They asked what Aunt Teresa could do for it, not what it could do for the parish member. Never mind that the woman was now in her 70's, had severe osteoporosis, had fallen and broken bones, had chronic knee joint pain...

My father had asked why Aunt Teresa was not as responsive or receptive as before. I say it was the perfect manifestation of someone who'd been deprived of meaningful human contact, devoid of love. She was displaying classic symptoms of isolation and lack of social stimuli. It was heartbreaking.

On our last day together, Aunt Teresa looked back as we parted ways and, with a big grin, waved goodbye. "Safe travels!" She hollered. I vehemently smiled and waved back.

That was the Aunt Teresa I knew and loved. It'd taken us 6 days to get her back. I am not sure about next year.

Bijou

Recently took my parents on a trip to Southeast Asia. It was a first.

I felt a lot of pressure having to plan the whole thing myself. It rained everyday. Things didn't always go as planned. We got lost a few times (well, I got lost - I was the only one with GPS). We were exhausted from the walking and the humidity (me probably more so than the 'rents). At one point, my soaked shoes didn't dry for over 48 hours.

In other words, what you would expect on a trip somewhere you've never been.

During the 3.5 days, many visuals were seared in my brain. Of them, this stands out:

We were at the Flower Dome. It was pitch dark but for the electronic imagery of falling flowers. So... many... flowers, combo ever changing, patterns never quite repeating, never boring. Visitors were encouraged to lie down on the floor to fully take in the effect.

To my pleasant surprise, my mother eschewed her usual prissy self (I expected her to go, "Eew, floor! No! Dirty!") and actually proceeded to get down. Before she did, though, she started capturing the dome with her phone camera.

Her face lit up then, like a child's. All the wonderment that belongs on a child's face, so much amazement, joy and awe. Such a big grin you couldn't wipe off. Sparkle in her eyes. Never had I witnessed this side of my mother and may never again.

In the dim light I reveled in the outline that was her (now) tiny body as she raised her phone to keep recording what was above and around. She never grew tired. She was 80. In stark contrast, my neck was getting sore (among other things).

She was so... at peace. I wasn't used to that.

As we finally exited, my mother exclaimed, "I could stay forever!"

I believed her.