Rapture

Yesterday was a beautiful day in terms of weather. I was a bit anxious not knowing what to do to take advantage of it (and it was a long weekend to boot). Whenever I don't know where to go, I go to the farmers market. Seeing flowers and fresh produce and happy people out and about makes me happy.

I was walking back to the car after the outing when this man sitting on the edge of a cement planter looked my way. Within seconds I realized he wasn't eyeing me, as soon as I heard a shriek of delight from behind me, the sweet voice of a little girl calling, "Daddy!" It was utter joy you could hear, dripping with honey.

The man was looking semi serious until that moment, when warmth washed over his face and his features softened.

I passed the man and looked back to see his little girl, probably four years of age, run up to him in earnest, her chestnut wavy hair bouncing with each step. The sun hit it in such a way she might as well have been wearing a halo. As she neared him she extended her hand, and he offered his hand to her.

I was so moved I had a lump in my throat and had to look away. The love of a child for a parent. There is nothing like it. So pure and unadulterated.

There is a reason there's "adult" in "unadulterated". We are never going to love like that again once we leave childhood.

Château Cru

Last night RJ and I spent another wonderful evening at Amelia's.

If you look up Amelia on this blog you'll see that she's RJ's ex.

It sounds totally weird but the three of us hang out from time to time and we always have a marvelous time. Amelia is a wonderful cook and together we share delicious food, wine, whiskey, anecdotes, secrets, learning about each other as we go. RJ and Amelia were together for nearly two decades. There is a lot of love there. They're family. Nothing can change that, nor should it.

And I just happen to like Amelia. I have a lot of admiration and respect for her. She loves people's reaction when she announces she's having her ex and his current wife over for dinner.

So usually at the end of the evening we will have had a lot of social lubricant and we become a bit uninhibited. Last night, in the process of saying goodbyes, RJ kissed Amelia on the lips. I was beside myself in delight, I found the affection so cute.

"Ooh I want a photo!" I said.

Amelia laughed and protested she didn't need that on Facebook.

I promised I wouldn't post it. "Just for us," I assured her.

And so RJ and Amelia willingly reenacted, and I snapped away.

After we got home, RJ had to walk Alley. We did a quicky kissy in the foyer.

"Since you kissed Amelia earlier and now we've kissed," I gleefully and mischievously proffered. "It is like I have kissed Amelia!"

You know, 5th grade logic.

"Well, that one wasn't wet," said RJ.

"Next time do it right!" I quipped.

"If you want to kiss Amelia, you're gonna have to do it yourself!" RJ stated, which made me giggle.

I just love how easy it is with RJ. And fun.

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.