Square Peg, Round Hole

Ever see a pair of shoes you just had to have? The kind that you instantly fall in love with, and start imagining the possibilities, the outfits, the heads turning? I found one such pair, but the story ends in much despair.

Having size 7½ wide feet may not sound like such a terrible thing, but no matter what anyone says, finding shoes that fit is no easy task. Never did I realize this more than two weeks ago when I went scouring for the perfect pair to go with my perfect dress for a party that evening. The shoes were either too tight, too big, too expensive, too high, too dark, or too something. After 30 blocks, 5 stores, and 3 hours later, I finally came across a pair that I liked. One small problem though – the shoes were just a tad bit too big. Surprise surprise. But as time and my patience were running out, I snagged a pair of in-soles to go with the shoes and called it a day.

As I’ve been trying to sift through the debris left from my broken heart, I suddenly realized why this one hurts so much. I kept insisting to buy a pair of shoes he wasn’t even selling. But we tried each other on anyway, and we just didn’t fit. I figured I’d be able to squeeze my way into his heart the way I did into my pair or Bandalino’s.

Maybe there’s something to be learned from the story of Cinderella – a guy who wore his heart on his sleeves, fell in love with a girl with a missing shoe off her feet. There will come a day when someone will sweep you off your feet. Shoes optional.

Death of a Salesman

We're born with two ears and one mouth so we can listen more and talk less. Apparently I didn't get that memo because I rarely listen. I should've listened to my instinct when it told me not to stray down heartbreak boulevard. I should've listened when my friends told me to snap out of it. I should've listened before his "I don't know" turned into "I like you." Because my ears didn't do their job, now my eyes have to pay the price. Our bodies are wired in such a way that when you get hurt in one place, it actually aches in another.

Our bodies aren't built to keep secrets; whatever is going on inside is bound to slip out one way or another. You bruise black and blue when you bang your knee. You bleed when you cut yourself. You puke when you punish your liver. You cum when you're satisfied. And when your heart breaks, your tears play that coveted role of messenger. Message received.

After a full year of heartbreak sobriety, I guess the streak is broken once again. In the midst of her sage advice, my Mom actually said something interesting: "your life truly begins when you think it's over." I guess I can buy into that. I fought for so long that I finally just wanted to give up completely... quit being hurt and quit living. Once you accept your loss, you suddenly begin to lose a lot more... your sleep, your appetite, your sanity, your desire to do... anything.

I cried myself to sleep, only to wake up to more of the same. Last night was long and cold, but not lonely. I was stuck in bed with my own thoughts that kept replaying what was said and done over the past month. Each vivid thought is like picking up a piece of my shattered beliefs and dreams, with its jagged edges cutting me into two pieces: what if and what is. As much as I want to be removed from these thoughts, I can't help but drown in them, because therein lies my anger, my sorrow, and my regrets.

I check the time every so often, hoping it would magically fly by and I would be far far away from this moment and this agony. But time -- much like my tears -- no matter how much I try to hold them back, is something you can't control. And I wonder, even when time does pass, will things be that much better? When I broke up with my ex two years ago, I told myself things will get better in time. Well, they did... my wounds healed, my memories of him vanished, I resurfaced and was free to fall in love again. And boy, fall I did. But now I'm back at it -- fighting with time because it has dragged me back to that dungeon again.

Times like these, my mom always reminds me of two types of people: those who have it worse than you, and those who wish to make it worse for you. Like my Aunt, that my Mom just spent the past three months with, is facing far greater hardship than I can ever fathom. Her resolve and beliefs are being tested every minute of every day as she tries to care for her ailing husband. "That's true sadness and that's worth crying for," my Mom reemphasized. "What you're going through is unfortunate but inevitable, because you're destined to be with someone else." I guess some day I will find someone who'll make me realize why it never worked with anyone else. But I'm not holding my breath, because sooner or later, my nose will give out and I'll burst my mouth open for a breath of fresh air.

Heartbreak Heroes

As I was disputing with the insurance company this morning about my Dad’s damaged cell phone, an interesting thought occurred to me… we can purchase insurance on just about everything under the sun – everything from your life, your house, your pets, your jewelry, your plane ticket… well, you get the point. But the one thing that so many of us are vulnerable to is the one thing we can’t protect ourselves against: heartbreaks.

So then how does one insure their fragile heart? Call me a hopeless romantic, or a glutton for punishment, but I love falling in love – even though my uninsured broken heart may tell you otherwise. I don’t just fall – I dive right in, without worrying how deep the water is. But once I’m submerged in water, it’s not a matter of who will save me, but rather how I can stay afloat. You see, the true heroes aren’t the insurance companies or the lifeguards on duty – it’s those who dared to jump in… head first. And that’s me – it’s how I do, because quite frankly, that’s the only way I feel alive.

Torn

It's been a while since I've sat down in this thought chamber - not because I haven't been compelled to write, but mainly because words escaped me - even though I could feel them trapped inside my head, bouncing around from one corner to the next.

A lot has changed in my life in the past couple of months. While new relationships have been formed, some old ones have been strained. A close family member has been diagnosed with cancer - an illness, that only seemed to plague the Armstrongs of the world and acquaintances, suddenly hit home. I've started grad school (and anxiously counting down to 2011). I've put on an apron and attempted to add "domestic goddess" to my short-list of accomplishments. I've developed a love-hate relationship with my blackberry. I've taken sudden interest in politics - thanks to our interesting line up of D.C. bound candidates. I've visited a third world country and experienced it like never before - with sweat, tears, and hugs - lots of them.

I guess what I'm saying is I've done some growing up lately, and frankly, I'm not sure if I'm ready for it. But with it, there's been a growing sense of melancholy inside of me, and I don't know what to attribute it to. I put on a coat of lipstick and a smile everyday to mask this feeling gnawing away at my heart. Am I discouraged? Disappointed? Depressed? Defeated? Maybe. Yes. No. I don't know.

As a friend recently aptly put it: "I want a life unlike my own." I want that too, but for some reason, I'm overridden with guilt as I think that. Why am I complaining? I have a roof over my head - something that the former residents of Galveston, Texas would appreciate. I have two loving parents that any of the orphans from Copprome would cherish. I have years left in my body, before any threatening cells attack it.

Some may even think that "I have it all," though at times, I feel like it's nothing at all. So why do I have this sinking feeling? I know I'm torn... just unsure between what.

Faith & Funds

www.faithandfunds.com

He’s a proud son, a baby brother, a loving husband, a doting father, a caring uncle, and most recently… a cancer patient. My uncle, Pankaj Modi, was recently diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML), a cancer of the myeloid line of white blood cells, characterized by the rapid proliferation of abnormal cells which accumulate in the bone marrow and interfere with the production of normal blood cells. The symptoms of AML are caused by replacement of normal bone marrow with leukemic cells, resulting in a drop in red blood cells, platelets, and normal white blood cells. These symptoms include fatigue, shortness of breath, easy bruising and bleeding, and increased risk of infection. Although several risk factors for AML have been identified, the specific cause of AML remains unclear. As an acute leukemia, AML progresses rapidly and is typically fatal within weeks or months if left untreated.

Acute myeloid leukemia is a potentially curable disease; but only a minority of patients are cured with current therapy. Treatment of AML consists primarily of chemotherapy, and is divided into two phases: induction and postremission (or consolidation) therapy. The goal of induction therapy is to achieve a complete remission by reducing the amount of leukemic cells to an undetectable level; the goal of consolidation therapy is to eliminate any residual undetectable disease and achieve a cure. Although he’s currently taking oral chemotherapy and ayurvedic medicine, we’re still exploring alternative solutions, including hematopoietic stem cell transplant. Despite aggressive therapy, however, only 20%–30% of patients enjoy long-term disease-free survival.

Typically people who develop AML are around the age of 60, but my Uncle is just shy of 40. This isn’t a race with time, but rather, a test of our faith, the power of humanity, and the strength of body and mind. So today, I ask you not as a daughter, a sister, a niece, or even a friend… but simply as a believer that people can unite for a common cause: to give my Uncle another chance at life so he can continue on to becoming a survivor.

"Little Wonders"

By: Rob Thomas

let it go, let it roll right off your shoulder
don't you know the hardest part is over
let it in, let your clarity define you in the end
we will only just remember how it feels
our lives are made in these small hours
these little wonders,
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away,
but these small hours, these small hours still remain
let it slide, let your troubles fall behind you
let it shine until you feel it all around you
and i don't mind if it's me you need to turn to
we'll get by,
it's the heart that really matters in the end
our lives are made in these small hours
these little wonders,
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away,
but these small hours, these small hours still remain
all of my regret will wash away some how
but i can not forget the way i feel right now
in these small hours
these little wonders
these twists & turns of fate
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away but these small hours these small hours,
still remain,
still remain
these little wonders
these twists & turns of fate
time falls away
but these small hours
these little wonders still remain

Unearthed*

I generally don't post stuff on my blog written by others, irrespective how good or relevant it is. But there's a first time for everything so I'm making an exception. The following is an email I received from an acquaintance. And I stress the word acquaintance rather than friend, because this person knows nothing about me yet understands me better than my own friends perhaps. This email captures that essence that I've been struggling to find...


Maybe I do have you confused with someone else? The girl I am refering to is mentally tough, insightful, adamant, & always sure of herself. The only time she crumbles is when her love life fails to add up like it should. The problem is within the numbers. Out of 98% of the guys she meets, they just fail to impress. The other 2% that come close to what she is looking for bring a certain hope and possibility. This hope/possibility mixed with a certain void or loneliness can lead to a bad combination of judgement. The question is at what point was the person following their heart, and at what point was it a certain void and loneliness that dictated their emotions?

Sometimes a person finds themselves heartbroken not because of the person who broke it, but rather the fact that they are forced to let go of that one thing they were holding on to. Once their hopes are crushed, with no one to hold on to, and no one in the horizon to look forward to.... the big empty void feels bigger then ever. This is the reason why they feel heartbroken, lost, & 100 other emotions. They are disappointed at themselves, they feel let down again, and that bleak outlook fogs up optimism. That big void consumes so much energy, that they question if they will ever find what they are looking for. They question their own strength & insight, and they have to channel through their emotions until they find a way to recharge their emotional batteries. They want that peace of mind, but their head is a mess.

*for those of you who know what my name means

The Truth About Truth

Hurt... crushed rather. Disappointed and disgusted. Furious yet composed. These are my feelings, raw and unedited. I didn't seem to mind much when you didn't give me the time, the attention, or even a sign. I didn't seem to care that it was a one way street, because I liked you... "you." But I hardly even knew you; and now that I do, I know the truth. I didn't wanna hear it, but I had to. I didn't wanna believe it, but I do. I didn't want it to end this way, but it has to. The truth of the matter is, I wish it were all a lie, but it isn't. I wish you could tell me, it isn't so... it isn't so... but it is. Maybe this is another one of life's ironies: first I lost my heart, and now I lost all respect for you.

Keep It Movin'

People lie, pictures lie, but a scale does not lie. No no. When my Mom started calling me fat, I scoffed at her thinking she’s delusional. When my friends commented on my protruding assets, I took a sigh of relief thinking I finally hit puberty. I guess sooner or later, I was going to have to retire my “skinny bitch” t-shirt because all those years of burritos and mozzarella sticks were bound to catch up to me.

So I decided to do the unthinkable… the impossible… the invincible: diet. The mere word is almost as scary as the thought of me stepping foot inside a gym. But I knew that eventually one of us was going to have to go: either my love for cheese or my figure. Being the typical self-conscious woman I am, I chose the former, of course.

Diet day 1: All the temptation demons are after me like a dog chasing a ball – they just keep coming back. I decided to severe ties with my old friends, Dunkin and Wendy, because they served more harm than good. My body retaliated as every muscle in my stomach started growling louder by the minute. All the billboards for McDonald’s seem to have suddenly triple in size and are flashing in neon lights. (And I don’t even like hamburgers!) Forget mind over matter – this was becoming personal – it was mind over platter. I hungered for food like recovering alcoholics thirst for liquor – I didn’t need it, but I wanted it, because I knew I was depriving myself of it.

The more I tried not to think about stuffing my face with 500 calories of greasy carbs, the less I succeeded. All my life, I was blessed with a fast metabolism and a petite figure. But gone are the days when stepping on a scale were a breeze, and size 0 clothes adorned my closet. I refuse though – I refuse to live a life full of self-deprivation and nutritional dieting. I want to have my cake and eat it too dammit!

I finally decided it was time for an intervention. So Avani-the-dating-extraordinaire stepped in and said to Avani-the-blossoming-cow: “You’ve given up stuff plenty of times before. This should be piece of cake (no pun intended). Remember the time I gave up on the guy formerly known as P-Dub? Or what about my childhood crush that I pined over for 4 years? Or the time I stopped pretending to care about cars because that guy was an auto junkie?” And so on and so forth the spiel went.

The more I thought about it, I realized that dieting was a lot like getting over a guy. Ultimately, they both require me to fight every instinct I have to act on impulse. What I really want is a large order of fries, but I stuff an apple down. Sure, I’d like to pick up the phone and call him, but I pick up a book instead. It becomes a torturous process of unsatisfactory substitutions. It really just comes down to moving on – from the “what used to be” to “what needs to be.”

Moving on is something else I’m not terribly apt at; I’ve only moved twice in my life: once from the motherland to America and then once within Jersey. Moving furniture or changing addresses isn’t really the hard part. Moving from somewhere is easy – it’s the moving on from someone that’s difficult. I can neatly store all of my belongings inside a big box, load the truck, dispense the keys and be gone. But how do I do that when someone lives inside of me – inside that little beating organ that seems to pump out more memories than blood? How do I change the locks when someone else holds the key to my heart?

I repeat it like a mantra, “I can do it, I can do it…” Interestingly enough, it’s the same pep talk I give to myself right before I swallow a pill (it’s a phobia that took me years to overcome, and one that I still try to avoid at all possible cost). If there was a magic pill I could take that would cure me of all symptoms related to being sprung, then by all means, bringeth to thy. When you start liking someone, it just sort of happens. Yet when it’s time to undo the liking (not to be confused with “disliking”), it takes every ounce of effort to control your thoughts and actions from leading to that one inevitable destination: your crush.

If practice makes perfect, then all recurring acts should eventually be carried out with supple buoyancy and efficiency. Optimal word being: should. Such is not the case unfortunately, my friend. Granted, you learn from your mistakes, so previous failed attempts and its consequences can be avoided the next time around. Yes, in a perfect world, practice makes perfect. But alas, our imperfections stand in the way like a speed bump – only further slowing us down when we’re trying to speed things up. But if it weren’t for my imperfections, I wouldn’t be the pudgy 113 pound girl head over heels a guy who barely thinks of me. And sometimes, honesty isn’t such a bad thing either.

Is it worth it?

I tried -- I really did. I tried to write about things that were unnatural to me, and I got a writer's block the size of Manhattan -- as if all of my words went on a strike, demanding me to return to normal working conditions. So here I am -- a month later -- back at last.

First and foremost, those inquiring minds can rest at ease -- I am no longer enlisting my services to a third world country for a two year stretch -- at least not in the immediate future. The Peace Corps requires the kind of commitment I can't afford. As much as being part of a greater good is rewarding, I've decided to shelf that idea for now.

Going through the application made me realize the things I value dearly in life: functioning and sanitized toilets, for starters; the internet, a war-free zone country, and my family to name a few others. The application process really makes you question your true reasoning and intentions for joining the Peace Corps. I thought about it for a while -- dug deep down in the depths of my stomach (because you have to crave it – hunger for it), hoping for some holy awakening that would give me a sign that the Peace Corps was for me, just as much as I was for it. I eventually realized that I was trying to convince myself more than the Peace Corps committee of why I should be qualified.

Turns out that I'm, in fact, not qualified because I lack the ability to sacrifice. I'm not willing to give up witnessing my niece and nephew's childhoods. I'm not willing to trade my familiar complicated life here for a foreign complicated life there. Nor am I willing to put this life on pause, only to find it fast forwarded to '2 years later' when I return.

We make small sacrifices on a daily basis, often times inconspicuously. Then there are those occasional days when I fast for some preordained religious custom. I'll have to forego many mouth watering urges and trips to the vending machine -- all in hopes of not receiving bad karma from Mr. Almighty himself (or at least that’s what I tell myself). As cynical as I am of these fasting practices, I do give credence to them. Fasting teaches you to give up something without getting something in return. In this materialistic world, we've grown accustomed to extending our one hand to give, as we reach with the other to receive. At times we sacrifice our pride for love, food for weight, vacation for work, liver for liquor, comfort for fashion, independence for marriage, life for our country, divorce for the sake of children, and even friendship for a night of passion.

Ironic isn’t it? Some of the most priceless things in life actually come with a hefty price tag. It makes us question whether what we desire is truly worth it. And I’m slowly beginning to find out that sometimes the things I like… aren’t necessarily the things I want.