I Now Pronounce You (Wo)Man and Life

I've hit rock bottom. Somehow in the last week, I've managed to upset pretty much every person that matters to me. And the root of all my problems is that I'm working too much.

I've been averaging a little over 30 hours per week because I've been feeling the stress of paying my rent, of buying new computers, of covering sorority dues, of buying groceries. I'm working because there's nothing else to do and because I feel the dire need to be self-sufficient. I'm working because in some sick and twisted way, I crave the numbness that can only come from brainlessly folding thousands of over-priced sweaters for eight hours.

But the aftershock of all that work it whittling away at me. I'm not working out and I'm not eating right. I'm not spending time with my friends or with myself, and when I do have a free second, I would run away to my boyfriend's to escape the reality of my exhausting routine.

But I've come to the sobering conclusion that this is not okay. My friends have complained for as long as I can remember that I don't have enough time for them. For as long as I can remember, I've been working by butt off and struggling to beef up my resume. I've given 100% to too many things and the mathematical impossibility of that is killing me.

I don't sleep, I don't eat right, and ultimately, I'm not happy. Not like I should be at least. So I've opted to make a change.

Over the course of the next few weeks, I'm on a search for balance. I want to adequately balance my work, school, social, personal and love lives. I want to sleep and maintain my sanity. So I am cutting my workload in half, and contemplating taking out a small loan to help offset the deficit. I am trying to eat better and trying to give myself the extra tidbits of time that I deserve and need.

I'm starting an early morning bootcamp in a week and am clearing time on the weekend for my boyfriend and fun activities like apple picking and finally actually visiting the Athenaeum. I want to read for fun and write a letter once in a while.

It's like a breakup makeover. A breakover. Only, I'm breaking away from the former half-life that I was allowing myself to live. I'm taking myself for pedicures and sushi dinners when I feel the need. I am sleeping in later than 8 a.m. I am living.

My mom has always preached that I need to have a job while in school. It builds character and responsibility and whatnot. But "Alexandra's" mother tells her that if she has enough time to have a job, she ought to spend that time in the library. And I think both mentality's have merit. But somewhere in there,  I want to fit fun, as well.

My big brother says that I should do what I love, even if I've forgotten that I love it. At the time, it kind of upset me, but there's a lot of truth to what he said. So I got thinking about what makes me happy. And it's the little things... a good book, a surprise from a boyfriend, a text from a friend, a call from a family member. I like a clean pedicure and the slight discomfort of a full stomach. It's cooking and cleaning and running. I even want to take a spin class.

I'm renewing my vows to myself, to my life. I'm choosing to love myself for time and all eternity, and to practice what I preach. I choose to live and love and sleep, and to devote my time to all the people that matter to me. I am again married and committed to my life. Please, presents are not necessary.

Nothing like a pedicure to cheer a girl up.

Calculating Life

In the wake of my family’s loss, I’m struggling to sort through my feelings. The problems is that emotions are not easily translated into words, and there’s no one thing that can describe the overwhelming nature of this all.

I’ve never previously dealt with death or loss. It was a concept to me, something that I heard about and read about and that I could conceptualize, but by which I had never truly been touched. But with a simple phone call last night, everything changed.

I cried. But then I stopped myself, grabbed a pen and started writing lists of everything I needed to do. Writing lists felt organized and as far removed from emotion as possible. I’ve never been one to allow myself to be very emotional. I don’t know how to process things so I subconsciously numb myself. I run as hard and as fast as I physically can. I write. I make lists.

But sometimes the numbness is just as painful. When I close my eyes or think about someone so near and dear to my heart, I can’t fully process everything.

I’m consumed with anger, that someone would so selfishly take their own life. I’m sure he considered the consequences of his actions, but he made the decision anyway. Now someone has to tell his aging mother that her youngest son is gone. Now someone has to piece together the broken bits of his life. Someone has to write an obituary and decide the next steps.

I’m sad and sorry that he was in such pain. I’m filled with guilt at having forgotten to call him on his birthday. I’m so sorry for those blind sighted innocents that were forced to play a part in his death, people who will be broken for the rest of their lives and feel guilt for something that was never their fault.

In the simplest of ways, I’m also happy though. If things were truly bad enough to motivate someone to take their own life, than I’m happy that he’s no longer in pain.

And I feel an overwhelming and instinctive love that overpowers most everything. I love him, despite the pain and the sorrow and the guilt.

No matter what I feel, though, it doesn’t really matter. Someone I love is gone and I will never be able to see them again. I will never hear their distinct radio-worthy voice at the other end of the line. I will never hold their hand or laugh with them. And I will never again open their tin foil-wrapped presents. The emptiness is something indigestible and it literally gives me a stomach ache.

He is gone. And I’m still at a loss at how to calculate it.

The government puts a value of a human life between seven and 10 million. I would give ten times that to bring him back. I would walk those 600 miles. I would do anything. But saying that doesn’t mean anything because I can’t. He’s gone.

Gone… But then again, matter cannot be created out of nothing. And matter can’t just disappear, either; it’s turned into energy of some sort, recycled and processed back into the universe. So from a religious or scientific perspective—either way, there is an energy in the universe that is my uncle.

Reflecting on Relationships

There was this boy, Tash, in New York. I found myself thinking about him this morning and concluded that he’s probably one of the most influential people in my life. I didn’t expect it, but something about Tash changed me.

Going into the relationship, I (too soon) asked “the relationship question,” wondering if there was a chance for anything concrete between us. He very honestly told me that while he enjoyed spending time with me and being exclusive, there wasn’t really any reasonable expectation of longevity. Initially, I was hurt by this, but once I accepted the situation for what it was, I was still willing and happy to pursue something—whatever—with Tash.

So we dated. We hung out. We read and talked and watched documentaries. We explored New York and new hobbies.

And about a month into it, I found myself in an awkward situation. I had said the g word (girlfriend), and he nonchalantly said that he wouldn’t mind calling me his girlfriend. He asked if I would want that. I heard him ask. I kept talking, avoiding it as much as possible. He asked again. And again, thinking I hadn’t heard. Eventually the conversation smoothed over into something else, the question unresolved.

When I first moved to New York, I didn’t want to date. I didn’t want to think about boys and relationships and the drama and heartbreak of it all. I wanted to focus on me, to exile myself to a tiny island for six months and see what I came away with.

Tash happened kind of by accident. We were introduced by a mutual friend and hit it off. He taught me about aesthetics and beauty and religion and spontaneity. And I taught him about… I don’t even know. But it worked, we worked. And he treated me better than I’d ever been.

But when he mentioned the whole girlfriend thing, I kind of freaked out. I had become so comfortable with the idea of not being his girlfriend. Having guidelines was fine because I could follow them. I didn’t have to rely on him; I could be my own strong, independent self. I didn’t need him, but I could still find happiness in spending time with him.

It was healthy. For so long, my relationships were marked by codependency. I wanted someone to take care of me and to take an interest in everything I was involved in. I wanted that complete meshing of my life with someone else’s. There is one person, in particular, that comes to mind. I think the world of him and I respect him highly, but I would never let myself be in a relationship with him again. Simply put, I loved him in the unhealthiest way possible. And it didn’t benefit me.

But Tash… I learned to love him simply. I learned to love myself first and him second. And eventually he did become my boyfriend, but not because of some conversation or conscious decision. We just started calling each other boyfriend and girlfriend. there was no grandiose show of affection; just two people admitting that they work well together.

And we were right--there wasn’t any longevity to it. We spent a semester learning about each other and then said our goodbyes when he moved back home. No harm, no foul. I look back on my time with him and still smile. There is no bitterness or resentment, just a spot in my heart for someone that helped make me happy during a particular time in my life.

He set the standard for what I should expect for myself: someone who cares about me, who respects me and my opinion; someone who wants to see me and spend time with me and who doesn’t think of my as just another commitment, a distraction; someone who pushes me to try new things; someone who calls me gorgeous and means it; someone who texts me kitchy-cute (slightly dirty) things or lyrics just because I’m on his mind. And someone who lets me love myself first and foremost.

Going forward, I would never accept anything less.

Tash and me

The Stars at Night / Are Big and Bright

Yesterday, I had the day off...

I woke up cuddling with one of my closest girlfriends and we made our way down to breakfast, then impulsively bought hair dye and dyed my hair in her apartment (I think I'm finally back to my natural brunette). We hung out at the boys' house and then I left for dinner in Cambridge.

After burgers at Bartley's (yay for a summer Bucket List accomplishment), I strolled around Harvard and Central squares and eventually made my way back to the boys' house, where I ended the night with a few beers, potato chips and lots of laughs.

Between bouts of "bro-ing out," my girlfriend and I stole away up to the roof. We lay out and looked at the sky and talked about relationships and honesty and the beauty of Boston. Cheesy at it sounds, there--surrounded by my family and friends and a warm summer breeze--I felt so incandescently happy.

It happened again this morning, as I was walking through my campus and realizing for the hundredth time just how stunningly beautiful this place is. I love this city, this time of my life. And I thank whatever powers that be daily that I made the decision to come here. I am happy, giddy even. I am in love with the people and the city and they, in turn, love me. I have a home here. For the first time in my life, I have furniture in my name. I have everything.

The world changes so quickly and I'm clinging to every moment. Lord only knows what will change in the coming months, as I return to classes and more and more friends graduate. But for now? I'm loving to live and living to love. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

For the Love of Food

I once messed up a box of Kraft Mac N Cheese. I am an absolutely hopeless cause when it comes to working in the kitchen. But that isn't to say I don't have a passion for it. If and when I devote the time (money) and effort to it, I thoroughly enjoy cooking. And when I can't find the time to cook, I still enjoy eating just as much. I've been spending the past couple of minutes looking through Cook's Country, some cute little foodie magazine I'd never heard of but that has amazing pictures and makes my mouth water.

It got me thinking about food, though. I walk home down Ninth Avenue and pass dozens of delicious-smelling, boutique-y, small, eclectic restaurants. Yes there are some that look like they've contracted some sort of STD, but the gems shine comparatively brighter compared to the ethnic grunge of Hell's Kitchen. I'm hungry all the time. And I'd be lying if I said I haven't Googled the best Italian restaurants or picked out where I'm making my parents take me when they come to visit. But this isn't the first time food (or the lack thereof) has defined me. For as long as I can remember, it's played an active and constant role in my life. So I decided to compile some little anecdotes about how food brought me to the three most incredible women I've ever met.

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Mom: My mom's rule when it came to grocery shopping was that whichever child went got to pick out something they wanted. For my brothers, that meant taquitos and ice cream, but for me it meant something weird. I remember the first time my mom and I found celeriac. And persimmons. She was always experimental and fun about food. Even when we didn't know what something was, we would buy it and then look up how to cook it in The New Joy of Cooking when we got home. Celeriac was middle of the road, but oftentimes our science experiments yielded incredible results. I remember I once picked out Chinese long beans because I thought they looked like some sort of monster hair. But when we brought them home and learned how incredible they are sauteed, we were in legume heaven. Mouthgasmic bliss, right there. The first time I went vegetarian my junior year of high school, my mom did it with me as our Lenten sacrifice. And though I craved Carls Jr. jalapeno burgers almost as much as chocolate, we made it fun. I remember looking through vegetarian recipes and trying to make eggplants sound appealing. We made these ricotta cheese Italian roll-up things once and I swear the prep work took two hours. But they ended up being amazing.

My mom didn't make me lunches until I was in high school (a little behind the curve, but I didn't mind). But her lunches were incredible. As my brother's high school girlfriend said, our lunches were "circus lunches," full of different food groups and color. When I was vegetarian, she catered to that, making falafel and packing hummus and celery. With the exception of the ever-present bag of carrots (which I always gave away), I loved every single lunch I had.

Last summer, when I went to Europe with my mom, we had an absolute blast. I've never met someone so experimental and inspiring. We would never order the same thing, always order wine and dessert, and we challenged ourselves to try things we might otherwise write off--like fresh anchovies and sardines in northern Italy or mussels and frites in Belgium. In Sienna, we stumbled around the tiny walled city for probably an hour looking for some Rick Steves-approved place before finally "settling" for a whole in the wall close to our hotel. When we saw the menu was entirely in Italian, we just signed to the waitress/owner that we'd have whatever she wanted to make. And we ended up with a porridge-y soup, some stewed meat, and spinacci (even I could read that). As we found out later, the meat was boar, not beef. But I didn't care in the least. I was too busy listening to my stomach purr.

Bo: I wouldn't necessarily call Bo's food choices diverse, but the girl knows what she likes and I have to give her that. Half a hamburger at The Cheesecake Factory, Steak at Jake's, pasta at Sammy's Woodfired Pizza. And Machaca at Rod's. Even if she weren't my best friend, I would love her for sharing Rodrigo's with me. Somehow, that little hole in the wall has seen me through some amazing transitions in my life. So many of my high school ghosts visit the restaurant (can I call it that?) that under any other circumstances, I would avoid it like the plague. But Rodrigo's is one piece of PQ that I will never quite let go of. Rodrigo's is the common stomping ground and it's a place where Bo and I can go and just be us, her and me, the Shis. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the Machaca is the shit. Hot or cold, drowning in salsa and spilling everywhere. Noms.

J: I still remember my first lunch with J. I described it once in conversation... It was awkward because I think we both knew intuitively that we were going to be close. But we had to get all the small talk and details out of the way first. But really. I remember wearing my pledge pin. I remember which corner table in Stetson East. And from then on, I spent almost every single dining hall meal with the girl. Over Colin-the-omelet-master's omelets and those amazing little rolls they have by the pizza stand, we learned the ins and outs of each others lives. We cooked Easter brunch together (or she cooked and I ate WAY too much), we made eclaire cake together (OMG, yum). Last summer I came to visit and we all had the most incredible potluck (shout-out to the "Stinky Salad"). This year, we both had kitchens and we were able to experiment even more. I remember the first time she made me a salad with a fried egg on it. I nearly died. Or making a pumpkin pie a week. Or having steak at her parents' house.

In a show of apology and gratitude to some guy friends who took care of me one best-to-be-forgotten weekend, I made enchiladas in their stunning (albeit disgustingly dirty) kitchen. The next Sunday, she made bolognese. And then one of the guys made chicken parmasean. There in that kitchen, we grew even closer. Whenever she felt inspired to experiment, I reaped the benefits. When I've been sad or upset, there's always been a heaping plate of deliciousness to cheer me up. And I remember one night when she hauled her butt across campus to the news room to bring me some southern corn chowder. I can say without hesitation or any iota of regret that my relationship with J is tied to food, to our shared appreciation for it, to our love for cooking it, for our zeal for eating it. I'm more than excited to share a (much cleaner) kitchen with her in September. The freshman fifteen will be nothing compared to the middler midsection. Bring it on.

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Food is so much more than a life force. It's a bridge connecting me to the people I love. It's a hobby and a skill. It's something I can look forward to. Though my family couldn't always come together and eat dinner (hockey and Scouts and theater and choir kind of mess with the Daniells family calender), we strove to have breakfasts together. And not the cold cereal kind. But omelets and bacon and the good stuff. The kitchen table was, and subsequently always will be, a place of conversation and community. Kind of funny that food can be so simple, but such a binding (and delicious) force. I'm loving it.

On the Subject of Love...

My dad tells this story... When he first found out that my mom was pregnant with me, he was scared. He loved my older brother so much and was worried that he wouldn't be able to love me the same way. But when I came out in all my perfect glory (Ha! I was blue), he says that he felt like that scene in "How the Grinch Stole Christmas," when the Grinch's heart grows and grows. He says he physically felt his heart expand. He didn't have to sacrifice any of the love for my brother in order to make room for me. But his capacity for love just grew.

Bo and I were talking recently about love. When she first started falling in love with P, she says it taught her that she had never really loved K (her high school boyfriend). And now that she and P have broken up, she is afraid that she won't be able to find that same connection with someone else.

Bo and I disagree on the subject of love. As far as my high school boyfriend goes, I have loved others more since, but to me that doesn't discredit what I had with him. The way I see it, I loved him as much as I knew how at the time. And breaking up with him and moving on doesn't mean I don't still love him. I do, but in a drastically different way. My love for my high school boyfriend is something along the lines of thank-you-so-much-for-showing-me-kindness-and-love-and-being-there-for-me-when-I-needed-someone.

Bo is a one-at-a-time kind of gal, but I love love so much that I drown myself in it, in all different kinds of it. I have numerous best friends... and while I realize calling them all "best" kind of kills the point of the word, they are all best for something. One for grumbling about my past and laughing about PQ losers, one for going out and dancing all night, one for hanging out in PJ's and cooking, one for crying to.

And that's how I am with guys, too, I suppose. And, by extension, love. There's my "half boyfriend," who gives me diversity of opinion and conversation and lots of books, but without any of the emotional attachment or stress that comes with a relationship. There's the hopelessly impossible guy that I can't let go of who knows all my secrets because he's the only one who ever bothered to ask. There's the best friend turned crush turned sadly distant memory who calls me things like "pretentious." And then there are the guys I date whom, in a way, I love too.

You know how the eskimos have a bajillion different words for snow? Well I think that there should be more words for love. Four letters can't possibly begin to encompass the meaning of such a complex term. There are so many different genres: family love, love of friends, love-hate complexity, romantic love, romantic lust, love for inanimate objects... how can loving my mascara be the same as loving my mother? Or a boyfriend?

And why should there be a limit? I'm definitely not advocating polyamorous relationships, but maybe I am advocating polyamory... It's a stretch, but still. Why limit ourselves or our capabilities? Why not allow ourselves to love those we once loved, but learn to love again and in new, more profound ways?

I wrote this song once, my senior year of high school about my high school boyfriend, post-break up:

"This brand new love,
Like nothing I've felt before,
Knowing with all the crap that we've been through,
I'd still always be there for you.
And yes, I know it's not the same
And I don't still think of you that way..."

I think it still holds true.

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