The Lost Blog...

So, in order:

I left New York City, but the last few weeks were such a whirlwind that I'll just highlight:

-The Great Rickshaw Adventure. On our way to Crobar, one of the hottest clubs in NYC (if it's all right to say that), it was too cold to walk and all the nearby cabs were taken. We hailed a rickshaw, and halfway down an abandoned street the driver (a young British guy of ambiguous ancestry "I'm from Italy by way of Leeds" and professional history "I left fashion because the industry is saturated with tarted-up people") asked if we wanted to take a spin. I thought, why the hell not? And climbed into the saddle. "You're a natural!" he cried, when I nearly collided with an SUV. The wind rushed by, my friends rushed out of the cab, I rushed off the seat and forgot to put on the emergency brake. That said, if we ever need to hijack a mode of transportation, my vote is for rickshaw. (Imagine one of those dramatic movie scenes. The hero and heroine are fleeing a gang of storm-troopers/mafiosos/cops and end up on a tarmac. "We'll have to take the plane," the hero says tersely. "Let's do it," she agrees. They drop their nearest pursuers - he with a nasty right hook and she with a cardio-kick that somehow sets her tits swinging - and they climb into the cockpit. "Wait," says the hero as they swing the hatch closed, "how the fuck do you handle this thing?" The heroine snorts, climbs over him, and pushes a few levers/buttons while he stares, slack-jawed. "What," she says as the plane coasts smoothly off the runway, "you never wanted to be a pilot when you were a little girl?" Now imagine the scene again. But this time, the pursuit isn't cops, it's tourists running to catch a glimpse of Christina Aguilera, whose car just rolled by. The heroine isn't Angelina Jolie, and the plane is a rickety bike riveted to a plastic tent with wheels on it. If this second, more "indie" scene is your style, well, I can make it happen. If, on the other hand, you prefer the first, well, commercial Hollywood thrives on people like you.)

-The Punishment of Eve. And the Lord said, "Thou shalt suffer pain in childbirth, and in addition, long before that time ever comes, thou shalt encounter strange drunkards in the night, and they shalt say unto you, 'Forsooth, the fairest stars of this desert night hath fallen from Eden,' or some such variation. And by this, thou shalt know thou art a sinner." Or, to paraphrase our prophetic rickshaw driver of earlier, "Crobar? It's such a meat market."

-Naked Boys Praying. Or maybe I meant, Clothed Boys Singing. Or 'singing religious men, in various states of dress?' Sonal and I saw "Altar Boyz" her last night in New York. It's a musical about five boys trying to succeed as a Christian boy band. They were sweet, they were funny, they were well-intentioned. But when one of them placed his hand over his leather-clad heart, gave the audience a smoldering look out of his heavily-lined eyes, and crooned, "Baby, something about you makes me want to...wait..." Sonal and I couldn't hold in our tears of laughter and - yes - pain. Because honestly, there are some things girls don't ever want to hear. Not even as a joke. Not just once because you're drunk, not in a foreign language "because then it doesn't count..." and certainly not because "all the other girls at church hear it all the time and they like it."

-Naked Girls Dancing! We followed our party instinct to a garage out in Brooklyn, where several college girls were competing in an amateur burlesque competition. During halftime - I mean, intermission - the host came around with a bag. "All this money goes to the winner," he said. We declined, saying we'd rather slide our crisp Lincolns into the lucky girl's G-string ourselves. But imagine my surprise to discover that the competiton was a) not that raunchy and b) one of my old high school friends was competing! Not only did she compete, she won! Which made the reunion afterwards, un peux faux pas, which is French for "fucking awkward, but on the other hand, fantastic." The DJ spun Bhangra afterwards, and I spent a mellow Monday night unwinding with a Guinness and a gang of dance-crazy kids who had both energy and moves.

-Secret Scary. I bought a "perceptive" gift for my office Secret Santa. It was a copy of Jay-Z's newest album, which I was sorely tempted to burn for myself before I wrapped it. As part of the up-and-coming rap duo Sha G (only up-and-coming because we can't get any further down, if you catch my drift...) I thought I could learn a few lessons from the King's sublime flow. Alas, ethics intervened, and I got nothing for the purchase but kudos from my excited editor. I did get a chance to play my own personal drinking game at the party, in which I ask my nearest companion what she's drinking and then order it next round. Thus I made my way through a pinot noir, a whiskey on the rocks, and a very dirty vodka martini. I got a little too excited about ordering, I suspect. When the waiter asked me how dirty I'd like the martini (mind you, it was my third drink) I gurgled, "As dirty as possible" and he tossed me a look like maybe he regretted not asking me for identification. Note to self: "as dirty as possible" is not a restaurant-appropriate phrase, in any context.

So this blog has lapsed a little because I wasn't sure anyone was reading it, and also partly because I switched to keeping a diary for about a week. To be honest, I'm not sure blogging is for me. It's definitely improved my writing, but whether it's helped my state of mind, I don't know.

That said, about last night...so I finally decided, screw this better judgment thing, and I went out with an old high school friend. We met at this place - a bit of a dive - where they served shots in test tubes and daiquiris in glasses the size of crystal balls. I didn't know anyone else there, but by the time we tottered out, we felt friendly enough that it didn't matter. The next stop was a club where another friend was spinning the opening set. The bouncer took my ID. "I'm just telling you this isn't ID in most places," he said, handing it back. "I'm from Dubai," I said, in clipped English, "it's the only ID I have." He just shook his head and I flew down the stairs before he could stop me. There were about ten people there, and so my friend bounced over and told us that it was our job to get the party started. I thought, it's dark, no one cares if things go a little crazy. The fact is, when it comes to dancing, I'm long on enthusiasm but short on training. Most people notice the enthusiasm and don't care about the training - I'm sure this applies to more in life than dancing - so it's never been an issue.

There were six of us. Two, a young couple, spent most of the evening dancing with each other. My friend bopped around the room, trying to get people on their feet. Another girl ran out to use the phone. This left me with one guy I didn't know, but he started pulling these crazy dance moves out of the air. I watched him for a while, then decided to join in. We switched back and forth, other people moving in and out of the circle. The club began to fill, the other kids were staring, and I'm going to be honest, I didn't care that people were looking at me. It's been a while since I felt so uninhibited, but also like I was learning something. (These kids all dance well, but in a style totally different from the standard rap grinding that pervades the Greek college scene.)

By the time a huge black guy was break dancing on the floor and two skinny girls in dresses were making out with each other, we figured our work was done and went home for a smoke. After that I took a cab home, with the other guy I'd been dancing with. He went to his place, I went to mine. But here's the other thing about the night that sticks in my mind, and I feel sort of bad about it: I didn't pay for anything.

Sure, I paid for my own dinner, but after that, drinks, cabs, weed - I didn't chip in. Normally I put in my share of everything because I hate girls who think they're somehow measured by what they get for free. Normally I refuse when people offer to buy me drinks. Maybe I've changed - relaxed about keeping all these accounts - perhaps because after Italy I realized that an offer to pay isn't always some grandiose statement, sometimes it's just a quick gesture and not worth noticing. It's a step for me. Back in freshman year of college I remember I went to a cafe with a friend once and I was so upset when he paid for my coffee. And I'm still torn. On the one hand, I'm glad I protested as much as I did because I do believe in fairness and equality and all that. On the other, I wish I hadn't made us both feel awkward, I wish I'd just said "thanks" and made a note to somehow repay the favor later. It reminds me of a conversation I had with two friends, both other women, about who pays for dinner on a first date. "I always split," said the first. "I don't," said the second. "I look him in the eye and say thank you." (As an interesting side note, the second one had been president of her sorority in college, the first played for years on a nationally ranked softball team.) But being neither a sorority president nor a softball player, I wonder what's the right middle ground.

And then I thought: my sister and I, we never split. One person pays for something, the other pays for something else. And it's because there's an implicit understanding between us that we have some future together in which this will all undoubtedly come out even. And perhaps I can say the same thing of all these people, if I know I'll see them again, if I know I like them. It's okay. It will all come out even.

Truth is stranger than...well, most things

"Detective," I said, sidling into Angela's room late last night. "I have a problem. It's my ex-husband. I think he's trying to kill me." Angela shook her head pityingly.
"You are so strange-" she began, but at that moment Sonal tore into the room, eyes gleaming.
"Delilah!" she shrieked. "Delilah! I told you not to two-time me!"
"He looks harmless," I told the stunned Angela, "but he's really quite dangerous!" I fled, running in circles around Angela's bed. "Detective, you have to help me!" It became obvious this was true, as Sonal was catching up.
"What is going-" Angela put aside her laptop.
"You think you scare me?" I taunted Sonal, gripping the wall, arms extended. "Well you don't! In fact, you fool, my name's not even Delilah!"

And just as suddenly, we stopped and bowed. The idea came to Sonal and I while watching YouTube. In terms of D-grade homemade films, Northwestern is pretty poorly represented. Tossing ideas back and forth, we lit upon the idea of putting together a film noir. "Let's pitch it to Angie," I said. "She can be the detective." Sonal laughed - a little crazily - and countered, "Let's enact it for her. Now." And that brings us up to date. More or less.

After the scene ended, Angela took a few moments to recover. "Does it occur to you that maybe you're weird?" she asked, not meanly.

People have suggested before that I'm not the most average person, but for the longest time I didn't really believe it. But these days, I find myself more and more often in conversations that begin like,

"The other day I think I accidentally propositioned this girl at the gym." Or "I bought The Thorn Birds. The back of the book says it's a 'sweeping family saga of dreams, titanic struggles, dark passions, and forbidden love in the Australian Outback.' Good, eh?" Or "Am I that intern, you know, the vacuous one?"

And the other person says something like, "You know, you might end up in jail one day" or "Dark passion in the Australian outback? You would" or "What the fuck does vacuous mean?"

Maybe I don't really come across as normal as I thought. Maybe I'm kind of a character. A bit of a nut. An oddball. How did I not know before that this is how people see me?

And then Sonal stalked out of Angie's room, waving her arms sinuously. "I just became...Catwoman," she snarled.

At least I'm not the weirdest one in this apartment.

Prima volta?

"The night's still young..." my friends will say, when we're planning something crazy. Or wish we were. "But we're just getting older." It's a cheesy little back-and-forth, but it's depressing: sometimes I feel like everyone else is moving forward with life (in work, in relationships, in general maturity) and I'm not. Being in New York was perfect for shaking the feeling: here I am, meeting new people, working two jobs, getting articles published in a real magazine and buying my own groceries!

But the feeling will come back when I get to college. So it was a bit of a thrill to open Glamour and read "12 major firsts in every woman's life." Most were just silly (even though I like Glamour and don't feel guilty about reading it, sometimes the articles are a little silly).

Number 2: The first time you get on a place because someone far away needs you.

This past weekend my sister had a scary personal crisis. I was attending a conference for Abroad View when I got her message. She was crying, pleading, begging for me to come see her. I was terrified at what might have happened, I called her back right away. She seemed calm enough, but as she told me what was happening, she started crying again. I stood in the hallway for thirty minutes, the conference participants giving me strange glances every now and then, as I tried to reassure her without crying my eyes out myself. "Anika, I'm too embarrassed to tell Mom and Dad," she said. "Will you?" And I realized that for the first time, my parents were out of the country, and she had no one but me. And I also realized that she had called me before anyone else. My sister relies on me. And so I left the conference early and booked her a flight that night itself. I called the dean of her college and explained the situation, I got a hold of our parents and told them what was going on. And when she got here I enjoyed her company, and we talked about how the world is terrible, and we also had an incongruously good time.

I'm not suggesting that anyone's life was changed. But talking to her on the phone that first day, I felt more than pain, fury or frustration. I was grateful. My sister and I haven't had a more painful past than anyone else, but we've always felt like we had no one to share our worries with but each other. And despite this "us against the world" mentality, and despite the fact that we're closer than a lot of siblings ever are, I'm ashamed because there have been times in the past when I've let her down. When she needed me desperately, and I didn't realize how deep the need went, how isolated and unhealthy she was.

I always loved being away from home. I started going to sleepaway camp when I was 10. But she didn't. And the first time she came with me she had a panic attack - there's no other word for it - and stopped breathing. We were in the middle of a campwide lecture, and she started choking, and someone brought her a straw, and she was breathing through the straw, and then one of the counselors escorted her out. And the other kids around me kept staring, and then one said to me, "Go, go, she's not well" and after a few seconds I went. But I'm ashamed, in retrospect, that someone had to tell me to go. That I wasn't sitting next to her, aware how anxious and scared she was, ready to holler for someone else at the first sign of trouble.

Again, when we were at a different sleepaway camp. We were in different tents, and every morning she came to my tent and we walked down to the showers together. But during the day I had my own age group, my own activities (this was my second time at this camp, I knew people) and the few times she came up to me I brushed her off because I was too occupied with myself to bother. And later I found out she was desperately sick the entire time. She didn't eat for two weeks, when we got home she had lost twenty pounds. And only once, afterwards, she mentioned, "Those ten minutes in the morning when we walked down to the showers was the only time I was happy at camp." And I felt ashamed, not because I didn't know, but because I was too busy to bother to find out.

There are more instances. In high school, I tested into the IB program at Richard Montgomery. And of course, I went. And two years later, when it came time for her to test, my mom said, "She's always felt insecure about not being as smart as you. Why don't you help her with the test, just help her study. She won't even go - but think how great she'll feel if she gets in." And I refused. I said it was because I had sworn at the test itself never to reveal what the testing process was like. But the real reason was jealousy and small-mindedness. And I am so ashamed. It turned out for the best - inspired by guilt, I found out about this sensational art program at a nearby high school, and pretty much forced her to go. And now she's on an art scholarship at an amazing college.

And yet, when my sister called me, at first I was just terrified and sad for her. I wanted her near me. I wanter to reassure her, to reassure myself that she was fine. But afterwards, after our weekend was over and she had left, she called and left me a message. "I had a wonderful time, thank you," she said. And although she has never said anything about all those earlier betrayals of mine, what we both realized was that this time, I stood by her. I had the chance and I didn't mess up. This is my one biggest regret (besides never playing any competitive team sports in school - ha!) and it was my most long-standing doubt about myself. What kind of person abandons her sister? I used to think.

And the final thing: I don't know what moved me so much when she called. Yes, I love her very much. When I heard her voice, even over the phone, I realized that she would be fine no matter what. But she wanted to be near someone who cared about her - wanted it enough that it was almost a need. She was always like that, but until recently I never saw it. In the past year at school, I've learned to doubt myself in ways I never thought possible. I've looked at my grades and wondered if maybe I'm not actually that bright. I've looked at my social life and thought, maybe I'm not that interesting, not that personable. I've looked at my professional portfolio and worried I'm not ambitious enough. I've watched myself in sorority skits and dances and realized I'm not graceful. I've been ignored by plenty of boys, and realized I'm not that attractive (although I guess I never thought that). I've worried about how much time I've wasted, the opportunities I haven't taken, the things I haven't done. And everywhere I looked I saw people who were more successful in all these areas. I thought, I'm standing in the same place I was two years ago. So trapped, so limited.

But while I am less confident and less secure than ever before, I'm still capable of things I wasn't in the past. Strangely enough, by leaving my sister for two years I've actually taken on her life. Learned what it's like to be the one who's overlooked, who comes second or third in people's minds, who doesn't always know she's worthy of being loved. And although the process of becoming insecure was so difficult for me, maybe I should stop regretting it. It has made me realize that life is harder than I thought, I will work more than I thought, I will receive less recognition than I expected - and that I am a sadder but better person for it.

The Princess and the Nun...

The other day I saw The Queen, with Helen Mirren. It's strange to see yourself reflected in so-called historical films. The movie is about the week Princess Diana died.

I remember one of my good friends telling me that she and her family "cried" when Princess Diana passed away. And it was definitely a sad event, but I remember the scenes of mass mourning (I mean really, mass mourning) and I have to admit: I was a little surprised it became such a big deal. Now, I wasn't in England at the time, so I can't vouch for how Englishmen felt about her, or about the monarchy in general. And perhaps, in contrast to the rest of the royal house, Diana was more approachable and civic-minded. And definitely, her death(by paparazzi) exposed an ugly side in both the British and American lust for celebrity news.

What many people might not remember is that Mother Teresa died that same week. And it's true that Tess has been nominated for sainthood whereas Di has not. But I'm not arguing that either of them got more or less than they deserved. What I found interesting is that Mother Teresa's death ran on the back page of most newspapers (or at least, definitely on the inside) and there was little television coverage of her funeral, or of the flowers left at her gate by mourners.

In terms of generosity of spirit, Princess Diana could not have exceeded Mother Teresa. In terms of charitable giving, in terms of advocacy, in terms of absolute dedication to other people and to God. But even that is not my point. My point is that Mother Teresa married God, Diana married a Prince. Mother Teresa lived in the slums of Calcutta, Diana lived in a palace. Teresa neither wanted nor received media attention (most news crews would be frightened to follow her into those slums, some of the most dangerous and unhealthy places on Earth - I've been there and seen them and I still can't get them out of my mind), and Diana couldn't get out of the spotlight no matter how hard she tried.

Not to suggest that no one noticed Mother Teresa's passing. All of India mourned for her, the anniversary of her death (Sept 5) is still a day for speeches and vigils. But the average American didn't know. And I don't know why that is. Large newspapers and network news claim to give the people what they want. The people claim that the large newspapers and late-night news are full of lies and trash.

Maybe it's because the average person would have traded lives with Princess Diana in a minute. But it would have taken years of convincing before they wanted Mother Teresa's life. When Diana died, she took with her the aspirations of all the would-be Cinderellas in the Western world. The pretty girl who captured the Prince's heart but never quite made it into the bosom of his family. Meanwhile, Mother Teresa was the subject of every sermon ever written on quiet humility. She brought back memories of sitting in the back of class, counting the minutes, listening to stories of how you should be and knowing in your heart that it's not what you really want. And guilt. And I'm not writing about this to continue with that guilt. I think it's worthless to force someone to feel something they have no desire to feel. Mother Teresa's excellence lies partly in the fact that she was so rare. Princess Diana's appeal lies in the same. They were both one in six billion. The fact that we identified more powerfully with one than the other lies in their choices. But also in ours.

One of those days...

I took off work because I wasn't feeling well. I went to yoga class instead, watched Moulin Rouge, tried to conduct an interview, organized the caterer for my parents' upcoming anniversary party.

Now I'm standing in my kitchen in the middle of an almost entirely dark apartment, still in my yoga pants and sorority sweatshirt. No one else is home. I'm drinking Riesling from the bottle and reading Anais Nin's "This Hunger." Thinking that I didn't like Moulin Rouge, partly because the heroine almost had to die in the end to justify the ludicrous melodrama of the film, partly because she says to Ewan McGregor at one point, "I am the Hindu courtesan, and I choose the maharajah." My question is, what does her profession, or her choice, have to do with being Hindu? Is this something I should really be worrying about? I mean, there's only one black actor in the cast, and his character name is Chocolat. Maybe my complaint is a small one.

Thinking that Anais Nin is a good writer. As here: "She fell in love with an extinct volcano" or here "From the first, into this void created by his not wanting, she was to throw her own desires, but not meet an answer, merely a pliability which was to leave her in doubt forever as to whether she had substituted her desire for his." This is good writing, even if it is opaque and oversensitive.

Also, I hear Sonal talking, yesterday night, when we were standing around in the hallway. She was wearing a towel, arrested on her path to the shower by our conversation, and soon enough all five of us were in the hall, standing and sitting on the ground, waylaid by a discussion too good to pass by (this happens a lot in our apartment.) "Don't you just want to corner him? In the elevator? Don't you?" And Becky, "Oh my God, who?"

One of my favorite songs these days is "The Back Of Your Car." The refrain goes, "you're not yourself, you're not yourself tonight..." And features heavy open piano chords accompanied by a drum that sounds like an plastic pipe hitting a wooden floor over and over. That said, I like the song.

But enough dispatches from my mental twilight zone. I'm off to watch "Henry and June," based on the work of the aforementioned Anais Nin.

Saying Goodbye to SIM...

I admit it - I don't like technology. I want to toss my cell phone into a lake, just to watch it sink. But I'm realizing it's hopeless, this quest for digital isolation, and so today I sucked it up and opened the box containing my new cell phone.

I've had the same cell phone since high school. It was my first - I chose it myself, against the advice of most everyone I knew. It was tiny and bronze, long before tiny and bronze were popular. It didn't take pictures (hell, it barely did text messaging!) and that's how I liked it. Maybe it wasn't fancy, but it was cute. It fit in my pocket, it stuck by me despite being dropped, lost and once, forgotten in a strange Puerto Rican restaurant. It went everywhere with me. If that SIM card could talk, it would tell stories that would leave your hair standing on end.

So of course, I felt nostalgic letting go. I wouldn't have been able to do it, I wouldn't even have wanted to do it, but my old service provider has terrible coverage in NYC. It was necessity that drove me into the arms of Sprint, I swear!

But the most difficult part wasn't switching my phone number from one to the other. Sure, I felt like a traitor when the first time I thought, Hey, this keypad really is more comfortable than the one I had before or At last! I can send text messages directly through my address book! The most difficult part was transferring my list of contacts.

I subscribe to a web service that makes this process easy - at least physically. But I had more contacts than I had time on my hands or energy in my fingers, and besides, there were people in there I didn't even know, or had only talked to once or twice. Who was going to go?

I set myself an arbitrary limit: if I could see myself needing to talk to them again, they were in. And so I put in my roommates, my sister, my parents, my relatives. I tossed in my professional contacts – references and bosses from the past. But the moment I started on friends, the process got gnarly.

There are those people I talk to regularly. Some of them I love, and will keep on loving, at least in the near future. And then there are the others. The for-the-sake-of-old-times friends. One time at the beach we licked whipped cream off each other. And took pictures of it. We told dirty jokes in the back of history class. We hiked the Appalachian Trail in the rain and slept together at the ‘Milford Pla.’ And I love many of them. But there are others I can't bring myself to tell the truth to: that the love died long ago, and now it's just habit and history that are keeping us going. (Some people might argue, of course, that habit and history are love, especially as you get older. This kind of thinking makes me sad.) The point is, what do I do? I’m at this crossroads, because I know that at some point, we have to break up, but if we break up, what do I have? Maybe they can stay in my phone book just a little bit longer...

And what about the almost-friends? We'd really wanted to hang out, really really wanted to, but somehow we'd just been too busy. Or maybe we had hung out, once or twice, just not often enough to get really close. And now, looking at their numbers, I think, it can't hurt to leave them in a little longer! Who knows, next quarter might be the quarter!

And then there were those people, the never-friends. We didn't hang out. We never will. But something about them – personality, charm, ambition, good looks – makes me want them. Maybe I got their phone numbers through some shady exchange. Perhaps we worked together, or were in the same study group. I can leave them in my phone book, right? That's not strange, or creepy?

And what about the useful friends? The girl with the ID that looks just like me, or the really nice apartment, or the attractive older brother? Let's be honest – this isn't what a real friendship is made of! But it's so hard to let them go. Who knows when I might need an emergency drink/party/date? It might be wise to keep them around...

In the old days, before contact lists, you kept phone numbers written down. And because you needed to take your physical phone book everywhere, and because it could get heavy, you were constantly in the process of prioritizing. Tossing people out, adding people in. You had to. There was no other way to keep your phone book from taking over your purse.

And most of us – myself included – eschewed the heavy phone book in favor of memorization. That's right – there was room for no more than 20 numbers in my head. The people I called most often. I was my own traveling address book and phone list. It was heaven!

They say that before you die, your life flashes before your eyes. Nowadays, I suspect, it's not your life at all, but every contact list you ever made. A parade of digital grotesques. It's all there – your personal history of pride, lust, ambition, success, unrequited love and misery. The people you called, the people you called but didn't want to, the people you wanted to call but never got around to, the people you wanted to call but never had the balls to, the people you forgot to call, the people you wish had called you.

In the end, I chucked everyone I absolutely didn't recognize and left all the others in. It's just too complicated. It raises questions about what I really want in life, and that's always awkward. It's strange that I can't do the same thing twice, but for some reason, I still can't stand variety.