the potential to be endless

Long ago I did a couple human interest articles; I was able to interview extraordinary people with wonderful stories. This is one of my favorites

Friendship is a gift everyone is able to give and receive. True friends are loved for their qualities. Their minor faults are overlooked. I think it began when I asked Mrs. Louise who her best friend was. This was her story:

“I met my best friend when I answered a local add. Her name was Irene Herrera. She was in need of a roommate and I was in need of a home. I remember the first time I met her. I walked up her porch and noticed a small sign posted over the doorbell, and index card that read in simple block letters BELL. For the truly moronic there was an arrow.

She opened the door and she had a big smile on her face as she welcomed me in. She had a wide face and long red hair piled up on her head like she’d done it in a hurry. A pencil and a pen were sticking out of it. She had an old deep green kimono patterned with dragons, a big white t-shirt, black leggings and flip flops. Her toes were painted bright pink. She smelled like vanilla and turpentine. I was beginning to wonder what kind of world I landed in. I wondered how someone could dress like that but it was obvious Irene wasn’t anyone. And I realized that about her that night. She was one of my true friends, my roommate, and also the closest thing to family that I had.

We lived in a small town where it didn’t take much to get a reputation, and she had one. She was the girl who was made fun of by everyone because she was overweight, because she always had a Twinkie or two in her hand. Because her clothes were bright and never matched and because she rode a pink bike everywhere. Even at night when she attached an incredible bright light to the handles, which occasionally blinded on coming traffic.

She was into yard sales. She had furnished her whole house with 2nd hand furniture. Everything was old with a kind of tacky charm and in need of some kind of repair. A rocking chair missing a few back slots, a chair with 3 legs, no knobs in the drawers. But as you looked closely, you could see notes written in nice block letters. “WINDOW STICKS ON LEFT SIDE” it said next to the back door. Taped to the TV set right by the channel knob was my personal favorite “GIGGLE TO GET 11”. The notes were everywhere and nothing in the house was completely functional. She was constantly beginning projects, but nothing ever seemed to get completely fixed, just tinkered with and labeled with a note.

I was always out on dates, having fun and trying to be popular as I could. But Irene, Irene always stayed home watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Roger movies. Despite our many differences we were the best of friends. The minute we saw each other we were laughing and joking around. I will never forget the time I came home from a bad date. I was in tears sobbing and crying. I made it to the couch, and she didn’t even ask what’s wrong. She went into the kitchen, grabbed the ice cream and 2 spoons, while she yelled from the kitchen “men are wired to screw you over”. She always said the right things. We sat in silence, watching Fred Astaire and Ginger Roger movies.

People always had difficulty understanding her. But she understood me in her own way and I understood her. She taught me all I know.

Like that everything can’t be operational all of the time. Sometimes we have to give something the little nudge it needs. (Like GIGGLE TO GET 11). Friendship is about understanding we are all worth something. For Irene, there were no lost causes. Everything and everyone had its purpose. The rest of the world, too often, might have missed that.”

It’s been many years since then. Irene continues to live in the same house, and Mrs. Louise who related the story lives next door. Every Friday night they will be found in Irene’s living room in front of the GIGGLE TO GET 11 TV watching old Fred Astaire movies. Because friendships like movies have potential to be endless…

Chasing Mr. Unattainable

I was 5 when I realized that tag was one of my least favorite games. I was in junior high when I realized guys never stopped playing tag. I was in high school when I realized you could get hurt chasing someone.

Tag required running after someone that you never quite knew if you could catch. When played with boys it was even more challenging. They were sneaky and too fast for my taste. The minute they were a grasp away, they’d change direction and be gone in the blink of an eye. At times “you’re it”, at times your not, but when you spent that amount of time running the pursuing became a hunt.

I was sipping chamomile tea three weeks ago when I realized I still hated tag. When you are older and a game of tag is what “He” has in mind, then you might as well stop running, sit down, grab yourself a soda pop and let him come to you. It’s cute when you’re five to chase someone; it’s a child’s game then. But if you’re in your twenties and older and he’s still playing tag well it’s simply that: a game.

At times it can feel like you are the only one that is “it” and that the person you are running after is miles away. If he doesn’t call you, text, or email you until you do so how can you possibly think he is interested? But if you don’t call, text, or email how can you expect him to really want you?

It is said that a person of independence who does not need nor wants us inspires our admiration. And admiration is a love potion. But it’s also true that a person who needs us to much inspires pity. And pity, the other side of admiration, is the antidote to love.

And it’s true. We pursue with the hope that he or she will see that we are interested. But when you are the only one showing interest you can appear desperate or needy. Making this game of love even more trickier… even more a risk.

There comes a time when you have to stop, catch your breath, and strut out of the game with whatever dignity you have left. So waste a pair of good shoes with the most sincere wish to finally capture Mr. Unattainable or finally realize that Mr. Unattainable is just that… out of reach…

The roller coaster ride...

The worst thing about NOT being in a relationship is having to give advice about love.

I love my friends and if there's something I can do to help. I'm the first one there. But at times having to give advice is a bit draining. Especially when you have to give advice about something you never followed.

It reminds you that at some point that's not something you believed in. And that if you had maybe there would have been a different outcome.

But there I was on a roller coaster, of all places, when my friend turns and looks at me and says "What do i do? What would you do?"

"Scream" I said. She says "Why?"

"Because we are about to drop" She looks down and realizes it. And we scream.

When we get off, she realizes I haven't given her any advice so she asks again. I look at her and say "Love is a bit of a roller coaster. Sometimes you're up and laughing with giddiness. At times you are down. Screaming inside, holding your stomach with nervous pain. Sometimes you feel like you are on top of the world. At times you feel like your feet are dangling in the air. Its a risk, its thrilling. But no matter how many times you loop or turn in ways you didn’t think possible at the end of the day everything will be okay. You need to realize that no love is perfect, that it can be a bit chaotic at times. But if you're fortunate you learn to hold tight. And to laugh after facing those drops. You learn that some rides are worth enduring."

She laughs. "You always know the right thing to say and the right thing to do". I smile because that is untrue. If it were I would of chosen a roller coaster instead of a 100 ft drop elevator for mine...

The dress theory and then some

I rummaged around through the racks looking for a dress for a special occasion. And that’s when I saw it; the most beautiful 1950’s vintage yellow silk dress. It was a one-shoulder dress with a bow cascading over the shoulder with exquisite crystal beading around the waistline. I tried it on to find that it looked even more amazing on. Perfect fit, tailor made just for me. My fashion side would have bought it in an instant but my cynical side thought I could find something better and less pricey. So I put it back on the rack, promising myself that if I didn’t find anything else I liked I would come back and buy this dress.

After many tight silk pencil dresses, itchy chiffon dresses, too bright colored gowns, and non-flattering out fits I found myself a bit disappointed. I had yet to find something to wear. A bit defeated and very much ashamed of the time wasted, I found myself traveling to the first store. And as I desperately searched the racks, I observed a girl getting out of the fitting room wearing the dress that was supposed to be mine. She twirled around showing it off to her friends as captivated as I was by its beauty.

So there it was the most perfect dress, just feet away, and there was nothing I could do to stop her from taking it. My best friend who was shopping with me looks at me, points, and says “See! The dress theory!” And we laugh because some truths are undeniable.

The dress theory is simple. She says that many times we walk into the store to find that the first dress we try on fits us perfectly. But since it’s the first dress we’ve seen or liked we pass it by hoping that the next store will offer something even more ravishing. Only to realize later that there wasn’t anything better and that we were fools for letting that opportunity pass us by. She compares this to love. And its true. Many times we let the things we really need pass us by because our cynical side hopes that somewhere out there someone better will arise. Sadly it isn’t till many non-flattering outfits later that we realize just how special that person really was. But more than likely by then it’s too late. And through out hands we let slip away what could have been.

It’s ironic and the theory is very much amusing. But it’s undeniable. Its true that choosing the perfect dress for a special occasion is complex. There are many details you have to think about. But it’s also true that the right dress can make you feel absolutely beautiful. If only we wouldn’t fool ourselves. See there are moments in life where you hope your decisions aren’t rash. And moments like this when you just know…

Jimmy Choos, Prada, Manolo Blahinks, Oh and men too!

So there I was surrounded by Jimmy Choo sandals, Prada sling backs, Manolo Blahink satin pumps, and in the middle of a fashion blank.

As I walked browsing, the sales clerk asked me "what kind of shoes are you looking for?" "Something special" I said. "Arent we all" she says and then proceeded to laugh hysterically.

It is normal to pick up the wrong type of shoes every now and then, so I carefully browsed and I began to think about the analogy between men and shoes.

Some shoes are drop dead gorgeous. But you have to pay a high ticket for. Then there are the "all that glitters isn't gold shoes". Those completely striking stilettos that look absolutely fabulous, but after being worn for no more than an hour begin to cause unnecessary pain. There are the shoes you've worn out; ready to be thrown out, but for some reason or another you cannot part with. The shoes that make you feel secure, that you can step over anything and not fall. The ugliest of flip flops you wear out of the fear of walking barefoot, just to save face on a day when you have nothing to wear. The shoes that are a size too small, uncomfortable from the start, but that you still hope will loosen up and fit better. Some you need sole therapy after wearing. And the shoes that lose their allure after being worn once. But if you find the perfect fit, those magnificently designed beautifully sown shoes... well that my friend... is nothing short of a fashion miracle.

Men are often compared to shoes. Some cause blisters and calluses. Some are just an accessory, a part of the passing through. But once in a while if you are fortunate you will find that there is the one who not only is gorgeous inside out, and an ideal fit, but most of all your something special....

Loving, losing, healing

The following short story is dedicated to a dear friend who among all things always believes in happy endings, even when the girl doesn’t get the guy. So here it is, for the eternal optimistic, who always believes in love.

She fell in love the most way women do. Among flattery, promises of moon and the stars, and dreams of a fairy tale ending. And she believed in love the way most of us do. Blindly.

He was charming and kind, she was swooned and easily fell head over heels for him. Their love blossomed over constant hours of conversation about everything and anything. And even though many opposed the idea of a long distance relationship working - she thought of it romantic and endearing.

Sadly after a couple of years and an engagement later it all came crashing down. It was a late winter day when he told her through an email that HE fell out of love. She read it over and over hoping that among those lines there was something she missed. So there she sat staring at the end of what seemed to be her life and all she could do was cry. She got up went to her calendar and when she crossed out “Please wait for me”, the words he’d written just before leaving the states, she collapsed on the floor and sobbed uncontrollably for the loss of him.

The next morning she looked outside and the sun was gone. It was raining, but no amount of rain could wash away her sadness. She was at that moment… heartbroken. That’s when her heart stopped, her dreams were shattered and her fairy tale ending was brought to a screeching halt.

The break up arising out of thin air and with no real reason left her confused, hurt, shocked, and very much in pain. The more she thought about it the more she didn’t understand. How could someone, who had promised her forever, take it all away with just a few words? She never got closure, just an apologetic excuse with awkward reasoning. And that hurt her more. She found her self with the moon and the stars that he promised her, crashing down right on top of her. He hurt her so bad; she didn’t know where to begin to pick up the pieces of her life.

During the day it was very easy to be brave. But when night fell and the truth crept up in between dreams there was no escaping it. Some nights the silence scared her so much she’d wake up covered in tears and memories. See it was within the loss of them and the loss of her ideals that she lost herself. So she cried more tears than she thought she could cry and felt more pain that she thought she could feel. She was alive after all but alive with out him in her live.

But the days became weeks, the weeks - months and the pain became easier to deal with. With time she accepted defeat. So she boxed away the photographs and old letters. Boxed away the pictures and old CD’s he burned for her. And in that box she put away memories of yesterday.

Still the fact remained, her belief system was shaken. “I’m afraid that he took my ability to love” she would confide in her friends. Because after the pain became easier to handle her heart grew cold. And the biggest fear in being untouchable isn’t the fear of love itself but of never being able to be moved again.

Nevertheless, you can’t rush healing. It’s a process from the sleepless nights, to the “I can’t believe I loved you” days. So she took her time, remembering, feeling, and growing as the days passed. See it’s true we lose our battles but it’s also true that we win wisdom for the days ahead.

With time and healing she finally went a day with out thinking of him till finally her heart didn’t sink every time she heard his name. And since happiness cannot be found looking back she found ways around the memories.

Many years later I find myself immersed in conversation with her. “It’s been hard to be me again” She sighs. “But how long you dwell in defeat is entirely up to how fast you get tired of feeling like a failure. You just have to stop thinking about what you think you lost and look forward to what there is to gain.”

And it gets me thinking. The process of healing and moving on is a complicated one. Many get lost in the “I miss you”, “I can’t live with out you” days. But it’s a required process to move on correctly. Otherwise if you jump from tears to “just fine” you kid yourself that you are ok. You’ve just allowed the memory to grow tender so when the subject is touched your heart will beat differently. Never letting you rest completely.

She looks up at this point and stares up into the distance seeing something I don’t see and says “I’ve reconciled with the idea that he was never meant for me. But I’ve also learned there’s no such thing as you lost it all… after all for every ending there’s a new beginning…”

Omitting the truth and silk rebozo's

Like any grandmother, most of my grandmother’s house was decorated by old priceless possessions. Mementos of the eras gone by, of the people and the moments in them. I had to be extra careful while in the house, never to touch anything for the fear of breaking it. But as any curious child the untouchable seemed tempting.

In my grandmothers armoire under a box of letters and papers in a plastic bag was one of my favorite untouchables. It was a rebozo (shawl). This was no ordinary shawl it was made purely of silk. A rebozo so light and thin died the perfect shade of black with a fringe knotted into elaborate designs. Intricate knots looped together that you knew took hundreds of hours to make.

On one occasion when my grandmother wasn’t looking I found myself wrapped in it, playing. And as life would have it the fringe got caught in the doorway. The more I moved away from the door way the more the thread unraveled. I remember feeling like the world was going to end in that very instant. I took it off as quickly as I could. Unstuck the thread and put it back in the back hoping my grandmother would never find out.

Soon after there was to be a family gathering. I was with my grandmother as she got ready when she asked me to get the rebozo out of the armoire. And in that moment I froze. So she repeated it again.

“Que saques el rebozo de seda que esta en la bolsa. ¿Que no oyes?” So there I was 5 scared out of my life slowly pulling out of the bag the silk rebozo I’d ruin days before. I wanted the earth to swallow me alive.

“Apúrate” she said. (Hurry up.) I gave it to her folded up. And walked out of the room as fast as I could.

Later that day as everyone sat immersed in conversation I found myself sitting next to my grandmother and as she pulled away at the fringe of her rebozo she whispered in my ear - “La omisión es deslealtad. Acuérdate de eso” And she continued talking like nothing with everyone around her about places and people I knew nothing about.

Omission is a form of disloyalty. I find myself thinking of that statement many years later. Does that statement ring true when you are omitting the truth to stop someone from feeling unnecessary pain? Or is it accurate no matter what the circumstance is? Is omission…… betrayal?

The pain that comes with knowing

They say that truth hurts. That hearing it is a release of honesty but a sharp incision in the heart. The truth can free you of the anxiety but it can bind you to feeling the consequences of its reality. Anchoring you. The thing in telling the truth is that though it’s an honest act, a moral act, that doesn’t mean that what you have to say is what others would like to hear.

“I find myself drowning in yesterdays, and talking to sadness.” She says. And that’s when she gets that look. That confused, hurtful, shocked, gleam in the eyes look.

I’m sitting at my favorite coffee shop over hearing a conversation near by of a girl who recently broke up with her boyfriend. He cheated on her or so she says and she finds herself at the time heartbroken. Her friends gently pats her shoulder and says

“it was better to find out the truth than to continue to live a lie.” And she sighs.

“I may have the truth now but I also have the pain that comes with it.” She replies.

Her friends says “You will be fine”. And a tear falls but the pain over comes her and she begins to cry uncontrollably as her friend reaches to hug her. As everyone just stares around her.

See the irony of being in your twenties is that you’re supposed to deal with things with the grace of an adult having only the experience of a child. And just like when you were a child some cuts and bruises hurt more than you’d like them to making you feel the worst kind of pain.