best friends

Leaving Becky always feels a little like cutting off a limb. I know it won't kill me and that I'll be able to adapt to the sudden space where there used to be something important, but it's never easy or painless. This is what happens when you've had the same best friend since the age of eleven.

Cool kids hanging out by the fire hydrant. I think I was ... fourteen here?
Look, I didn't own a pair of jeans meant for females until I was sixteen,
whereas Becky has always been Fashion (that is a belt made from a jumprope).

Have I ever mentioned how we met? It was early August, the summer after fifth grade. I'd just moved to Illinois from my childhood home in Michigan. I hadn't made any friends and mostly stuck in my room, looking at the books I'd read too much, trying to figure out if my stuffed animals would make me feel less lost (they didn't, really).

But that weekend, our subdivision hosted a big neighborhood potluck with a DJ (usually one of the high school kids) and lots of games for the kids to play, and lots of beer for the parents.

I don't remember what I did for most of the early evening. Probably sat with a plate of potato salad on my lap and my face stuck in a book, ignoring everything around me. But eventually, once the last little gold of sunset had started to go blue, I got up and joined the other kids dancing by the DJ's station. It was probably less an urge to socialize than the fact that it was too dark to keep reading.

At any rate, I turned around and there in front of me was a girl with a handkerchief tied fashionably over her hair. I don't know what we said, but I know we danced like crazy, doing that grabbing-hands-and-dipping-down-and-touching-the-ground-behind-you-with-your-free-hand-and-then-popping-back-up-and-switching-hands-and-repeating-the-whole-process-again thing. Is there a name for that dance move?

About a week after that, our moms conspired. My mom told me to walk down the street and see if Becky wanted to play. And that was it. From that point on, I spent almost as much time at her house as I did at my own. I got to know Molly (who had to write my name on her hand so she wouldn't forget it). We spent our time thundering up and down the stairs of their house, pretending we were rock climbers, or nurses during the Revolutionary War, or reenactors working the tourist trade in Sleepy Hollow when weird things start happening, or students at Hogwarts.

Yes.

And when we outgrew playing pretend, our conversations turned to music, books, boys, politics. Almost all my fond and formative memories from adolescence take place with Becky.

On this trip to visit her in Vegas, we talked about how friendship, and pretty much any worthwhile relationship, requires effort. "I think friendship has to sometimes feel like work," she said. Otherwise, what's the point? If you never have issues, you're just existing on surfaces, never digging deeper.




We also meditated on the nature of kindness. It's only partly the conscious curbing of one's naturally selfish instincts. If selflessness and kindness were the same thing, then human doormats would be universally praised. But selflessness taken to the extreme strips you of agency, and without agency, what use can you possibly be? How would you be able to offer anything to anyone? Kindness requires clear perception, objectivity, honesty, agency, generosity, and the knowledge that being kind doesn't necessarily mean being nice. Being kind is about giving, to yourself and to others - not about just sitting there and having things taken from you.

I had a brief conversation with Jamison, too, and he wanted to know if kindness was based upon intent or on actions. That's not an easy question to answer, because an individual doesn't act within a closed system. Kindness is partly intention - although if one's actions are used to further a cruel cause, does that make the act ultimately unkind?

Despite this murkiness, and despite the side of me that demands consistency and logic, I know - with a nonfactual and entirely emotional, body-resonating sureness - that kindness is important.

Tavi Gevinson, creator and editor of Rookie Magazine, has said, "You don't have to be special; you just have to be kind."

And, shit, this sums up my feelings about what kindness is by illustrating what it isn't: the drive to be thought of as better than or more than others. It's okay to be regarded and well thought of - but if that's the end goal and driving force behind your actions? Then, okay, that's a life lived unkindly.



I don't know what it is about visiting Becky in Vegas, but I always come home with an extra dozen pages filled in my journal. Must be something about the sere simplicity of the desert juxtaposed against the tangled wayward mass of humanity that kicks the introspection muscles.

A good influence

 I know I've been referencing my old college blog a lot lately. I promise to produce some fresh material soon.

In the meantime, a recent conversation with Becky and Austin reminded me of something I'd written back in 2008.

Sweat in my eyes. I don't really care. 

I'm sweaty right now. I just ran a mile and did some sit ups and some push ups and core exercises. It hurt. It was great. I can't do the splits anymore. At least, I can get all the way down, but it hurts like hell. But there's still hope. 

My iPod died halfway through, but I didn't notice for a while, and when I did, it didn't really matter. It was nice being completely mindless for a while.

It struck me, as I was walking along an uneven sidewalk early this afternoon, that I no longer care. I've spent my life identifying myself as weird or nerdy or, most recently, awkward. And while I may be all of these things, I think I'm done with categories. It's the cheap way out. An excuse. A reason to avoid taking risks. A reason to run away.

If I act, I want it to be my own action - not the inevitable result of fate. And I want to stop labeling things as awkward. They are what they are. I've let too many things go by, left a lot of things unsaid or undone, or have said or done too much, because of a word. Because of awkward. 

It's stupid to let a word govern my life. 

I realize that being awkward has been a shield. I've held it between myself and everyone else the way some people hide behind their hair, or behind the excuse of alcohol, or whatever other guards we manifest to take the blame instead of us when we fuck up. I've used the excuse before - even recently - saying with a shrug, "I'm awkward," which really means "I can't be held accountable, it's fate, it isn't my fault."
But I think, now, I want it to be my fault. 

My actions, or lack of actions, my words, my thoughts, and doubts, hesitations, recklessness, caution, wins, are my own. When I succeed, I want it to be by my own hand. When I fail, I want it to be me failing. Without grace, without frills or excuses, just me alone. Responsible. 

Austin had mentioned that "awkward is a state of mind". I went back and reread my post and was gratified to realize that, although I've forgotten to keep a weather eye out for self-limiting labels, I've done a decent job of living without them. (Maybe I've gotten a little too self-congratulatory instead.)

At any rate, I hope I can take more risks, live a little more open, let the definition of who I am gain a little more depth, a few more colors.

As maudlin and self-important as my teenaged self might have sometimes been, she was also pretty perceptive. Gotta remember to let her have a good influence on me now.

#VEGASMEGABIRTHDAYWOW

I made these for my two best friends:

An old writing adage for Becky.

And a classy piece of art for Meghan.

Becky and Meghan are born two days apart and have always thrown absurd, wonderful joint birthday parties. This year, we lived it up in Las Vegas (where Becky's getting her MFA).

It was ... absurdly fun. And I know fun usually implies something vapid or forced, but I genuinely had a wonderful, memorable time. I know this is one of those memories that'll be savored, one that will acquire a hazy syrupy glow of nostalgia and fondness.

Needless to say, being with Becky and Meg was right. When you've been friends for as long as we have, being together feels like the universe coming back into focus. I also got to spend time with the inestimable Felipe and Alex! Love those fellas.

I also got to spend time with Becky's Vegas friends, and I can now pretty confidently count many of them as my friends, too.

There were shenanigans which included alcoholic milkshakes, a giant metal praying mantis that shot fireballs out of her antennae, Truth or Dare, an unexpectedly fancy whiskey attic, spontaneous indoor rock climbing, the cheesiest diner I've ever seen, and even a writing craft lecture.

It's okay - I'd be jealous, too.

Okay, confession:
I was a little anxious about the trip before I left. I have a history of being deeply and painfully socially awkward. I've mostly grown out of it, but there's still a part of me that doesn't really believe that I'm no longer the wallflower I used to be.

A lot of my middle school awkwardness stayed with me through college (instead of dissipating, as it does for most people, as I understand it) because most of my peers were excessively cool. They were these unbelievably witty, esoteric, insightful artists and writers. They practically bled that weird brand of raggedy insouciant sophistication that's so unique to privileged but-trying-so-hard-to-not-seem-privileged college kids.

All of them seemed so Together. Like, they had things Figured Out. They had opinions and knew the difference between a syrah and a merlot. They lounged around and talked in these scornful, beautiful, careless voices. Compared to them, I felt like a dorky, too-earnest, naive kid, struggling to keep up with the grown ups. I was completely in awe of them, and completely intimidated by them. I always felt that I had to prove myself, that I had to earn my way into their exclusive circle.

Someone would crack a joke that hinged on an obscure piece of literature I hadn't read, and I would hear, "Impress me - then maybe we can be friends."

Someone would disinterestedly dismiss a comment I'd made and I would kick myself for being so stupid.

And, perversely, instead of becoming disgusted by the whole thing, it just made me try even harder, scrutinize myself even more. I have a problem with confrontation - my Asian heritage shows up in the form of accommodation and acquiescence, I guess - so instead of realizing that the reason I'd never live up to their expectations was that their standards were unreasonably high, I just accepted that I wasn't good enough.

Even as an adult, I've believed that - when getting to know people - I can't let anyone know what a total and complete dorkasaurus I am. I can't get loud or enthusiastic. Just play it cool, okay? Stop bouncing around, stop trying so hard, give people some room, geez.

I was worried, before I flew out for the birthday weekend, that I'd fall back into my old awkwardness. And then, while journaling at the airport, it suddenly hit me. I'll never be as good at cool as that one kid I went to school with. I'll never be as fun as that one girl I know. But, damnit, I am the best at being Leta. There is no one who is better at it.

And I'm rad. I know it's not cool to be all braggy-self-lovey, but I don't care. I'm awesome. A dork, yes. Over-excitable? Definitely. I am absolutely an unforgivable know-it-all (who doesn't even know that much about anything in particular), and I do get awkward and shy sometimes. But I also meet people with the expectation that I'll like them - I don't need people to impress me before I'll admit them into my life. I laugh really hard at stupid things. I like board games and staying at home sometimes, and I read books over and over, and I haven't read Faulkner or much TC Boyle, and I don't like a lot of music I probably should like, and I prefer cider over liquor and plain old apple juice over cider, and I give amazing high fives and I love hugs and am a terrible dancer and I don't really know what's cool, and that's okay with me.

What the hell. I don't need cool.

And I had a fucking blast in Vegas with everyone! There were probably people who don't think much of me, who think I'm a boring so-what with boring so-what thoughts. But I like most everyone I met, and I don't care if they know that I like them. I don't care if they know what a spaz I can be, or how nerdy I can get, or how earnest and eager and - sure - naive I am about some things. I don't care if they know how much I loved it. There seems to be this weird taboo against talking about or showing or admitting how much you really like something, and I've decided that this is foolish.

I loved it. The whole trip. Everything.

I loved meeting everyone and getting to know people and making friends. I loved being myself with my two best friends in the world. I loved seeing how much everyone loves Becky. I loved being wholehearted and holding nothing back. I loved that there were people who have only known me like this - trying to be no one else but myself.

It's a shift that's been coming on for a long time. I don't need to be cool and superior. I can afford to expose my own ignorance, because how else do you remedy it? I can afford to not hold back, even if I end up going too far, because what's the use of anything you do by halves?

I know I had a point with this post, but I've forgotten what it was I was trying to say.

This just turned into an indulgent, self-congratulatory pep talk for me. But I couldn't write this post without going into all the personal revelations that accompanied the trip.

I don't have a good way to end this, so I'll just wrap up by saying that I can't wait to go back.

adventures

I think I may be hormonal, because I feel like I did in middle school - a longing for a life filled with passion and grace and fierce happiness and adventure and daring deeds. I think about the real world and get a little desolate. Good thing I'm a writer; better write novels that make other people feel the same way as I do.

Part of what's got me feeling all off-balance and cranky is that the kitchen is in pieces. Mike is DIY renovating a lot of the house. This includes laying tile, installing granite countertops, and putting in new sinks ... which he has never done before. I'm all for trying things and saving money by not hiring contractors. But, man, you gotta take the time to do it well, with precision. None of that is actually happening with the kitchen renovation. Fortunately, it's almost over.

Not being able to use the stove or oven, having to wash dishes in the bathtub ... it's really amazing how depressing that is.



But in unrelated, fun news, I went camping at the end of August.

Nick and I drove up into the mountains with some friends, Nick's little Honda heavy on its wheels with the weight of tent and food and toasting forks and sleeping bags and people. We walked around Estes for a while, watched a glass blowing demonstration and bought some saltwater taffy.

(I tried to convince everyone to take one of those touristy old-timey saloon photos, but they were being buttheads.  One day, I will manage to get one of those pictures taken. ONE DAY.)

It started pouring rain. It was cold and heavy with huge fat drops that audibly impacted with the ground. We held out our hands to feel the smack of rain on our palms, and then we ducked into a shop to look at fossils.

The rain let up pretty quickly, but it stayed cloudy and thundery - you could hear it grumbling away over the mountains. We drove to our campsite and set up the tent. We played some card games, then built a fire and had hotdogs, baked beans, and s'mores. Everything tastes better cooked over a fire.

I woke up in the middle of the night (thanks, bladder), but I'm so glad I did. Up in the mountains, away from the smog and lights of the city, the stars were crazy bright, Jackson Pollocked all over the sky. You couldn't see all the sky, since the pines hemmed it in on all sides, but it was still mind boggling, in a really great way. They looked so bright and moon-close, despite knowing how far away they really are.

Normally stargazing makes me feel both awed and insignificant. It's a positive and depressing experience at once. But this time, I just let the sheer beauty wash over me. Didn't think too hard about it. Normally, I'm all for thinking hard about things. But it was nice to switch off the brain and just enjoy the sight.



More good things: This weekend, one of my good friends from college is coming to visit! Nick and I are planning outings already. Casa Bonita, a tour of the Great Divide Brewing Co., maybe a trip to Boulder to play Boulder Bingo (with squares that say things like "man with ponytail" and "metaphysical bookstore"). I miss my college friends, and the collegiate life. I should go back to school.

Chicagoland

A few weeks ago, I went back to Chicago (only the second time I've done so since moving westward three years ago).

I went for an interview with an amazing company (for a job which, sadly, I did not get), and plane ticket pricing granted me the excuse to stay through the weekend, i.e. Have rad times with all my friends.

As much as I love living out west amid the mountains and treehuggers, I really do miss home.  Which isn't so much a place (I'm not particularly tied to the midwest, though I do enjoy it) as it is the close community of friends I literally grew up with.  Home is also with Nick, but it's a different sort of happiness and safety.  When I was in Chicago, I missed him.  When I'm in Denver, I miss my childhood friends.  Having two homes in two different places can be difficult.

Becky and Meghan and Molly knew me when I wore baggy t-shirts and smudgy tennis shoes.  We went through the awkward, rocky, embarrassing teenage years together.  We speak like each other.  We fight and bicker and laugh and communicate via weird noises.  I'm pretty sure they know me better than practically anyone.

But I tend to do this to myself.  I went to school in Iowa instead of staying in Chicago.  I moved to Colorado shortly after I graduated college.  I think I do it to test myself.  I'm a homebody, and I tend to not leave my comfort zone.  Moving away from everything is a way to force myself to cut down the safety nets of familiarity.

Being back among Becky and Meghan and Molly and seeing Chris, an old college friend, was invigorating.

I've been away from female friends for too long.  I forgot how much fun it is to just sit and talk (okay, so it was really just gossiping).  We drank beers out on the deck in the evenings, sweating in the humid summer air.  We went to see an improv show that took an audience suggestion and made it into a complete Shakespearean style play.  We got nerdy and discussed Harry Potter and the Avengers.  We went to see Moonrise Kingdom.  We partied it up in the suburbs and played with dogs and kittens.  We spent the greater part of an evening in hysterics, rewording the chorus to Call Me Maybe - an abominably irritating song which became awesome when we got hold of it:

I just met you,
and this is crazy -
but here's my number.
I've got a boner.

Because we're so classy.

It was a much needed vacation among my dearest friends.

"RRAAAaaw, nuts."

Reconnected with Brit today - I can't believe it's been five years since we were in London. Five years since we, along with N. Bailey, made this little gem of a video for Apple's 2007 Insomnia film festival. Five years since I played a crazy game in a little Portland pub that was sort of like bowling but involved launching yourself at the pins. Five years since I got up at three in the morning in order to wait in line for day tickets with Brit and N. Bailey and Gonzalo. Five years since I've set foot on the Tube, or eaten at Chick Chicken, or played a homemade version of Apples to Apples which included cards like "Chernobyl" and "Lollies."

Has it really been that long?

I think it's about time for another adventure.

I'm feeling a bit nostalgic today.