Adult Content

I kicked it with a baby the other night.

You read that correctly. Kicked it WITH. I did not kick a baby, despite all the bad things I’ve ever said about them.

The little thing dropped in on a date I was very much enjoying, especially considering the tall draft beers I was being fed. Perhaps it was those free, frothy brews that made me not so much mind the third trike wheel.

While her dad and my date talked about things like life and living it or something, I found my tunnel vision focused on the baby (who was wearing Chucks and a tutu, if you didn’t see the heartbreakingly precious photo on my Facebook).

I was pretty much mesmerized by her, studying her sloppy eating habits and clumsy curiosity. I watched her react to the strangers around her, to lights, to the tea she was chugging at a rate that impressed even THIS girl.

By the end of the meal, I found myself relating to her. I saw a more innate, less contrived being than the two men sitting next to me. I felt like we got each other. I want to scream every time my drink runs out, too.

I wondered what she thought of me. Most likely she knew I was higher on the food chain than she was. An adult, if she had the language skills to put words to it. I mean, I did know better than her not to suck on the table, but I didn’t really feel like I was on another level.

We were just two people kickin it. I wanted to fist-bump her goodbye.

I remember being young and thinking every person over 5 feet tall (so my mom, barely) knew everything about everything. Adulthood must just magically appear, much like my boobs did in middle school (OK, high school).

I’m not there. Sometimes I’m actually surprised I live. I buy groceries and cook things, which always turn out rather tasty, despite my touchy fire alarm. I pay bills, live in and maintain an apartment. I even do laundry (or just buy new clothes) weekly. I brush my teeth thoroughly without prying from parentals. I live.

That’s weird to me. I still feel so young. I still feel like I’m a baby, constantly awed by the world around me, always discovering things, like holy shit, object permanence. I feel like an out-of-body poser, like somehow my life is functioning but I can’t be capable of contributing to it. I have no idea what I’m doing.

So I got fishies. A red and blue betta fish named Mary and Joseph, who, no, are not in the same bowl. God would not approve of co-habitation, after all.

It’s crazy, but I feel an overwhelming attachment to them. When I walk in the door and see them on my coffee table, my heart warms, and I may or may not ask them how their day was. It feels good to take care of something besides myself. I enjoy feeding them and watching them snatch up the goodies immediately, knowing I’m their livelihood and that I’m doing a good job.

Thanks to the employees at PetSmart, I know what I’m doing for once in my life.

If they end up dead in a few weeks, perhaps I’ll go back to trying to care for a plant. But if this works out, I may just be adult enough for one of those babies soon.

That’s a lie. But I would give anything to be able to dress Mary and Joseph in Chucks and a tutu.

Intruder

I feel like a rubber band when I breathe. The thick, chalky kind, with a resistance perfect for popping younger siblings.

I gentle myself on top of a mangled comforter, inhale, exhale, expand, contract, inhale, exhale, faster, faster.

Wait.

I watch my heart pump red out of my skin. My chest becomes a bloody Jackson Pollock. An artist’s pain, if you’re looking on the bright side.

I’m not.

Wait.

Wait.

There it is. The release.

The rubber band broken, I am flung about the apartment. Bouncing from the mirror to the fridge, outside for air. Not really worrying if my neighbors will later inquire about the sobs they heard pouring from my balcony.

My worry well has reached its limit.

I rush around with blurred eyes because I’m not quite sure what will stop the tears. Clear my view. Perhaps stubbing my toe in the frenzy will really give me something to cry about. Snap me back into the physical world most people live in.

Anxiety. It’s a bitch.

As a now weekly, uninvited guest, I’ve been inclined to examine how exactly anxiety manages to kick down the deadbolts in my life. My positive-thinking, my support system, my acknowledgment that “girl, you ain’t got shit to trip on, fo real.”

But anxiety is a demon far too conniving for my measly attempts at being a strong woman (who apparently talks to herself like she’s not from rural Missouri).

Looking back, I think I’ve always been a little high-strung. I was always the girl who bawled after getting a “Needs Improvement” under the penmanship category on her second grade report card. The next quarter I received the “Most Improved Penmanship” award and later became a journalist, if only to have a job that would never require me to prove my handwriting abilities again.

I’ve always worried about the little things, always been convinced I’d be seated on that one airplane that dove into the sea.

And truly, I don’t know how to foil anxiety’s determination to drop by and wreak a little havoc every now and then. After all these years, I don’t know how to request a protective order. Only how to endure the abuse.

I don’t know how to say, “fuck off.”

Only, “(sigh) see you next week.”

Bon Jovial

I can remember with vivid detail the traumatic experience I went through 17 years ago.

It was a day just like any other in the first grade–filled with practicing penmanship on wide-lined paper and playing “boys have cooties” on the merry-go-round. Things were going smoothly until lunch time, when a kid named Dwayne started running his mouth.

He was making fun of a note my mama had left me in my lunchbox, so I threw a balled-up napkin at him. Dwayne snitched to Mrs. Henry about the assault, and I got my name written on the board for the first and only time in my life.

I was ruined.

I cried the rest of the afternoon, dreading 3 p.m. when my father would pick me up from school. Even though he never would have found out about the incident, I felt too guilty about my shortcomings to not tell him I wasn’t the daughter he thought I was. I could see myself getting ready to walk down the aisle on his arm years later, only to have him abandon me in disappointment when I broke down and revealed, “Daddy, I got my name on the board.”

I’m still that dramatic.

The hardest part about being loved is disappointing those who do the loving. I’m always worried about not being worthy enough to be on an unconditional level because I want to make those who love me as happy as they make me. I want to be easy to love. But I make it difficult by expecting there to be expectations. And expecting me to not meet them. And expecting their love to change.

My father tried to conceal his amusement when I bawled my apologies to him that day. “It’s okay,” he said. But I refused to believe him.

I warned the man I love, the man who loves me, that I’m crazy. I’m emotional and irrational and aware that sometimes I just can’t help it. I’m the one who brings up feelings of inadequacy because it hurts less to nip it in the bud than to wonder if he’ll someday be surprised I got my name on the board.

Then he tells me he loves my emotions. He adores me through my crazy. He actually thinks it’s cute that I love him so desperately enough to be irrational. And I still don’t believe him. I still try to convince him to set the bar low, to realize that I will be a disappointment so that when I am, it’s not so damn disappointing. I make it hard.

I stir up controversy when it’s unnecessary, unconsciously trying to deflect rejection. Because it’s so unbelievable that a man as expressive, articulate, honest, sweet, all-in and sexy as he is could exist. And that I could find him. And that he could choose to love me, too.

It’s all so damn unbelievable that I listen to Bon Jovi. I LISTEN TO BON JOVI. I listen to him every morning when I’m halfway into my eye makeup, cry for a while, then reapply when I’m over being a crazy bitch.

I YouTube “Thank You for Loving Me,” and remain astonished that I’m so lucky. Amazed that this man loves me like he does. Dumbfounded as to how I’ll ever reciprocate the happiness he’s brought me.

I can’t even put into words how much I appreciate KNOWING his feelings for me, despite my warnings. I can’t say how freeing it is to not be a little girl, worried that getting my name on the board will change the way he feels.

He fucking loves me. Wow. And me, assuming I’m ever-so-inadequate, feel like “all I’ve got to give to you are these five words tonight.”

(The real music video, which won’t embed, is much more tear-inducing, trust.)

Hate the game

When you’re a kid, games are fun. That’s why you play them. There’s no crying, save the first time my father didn’t let me win at Candy Land. When he crossed the finish line first, I remember bawling uncontrollably, as if the defeat were going to take down a nation of people. It was his way of teaching me sportsmanship–of preparing me for a life in which you can’t always win.

You can’t always win. I’m not sure that life lesson ever really took hold of me.

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Somewhere around the age of 14, “games” and “playing” took on a whole new sinister meaning. Games meant sleeping with the phone next to your ear, triple-checking to make sure it wasn’t on silent. Playing meant dealing with playas who abided by no rules, who didn’t have to have any sportsmanlike conduct. Dog-eat-dog.

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And even with the unchartered games of teenage-land, I almost always found a way to win. I like to think I was good at playing, always anticipating his next move and preparing accordingly. Like with training for volleyball games, I found that if I tried hard enough, wanted it enough, I’d win.

I remember the first time I didn’t win. It was as jolting an experience as my father’s Candy Land defeat. My strategic moves didn’t work. My charm didn’t drop him to his knees. And refusing to surrender to his obvious rejection, I pulled out the nasty cards. Making out with his cousin hoping he’d be jealous. Crying. Begging. I couldn’t fathom anyone not wanting the hott mess I was.

The lingering sting of losing made me retreat to a different kind of playing—-playing hard to get. At least, that seemed like a less pathetic term than the truth, which was that I feared wanting and not getting again. I feared being brushed off. Giving my full effort and knowing it wasn’t enough.

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That injury kept me out of the game for two years (because I’m THAT dramatic). But then along came the boy, and all of a sudden, it was game time again. With my heavy armor and naive strategies, I proceeded with caution. I played the confident part as much as possible. The part of unfazed, of not being serious or caring. But no amount of getting into character changed how I really felt. How I wanted. How I wanted him to want.

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In fact, I think the game backfired. I never anticipated I would be my own WMD. Or that I was such a good actress. Because he told me he never really took me seriously. He bought into the act, with his own set of armor, convinced I wasn’t the all-in girl I really am. I may have been hard to get, but he never spent the energy to get it. He didn’t see the potential in what he would be getting.

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As much as I’ve tried to convince him otherwise (with the same old begging and crying), I think the damage is done. Three years later, we’re still playing. It’s always a struggle for vulnerability–who will dial first, who will be the one to finally find another and put an end to the “baby’s”. We know we love each other, but refuse to say the “l” word out loud. Because who can go from what we had as lovers and firsts to what we have as loyal friends, if we didn’t truly adore each other? Not much can survive the immense hatred I often have for him, except love. Not the holding me in your arms, breathless kind of love; but the you can fuck up and I’ll still know the kind of person you are, sincere love.

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I’ll still finish the game I started. Not calling when I want to hear his voice. Not expressing how much it hurts when he says he’ll call and doesn’t. I’ll even pretend to be happy for him when he finds someone he thinks is worth spending the energy to get.

He’ll be a milestone in my never-ending game. He’ll be the one who taught me to be vulnerable, even in the beginning, because it’s worth the hurt. He’ll change how the rest of the game is played out.

Some say games are childish, but I wouldn’t mind being a kid again. When the stakes don’t really seem that high. When losing sucks, but you’re willing to take the chance to win. When there’s laughter and teasing. And when I have someone who’s not my opponent, but on my team.

Wherever you go, there you are

I first started researching colleges in the 7th grade. Right after I took the ACT test. I’d had my heart set on UCLA as a child, namely because Zack Morris and Kelly Kapowski seemed to get into so many fun shenanigans there. But with the wisdom that comes with turning 13, I decided Ivy League would be a better bet. East coast. West coast “Ivy League” was for the chumps.

Price was no obstacle because the 30K a year would be paid off by the time I was Ally McBeal. Or perhaps it’d be paid off by the Wheaties endorsements I’d get after being the world’s first 5’9 Olympic gymnast. Later, I’d tell E! True Hollywood Story about my humble beginnings and perhaps provide charming sound byte teases with my witty sense of humor. I’d acknowledge my dog in my Oscar acceptance speech.

I guess I count myself lucky to have even had the kind of life that allowed such dreams to seem feasible. And the kind of parents that cultivated such ambition. I’ve been dreaming about my future forever. I still fall asleep dreaming about someday.

As we all know, I traded in Ivy League for a tiny religious college in southern Missouri. My wholehearted ambition then was to live in an African hut and tell people about Jesus. Not a bad goal, but certainly a far cry from where I ever envisioned myself as a kid.

And then there was Spain. And MU. And now Texas. And all along the way, I don’t think I ever knew exactly where I wanted to end up. Living in an unrealistic co-ed dorm room with Slater? As an anorexic, quirky NYC lawyer? Meryl Streep’s predecessor? I didn’t know. Just did. Always dreaming of what was next.

I sometimes feel regretful for how everything’s played out so far. How it hasn’t matched the timeline I set out as a child. But then I come back to real time and realize that everything I did was what I wanted. I wanted a dirty hut. I wanted Europe’s marble sidewalks. I wanted COLLEGE, with all of its late-night crying and dirty beer pong cups. I wanted to prove myself at a newspaper.

All that I have to do is figure out what I want next (which would be easier if someone would HIRE me). I don’t have to have a plan, because I’ll inevitably evolve into someone I cannot plan. Someday is always exciting. But today is just as good.

Little Kayla might not have envisioned herself 23, single and broke. But big Kayla wouldn’t trade the experiences for anything. Not even a shared living space with Zack Morris.

OK to Cry

They’re the dirtiest of tears–the ones shed in the bathroom. The walls are cold and claustrophobic. The lights, harsh. And the damn mirror mocks your crinkled, snotty face. It’s a more shameful place to cry than say, a bed. Or a funeral. Or during every single episode of “16 and Pregnant.”

I got some bad news today, and even though my boss’s shoulder was closer, I made it to the bathroom before crying. It was a weird cry, and not just because it wasn’t about a boy for once. It was weird because it was the first cry during which I recognized my fucked up views on crying.

The usual process goes as such: I cry uncontrollably. Then I think about Haiti or Afghanistan and hate myself for crying. Then I cry uncontrollably for being such a cry baby.

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I feel guilty. Like I should be stronger, especially given my exceptionally OK life. But today I recognized my shame comes from being told many times that I make myself out to be a victim. And that’s such a genius line, isn’t it? The harsh words make me want to cry all over again. They make me feel small. But complaining about somebody telling you you’re a victim only reiterates the point. You can’t call them a bully because by default, that makes you the victim.

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It’s manipulation at its best. And even now I feel obliged to acknowledge that I fell for it. It’s my fault for allowing someone to tell me my feelings aren’t justified. I’ll take the perpetrator and the victim charge.

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Because there’s power in owning your mistakes. And there’s even more power in recognizing how that mistake manifested. No blame, just change.

Sex and the Confused

For the sake of the nice guys in the world, I always wished Carrie would have chosen Aidan. I wished for my sake, too. So that we could all see it was possible. So that Carrie and Aidan could show us how it was done. And afterward, Carrie would never second-guess. She’d never wonder if the closet would have been Bigger on the other side. Bouquets would be thrown in the direction of single friends, not at the face of the groom who never showed.

It wouldn’t make for as much heart-wrenching entertainment, but I think Carrie and Aidan could have saved the world. They could have changed fate, at least for those of us who believe Sex and the City is the word of god. They could have upended the reality of love as we know it.

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But Sex and the City is so popular, not only because of the drama between Carrie and Big, but because of the realness of Carrie and Big. While the show’s banter is witty and the puns aren’t awful, the real genius of Sex and the City lies in how accurately and poignantly it reflects reality. Sure, it accessorizes reality with Manolo Blahniks and multiple sex partners. But it’s downright tear-inducing how the show is able to capture the exhausting emotions that come with knowing a Mr. Big.

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After extensive Sex and the City research, I’ve determined it all comes down to the excuses we make. The Aidan’s in our lives are excused as soon as we get the chance. Since they don’t mess up often, they’re excused with conclusions that don’t make sense, rationale that’s weak. With Carrie, it was that Aidan had picked out the wrong ring. What nonsense. Mr. Big could have given her a cock ring, and she would have accepted his proposal.

So while Aidan’s get excused, Big’s get excuses made. No sin is too Big for Mr. Big. He’s a never-ending subway ride of disappointments, punctuated with random stops of sweetness. And those random stops are what keep us hanging on to even the grimiest of poles (pun intended). They’re enough to make us ride his bumps, ignore the emotional stench he leaves, and turn down the invitation  to freedom each time the exit door opens.

Not even The Russians can take down Mr. Big.

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But I wonder about the authenticity of Mr. Big. I wonder if he’s only a mirage of grandness. I wonder if not having him creates a veil of deception. If it makes the prize at the carnival seem that much Bigger, just because we can’t obtain it. If Mr. Big had been all-in from the beginning, would he have been just Mr. Mediocre? Would he have been worth the trying?

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And what is all the trying worth? At the end of the episode, Mr. Big will always ride off in the terribly romantic horse carriage alone. And when you curl up in your rent-controlled apartment all alone, you know he’s making excuses just like you are. He’s not wearing the ring on his finger, but on a necklace. “Closer to his heart.” Which you know very well is bullshit.

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We’re all the Mr. Big to a Carrie at some point. Or the Carrie to an Aidan. Which doesn’t make any of it easier.

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I think the only way to love an Aidan is if you’ve never encountered a Big. Which is a shame, because the Big’s make life Bigger than Aidan’s ever could. There’s no downsizing after that. But such hugeness, whether an illusion or legitimate, inevitably makes someone feel small. And not even the fiercest Manolo Blahniks can overcome that amount of small.

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Luckily, unlike us, Carrie gets a sequel. I’m rooting for divorce. I’m petitioning for an Aidan comeback. Sex and the City II: The Nice Guy Finishes First.

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That way I’ll have no excuse for choosing Big.

Eat, Pray…

I may just be bored, but I’ve lately been wondering the status of every stranger’s love life. Facebook or not, we all have a relationship status, more than likely hovering around the broad category, “It’s Compicated.”

It’s weird to think every person I meet is dealing with his or her own love status. Whether we like to think of it or not, we’re all somewhere. It’s also weird to think that such a personal relationship, one that’s intimate and most revealing to only the two people involved, is in fact happening to everyone. Seems we’re all either still getting over one or struggling for a new one. Heartbreak knows no demographic, language or social status.

I just finished reading “The Late Bloomer’s Revolution,” which I probably don’t recommend. Although I did make it through the whole book mildly attached to how the story would turn out, the ending left me furious. Not because it didn’t turn out how I wanted, but because I had invested so much time into a book that, in the end, taught me nothing. And despite her unconvincing words to the contrary, I don’t think the author learned anything either.

‘Twas about love. And losing it and not having it and almost having it but he just stops calling. It was all very superficial, and even I—the vicarious romantic—found myself more interested in her career as a writer than I did the boys she chased. Her career seemed more substantial than her love life, and in the end, I guess I was right. Although the fact that I don’t recommend her book leaves all the more to be desired.

Seeing as nothing’s worse than reading a book with a bad ending, I took to re-reading a book I knew would satisfy, “Eat, Pray, Love.” And while the authors of these two books are close in age, I noticed an admirable and contagious maturity in Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of “Eat, Pray, Love.”

While in the end, she does find love, the book’s core has nothing to do with a love story, save for oneself. Her journey through Italy, India and Indonesia is about personal understanding and spirituality. It’s a truly inspiring and insightful book, one that millions the world over have been able to relate to. Still, it’s set against the backdrop of failed relationships and sealed with a promise of a new one in the end.

Even the most self-empowering book I’ve read comes back to relationships. Maybe that’s why “Eat, Pray, Love” has been so popular across cultures and backgrounds. We all relate.

As for me, I find no solace in knowing everyone is looking for love. I’m bored with love—a statement I’m aware means I don’t really know love. For what little I do know, love isn’t boring at all. I guess I’m just tired of pursuing it. I’m ready and willing to focus my energy elsewhere, perhaps on something more rewarding, at least for now.

I had resolved not to date, or at least not actively pursue dating while I’m here. I thought this would be a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to escape my muddied relationship in Missouri and fully indulge in work. For four months, I could devote all of my energy into creating good stories. I could do good. For myself and only myself.

It seemed powerful, but I simply don’t feel challenged here. This, mind you, is only my fault, as my editors have more than encouraged me to be as creative as I want to be, to take on any stories I want to tell. I’ve just yet to find a project that excites me.

So I’m left feeling dull. I’m left with energy I don’t have any place to put. To be honest, it’s not like I’m shooing away men with some sort of independent determination to only focus on myself. I truly couldn’t imagine being with anyone other than the muddy mess I left in Missouri. It’s as hard to imagine holding anyone else as it is to imagine actually holding him again. But it’s easier to be a thousand miles away and love what we had than to actually have what we had. It’s easy to long for him when I’ve yet to find anywhere else to place my energy.

Nothing about this is “Complicated,” and I’m not dealing with the ease well. I miss him and still love him, but it’s not heartbreaking. Being here is necessary to move on, even if moving on doesn’t mean I want to move on to another one. To add to the mess, my job is fairly un-stressful, at least until I find a way to make it more challenging.

Nothing burns. Nothing’s igniting. It feels like I’m one of those few people in the world without a status. I’m just accepting of the way things are. Not trying to get over or get under, as the case may be, anyone. So where does this energy I had so long devoted to him or to the possibility of another “him” go? If not work, where?

I wish the book had another verb after “Eat, Pray, Love.” I wish there were a comma at the end, something else to discover. An ellipse as a clue to some other purpose…

City Slicker

Nothing beats driving into a city. I know I exist in a hyperbolic world of bests and worsts and nevers and forevers—but I’m serious. Nothing is better.

I often get melancholic when I’m static. When I’m in a routine. This is why I tend to enjoy life most when I’m in the above-mentioned exaggerated state—unbridled excitement or uncontrollable crying. Middle ground is for chumps. Melancholy isn’t for me.

I find the concrete beautiful. It’s as inspiring as any horizon’s sunset. The blacktop guiding cars is more soothing than any bird’s song. I listen with my whole body. Windows down, hair flying, hands vibrating on the wheel.

I guess I like the possibility of it all. I like how every car carries someone with a mission, whether it’s getting groceries or moving to a new city. I love the movement in the streets. The bikes, trucks, people, strollers—how it’s never static. There’s always a goal. Always something better. Never enough.

Even living in Spain didn’t make me calmer. I rarely “strolled,” as they do, rarely wandered without a destination in mind. I never embraced laid-back and instead longed for American ambition and motion.

The town I’m living in now moves slowly. One of the first things I noticed was how nearly everybody on the main strip drives below the speed limit. They don’t change lanes when somebody puts on their blinker, instead preferring to just slow down and wait for them to turn.

Their patience is noble. But it’s not for me. Why drive the speed limit when there are things to see? When the buildings in the distance are waiting to engulf you? Why take it slow when life is brief, when the day is briefer still?

Whoever said to stop and smell the roses never saw a garden. There’s so much more to experience after the roses.

On Lives Lost and Getting It

Life seems to get more fragile with age.

I guess it makes sense. As you grow older, you experience more loss. At the same time, you grow more attached to life and the people in it. Time is cruel like that.

At 14, I didn’t get 9/11. I didn’t cry. I didn’t hurt for my “fellow citizens,” as the victims felt no more my “fellows” than characters in the latest disaster film. I felt fear—a fear of flying that still ignorantly ignites anytime someone with a burka heads to an airplane bathroom. I also felt excitement, seeing as school that day was all but forgotten in lieu of watching CNN. But empathy? Somehow, appallingly, I felt little.

At 18, I didn’t get Katrina. I can barely even remember it, save Kanye’s outburst about George Bush. I never bore the urgency, the burden to help the afflicted. The poor, now even poorer, never kept me from warm, deep sleep. The devastation seemed foreign, unlikely in America, and I honestly trusted my government to fix it. But me? I felt little and helped even less.

At 22, Haiti is breaking my heart. I’ve had to restrain myself, a chronic newsreader, from refreshing any news sites. The pictures, the stories, the videos are too appalling to even digest. Searching for family members among mounds of dead bodies? How? It doesn’t seem fathomable. The fear of the children. The helplessness of the mothers and fathers. An entire country center, already impoverished and unlucky, destroyed. It’s incomprehensible. I don’t get Haiti either.

But this time I feel it.

I’m not sure if life becomes more valuable with age. Maybe empathy matures with maturity. Perhaps journalism has taught me to better relate to stories, or maybe I’m just at a softer, less selfish time in my life. Whatever it is, I feel it. My heart genuinely hurts for Haiti.

To whatever deity, to whatever force or energy or Big Man out there, if you happen to read my blog, please repair and protect them.