In Chinese medicine I trust

I have a thing for Asians. As in, I think I was meant to be one in this life, but some cosmic snafu put me just west of the promised land. I’m left to frequent bubble tea shops, Hello Kitty stores, Chinese bakeries, and sushiyas with the best of them, eternally an outsider. I see myself as assuredly Asian in past lives. Did I mention my belief in reincarnation? I also have thing for beautiful women, in a very girl-crush, I wish I was you sort of way. All of this leads me to why I’m having trouble making the most of my acupuncture treatments. My acupuncturist is lovely; she’s just so… perfect. She’s Asian, slender, toned, gorgeous, smart, and has a wonderful personality. When she asks about my bowels, my anxiety, and that tickle in my throat I had last week, I can but stare at her quizzically. In her presence, I want pretend I’m perfect too and ask her to have a perfectly lovely lunch with me on a terrace somewhere. Admitting the raging anxiety I feel about moving on from Pirate and my constant stress over the LSAT would be difficult with anyone, but admitting them to someone so lovely makes me even more frustrated by my inability recover and achieve perfection more quickly. In the future, I’ll consider this issue and prefer downright homely health care providers.

Elle

All matter of ills

I feel emotionally drained. It’s been almost two weeks since the LSAT. The LSAT, about which I cannot stop thinking. The LSAT, for which I carved out four months of my life to study, and racked up some pretty good practice test scores in the process. The LSAT, for whose June sitting I mistimed the Reading Comp section and potentially shattered my score. All matter of potential scores swivel through my head… 142.. 163… 166… 158… Or maybe I guessed very well and it’s a 176? Decidedly not. Four months of voracious study for one shot, on which I let nervousness get the best of me and gave a less than stellar performance. Will my inner sadistic perfectionist ever forgive me this one?

It’s been over a week since Pirate told me he’s leaving in two months time to move to another country forever. Pirate, my boyfriend of four years. Pirate, who saves me from getting lost, poor nutrition, and panic attacks over grades and LSAT scores. Pirate, who I call my self-confidence. Pirate, who recently told me he believes I have integrity. I had to look it up. Integrity: the quality of being honest and having strong moral principles. Pirate, who bought his plane ticket the day of the LSAT and never told me. Pirate, who points out that he’s leaving because I said I didn’t want to live together anymore. Pirate, who is, without a doubt, the best person I’ve ever met. I’m as much as I know that moving forward separately is for the best, I’m heartbroken. Leave it to me to find a beautiful relationship whose longevity was cursed by Pirate’s unhappiness with his job and the inevitability of his moving away.

It’s been two days since my blood tests came back with a cholesterol of 208. 200 is the normal maximum. And my first thought is, what if this effects my LSAT score? What if my brain function was slowed down by the amount of time it took blood to move through my clearly clogged arteries? My second thought is, what the hell? In the last seven months, I’ve been eating and exercising better than I have in my whole life. Mostly due to Pirate, of course. How could my cholesterol have jumped from a 169 at the last reading to a 208 the day after the LSAT? I suppose this is a sign that it’s time I trade what little animal fat I eat as it is for red wine.

Elle

Lit Notes: Petite Anglaise

Reading Petite Anglaise: the book was a very surreal experience after having read Petite Anglaise: the blog. I was charmed by the blog when Petite admitted that her long-time boyfriend didn’t want to marry her. The only thing worse that hearing someone say he or she doesn’t love you back, doesn’t know if you’re the one too, or doesn’t want to marry you as well is retelling that experience. When the words come from your own voice, you suddenly have to think about the words themselves, the thoughts that led to them, their motivations, how his chosen words fit against your chosen words – all with conclusion of admitting your were painfully rejected. It takes very strong person not simply keep that secret.

And yet, even with all that, Petite made me envy her gorgeous life through her blog. She lived in Paris, which offered timely anecdotes and experiences at every turn. Her young daughter spoke in maddeningly hilarious or profound statements. Her boyfriend offered continual insights into French culture. Her office served as her parallel port back to English culture. It seemed almost magical. Cut to my shock when reading Petite Anglaise: the book, where Catherine openly mentions her manipulation of reality in the creation of her posts. Those timely anecdotes occurred over years, but were refashioned as current and glossed into a shiny perfection. Her daughter’s speeches were made to look cuter. The Paris lifestyle was exaggerated here and there to fit the bill. Stories and details were purposefully teased out to shepherd her audience. At first, I felt a little angry. Here’s this life I envied, this life that made my own seem imperfect and bland, and now I’m reading that its details were twisted and fabricated.

I know there’s no logical reason to believe a blog is all non-fiction and complete and utter truth. Bloggers don’t even offer promises of complete non-fiction. And yet… I totally believe what I’m reading is the unadulterated truth. Naively, I don’t consider that maybe bloggers see themselves as entertainers, who refashion stories from their own lives as a separate art for public consumption. As the anger washed away by the third mention of manipulation, I actually started to think it was a good idea. But will I still be tempted to believe that every other blog on my blogroll is completely genuine and true? Yes. Probably.

Tonight my guilty reading pleasure, Jen Lancaster, is giving a reading at a bookstore a block from my office. We’re talking so guilty that I only stealthily read her books at bookstores in half hours increments, because what would their ownership say about me? Full disclosure: I only like to own books that I’ve both liked and make me look intellectual, and I’m only willing to own books that at least make me look well read. Considering I only today, for the first time ever, googled Lancaster to see if she had a website, only coincidentally looked at her Appearances page, and found out about this appearance at all of 4pm, I’m taking this as some sort of sign. Am I meant to have her babies? Could be. I was at that bookstore at lunchtime today, of all things! Well, I suppose I have to buy a book now.

If you don’t count the time I stumbled into a lecture late at Oxford, only find out it was being given by the Ngaire Woods and wanted to scream “OH MY GOD! You’re Ngaire Woods!,” I’ve never really met an author before. And of course if you don’t count all my university professors, who were all published in some subject or other. I just knew I dressed a little preppy this morning for a reason.

Elle

Lit Notes: Sex And The City

There were several candidates for what bugged me most about the SATC movie, not limited to: Big winning Carrie back with plagiarized love letters, the one-dimensional stubborn anger transposed on Miranda’s character for almost the entire film that ceased being sympathetic after the initial three minutes, and Samantha’s apocryphal gut. If the movie hinges on the girl’s gut, I want to see those rolls. Rather, I was most disappointed by Carrie’s opening avowal that girls in their twenties still come to NYC in search of “The two L’s, Love and Labels,” just as she had herself. I’ve heard of moving for love and moving to get away from the one you loved, but do people actually move to a city just to search for love there? Louise explains that she too moved to the city to fall in love. All feminist “girl, what about establishing your career and independence?” comments aside, I’m totally lost by this statement. Does one city offer more chances at love than another does? Is the population of one city more open to love than the population in another? As loving cities go, I somehow doubt that NYC is even in the top ten. I’d sooner expect to find love in Boise than I would in jaded NYC, if that was my only criteria for moving. 

Next, what’s with the Labels? I know Michael Patrick King seems to love the puns – retch – but, isn’t the term labels a tad materialistic? I can understand seeking out art, fashion, or even style, but labels makes it sound like NYC twenty-somethings want nothing more than monograms and little white tags. Who needs the fashion underground when you can rent a Louis Vuitton? Even with my feminist agenda aside, it’s sad to see a movie to assign the tunnel vision of romanticism and materialism to women.

Elle
  
  

You took Moby Dick and left me behind

Sometimes I envy people who can escape stressful times and difficult problems with only drugs and alcohol. A slightly diluted version of their own reality is enough to make them comfortable. I’m no stranger to the grape or the grain, but it’s not enough for me. When it’s rough, I need to jump completely out of my own reality. I pour over books, reading about other people’s worlds, becoming absorbed in distant realities. The thicker the novel, the more difficult the prose, all the better. In view of recent happenings, I’ve built up an arsenal. The more anxious I become, the more I long to get lost elsewhere. The more I read, the more I long to write. Welcome to my new blog.

Elle