Tuesday, September 29, 2009

Great Expectations

I think I’ve read too many books and watched too many films because what was I expecting out of life? I think I was expecting it to read like a novel or play out like movie. I’m thirty-three years old, living with my parents again, jobless, boyfriendless, husbandless and childless.

I was talking to a young high-school student a minute ago and I looked at her beautiful young face, she has her whole world ahead of her and she was asking ME what to do with her life? ME, I didn’t have the heart to tell her I’ve fucked up…I don’t know where I am…I have a Master’s Degree and I call my parents at ten o’clock at night to tell them where I am.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I have a sense of humor about my existence at this moment and I don’t necessarily look down on myself. It’s just hard being alive, for most of us, I assume. Because I feel like there are those who have a job, a husband and kids and still feel this void or emptiness that I sometimes feel.

I mean as much as I wish I were thinner, richer, and more famous, I think about Michael Jackson. He was the thinnest, richest, most famous mother-fucker (excuse my language) in the world. But the man couldn’t sleep at night.

I can sleep at night. I don’t do drugs. I try not to drink too much wine. There are people in this world who love me, despite my many flaws and the horrific mistakes I’ve made in my life.

I’m lucky.

But what did I expect?

After all that fuckin’ work, I think Michael Jackson at least, at the very least, expected to be able to sleep in his silk sheets with hundreds of thread counts. My sheets are from Sam’s club, they are beautiful but I got them at a good price. Michael Jackson was beautiful, but at what price? How much did he pay for that beauty, I mean that both literally and metaphorically.

What did he expect?

I think he expected to find love. I think that’s all any of us wants. Whether it be the love of a partner, the love of children, or the love of the public. He wanted it all. He was lucky. He had kids who loved him, a public who hated to love him, and if he tried I’m sure he could have found a partner of some kind, alien or otherwise (I’m kidding). I hate to disrespect the dead, but you have to admit, among other things, he was a weirdo. But even weirdo’s are worthy of love.

Sometimes I think I’m a weirdo.

Unlike other Indian second generation children, I didn’t become a doctor, engineer, or lawyer. I don’t have a steady career. If it weren’t for my parents I might be homeless right now, alright I’m exaggerating. I’m sure I could get my lazy ass up and wait tables and live in a shack.

But my precious upper-middle class ass likes the luxury of Egyptian cotton sheets from Sam’s Club. My privileged self enjoys the comfort of family and old friends. I’m ready to go on my own again, but I have the support and love of a clan.

Perhaps all those people who cried at Michael Jackson’s funeral should have cried to his face. Should have told him how much they loved him when he was alive. I can’t imagine he wanted more in life than that elaborate funeral.

I don’t want to be dead yet, but I want to live like Michael died. I don’t want to live how he lived. But, I wish the world would cry to my face and say, “I love you.”

Call me vain.



  1. You'll figure it out, Nina. Don't be too hard on yourself. Focus on the things that give you real pleasure and have some fun. Hugs, Jayne

  2. when we first moved back to the USA from Mexico, i was not thrilled, (understatement, there was sobbing involved) but we had to or we would have folded. our rental properties needed us close to manage them.

    i was determined not to let my in laws and other people fill my time up with obligations. (i still have some of those, but not as many as i had the last time we lived here).

    i joined a book club at a trendy bookstore, risque place. the kind of place where gays and lesbians hang out.

    i just could not live in the pretty little "conform conform conform" world. i had to wait a few months for the book club to start up again.

    when i went to the bookstore to pick up the book (who the heck remembers what it was), i saw a flyer for a cooking class. taught by a woman who is the author of a cookbook i love. she lived in this city.

    i went. and for the next year, i went to her cooking classes 2 or 3 times a month. cooking and learning about cooking was the thing that kept me from just sitting around the house being pissed off because ..... i thought i had escaped and low and ____ behold, here i was again.... being pushed to act like a brain dead adult child.

    i did not let them "catch me." not then, not now. eventually they got the message. if they never had, that would not have been my problem.

    every once in a while, they close in on me and i have to knock down all the pieces on the board, and sometimes i just do the zen thing and turn sideways and it all just pass by me (and disappears).

    point .... step out. once you step out, you will be able to see down all the little side streets.