In my early 20s, I was most self-centered and self-promoting. Alas, that has fallen to the wayside. BUT now I call back my BIRTHDAY WISHLIST. For my 30th birthday in less than 5 days!

Previous years: forgotten year in 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, no forgotten year of 2007, 2006, 2005, 2004, 2003, 2002

In order of importance!

1. PRESENCE > PRESENT. I really don’t like presents, because I pretty much know what I want. But there’s the people that I can’t really ask for—and that’s what I want.
2. Endless supplies of fruit. Particularly the stone fruit kind and berries!
3. Ice cream. Especially fruity ones.
4. Candy!
5. Some better way to manage the messiness of my room as I enter my thirties.
6. Acceptance, peace with the ways thing are
7. Maybe a better couch/sofa

That’s me. I know that I want to be a mom someday.

Do I think that I am a fit? Not very. Do I think that I am motherly? Not at all.

It’s not that I woke up and said, “I want to be a mom”. It was something that I just knew. Maybe I want a little version of myself running around. Maybe I want to know that I can make an impact in the world through someone. Or more importantly, that I can take care of someone…to a level that I will never have ever.

It’s a fundamental belief and it can be a dealbreaker.

“Can I get more…” I would start.

“No!” the server would say.

I would be stunned, shocked—unsure of what to say next. Why can’t I get…

Then the server would just laugh and say that yes, of course it is entirely possible! This is the worst kind of joke—especially at a restaurant.

But it wasn’t only that today. It was my request of triple cream cheese and getting blue cheese instead. It was saying “oh yes, the duck confit” when it was actually the “roasted duck”. And the odd glances to our table—when he could say “how is everything”. Things like—made it awkward and uncomfortable.

It wasn’t necessarily bad service, but mostly…off. Somewhat unattentive. Somewhat unfriendly. And making something that could have been incredible (the food was generally good)…off-putting. Negative points.

When I first did it, I was filled with anxiety. But my belief in it forced me to overcome it.

Today was my third time. I had just under an hour until my flight departed as my belongings moved on the conveyer belt. This time, I steadily looked at the TSA agent who was checking the bins and said in a strong but quiet voice, “I would like to opt out.”

She directed me to stand behind a female passenger who just opted out. The TSA agent asked me to point out my belongings—I pointed out the three bins and my bag. Last time in New York, I remember the TSA agent wondering aloud how I was able to fit all the five bins in two bags. This time, the TSA agent said nothing.

I stood waiting behind the glass gate, somewhat nervous that I would miss my flight, but certain that I couldn’t wuss out. I had taken a stance on opting out. My mind wandered to the idea of my biological clock ticking—I do want kids, after all…right?

The TSA agent called out again to her colleagues behind the security line, “Female opt out request, please! Female times two!”

“Are you opting out too?” the female traveler in front of me asked. I nodded and we exchanged knowing smiles.

It was my turn and the female agent led me to a screening area. She asked me if I would like a private screening and I declined. She asked me if I had any sore or painful spots and I also said no. Standing on barefeet, she asked me to spread my legs and put my arms out with palms upward to the ceiling. Quietly, I observed the commotion around me—watching a fellow female passenger make nervous comments—”San Franciscans must love this…” She seemed both amused and anxious. I noticed an obvious pregnant bulge.

Then it was over and I arrived at my gate…and I just waltzed into the flight since boarding had already started. 30 minutes to spare.

Professionally, I say very explicitly and almost without emotion:

I have x number of hours of available.
This is what I am going to do today, tomorrow…and this week.
This will not get done by the end of the week.
Let’s get the task completed. I need x, y, and z.

And yet oddly enough, all of us have trouble applying to it to our personal lives, particularly interpersonal relationships. I know that I do.

Behind us at the Naked and Famous concert, a girl said, “Wow! She’s so awesome—representing our kind!”

Although I consider myself American, I am still acutely aware of my ethnicity.

I can sense the slight intention when someone asks, “Where are you from?” The difference between where I grew up and where my heritage is originally from. In college, I often would take the sarcastic route when sensing the later—”Of the earth, of the sea!” I exclaimed proudly. Or if I was in a more lecturing mood, I would often fall into a discussion of how ethnicity and nationality were distinctly different.

But I can’t help but feeling something when I see a fellow Asian in the spotlight—whether it’s good or bad. In leadership, arts, news…it’s different.

So like the girl, when I saw the lead singer onstage. Realizing that she’s Asian (although from New Zealand), I oddly enough felt pride even though she and I shared nothing alike except our heritage.

It was not there.

Just like those moments of panic. In that moment, you don’t care who is around you, what is around you…because suddenly an important part of you is missing. Whatever was planned in the next few minutes, next hour…does not compare to the fact that a part of you is missing.

You recall the last time you used it. Your fingers sliding over the smooth glass, a gesture that tells the processor embedded there to do something. To show you the mysteries behind the glass. Perhaps you nod silently to some communication sent to your eyes. And you press something again on the object…now putting the object in your back pocket, your desk or your bag.

But was it your bag?

You were so distracted when a colleague came in to make a request. You try to meet the request, but you have to go. Did you put it in your bag? Your pocket? You are unsure.

And there, far away from where you once were 30 minutes you go, you check your pockets again, your bag, the empty spot where it was supposed to be.

And it’s as if your heart is stolen from you. This is where you start making sacrifices, compromises, amends. I’ll do anything to get you back! you think. You are apologizing profusely in your mind—angry that you made the mistake. I’ll never leave you again.

A plan is set in motion. Now you’re worried that the vulnerability of your accounts. Now you think about how to get to the store. Now you think about the cost. You always had an emergency fund for idiocy every year, right?

Hopefully now, your panic is appeased slightly.

But you need to know where it is. You call upon the generosity of those around you. They help you. And it’s located, the missing part of you.

And all your plans halt…because you finally know where your phone is.

My 10 concerts has always been one of the following:

And so they were…
Stars at Bimbos 365
Arcade Fire at Greek Theater
Muse at Bill Graham Civic Auditorium
Foster the People/Cults at The Fillmore
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah/Architecture in Helsinki at The Warfield

There was something special about Europe. Whether it was random chance that people I met really cared…or that it was culturally a slower pace of life. Even in the big cities.

A lunch is long. Even on a workday. It’s not frantic—less than an hour lunch—whether in mid-conversation, we would be checking the time trying to cram a 30 minute discussion into 5 minutes.

Dinner is also long. Sleep? Sure, at some point. But it’s the time spent with people. Want to know how long the wait might be at a restaurant? Servers won’t know because it’s expected that diners will linger long after the meal and after-dinner drinks are complete. Turning tables quickly is not natural.

When I arrived in New York City, it was an immediate cultural shock. Explicit short conversations from point A to point B. No apologies when shoved aside. Lingering is for tourists. Meals with friends are tap tap I have to go see another friend in 30 minutes.

But there was something unsettling in Europe. Despite never feeling racism growing up, I suddenly felt out of place. I grew up in a town that was mostly full of affluent Caucasians. But in Europe I never felt so…different. I am highly educated, a young professional in a creative field, speaking fluent English. But people who looked like me were found behind the counter at convenience stores.

So I returned to California and thought: this is it.

“Look at you!” my grandmother kept saying in Cantonese. “You’re are barely wearing anything!”

It was springtime today and I was driving her back to her apartment—in a senior living facility in Oakland Chinatown.