“Something I haven’t done for awhile is sleeping on the opposite end of my bed,” he said last Sunday. “I used to do it all the time! I did it the first few days when I moved.”

Having had slept at many places in the last 10 years, there are times when I wake up that I am disoriented. The room is darker…or lighter. The bed feels different—sometimes better, most of the time, worst.

On Sunday, I tried sleeping backwards. My feet where my head usually is. My head where my feet usually lie. As the night quickly fell, I shut my eyes and drifted away.

When I awoke to my roommate’s footsteps, I opened my eyes. Blind, nearsighted blurriness. But disorientation? Not at all. My memory of sleeping backwards flooded back…quickly.

I wonder though if there was a murderer…a psychokiller…would he pause in confusion when he opened my room to find that my feet are at the head of my bed? Would he still shoot in cold blood murder? Or comment on the situation…then shoot? Or laugh in absurdity?

That day, I woke up miserable. Even though the night before, I had said that I would make a omelet.

Out of tomatoes? I asked. Then I suggested, Jalapeños? Bell pepper? Maybe potatoes

As I went to sleep, I dreamed of all the combinations. I wouldn’t eat the omelet of course, because I hate the yolk and white mixed together into a mush. But the creativity was a nice way to fall asleep.

Then I woke up, unwell. And I said that I was hungry and couldn’t move…and could he, would he make me breakfast. When I turned over an hour later, there was a plate ready and willing.

In college, I always had a story about a boy.

Upon meeting someone new, I would test the waters—do they like hearing my stories of a boy? or do they hold blank stares as I ran into nothingness?

I always imagine that many people’s eyes glazed over as I recounted the many incidents of:

And so on…

When I was 21, I wrote a pseudo-autobiography. At the time, I thought it was the greatest achievement ever. But now looking back (and someone else who generously and reluctantly read it), it was full of the boys. The way a boy insulted me. The way a boy made me happy. The way a boy made me angry…angsty…irritated…furious…etc.

And in some way, I do find it boring. My 21 year old self would disagree, but when reading memoirs, I am curious more about why people make certain choices in life than who they met. I am not that interested in the awkwardness and rejection of relationships. It’s the problem-solving moments that capture my attention.

There was a short story about the way I dealt with the Heathers. The girls who made fun of me when I was 11 and 12 and how I fought back with my sister’s help. Then there’s another short story about my grandfather’s second wife. And the story about me figuring out to speak…

“Walk in the middle of the street,” my mom told me when I was younger. She was retelling a story of how on the way back from a Farmer’s Market in Oakland Chinatown, she spotted a man following her. Feeling anxious, she immediately walked in the middle of the road with cars surrounding her on both sides.

When playing Journey to the End of the Night, Chris led me to the middle of the road. I trotted behind him, slightly hesitant. People sitting on their porches cackled us. What are you doing in the middle?!?!?!

At some level, it was ridiculous. But a guy in a black skullcap and a girl who stumbled along could be seen as trespassers.

We were walking in the middle of the road to be seen clearly by the chasers (people chasing us), but so that we could see the chasers. In some way, it was to our advantage. It was a game, pretending almost…that people were chasing us and our strategy to…tell everyone was our advantage. But never once did Chris falter, always had his hand out to hold mine to lead us to safety.

In the past few months, I have heard of a number friends buying their first home. They have wide smiles on their faces. I placed a bid and they accepted! they would squeal. It happened so quickly!

And I see a look in their eyes…almost saying you all should do the same. And yet, is this the long-term goal? To feel like something is your own? To know that…it is yours only and nobody can walk in at anytime?

My parents rent a huge 3 bedroom house to a family. The same family for more than 10 years. Growing up, I was taught that renting was supposed to be temporary. One day, you buy. You just do. It’s like buying a car rather than leasing it. You buy to keep.

How does owning real estate or property be the real goal in life? That we make financial decisions, career decisions, etc. just to own a home? Isn’t there something missing? There was a blog post awhile ago on a “be frugal” site that praised a couple that rented a $500/month apartment for several years and earned a $80,000 income combined that were able to buy a house (granted only a 150k house in middle America) in full, because they spent money frugally and lived cheaply. Readers sang praises to their success.

And what of it? Why is that a lifelong goal? Isn’t it completely empty once the house is purchased? Does the house become only a symbol of the success?

Maybe I see success as a culmination of experiences. I envy the spontaneous traveler who may not even have a home. There was a woman I met at a party who had traveled globally like a nomad for nine years. She ambled from village to village making her way around by bartering. I was thoroughly fascinated hearing her adventures in mediation and eating strange foods. I am pretty sure she did not save money for a home. I mentioned to her how I have settled in a routine saving a good portion of my salary each month and felt uneasy leaving the expected path of a career.

Why is the American dream the expected path? Owning a house, raising a family…then what?

I saw an invite to a day in Napa Valley. A day out with the girls, it read. Drinking wine, etc etc. Perhaps throw in a facial, mani-pedi, and a massage.

I was terrified. I imagined myself, trapped in a world that I don’t belong. Awkwardly talking to other girls as they drank wine and casually asking…no, just a bit more polish.

A few weeks ago, I had a meeting with a female colleague and I heard about her exploits with her girlfriends. The trips, the shopping, how much fun it was.

And then I realized how much I preferred going out with the guys to a super-low-brow movie with beer drinking or a monster track rally where I would enjoy myself watching boys get riled up over crushing metal. When I think of shopping, I feel much more at home in an electronics store than a makeup counter or purse rack.

Was there something wrong with me? My last time at a salon made me feel small and inadequate, perhaps because I didn’t know how facials work or the tsk tsk of the beautician as she looked at my face. Or that time at the MAC counter when I so naively said that I didn’t know how foundation worked when out of embarrassment, I spent $40 without thinking just so that I could leave the store. There’s a mixture of social anxiety there, but I never felt at home being feminine.

And yet the idea of hanging out with a group of girls I don’t know or hanging out with a group guys i don’t know…it’s most likely I would choose the latter. What would I talk about with girls??

It’s not that I am a tomboy in any way. I am not coordinated enough for sports—I have a slight disinterest in throwing stuff. But I love tagging along with the boys—seeing the immaturity, observing the absurd masculinity…and ultimately not feel like I am “competing” with them.

On Sunday, a friend was appalled to find that I had no female best friend. I haven’t had one since the 7th grade when the BFF was only let’s-compete type. Of course, there’s my sister. But who do I tell about my relationship issues, the PMS issues (what I still claim I do not have), etc? The same people who happen to be the opposite gender.

Harry is wrong because sex never gets in the way. Only whether they are as good at using Google as I am.

You grow to love each other, an article described arranged marriages. And that’s the journey when both the husband and wife are looking forward to growing into love.

It stuck me as I watched the movie (500 Days) of Summer today with Daisy.

spoiler alert

I can’t recall the many times that I found myself deluded into thinking this is what I want. And to find that 3 months later, I was foolish to think that I was right.

There was an entire year in Pittsburgh where I had one single person in mind. I did everything in my willpower even when everything seemed to fail. The many awkward moments and ignoring the I am not ready for this. There was one poignant moment I remember at a party…where not because of alcohol (since I obviously didn’t drink any), I suddenly felt comfortable asking a question as the music was pumping, people were dancing around us in the basement of the house.

To my surprise, anger was returned accusing me of asking a question when inebriation was imminent. That I was taking advantage of the situation. I remember leaving the party, licking my wounds.

About four months later, I returned to California. Then two months after, I realized how foolish I was.

The movie spoke of fate and destiny. But to me, it was the world that we create when we think we find the one. I believe that we create our own fate—that we have choices to make. There is always one path where almost nothing will happen and then the other where a connection…although small may change your life.

This is one reason why I have trouble saying no.

In my pompous, self-entitled state a few months ago, I made the odd request, “Will you throw a surprise party for me?”

Then I compiled a list of people I would invite and passed it off as “here’s a list of peeps in case you would need to contact some in dire need”

Then a few weeks later, I retracted on my request, realizing how inane it was and threw my own miracle berry party instead.

A surprise party is best when the organizer is a true organizer, a true planner, one who loves planning. And that the guest of honor is caught unawares and is pleasantly surprised. But how does the the organizer gather the names? How does the organizer not grab the wrong Rolodex or accidentally leave people out?

And most of all, how do you throw a surprise party for someone who has friends ranging from the conservative Christians to Mexican gangsters to celeb-status people with a high 6 digit salary to the lowly janitor met during a bored moment at a party? In my world, the best part of throwing a party is having people from all walks of life gather together…and get along. I love it when friends find something in common and befriend each other. It’s one of the joys of parties for me.

And yet, I realize that a lot of my friends happen to be the same. The designers. The slightly academic. The hipsters. And asian. I don’t deviate that much. And when I do venture into a territory of people not matching those areas…I suddenly feel so out of place. I get angry at myself that I am truly not that diverse.

And so what about a surprise party for someone who has a diverse set of friends? One where he purposefully keeps everyone separate? I always wonder what a wedding would be like. To invite them all? Or be selective and careful about seating arrangements.

I wish I could befriend people out of my comfort zone better. How do I talk up the store cashier anyway? When the only word that stumbles out of my mouth are “No bag” and “Thanks”.