Look in the dictionary under the word intangible and you know what you’ll find? The definition of intangible, which is Chris. (lol, neat little movie reference, heh)

How many guys do you know who’ll sweep a stranger off her feet and into a tango at a school function? Or dedicate a chapter to you in a book he has written? Or fight off an armed robber with his bare hands? Or give a toast as a gentleman of honor at your wedding? Or geez, even arrange a personal around the world trip on his own dime??? *huffpuff*

I first read the Friendster testimonal 2.5 years ago, automatically recoiling in mixture of awe and anguish. It sounded genuine, true and honest. Even with all the embellishments, I remember thinking how could I…of all people…be the one.

I am happy and proud to be with someone who can change lives like that. And is admired.

I was rushing. Having not checked my email all day, I realized the meeting was at 6 pm. But I had to finish the last parts of my project. Okay, quick, send it out. I pressed send and spun in my chair. Bathroom.

Grabbing my stuff, I pattered down to the stairs. The elevator was broken. I let myself run down free…with slight caution. I was afraid of falling.

It was already 6:10 pm. I decided that I would just get there and deal my indecision of attending later.

On the way, I made two phone calls. A followup to Noah. He didn’t pick up. I breathlessly left a message. Then another to my sister. I set my phone to silent, not wanting it to bother me.

Passing by 5th street, I hesitated. I could just go home…I wouldn’t make it on time anyway. Nobody would miss me.

But I already planned to attend. And so I walked briskly down Mission, then down 3rd.

I saw knots of people unfurling, spilling out of buildings in waves. Then the small trickle that followed. The ones that came from small companies—small droplets rolling up to Market to catch the bus, the trolley, the train home.

I arrived, the building with huge glass windows. One inside current.tv with huge tvs meant to showcase the dynamism…the speed…there were so many people chattering inside.

The webpage said they were on the 4th floor. I hesitated, walking around in a circle. It was 6:45 pm. Now or never. I glanced at the nearby light rail. The AT&T Park. Nobody will notice if I walked and got on the train, whisking me back to my former destiny. I will be an ant like all the ants.

No.

And so I forced myself to call. “Yes I am here for the meeting. I am downstairs. Sorry I am so late, I hope it’s not over yet.”

A few moments later, I gave a sheepish smile sitting down in the glass conference room with all unfamiliar faces. I took a breath and settled in.

Yesterday at work, I realized that there was going to be a Brown Bag. Meaning there was going to be lunch provided. Having my prepared salad, I shoved in the work fridge trying to adjust all the random containers in there.

In haste, a round container with an unsecured top fell. It fell, spilling its contents all over the floor. I panicked. But then I hesitated, thinking sure the lasagna is still good. Five second rule all over the hardwood floor of the design studio.

But the reasonable person principle came back to play. What would a reasonable person do? Giving a small sigh, I scooped it back into the container and dropped it into the garbage. The IT guy came over and got a glass from the cabinet. I stepped aside from him, wondering if he noticed. He bumbly said hello and I said hello back. When he left, I grabbed a paper towel and wiped the reminder of lasagna from the ground and fridge, trying to cover my tracks.

I teetered a bit in the kitchen and made sure there was no bits.

I sighed, realizing what a reasonble person would do.

In an email, I drafted to the san francisco office, “Sorry to whoever had lasagna for lunch. I accidentally knocked it over, spilled its contents on the floor. It was in a circular black unlabeled container. I’ll buy you lunch!”

Holding my breath, I clicked send.

For the rest of the day (with an exception of one person whose lunch it really was), I got requests to buy someone lunch. From people whose grandmothers sent lasagna from Italy to people’s imaginary wives made them lasagna.

Fortunately, I know who never brings lunch to work.

“Oh we don’t drink coffee,” my dad must have said to my cousins who were staying at my parents’ house a few years ago.

A hunger grew in their eyes and they took the rental car to the downtown of the suburb. Fortunately for them, Starbucks had already spread to every block in the suburb. But they’re Asian. Every morning it was a constant search for the black warm liquid. They’re not white like a coworker of mine who presents a new organic coffee bean every other week at work. Spamming the entire company, he shakes the bags of coffee beans in triumph. Coffee.

I don’t need coffee. In fact, I often roll out of bed to whatever I am doing that day. I usually hunt for orange juice at work, but if there’s none, I would settle for a banana. Then the day begins.

But what would happen if I started taking showers in the morning? Like every other white person I know. Is hot water on my face not enough than the buzz from the ugly dark liquid in a Styrofoam cup?

She had an unique name and I was curious. Besides, she wasn’t romantic interest nor was she even a friend. With recent drama (that’s none of my business), I had to know.

I proceeded to google her. I found her blog easily. Her linkedin. Her portfolio. Her flickr feed.

Then…her twitter feed. I couldn’t help looking through several pages.

I deduced certain facts. There were stories hidden in the small tweets. Small comments alluding to something bigger. Comments about what she was doing and who she was with. Then I found myself in summize wondering what conversations she was having. Links scattered in her twitter to other parts of her life. It was a free conversation describing inner thoughts and future plans.

But wait. I don’t really know her. I have been seen her 3 times barely for a minute each time—usually accompanied with slightly awkward hellos and goodbyes. Her high heels are more recognizable then her face. She had become a mysterious celebrity. Overnight.

Note to self: work on purposefully decentralizing self in all social networks.

I finished a long shower at my usual late night time. Around 11 pm, because I have trouble going to sleep if I can’t feel clean. This way I never have conflict with my roommate because he showers in the morning and sleeps early (my room is the one next to the bathroom).

So in my bathrobe, I decided to walk to the kitchen to toss my empty shampoo bottle in recycling. As I spin around the corner, I realize that there’s someone there on the living room couch. I catch my breath, pausing around the corner. I glance at my roommate’s room. It’s dark. Holding my breath, I turn around the corner and say, “Hey.”

She struggles out in a small voice, “Are you done? Bathroom.”

She was wearing a single black dress. Her legs curled under her as she read a book in dimly lit living room.

“Oh yeah sure,” I reply quickly dropping off my shampoo bottle and heading back to my room.

“So you have no chicken right…so uh…egg, tomatoes…no cheese,” I started saying.

“No cheese?? We require that all crepes have cheese!” he bellowed out to me.

I was slightly frightened and scanned the list again for a combination with no cheese. So I changed my approach, “What do you recommend with no cheese?”

“You must have cheese!” he said.

I let silence fill the void, blinking in uncertainty—but I don’t like cheese maybe I’ll just follow his recommendation. Then he interrupted my thought process, “Oh you don’t need to have cheese. I was just joking.”

“Oh…ok. Then onions, tomatoes, eggs. No mushrooms. No hot sauce.” I stiffened for a moment hoping he wouldn’t rebuke me.

He started making the eggs. I wanted to say Please don’t make them too scrambled, but was afraid of another joke at my expense.

He apologized as he handed me a completed crepe, “Here you go Mademoiselle. Sorry to have given you a hard time.”

“Sorry, I couldn’t help but be picky.”

I have a bad habit.

I nearly never finish any meal.

Any leftovers, I stretch it out to a day, 2 days, or sometimes 3 days. I plan as the meal arrives, almost unconsciously. I will eat only half of the rice. Eat only 3 pieces of the chicken so I will have something to eat tomorrow. Maybe this will go good with some pasta…and more seasoning…

Last weekend, I got the pork chop with sweet potatoes. The hunk of meat was so big. I started taking bites, cutting with a knife. As I reached the middle, by habit I started portioning. One small serving of sweet potatoes. One small serving of the pork chop. I automatically started thinking of how I would ask for a to-go container—would it be Styrofoam? Aluminum? Waxed paper box?

But I had to reel myself back. I was at a wedding after all.

I now know.

To not come in between them.

And suddenly I actually felt a sense of pride and success. Pulling out ivy.

Chris loves sawing, calling TIMBER, and carrying logs.

I like yanking.

It surprisingly gave a sense of achievement unlike the hedonist lifestyle I was leading of food and shopping. We really did feel better after helping out at the Golden Gate Park Lloyd Lake Restoration sponsored by One Brick.

In both high school and college, I was required to do community service. Why hasn’t that requirement traveled forward?

Next up: 9/20 Coastal Cleanup.