Today, I led a workshop. Facilitated that is. After the constant 6 hours of talking and moderating, I wanted to curl in a ball and rest. Read a book. Read articles. Anything that I could do by myself.

That is the most interesting thing about me. I naturally do not like standing in front of people to communicate and perform. It takes my energy. And rarely do I enjoy it.

And yet. I know that part of me is just trying to prove to myself how much I don’t like it. But there is a stronger part of me that wants to be in control and believes that nobody else can do it exactly the way I can. My own self-centeredness and ego leads me to this path.

And yet, that is the very reason that I have fallen. It’s because there’s this performer inside me who wants to tell people things, wants to show off, wants to express emotion, wants to make jokes and tell stories. That performer enjoys the attention and revels in the presence of others.

During college, which was the beginning of when I let my performer peek to the surface, I took on a computer consulting job. Not because I actually wanted to do it, but because I wanted to prove to people that I wasn’t dumb. My dad heard about the job and frowned. “You?” he said surprised. “I don’t think that it’s good for you.”

It wasn’t really. I went through multiple interactions that were awkward, geeky, and uncomfortable. But I did it anyway. Because inside, I hated being trapped.

Or is that how that idiom goes?

I love snacks. And I love working on a hard problem, solving it, and rewarding myself with a snack. Whether it’s just a single red vine, a small handful of M&Ms, or a perfect peach. If you watched me at an office, you may wonder how much productive work I actually do.

The answer is: a lot. If you put me in a space with the right amount of (read: tasty) snacks, comfortable lighting, and engaging problems (let’s throw in a touch of a facebook read and a twitter scan), then anything can happen. My focus when in the moment is deep and intense.

A lot of it, I admit, is due to the act of snacking. In my kitchen, due to my frugality and sense of “healthiness”, I don’t keep many snacks. I resort to the remainders, the unwanted snacks in the bowl above my microwave. They often are a random (old) assortment of Hershey’s kisses, fortune cookies leftover from my roommate’s Chinese takeout, one or two pieces of candy from my international travel. And now I have gone through that too. The empty wrappers next to my keyboard remind me of what I am missing. A hasty attempt to satisfy a craving for belonging.

As I sit here preparing for upcoming freelance projects and working on my book, my concentration keeps getting interrupting by a desire for snacks. And then I wonder, why don’t I just buy the snacks? Then I remember, I have occasionally. And it isn’t quite the snacks themselves are satisfying.

It’s the joy of walking to a cupboard, a refrigerator, and shelves to see it filled with snacks. A diversity. Serendipity. Things that I didn’t choose. I delight in the discovery of the new, and it’s doesn’t have the same novelty when I carefully select it from a grocery store. The novelty wears off as I check out, put it in my bag, and travel back to my place.

In the end, what I miss the most is the delight in a mysterious someone (thank you office managers all these years!) who has supplied the kitchen with snacks for me (and everyone else in the office). Now that I am alone working from home…is it asking for delivery? is it hiring someone to just stockpile my kitchen (which is already bursting at the seams with my random tea purchases)? Or is it just to get myself to an office and work from there?

Instead of doing the “right thing”, we continued chatting while she had some salad in her teeth. After all, it only distracted me 10% of the time since I only saw it when she opened her mouth wide (when she laughed). And it was late and it was getting dark and she was going home soon…so what’s the deal?

Knowing how I would have reacted, I didn’t want to break her flow. I would have embarrassed…so embarrassed so especially during the awkward moment where someone would say no, your left, just a bit more, back to the right, no, there you got some of it, got it. That it would have frazzled me for a good ten minutes. In less than five seconds, I pondered saying something, but the moment passed by. Because I just couldn’t bring myself to say something. To spare her the future agony. Allowing herself or someone else tell her…or hopefully let it wash it away later.

So then we talked. Small talk. Professional chat. Challenges in our professional lives. Ways to overcome challenges. Our personal interests. The service where we met professionally.

And then suddenly the hour was over. “Oh! I have to go,” she said looking down at her phone exactly an hour after we started speaking.

We parted ways, and I let the little bit of green stay.

After watching the season premiere of Girls and series premiere of Looking, I thought…well, why not? Why wasn’t there a series that discussed the traumas and comedy of a unmarried thirty somethings living in a city? Oh wait, wasn’t that Sex and the City, Friends, Seinfeld…and Thirtysomething? And nearly a majority of tee vee shows that dominate the air?

Yet what bothers me most about the two shows is the twentysomething angst that I am (hopefully) departing. And yet what bothers me more is that I tend to swing more in the social conservative side of the world while still maintaining interest in the city’s whimsical nature and super liberal perspectives. And on my side, hey…diversity! And what person like me doesn’t really quite luxuriate in the city’s collaborative services but probably can afford it and still says things like “It’s just 12 blocks away, I’ll walk” and “I think that I’ll cook my own dinner today, no thanks to that fancy pants bar selling $10 a pop”. And still owns craigslisted, hand-me-down, college era, Ikea furniture. And when going out, it has to be “free”, “cheap”, and un-noisy. But living in the city in the most desirable neighborhood in the city?

An Asian American designer, obviously. In her early thirties. Still holding onto technology that is sooooo ten years ago (aka instant messaging and email).

If you were to ask me, I would describe it like this:

Blonde girls in black Lululemon yoga pants and tops trimmed in some bright color doing jumping jacks on the green. Their hair pulled back in a pony tail. Their shoes were all new. Brightly colored as it was the current style. All pink, all blue, all orange. Their faces were carefully made up, with the sweat-proof makeup to puff up their cheeks and widen their eyes. They shouted with glee, with intense optimism. Only because the fitness trainer told them to do so. I felt a knot form in the back of my throat, and an uncomfortable ball twist in my stomach.

I shoved my black bag into a larger bag where they claimed that they would watch. By habit of politeness, I put my sunglasses in there. Then I tip toed to the group, letting my fear present myself, but letting it make me too stubborn, too unwilling.

In the 45 minutes, I barely said any words beyond hi i am… (quite often letting the words trail off) and i am ok, really. I became a non-presence, drifting along the edges. At some point, I jogged fast to one side of the green, following the crowd, not wanting to be last as I usually was. I was proud of myself for not being last, but then my vision slightly blurred. The world became less blue, more yellow, then suddenly green. I breathed in and stopped my steps, sensing that I was losing it.

Then it was ok.

In truth, it was a free fitness class taking advantage of outdoor benches, a small grass field, and the odd sunny San Francisco winter of January 2014. Almost everyone was new. I wonder if it’s because I don’t like being around large groups of females. Or was it the workout when I preferred just riding my bike throughout the city? Or was it because I never liked the female camaraderie?

Thoughts ran through my head as I thought about the early twentysomethings I knew. How they had such deep need to express and share their lives. And how they told everyone…and I mean, everyone about how they were feeling and what they wanted to do. The instagramming. The facebooking. The texting.

I think now: that is so overwhelming. It’s too much.

Then I kicked myself.

Because that’s exactly how I was like at that age. Even though it wasn’t that long ago. I was self-absorbed, self-centered, and so so overly anxious. Was I doing this right? I kept asking myself. And I blindly tried so many things, while trying to find acceptance and and identity.

And slowly I mellowed out.

In college and graduate school, I distinctly remember spending hours upon hours on my computer. I would talk to multiple people in instant messages. Oddly enough, that behavior has barely translated to text messaging. I absolutely hate having conversations over the phone via text message. But I am stunned when people can’t engage in anything insightful through an instant message—whether it’s through the ancient AIM, gchat, and Facebook.

I remember having the emotional connection built through words that I carefully typed on screen. I remember yelling, screaming, crying over those conversations. The I don’t think that we should be friends and the Let’s not see each other again and the dramatic I see you never messages all exchanged. Those kind of things happened then when I was in my early and mid twenties. It’s probably the same, but in a completely different context—of still images, of short “edited” video, and self-possessed messages of #yolo and #winning

But most of all, I wonder why the word “detox” keeps coming up.

I don’t even remember the last words exchanged. Was it over im? Was it in person? All I could remember was that the words spilled out of me angrily and suddenly that was it.

More than ten years have passed since we last spoke.

Yesterday, I entered the room and saw her immediately. A short wave of hesitation passed across my face. Then I spotted a friend. Then another. And another. I stepped around others and entered a conversation, almost facing her, but turned to the person to her left. Her body language suggested that she didn’t know anyone. She was new to this crowd. Pity dug at my mind.

While making small talk with the friend, I told myself that I would for the first time in over ten years to talk to her. The last words we spoke must surely have been forgotten. Our emotions left in our immaturity and pettiness so common to college.

I saw her once at La Mar during happy hour when I was waiting for friends for dinner. I had arrived at the edge of happy hour. So she was in a crowd of suits and ties, carefully adorned appropriate attire. I was in my usual tech outfits—hip but not too hip, casual, and city practical. I stared at the pisco sours dotted with the drops of Angostura bitters, breaking the white foam. I don’t think that she ever noticed me gazing at her.

Back in the room, I took my time, letting conversation and free food lead me to conversation. I naturally drifted from group to group. Then when I finally lifted up my head an hour later, I scanned the room. I stepped around the tables, chairs, and standing people, glancing at the faces. Gone. Not present. My chance to break the silence of ten years and acknowledge a friendship slipped away. But really, all I wanted was to acknowledge her. For a moment.

Yes, Mail, I still use you even though everyone else has moved onto the web clients of gmail and the like…and all the fancy pants mobile email apps.

I still use you after all these years, and obviously prefer you over Outlook. That old eccentric relative.

I started using Apple products again after a hiatus of nearly 4 years in college when everyone was using Windows. It was after all where napster and kazaa and the like required Windows…at least to work well. Then when I started working as a RCC, an IT consultant to the lesser-educated residents in the dorms, I started panicking about the security of my well-maintained Windows computer. You see, those lesser-educated residents didn’t know to update their computers frequently and install antivirus. I surely didn’t want any havoc from computers turned into monsters eating anything within its reach.

So I switched to Apple. I was a hipster then. Really. I had one of the few powerbooks in the area. But within the tech world…I was like everyone else.

I loved mail. It gave me everything that I needed. Seamlessly. Straight lines. Great integration with everything across the operating system. If there’s a link that said “mailto:someonewhoishouldcall@butididn’tfeellikeit.com”, then you would automatically pop up at the right time.

Well, typically in most writing, this is where I would say goodbye. But no, that’s not it at all.

But emailing from the wrong email account! COME ON. If I am replying to an email from my think-ng.com account, don’t suddenly default to my gmail.com account.

Yeah, that’s all. For now.

I am upgrading to Mavericks soon. If your improved self is better, let’s have a good relationship, yeah?

I eat it.

I eat it all.

Even as people told me that watermelon seeds grew in stomachs, I ate it all. Seedless watermelons? Too expensive. I will swallow the black dots whole. After all, my mom bought red watermelon seeds from Chinese supermarkets and cracked them open like baseball fans. So it shouldn’t be an issue?

And any fruit with thick skin? No problem. I’ll eat it too. Now it’s not that I’ll eat melon rinds or citrus peels (the latter is tasty!) Cherries? Such a pain to spit out the pits! (Although I am quite excellent at gathering a bunch of at least 10 and discreetly spitting them out later.) Chicken feet? You see, I grew up with it. So swishing around the small bones in my mouth never scared me. Fish with tons of bones? Yeah, so one small bone might get lodged, but coughing sure gets it out! Cupcakes? Paper never hurt anybody (although I do this rarely…)

Tonight, I had candy canes. Whether they were manufactured poorly or they were aging, the plastic stuck to the candy. Stuck around the curves and at the ends. It wasn’t a simple unwrap as the plastic kept tearing into smaller pieces until my fingers became a sticky mess. Then I thought, why not and proceeded to eat the entire thing.

Now in the end, about an hour later, I am still spitting out small pieces of plastic. I sucked out as much candy as possible. But I finished it all.

All I could remember was the pieces that flew in all directions when the pickup truck hit a another car and the angry face of an Asian man coming out of a yet another car hit by the previous car. I only remember those two things in vivid detail.

I remember a SUV, but I don’t know if that was the first thing hit. I know that the pickup truck was white. I saw that the all the cars were hit. I remember feeling relief that it seemed that nobody was hurt at least…and how I narrowly missed being behind those cars. I was late to work.

I remember focusing on the pieces. I remember my surprise at how far they flew. Were we going so fast in the stop and go traffic? This evening, I drove at a “slow” 40 mph wanting to inch up to 65 mph, but there were too many cars. But that speed can really cause extensive damage. Were we going that fast?

Miles before the accident, I remember seeing a police car hidden right before an exit. I remember telling myself to slow down, pleased that I already was below the speed limit and angry at myself for relishing the speed when the traffic slowed down for no reason.

I wondered if the police car would come. The three car fender bender was in a middle lane of the four lanes right at the end of rush hour.

I remember the man. He face was contorted. He was Asian and reminded me of a younger version of my dad. I thought about whether his English was fluent or was he just sprouting words.

I wondered what the driver of the pickup truck must have felt. Was it a feeling of despair, a feeling of surprise? Was he not conscious? Was he suddenly awakened by the fear? The fear of the cost? The fear of all the legal repercussions? The fear of all the drivers ahead of him—were they safe…and then were they going to take his insurance down? Did he have insurance?

All those thoughts ran through my head, but then I was late so I gunned it for my exit in less than two miles. I was impressed that I found a parking spot in the hard to park area in downtown Palo Alto and congratulated myself on the luck.

Then I ran to work.