“They will remember you,” the guy whose job was a recruiter. “Even if you’re interviewing at a startup.”

I was polite, holding my tongue and just asked further questions encouraging him to talk about his job…friendly small talk at a friend’s farewell party at local bar.

At the age of 21, I trekked all the way from Berkeley to downtown San Francisco in an Anne Klein gray suit. I had it cheaply tailored in Oakland Chinatown. During the interview for an IT job, I fidgeted horribly, stumbled over questions, and felt uncomfortable in my clothes. The hiring manager was dressed more casually—in just a shirt and slacks. I didn’t get the job.

Nowadays at any professional event, I always dress as myself. Always closed-toe shoes. I don’t mind adding a bit of personality and color. Perhaps my favorite necklace or the patterned shirt with a slight flair.

And the suit? I still have it at the back of my closet—thinking that one day I will need it. But since I was 21, I never used it. I even dragged it all the way to Pittsburgh during graduate school, but did not use it at all (or if I did…I probably didn’t get the job and the memory has all but faded in my mind).

Nowadays, clothes don’t matter. I want people to see my skills, my work and my personality. The fit. I don’t want to be remembered as being overdressed. I want to be remembered for iwanttoworkwithher.

After all, in my very judgmental ways, if someone came to interview in a suit for the tech companies I am at, I would immediately think: how dare he not understand our culture or more likely is he such an interview newbie to not realize that we don’t care about dress?

Yesterday at the same party, there was someone who wore a tailored skirt and top…with white sneakers. As I was finding a seat, I glanced at them, assuming correctly that she was planning to walk a long way home. She bluntly explained later, “I don’t really care, because I am married.”

They strolled in. A really good costume for Big Bird. She followed behind. She had a tuff of blue on her head with a cookie and eyes. Then she had a shawl of blue fur. This was topped off with a generic short skirt and high heel boots.

About 3 hours later out of earshot on a bus heading back to the Mission, I exclaimed in a rare moment of feminism, “How could she ruin the COOKIE MONSTER?!”

Who does that. Really.

Like beloved TV shows from my childhood, I remember the most poignant moments about someone. I remember the initial meeting. I remember hilarious moments that I would retell at a dinner party. Most of all, I remember the goodbyes.

I exist here and everything else has faded away, except the their physical presence perhaps in tschotskes, the gifts, the last words. Their voices are my voice. In my stories, I start confusing what they did with what I did. Despite communication across digital mediums.

I have re-watched He-Man a few times. There’s this incredible panic that overwhelms me. The glory, the thrill, the excitement was nothing as I remembered. I will let time pass to hide the recent memory away…and suddenly I am back again. Back to He-Man on a pedestal of years ago.

Fear seized me and I did not want to cross the street. Chris got to the bus shelter easily, slipping past the chasers who had brightly colored pink ribbons on their arms. But I could see them, watching me intently.

I wanted to flee, run to the other end of the Mason Green. But I did not want to be alone—I needed his help to get through this mess. The darkness was overwhelming.

So I called him—he was less than 100 feet away. But I was trapped. They could see my blue ribbon on my arm.

In North Beach only a few hours earlier, a few chasers slapped their hands firmly on me as if I hadn’t seen them. They always went after the weak ones—and they were right. I was slower physically, uncoordinated with my feet and untrained in stealthily moving.

“TAG!” they yelled.

Chris responded had calmly responded, “Safe zone.”

They backed off.

But here I was standing on the outskirts of the Marina Safeway, unable to move. Uncertain. How do I get to the bus shelter without being tagged?

Chris waved me over, but it seemed like I was doing something wrong as I was stepping over the dirt. I didn’t understand…and suddenly I saw figures moving toward me. I was instantly went back to the sidewalk—a safe zone, flying into not one, but two chasers. They grabbed me and instantly I was in a different zone, yelling and screaming. Literally kicking my legs and arms to get out of the grasp. And oddly enough, I also bit down. Sharp pain shot upward from my knee and I collapsed on the ground, writhing and crying in pain.

I saw in the distance that the commotion allowed Chris to escape and he came over to my aid, rubbing my knee. He helped me to my feet.

“Um, I guess that I was going to let her go…” one chaser said.

As the scene calmed back down to it’s just a game, I mumbled an apology, “Sorry about biting you.”

“I wasn’t even going to mention that,” he responded. “Thanks for the bite mark.”

In embarrassment, I limped with Chris around the corner, heading in an opposite direction, out of the commotion, out in the open…just glad that I learned that I never go down quietly. Ever.

When I was in high school, I would go to Tomatina, thinking that it was high quality food. Beyond the food though, there was a printed sign on the restaurant wall describing an annual event—a fight in Italy with tomatoes. Like the Spanish bull fight, I would remember with each visit—intrigue was captivating. Why would I want to eat pasta when I could be pelted with tomatoes?

Exactly.

So the idea of a tomato battle was intriguing. It was an hourlong fight with tomatoes that were going to be thrown away from the Food Bank. An event that was preceded by lots…and lots of beer. And for me… Standing in the middle somewhere being hit by tomatoes…a safe way to feel like how it would be in battle. Like blood, tomato juice would spill everywhere but I would be fine and whole. Just leaking with smashed tomatoes. Surely, what could be better?

Like many things that seemed good in concept, in reality, it was…more painful. Nobody ever told me that I would be hit in the face with hard tomatoes…multiple times. And that I kept finding bits of tomato in my right ear even 3 hours after the event. As I rode the BART from Pleasanton to San Francisco, I repeatedly shed bits of tomato all over the seat. Disgusting, yes. But I think it was probably good for my hair and skin.

Nonetheless, I believe that it was good use of my HP white long-sleeved shirt.

Male

He has turned down his volume, a friend described a male colleague.

Female

And the way someone would describe me, I can actually talk to you without feeling like I am getting my teeth pulled out.

I am frozen.

That is really the essence of how I can describe it. It happens rarely now, but when it does, I am seized by irrational fear.

I stand still, desiring something. Perhaps it’s to walk into a room of an organization that I really want to join. Or perhaps it’s just to ask a simple question from someone. Or it might be a new experience…that I want to experience—a salon, a spa, a fancy lunch.

If there is someone with me, I sputter out a list of excuses usually ending up with can you go for me? The external noise grows louder in my head and at some point, I can’t hear anymore as everything moves slowly. It’s hard to breathe. I am silent, struggling. I am frustrated at myself but I just…can’t…move.

Then suddenly it’s over.

Most people…actually all people never suspect such a thing from me. Oddly enough, many think that I am naturally effervescent, charismatic, friendly, gregarious. But the closest people to me…know how to accommodate me in those moments.

As I got off the bus today, I saw a guy in his early twenties pacing in excitement at the corner of 23rd/Mission—low riding baggy pants and hood. His white headphones swung as he talked into the phone, not looking at anything in particular.

“And then I said…’What would you say if I asked you out?” he was smiling. “She said, ‘You’re very sweet and I would say yes.'”

His happiness was infectious and I couldn’t help but smile in the darkness, lit by the dim street lights. At the same time, I wondered why our own cowardice keep us from saying things that we really meant until it’s too late.

This is how it works. A construction of ingenuity, social engineering, and timing.

For more than 2 months, I had wanted to go to see Foster the People, but due to sheer bad timing, I missed the ticket sale for both of the shows that they were playing at the Fillmore. “No tickets available” was what the website blared on the screen.

But as I have learned, there is no challenge that exists that is not insurmountable. Everything is negotiable. There is always a way. There is always a choice.

And so this is how Chris and I got tickets.

He spent most of the day, stalking craigslist and stubhub but tickets were extraordinarily expensive. They were double, triple the face value. Frustrating things happened—prices suddenly went up by $30 during the transaction and craigslist sellers constantly flaked

It was less than 90 minutes before the concert and there was a line outside. I had biked up from the Tenderloin in my sky blue bike—one that I felt that could be easily stolen. I was waiting with anxiety with the line of people—mostly younger than me, Caucasian, alternative.

Finally, he pulled up in my car. Initially, he wanted me to ask the line of people to see if there were any tickets available, but that terrified me as I glanced at the growing line. After some discussion on the sidewalk awkwardly, we switched roles. He took my bike and I took the car to find parking. I found parking easily within two blocks and jogged back in my black boots.

And there he was with my bike, pacing attempting to call me. I yelled his name, but he didn’t look up so I rushed over. He patted his shirt pocket and in a hushed whisper, he said, “I got them.”

We walked hand in hand up past the front doors where the bouncers were maintaining peace despite the increasing excitement. With his hat, Chris nodded to one of them—a bulky Native American guy with long hair with gentle eyes.

He had made small talk and then made an indirect request eliciting pity, “I just can’t find any tickets at all for tonight!”

And he was able to get a pair of tickets for face value, no ticketmaster fees with only 64 minutes remaining until the doors opened.

To a child, you can say don’t and they will obey (most of the time).

But to someone much older, it seems that it has to be come within. Otherwise, it becomes deep-seated guilt, blame and fear.

Or even do.

I have an internal rebel inside me and at my age, reverse psychology works on me even as I am aware of it.

But with the right trickery and presentation of potential awards, I can potentially be convinced.