Makeup to get made up

This morning, Chris dropped me off at the design studio for my hair and makeup trial, and I wasn’t sure what to make of it because I’ve never had professional makeup done on my face that I was really happy with. But maybe this time will be different.

I spent 2.5 hours at the studio, showed my artist a bunch of inspirational photos that I liked a lot, and then she began her work. The end result was about 50 percent like and 50 percent hate. I hate blush, I hate heavy foundation application, and because I am Asian, I really don’t want my eyes to appear any smaller. I walked out feeling like I had too much on my face and that maybe I’m just not a big makeup person after all, even if it’s done for me.

I rubbed a lot of the blush off before our engagement shoot that afternoon because I couldn’t handle looking at my face. My artist kept telling me not to make any snap judgments, to let myself “get used to” seeing myself in the mirror, and then to provide feedback via email. “This will photograph well,” she said. Maybe, I thought afterwards. But I still want to recognize myself and feel like myself in real life. Well, I ended up providing a lot of feedback, which ended up as a bit of an essay separated out by face section and hair section due to the length. I don’t mean to be rude, just honest about how I want to look. I still want to look like myself and recognize myself on my wedding day, and I really, really hope not to scare Chris when he sees me. He got scared when he saw how long my fake eyelashes were today. It’s not a good sign when your fiance sees you after your wedding makeup trial, frowns, and looks a little disappointed to see you.

Therapist thoughts

I originally was supposed to meet with my therapist this week, but given that my cough seems to have gotten worse and my ribs are still in a lot of pain, I decided to cancel. I let her know over text that I wasn’t able to come two days in advance and the reason was due to my whooping cough. No response. I thought that maybe the text didn’t go through for some reason, so I proceeded to write her an email with the same message. She simply responds that she received my text and my email and to feel better. No response regarding the whooping cough or my pain – just a matter of fact confirmation of receipt and a generic “get well soon” message. I’ll be honest. I was annoyed.

I’ve been seeing her for over two years. For about the first six months, I was seeing her for free as part of the program she was in at the hospital I was referred to. Each session was an hour. Then, when she started at her private practice, she gave me a 50 percent discount given our prior relationship, so I had to start paying to see her, which was understandable. Yet somehow, my sessions got shortened to 50 minutes, which I could sense based on how she’d speed up the sessions and end them a bit more abruptly than before. And it got confirmed on my pay statements.

Now, I’m recovering from whooping cough in the midst of all my phlegm build up and my bruised ribs, and I get zero sympathy from her or even a response to my text messages. This is what they say about therapists in New York. They have the guise of caring, but maybe they really don’t at all and are simply more motivated by money. If I were to die tomorrow, would she care? Well, she wouldn’t have to because if I die, she doesn’t get any more payments from me. I thought that maybe after two years that she’d develop some sort of human feeling for me and actually care about me, but it certainly doesn’t seem so. So this just goes back to my original cynicism about the world: you can’t even pay people to care about you because even then, they still won’t. And if they try to show they do care, they will put in the minimal amount of effort and leave it at that.

Monsters

Last night, I dreamt that Chris was outside the apartment fighting monsters. Yes, they were real monsters, like the type of over sized green monsters you imagine from old fairy tales from your youth that have fangs, huge claws, and scaly skin. He fought them, beat them up, and killed them.

Then, he came back into the apartment to report back his accomplishments. I was at the counter cutting vegetables, and I was completely unfazed by what he had said. Meh, I thought. It’s not a big deal. He got really angry and said I didn’t value him enough and that he questioned my devotion to our relationship. I told him he was overreacting and being too sensitive. “Monsters are monsters,” I said. “What is the big deal? There are all kinds of issues out there to face in the world, and you want to fight monsters?”

Thirty.

All my female friends have dreaded turning thirty. I’ve mumbled negative sentiments about it, especially given that thirty seems to be an ugly age for Asian moms thinking about their not-yet-married daughters. “When would they have children — after thirty?” they think to themselves in horror (or in my case, out loud directly to me). For some reason, our society has decided that the beginning of each new decade is a big deal, a milestone of some sort that warrants extra love and attention — or maybe just the latter.

Today, I turn thirty. It’s kind of weird to think that my twenties are officially over, that now I’m headed into the next decade of my life that will likely be filled with more career development, hopefully deeper and more meaningful relationships, new homes, and future children on the horizon — if I am so lucky to have them. For the longest time, I always felt older than my age, but today, I don’t feel that way at all. I feel just right at this point in my life regarding my age and my level of maturity and awareness of my surroundings and the world.

What is scary about turning thirty or just getting another year older for me personally is that each year older I get, the closer and closer I get to the final age my brother lived to see. Each year, I am getting older and older. My number is increasing. The lines on my face will increase. My hair will gradually lose its youthful sheen and slowly but surely turn gray and white. My skin will grow less elastic. But his number stays the same forever. The way I remember his face will always be the same — that same youthful, nearly unwrinkled face, with a bit of acne here and there, and an innocent smile that was naive and ignorant to most of the world. He is 33 forever, and that is still something I struggle to think about. How can I be getting older each and every day, yet his age, face, and body are stuck in the same hour of his life forever?

If Ed were here, what would he say to my turning 30? He’d probably think it was weird to think that his little sister was more of an adult now that she had finished her twenties. He’d marvel over how far I’ve come, living away from home, supposedly climbing up the career ladder and being so self-sufficient. If I had to be fully honest, I don’t think I’ve gotten exactly to the point career-wise I thought I’d be at 30. In a lot of ways, I’ve disappointed myself. We are always our own worst critics, but I’m not satisfied professionally, and that should be one of the most important areas of my life now, especially since I don’t have children yet. Part of that is due to some level of laziness, and I’m sure it’s also due to timing, as well. You know things aren’t going well professionally when you stop feeling challenged, or when you feel like no one really respects your opinion at work. I never entered the work force wanting to be popular or well liked; I just wanted to succeed, as abstract and vague as that may sound. Ed would give me more credit than I deserve. It’s all relative in that way, I suppose.

Every birthday I celebrate, I think, I wish Ed were here to call me to wish me a happy birthday. I don’t expect or want any gifts — just a phone call. It won’t happen, though. It’s the saddest part about getting older.

 

White elephant

Even though I’ve definitely exchanged quite a number of Christmas gifts and participated in Secret Santa, I’ve never actually done a White Elephant gift exchange before until tonight. After two grueling days of sales conference time, we had a big revenue team party tonight, which included a white elephant gift swap. A few interesting gifts came up: a cocktail shaker (redundant for us since we already have a nice one) with a fancy two-inch cube ice tray; a Snoopy imprinted toaster/waffle maker (the child in me got so excited when I saw this), a chipmunk shaped hat. We are limited with space here, so what was I going to select? I’d always been attracted to those fancy and perfectly angled ice cubes, and so I decided to “steal” that from someone else who opened it. At the end of the night, I got to keep it.

When your goal is to rid your small apartment of clutter, being extremely practical isn’t so bad after all. These perfect and large ice cubes are going to get some use here.

Twenty sixteen

We spent our New Year’s Eve evening at the Aqua rooftop bar in Kowloon, and then back at our hotel icing my ribs. We wanted to watch the fireworks along the harbor, but because my ribs kept flaring up consistently between 9-10pm every night, this made that desire virtually impossible… unless I wanted to be in a lot of physical pain in the midst of the huge crowds that lined the Tsim Sha Tsui waterfront. It’s okay. We didn’t really come to Hong Kong just for New Year’s Eve and to see its fireworks; we came because we wanted to see, experience, and eat Hong Kong. However, I will always remember 2015 as the year that ended with my contracting and recovering from whooping cough, a disease I never thought in a million years I was even capable of getting. It’s like my body had time traveled back into the past, contracted the disease, and dropped me back off in December 2015, leaving me feeling confused.

A lot has happened in the last year, and it’s scary to think that yet another full year has passed since my Ed has left this world. In 2015, Chris turned 34, the age that Ed was just a month shy of turning. It’s another thing I thought about on Christmas day this year — my future husband is now the age that Ed never got to be. It’s weird to think of it that way — how did Chris become older than Ed?! In some ways, Ed should be 36 now, but because he died, he’s kind of eternally 33 going on 34, even if in mind, he was more like a child of 10 or 12. While hearing about the family members and friends coming from Chris’s side, I thought about Ed not being at our wedding. When we take “immediate family” photos, on my side, it will just be my parents and me. Ed won’t be there. It’s just the three of us now. It has been just the three of us since July 22, 2013, at around 4:50pm PT. It is a sad thought, but one that lingers in the back of my mind. Twenty sixteen is our wedding year, our wedding year without my Ed. In some ways, I am dreading it because of that, which is a negative thought, but you can’t really ignore what is so painfully obvious.

Marriage and children, again

We caught up with a couple of Chris’s friends separately before heading over to Chris’s cousins’ house for our last family get-together before leaving for Hong Kong tomorrow, and as I was chatting with his best friend, we watched his three-year-old son play in the children’s play area of the mall we were having coffee at. He said that although he loved his son, he was looking forward to time away from him in March for our California wedding, and even more so if his wife would be able to come, since her attendance was still pending due to employment uncertainty. He said he’s been spending a lot of time catching up with a mutual friend of his and Chris’s, who has been with his wife for years now, and they have a few children together. He was troubled when his friend said to him that without the kids, he wouldn’t know what he would talk about with his wife. That made me feel troubled, too, just hearing that. It seems to be a common thing with new parents, forgetting why they got married in the first place and having their children be their number one priority in their lives, before even each other. Children should of course be the priority of their parents, but the parents can’t forget about each other as husband and wife, wife and wife, life partner and life partner – whatever the pairing is. I don’t think most of us get married thinking that our number one reason for getting married is procreation – at least, I hope it isn’t. I don’t think it’s a selfish thing for married couples to want to have time away from their children and just be together; if anything, I think that is a human need. And those types of needs should not be ignored.

Hen’s night

Today was Chris’s buck’s day/night, which is British/Aussie slang for bachelor party. He decided to have a multigenerational celebration, so his uncles and dad came, as well. While he was away with his male family and friends, his mom treated me to afternoon tea at the Hotel Windsor, one of the oldest and most glamorous hotels in Melbourne. On weekends, they have a special treat for afternoon tea guests, as they serve you a glass of French champagne and have a full dessert buffet in the middle of the tea room that includes a tall chocolate fountain, in which you can dip various chunked fruit and cakes, a Christmas pudding station, a custom crepe station with a server making each delicate crepe from scratch, and what seemed like an endless variety of petit fours, French sweets, and other individually portioned cakes, pies, slices, and desserts, everything from mango cheesecake, crème brulee, vanilla mille feuille, pistachio and raspberry cakes with intense pistachio flavor, fruit mince pies, multiple flavors of macarons, and mousses.

The usual tiered afternoon tea stands were gracefully presented at our table with a layer of crust-less tea sandwiches, little savory eclairs, mini meat mince pies, and savory pumpkin tarts, and topped with these perfect little scones, some plain, some with dried fruit. The variety of mango and passion fruit desserts made this experience uniquely Aussie vs. American, as well as the fruit and meat mince pies. The savory use of pumpkin was also more expected of the Aussie use of pumpkin in food, whereas I’d never seen this before at any afternoon tea spot in San Francisco or New York. Another thing that made this experience more Aussie was the subpar service. At afternoon tea at a five-star hotel in the U.S., such as the Plaza Hotel in New York, where I’ve had tea once, they present your tea almost immediately after you choose your leaf selection, and they eagerly come to refill your tiered trays as soon as they are even just half empty. There, they constantly come to dote on you and ask you if you need anything else. Here, a server came to ask to replenish only once, and our individual tea pots came out almost 20 minutes after our tiered trays came out, which was pretty ridiculous. No one came to replenish our hot water until almost an hour and a half into our dining session, too. And when I exclaimed in excitement, “Wow, there’s a custom crepe station?” when I saw the crepe chef in the middle of the room flipping, she grunted, “Yes, there is,” with the most surly facial expression possible. The servers here really seemed to hate their job and hate serving.

We came back home, and in a few hours, all of Chris’s female cousins, aunts on his dad’s side, and mom’s cousin and daughter in the area came for a semi-surprise “hen’s night” party in honor of me. We enjoyed food, conversation, a game that included a video of Chris, another around clothes pins, and Loaded Questions, and so many laughs that triggered the lingering effects of my whooping cough and further exacerbated the aches and pains in my back muscles and ribs through the night. We were all together for just over five hours, yet when I think back to my original bridal shower and bachelorette weekend back in San Francisco and Monterey in September, I realized I probably laughed more and harder tonight than I did at my own event with my own friends and family then. I guess it makes more sense since everyone here knows each other really well and we have a connection to each other, as opposed to the people back home who didn’t really know each other at all and were meeting for the first time, but it was just an observation and take away I had at the end of the night. We did have Chris’s mom’s cousin and daughter come, the daughter I met once last year and really liked, and the cousin I was meeting for the very first time tonight, and somehow they fit in straight away and got into all the inside jokes.

I guess if I really had to sum it up, the group of ten women tonight vs. the group of six in Monterey and about 16 in San Francisco are just more laid back and easy going. Uptightness doesn’t seem to exist in this group (a smidgen with Chris’s mom, but even that is so mild compared to my circle back home), and everyone truly does go with the flow and doesn’t take anything that seriously. I don’t know if uptightness is a disposition that one is just born with or something one is conditioned to be or not be based on nurture and environment, but it’s a relief to not worry so much about what I am saying or doing, fearing that I may offend someone in the room. I know if we were ever to play Loaded Questions or listen to Chris on video answering questions about himself and then me answering and comparing, a lot of my own female family members, if not ALL of them, would decline or refuse to partake in the activity, and some, like my mom, may even get offended at Chris’s answers or some of the Loaded Question questions. What will be really interesting to see is how all these women get along during our wedding week coming up in March, and if my side will even make the slightest effort to get to know these women traveling so far over beyond “Hi. How are you?” and “How do you know Yvonne/Chris?”

Mum meetup

After coming back from Tassie, Chris and I met up with his two good friends from college who are both his age, and also married with two kids each of their own. Both had their youngest children just this past year and were sharing their stories about expensive childcare, au pairs, and how being parents has changed their life (and eliminated most of their free time). I told them the horror stories I’ve shared with everyone about how even farther away I felt from motherhood after seeing Chris’s cousin’s wife not being able to enjoy her brother and sister-in-law’s France wedding as much because of her two screaming children, and they insisted to me, “Oh, no! Don’t let that put you off. Children are so cute and fun! You will love it once you have them!” They asked me if we were planning to have children soon after the wedding (I’m sure they just assumed I was closer in age to them and Chris), and I immediately said no.

We spent most of the time talking about their children and their experiences with being parents in general. They are both intelligent, interesting people outside of being parents. But listening to them talk about their parenting experiences made me feel so bored. I know that sounds mean, and parenthood and raising children are very important and certainly not things to take lightly, but I wanted to hear more about them and their own lives. Oh, wait. Their own lives are all about their kids now. I forgot. They did say that they wanted more outside of being mothers, and that they would continue their careers even though of course, it would be a challenge. It’s always a challenge, whether external or internal, to have children and then have a life outside it. You always feel guilty because you think, what if I did more for my children and spent more time with them — maybe that would make the quality of their lives better? These are endless thoughts for a topic that has no definitive answer.

Asianized Sydney

Chris has to be in Sydney for work the next two days, so I decided to go with him and explore the city on my own. The last time I came, it was almost three years ago when we came at the end of 2012 to see New Year’s fireworks at the Sydney Harbour Bridge.

The city seems even more Asian than it was when I was last here. Chinatown looks as though it’s expanded quite a bit, and there is an even wider variety of Indian, Chinese, Japanese, and Thai shops, ranging from simple grocery stores to clothing boutiques to even milk bread shops. There are stores along George Street that advertise selling just beauty and home items exclusively from Japan and Korea. And when I stepped into the Din Tai Fung off of George Street just past lunch time, there was a decent number of non-Asians dining there. Sure, the table of white people next to me made sure to order fried rice and generic noodles, but hey, they made sure to order the xiao long bao and other dumplings that Din Tai Fung is famous for. The “Asianizing” of Sydney seems to be rampant.