Category Archives: Hope

Always on

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During my work trips to see clients, I always take them out for a team dinner or bonding event, and the events seem to have gotten bigger and bigger every subsequent time I have come down. The events are rarely fewer than 12 people, and with the usual long tables that American restaurants love, it’s hard to interact with everyone. I try to get my internal team to spread out, stop talking to each other, and talk to our clients, which is obviously the reason we are all visiting. These events are made to get to know each other outside of the office, get a sense of everyone’s personalities, and subconsciously find ways to get them to like and trust us more and thus work better together.

I oftentimes realize that although I appear as an extrovert to a lot of people, these events make me more cognizant that I’m really just a closeted introvert. Sure, I love talking to new people, I have no problem talking to strangers, and I’m pretty good at small talk with random people on the street (and my loud volume and laugh also makes people think I’m very extroverted), but sometimes, making the effort to talk to people I don’t know that well personally can be so taxing. I can feel myself straining when I am sharing stories to engage with people I don’t know. I don’t know if they can tell I am straining or if they are just eating up what I am saying. But they seem to be enjoying themselves, and I guess that’s all that matters.

When I got back to my hotel tonight, I plopped all my stuff down, washed up, and crawled into bed with my computer. I felt so relieved to have alone time and be by myself.

My mom asked why our company doesn’t make us share rooms when we travel in order to save money. “You’re costing your company a lot of money every time you take these work trips,” she said to me the other day. “$200-350/night for a hotel room is ridiculous. Why don’t you just offer to share a room with one of your woman coworkers?”

Um… no. I need that alone time. I need my privacy. I’m a 30-freakin’-year-old career woman. I am not ever offering to share a room when I travel, not that I have ever, even once, been asked. If I didn’t have that alone time to myself and had to think about whether I had to put clothes on when leaving the bathroom to go to the hotel bedroom, I would not be a happy little worker. The older I get, the more I savor time to myself. It’s my time to recharge, think, and just be me. I don’t always want to be “always on,” always thinking about what other people think or how they will react to the things I say and do. Sometimes, I just want to be off and relaxed.

Dream recap

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I was walking up to Grand Central tonight and talking to my mom on the phone when I decided to tell her that I dreamt that Ed never died. I guess I thought to tell her because she brought him up. Well, what I left out was that I also dreamt that although he was alive, she had died. But hey, she doesn’t have to know every detail, right?

“He said he never died,” I told her. “He said he is still here with us. He said he has always been here with us.”

“He never died?” My mom repeated pensively. “He never died… Yes, you know that when Armageddon comes, Ed will be resurrected, and he will live on paradise on earth with us forever.”

My mom loves her convenient truths. If paradise on earth really existed according to Jehovah’s Witnesses’ beliefs, then Ed and I wouldn’t “qualify” because we were never Jehovah’s Witnesses to begin with. We would go to hell. And neither would our dad qualify, and heck, my mom hasn’t converted a single person yet, so she probably wouldn’t have made the 144,000 person cut off, either! But at least our mom thinks Ed is a good enough person so that he could be resurrected, so that thought was kind of comforting.

She said to me that since Ed has passed, she has seen him in dreams only twice. I told her he comes to visit me at least a couple times a month since he passed. She expressed half surprise, half envy.

“He comes to visit you… in New York?” my mom said to me, confused. “But how doe he know the way to get there? He could get lost.”

Even in dream life, in the after life, in heaven — wherever my sweet, innocent brother continues to live another form of life, our mother continues to worry about him. After death, he still lives somewhere out there, and because she knows this, she continues not just to pray for him, but to worry if he is safe, happy, and at peace… and if he won’t get lost on the way to New York to visit me.

What our mother doesn’t realize is that now wherever her son is, Ed can’t get lost. He cannot be in danger. He can’t feel pain, and all he can do is feel peace and be happy. That’s why every time I see him now, he’s always the happy one, and I am the one crying and sobbing when I see him. I really should be happier when I see him in dreams, but I can’t because I am selfish. I miss him in this life where I am, where I live. In his new world, he has found peace and happiness. It is a daily struggle to accept and for me to be at peace with his peace.

 

 

Health and life

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It’s been about two months since I’ve gone to the gym. It’s kind of a weird feeling to not be working out for so long. In December, it made sense since we were away in Australia and then in Hong Kong, but ever since then, I’ve been slowly but surely recovering from whooping cough. It’s not good to be doing breathing exercises and getting over bruised ribs when trying to go to the gym. So Chris banned me from going until my ribs fully healed. And this morning, I woke up for the first time in nearly two months and didn’t feel any pain in my ribs after inhaling deeply. It’s like a revival (and this means I’m going back to the gym!).

The last week or so when I have been able to speak properly has made me so happy. I can speak loudly and clearly without my voice breaking up or sounding like I am choking up, and I don’t sound like a sick person. My voice actually sounds like my voice now. And I have moments through the day when I am speaking to people, and I just start smiling a lot, thinking, “I’m so grateful to be healthy and able to speak and breathe normally again.” Health is the most important thing in the world. Healthy people rarely think about it because they just have it, so they don’t need to. In the last couple of weeks, I’ve woken up in the morning, and as soon as I start speaking to Chris or whoever it is that I first see in the morning, I’ve been really thankful for my health and my life.

Photo shooting

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Chris and I never wanted to do an engagement shoot. Well, let’s put it another way: we never wanted to pay for an engagement shoot. The wedding photographer we chose completely got that, so to “manipulate” us into having one, he threw it into our package and said the cost would be the same with or without the engagement shoot. So what do you think we chose to do?

I loved the session on Friday. I loved our photographer and his personality and the way he gave direction. He was just as personable as I remembered him during our Skype interview, and just as much fun as his e-mail correspondence throughout the last year (we exchanged a LOT of e-mails leading up to this meeting and photo shoot). I enjoyed the assistant he brought with us, who made it even more full of laughs and lightness. He even provided background music when Chris joked about it. I like that he calls his flash filter a “boob,” even if that’s not its technical name. I also realized how weird it is to have a camera constantly following me around and taking photos of me when I least expect it, and how weird it is when that creepy camera is not Chris’s. I think anyone who is not used to being in front of the camera all the time should consider an engagement shoot to get ready for a wedding, not just to get comfortable with the camera, but also with your photographer. As corny as it sounded, we felt like friends at the end and ended the early evening session with drinks and dinner. It was a great ending to an appointment-packed day.

We already saw a sneak peek, too, and this is exactly what we wanted: a lot of art, creativity, and intense colors.

 

“Special”

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In the last 24 hours, Chris and I have been inundated with food. When our catering manager told me months before to come hungry, she really meant it. We had so much food that it really would have been fitting to have added two or three more people to our tasting session (but we weren’t… Since it would have cost $50 extra per person, so… Pass). We had samplings of all our canapes we selected and asked for customizations on, as well as our food stations and potential desserts. And since we barely scraped the surface of our food, we ended up getting two massive bags of food plus branded water to take back to our hotel with us. And then to add to this, we had our rehearsal dinner tasting for lunch, as well as two cake and dessert tastings. It was like a non-stop eating fest. It was also a non-stop “what do you think?” and “what would you like changed or modified?” session.

I can see how planning a wedding can brainwash you into thinking that you are so special, that you can have anything and everything you want at your beck and call… Well, if you are willing to pay for it. It can really go to your head, all those little tiny accommodations that people in this industry are willing to make for you two, the bride and groom, just because you are getting married, and your wedding day should be the happiest, most perfect day of your life.

So this is what wedding planning really is — self indulgence, and a lot of money going outbound everywhere.

 

Makeup to get made up

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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.

Thirty.

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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.

 

Approaching another year

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Some colleagues this week have been asking me about my birthday and how I plan on celebrating it this year. When we were discussing it, I thought about all the people I’ve met over the years who dread reaching their birthday, saying it’s not worth celebrating, that getting another year older stinks, that they just want the day to be over with and move on. The more I have thought about all these negative comments, the more I have realized that everyone who says this absolutely has no gratitude for their life and health. I thought about my friend who battled cancer for two years who wondered if she’d even reach her next birthday or the one after that. I thought about my experience with whooping cough and how I had moments when I wondered if I was dying and thought how much I’d taken for granted having good health. I thought about the quick deterioration of my grandmother when she died over 20 years ago, how she was perfectly healthy in February, got sick in March, suffered a stroke in April, and finally died in October of the same year. We don’t really know what’s going to happen tomorrow. We might be healthy today and get diagnosed with whooping cough or a life-threatening illness tomorrow. Hell, my ribs are still bruised and I am still coughing a month after getting sick. Despite all of the pain and this extremely long recovery period, I feel grateful that I didn’t experience the worst of whooping cough — thankfully for me, no broken ribs, hernias, or brain damage here. I’m grateful I’m here to celebrate 30 years on this earth, even if I don’t think life is fair and I know that there are a lot of terrible, selfish, and frankly dumb people in the world. Because I know that even though all that crap exists, there are still good souls on this earth who want to help others and make the world better, and there are a handful of amazing people here who love me and would sacrifice for me. And that’s enough to be grateful and look forward to another year of life here on earth. I believe those articles I read about how just thinking about what you are grateful about can make you a little happier each day because thinking about those things gives you a little less time to think about everything that is wrong. It’s focusing on the positive versus the negative. You can’t look forward to tomorrow if you only focus on what is bad.

Tidying

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At the start of every new year, I always think about cleaning and tidying up. That sounds really anal retentive of me, but I think about it because it’s a new year. A new year is a time to start anew… Sort of. I’m one of those people who hates new year’s resolutions mostly because most of the people I’ve seen make them year after year for the past 30 years tend to fail. Why do they fail? I haven’t collected any hard data on this, but I have a hunch it’s because they either don’t realize that their resolution will take consistent, daily effort to attain (e.g. the most classic one is losing weight and keeping it off) and not be some instant attainment for short term work, or it’s because their goals are so vague that it’s too difficult to quantify and define them in real terms.

I’ve seen the weight one every January for the past six years. Each January, the number of people at my gym, whether it’s in the wee hours of the morning or right after work, has been astonishing. Double and sometimes triple the number of people I’m used to seeing are there. And then as soon as February hits, the number dies down to the head count I’m used to seeing. Old habits die hard.

However, cleaning and tidying can be a once or twice a year thing done in huge bouts. I don’t think you have to constantly be ridding your space of junk. Chris hates clutter. I hate dirt. But the older I get, the greater my desire is to throw things away, especially things I know I will never really do anything with ever again that have zero sentimental value. Those Angkor Wat tickets from three years ago? Into the garbage. Christmas and birthday cards written to me from former friends I haven’t thought about in years? Tossed. Clothes that I keep saying I will sell on eBay but never get to? Out to the second-hand shop two blocks away. High heels I’ve had for 15 years (yes, really) that have holes on the bottom that I wore for the last time last month? Gone.

It feels good to get rid of clutter. The positive of it is that it clears our tiny apartment of things that really added no value to our life except junk. The potential negative (!) is that I may end up replacing a lot of these clothes and shoes. So the cycle continues.

 

Lost in three languages

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Last night, we arrived in Hong Kong, the “fragrant harbor” city, the land where East supposedly meets West. It’s a city where all the announcements are in Cantonese, Mandarin, and English (in that order), where signs are labeled in traditional Chinese, simplified Chinese, and English. I was lazy about reviewing Cantonese before we arrived and figured I could get by with my decent Mandarin and English, but because I am not used to speaking Mandarin on a daily basis, I was caught off guard a few times when I needed to respond in Chinese and paused for uncomfortable seconds, which indicated to others that I wasn’t a native speaker.

After checking into our hotel in the Central/Sheung Wan area, we proceeded to scout out our first desired meal — roasted duck and goose. We arrived at a restaurant where a friendly server greeted us at our table and asked me in Cantonese if I spoke Chinese. I responded back in Mandarin after a two-second pause, and said I could speak Mandarin Chinese, yet when ordering, I ordered certain dishes in Mandarin, certain dishes in Cantonese, then stumbled on how to say the word “goose” in either language. The server could see I was trying to read the Chinese and told me how to pronounce “goose” in Mandarin – “e2 (2nd tone).” Friendly Chinese people always compliment you when you are trying, and this one said to me, “So smart – you can speak both Mandarin and Cantonese!” It’s kind of funny because even though it literally sounds like a compliment, the underlying meaning is, “We feel sorry for you because you aren’t fluent in what should be your native language based on your ethnicity. But we’ll make you feel good about yourself for at least trying.”

I really never properly learned Cantonese since my grandparents’ native language was Toisan, which is what I spoke when I was little, so all my Cantonese knowledge has been based on listening to Cantonese and identifying its similarities to Toisan, even though native Cantonese speakers say they are two completely different languages, and that Toisan is pigeon/loser Cantonese. Looking back, I wish I had made more effort to learn Cantonese. But when I look back at my college experience, though I majored in economics and minored in women’s studies, what I am most happy about is that I studied 3.5 years of Mandarin Chinese. It’s helped so much with communicating with other people, developing rapport, getting around China and ordering food, and even understanding cultural nuances based on the idioms used.

The other thing I wasn’t expecting was how friendly in general people would be here. The only thing I could compare Hong Kong to would be mainland China, where I spent four weeks in the summer of 2006, so in my head, I was just preparing myself for rude service and pushy people. Service overall has not only been smooth and easy, but also warm and smiley — not what I was expecting at all. Sometimes I forget that Hong Kong is technically a part of China as an SAR, but it certainly feels like a world in itself — different currency, different passport, different standard of living, higher level of cleanliness, and even higher level of friendliness and service as I am seeing now.