While on a plane last night trying to get back to New York, I sat next to a guy who was a retired sanitation worker (over 25 years) originally from New York, but retired with his wife in Florida. He decided (since we were flying aimlessly from one undesirable city to the next to avoid the thunder showers) to tell me about his life, including his marriage, his two daughters, where he’s lived, etc. He had no interest in learning anything about my life (in fact, since my phone had died and I had no other way of checking time, he never even realized I asked him what time it was about three times before his neighbor kindly told me). He told me that when his two daughters went to college, he bought each of them a brand new car of her choice.

I was struck by his enormous generosity and told him. A lot of parents buy their children cars; not all of them would let their children choose it, and have it be brand new. He shrugged and responded, “Well, this is how I look at it: I’m not rich by any means, but we all have some money. While I’m alive, I want to allow my kids to enjoy that, and I want to see them enjoy it with my own eyes. It’s better this way than leaving it to them when I die and I can’t see anything!”

I was immediately overwhelmed and could feel my eyes slightly watering at this statement. In some ways, it’s kind of morbid because he’s anticipating his death, but on the other hand, he’s trying to be positive and ensure he’s able to enjoy life (with his family) as much as possible for the rest of his limited time on earth.

I wish my parents thought the same way – not because I want them to buy me a new car, mind you, but because they’d probably be happier and more fulfilled people.

Chris is in San Francisco for work this week, and he’s having dinner with my parents tonight. Yep, that’s right. He’s having dinner with them without me there. He claimed he was too busy to call them to make arrangements, so I had to facilitate their meeting time and location over the phone. Of course, since my mom doesn’t hear from him throughout the day, she worriedly asks me a number of times, “Are you sure he is coming?” Yes, Mom, he’s coming. I’m not having you drive across town to have you wait for someone who will never show up.

So it will be my mom, dad, and Chris sitting at a table tonight, most likely having pho, banh xeo, and banh cuon of some sort at a Vietnamese place in the Tenderloin. The strangest thing about this dinner happening is that subconsciously, in the back of my mind, I thought, Will Ed be there, too? I obviously remember my brother is not alive anymore, but there are moments I have when I think without really thinking about that, and I wonder if he will be at a certain place or doing a certain thing. Then I quickly remember again and think how ridiculous the thought was.

Anyway, he can’t be having dinner with them tonight because he’s coming with me to Chicago tomorrow. He’s never been to the Windy City before.

Tonight, we went to see the off-Broadway musical Heathers, which is based off of the cult classic movie of the same name from the ’80s. The first thing I think about when thinking about how I feel about this production is that I’m so glad I’m no longer an adolescent (and perhaps even happier that I did not have the “normal” high school experience of having bullies, football players and cheerleaders being the “cool cliques,” etc. I hated conforming then. I still hate it now). The second thing I think about is how fragile human beings are, and how tragic it is that so many people have had terrible childhoods that lead them into downward spirals of mental illness and suicidal tendencies.  It’s like we don’t take these people seriously. We just tell them to try harder at school, try harder to “fit in,” try harder to please those around them. Just try harder. If you try harder, you’ll succeed! You feel down today? Perk up and smile!! Maybe it’s more complicated then that, yes?

Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar is mentioned during the musical when an accidental death is faked out to be a suicide. Oddly, I read this book when I was just 12 because I had heard from a friend that it had similarities with J.D. Salinger’s Catcher in the Rye, which I love. Sylvia Plath committed suicide when she was just 30 by closing all the windows and cracks in her kitchen, turning the stove on, and sticking her head into her oven. Her son, who she had with her husband Ted Hughes, also committed suicide at the age of 47 in 2009 by hanging himself. Sylvia Plath has a daughter who is still alive and is a writer and painter. I wonder what it’s like to be someone whose mother and brother have committed suicide.

Actually, I don’t want to know what it’s like.