blemish

Two mornings ago, I woke up with a sharp pain on my right cheek. I put my hand to my face and felt the culprit: a huge zit forming about two inches below my eye. Before I even looked in the mirror I knew it was a doozy--deep, cystic and red. My first instinct was to pop it.

But then something stopped me.

I remembered that every time I pop a pimple it scabs over and takes twice as long to heal, and when it finally does, it sometimes leaves a little scar. Plus, it's painful and looks terrible, even under makeup. So I decided to try something else: leaving it alone. I washed my face, dotted it with acne medication and went on with my day. Now, two days later, my zit isn't gone but it is much smaller and less painful. I thought it was going to be hard to leave it alone but it really wasn't. And it got me thinking...maybe this is an applicable principle.

Because it isn't just my skin that I have a tendency to over-pick. I over-think interpersonal dilemmas. I over-process external conflicts. I over-garnish entrées. I over-accessorize outfits. If I really think about it, these are all just different manifestations of picking at my skin--doing too much when I should just leave things alone.

The tendency stems, I think, from an inherent belief that not only are things not good enough, but that they won't be OK if they are not fixed right now. That I need to pick, process, decorate, garnish--take more action to keep the paltry mess lurking just beneath the surface from being exposed.

But what I need to remember is that my skin is just fine. Zits are not a big deal--everyone gets them sometimes. You wash it, maybe you put on a little cover-up, and then you move on with your life. Not only does picking not help, but it makes it worse. Suddenly you have a problem where before you had only minor irritation.

So that's my New Years resolution this year: to sit on my hands, bite my tongue--do whatever it takes--to stop picking at the proverbial zit.

three

I found an old Polaroid that was taken at a baby shower given for my mother, just before she had my brother. She is sitting on a sofa, surrounded by smiling friends, opening a present. There is a half-eaten cake on the table, along with blue baby boy gifts and wrapping paper on the floor. And in the far right corner, 3-year-old Gabi in a little blue jumper hides behind a plant. And from the look on her face, she is pissed. Apparently, she knew what was coming.

Seriously. Three glorious years of being the adorable only child and then this little brat comes along, practically out of nowhere, and suddenly she is expected to share the spotlight, her toys and, most upsetting of all, her parents. Not to mention the fact that she was never consulted. I mean, nobody asked if she even wanted a little brother. A puppy would have been fine.

She felt replaced. Everyone wanted to hold the new baby, but Gabi was still little and still liked to be held. And the baby was noisy and annoying. And he made stupid gurgles or burped and everyone thought it was soooo wonderful. Gabi could do cartwheels! How come nobody cared about her cartwheels?

Of course, if you know me or at least follow my writing, you know that I eventually got over it. You know that I love my brother and would do anything for him. You know that my parents weren't actually trying to replace me and that they did, in fact, care very much about my cartwheels.

Something I'm learning right now is that to be truly happy, it's necessary to accept and love all your selves; your mostly well-adusted adult self, your angsty college self, your petulant adolescent self and, yes, your irrational three-year-old self. Because they're always there, always present. Things may be mostly governed by grown-up you, but every now and then, your younger selves show up and they want some answers.

You don't have answers. All you have is love, which is, as it turns out, what they really need anyway.

upswing

Things have been going extra-well lately.

I feel healthy and energetic, I'm surrounded by people I love, and BrokeAss Gourmet is in the midst of an unbelievable traffic surge. Every morning I wake up excited about my life.

I get to be creative every day. I get paid to play with olive oil and invent delicious recipes. I chronicle my silly kitchen adventures and people actually want to read about them.

Things are changing inwardly too. Without frivolity taking up space, I feel like I'm getting to know myself in a whole new way. I feel good about how I present to the world, as well as how I am alone.

My friend Anne quotes Rainer Maria Rilke and tells me "No feeling is final," and I know she is right. So I want to encapsulate the way I feel right now. I want to keep it in my spice cabinet (next to my kosher salt and pepper grinder--you know, where I keep the important stuff), so it's on hand in case of a disaster. Or even just a day where I feel not-so-great.

At the very least, I want to make sure that this particular upswing is documented so I can be reminded of it when things look less-than-bright.

doves

I keep having this dream. The details vary slightly but the storyline and imagery are always the same.

I am lying naked in a dark room on a hospital bed. My childhood pediatrician stands over me in scrubs with a nurse at his side. He tells me I need open-heart surgery. I am given no anesthesia. I'm terrified but I trust him.

He gently draws a tiny scalpel from my clavicle to my sternum, splitting my chest in two. The pain is excruciating. I take a giant breath in and begin to cry.

Then, as I exhale, in one giant rush, at least 2 dozen beautiful white doves come flapping out of my chest cavity and into the room. I lay in shock, watching these magnificent birds exiting my body, flying around the room and out of the open windows. I reach for a blanket to cover up my exposed organs and find that my chest has been sewn up, with only a long, thin scar running down my torso. The doctor and nurse are gone.

As I lay alone in the cold room and watch the doves fly away, I feel the most wonderful sense of relief.

When I wake up in real life, I always feel lighter and freer than when I went to bed.

ever after

Sometimes, I feel kind of screwed over by Walt Disney.

No, I'm not referring to his antisemitic tendencies (although those piss me off as well). I'm talking about this notion purported by every single Disney movie, that, without fail, Prince Charming will ride up on his white horse to rescue his damsel in distress from whatever seems to be troubling her, instantly ridding her life of all problems (financial, evil step-mothers, etc.). That good always triumphs over evil. That we all live Happily Ever After.

That is so not how my personal fairy tale is going.

And frankly, I'm glad. Fairy tales are predictable and boring; boy meets girl, some huge obstacle keeps boy and girl apart, boy defeats obstacle and wins girl's love, boy and girl live Happily Ever After. Please.

It's the Happily Ever After part that has always bugged me. It seems so vague, so unfinished. As if to say and from that moment on, absolutely everything was perfect for the rest of their lives. That's not to say there's anything wrong with optimistic endings, but I think it needs some tweaking. If I could rewrite the ending of fairy tales, it would be something like this:

And from that moment on, things were generally good. The couple knew they had overcome many hardships together, and that many more were to come. When things got difficult, the couple sought out counseling together, as they were well aware that good relationships take work. They worked hard at establishing harmony, though it wasn't always easy. Sometimes they disappointed one another, but for the most part, their love continued to grow. At times, they worried about the strength of their union, but as a result of perseverance and a lot of open communication, they were mostly happy for the rest of their lives.

The End.