Lately: white tulips (with a streak of lavender), vintage Ralph Lauren cowboy boots, and massive piles of crudités for dinny din din. I’m trying this: dress easy and focus again on home and health. Lost myself in the last few months, forgot what made me happiest, etc. etc. Always grasping, pushing, sprinting uphill, straining to see what’s beyond the horizon, and swearing to improve, improve, improve. If not tomorrow, then by the end of the week, the month, the lunar cycle; if not here, then there; if yes, if no, if if if. Goal: Ride high by April; don’t get shot down in May.
In honor of Valentine’s Day…
…this is the speech that I wrote and delivered at my friend Kate’s wedding this past New Year’s Eve.
One of the greatest mysteries is the bond that exists between a husband and his wife. Seven billion people in this world and an infinite number of pairs—mother to daughter, brother to brother, son to sister—but of all these great mysterious couplings, the greatest is that of a man and a woman wedded together.
Kate has been a best friend of mine for ten years now. I lived with her once, in college, and I could finish her sentences, I could almost read her mind—but I never did. Now Scott has known her half as long, just over six years, but he knows her better than anyone else in the world. And she knows him. And today, they not only join hands in marriage but become in the eyes of God, one—one pair made one whole person—two bodies, one heart, one mind, and the mystery of their bond grows.
Even since Homer’s Odysseus endured his famous sojourn in the Trojan War and on the Mediterranean Sea, absent for twenty years from his wife Penelope, great romantic love has been defined, it seems, by its fortitude in the face of adversity. Superhuman physical strength beats the odds for love in movie theaters the world over, in poetry and novels and our imaginations. In reality, it is not brute force that conquers all but the strength of getting up in the morning and facing every day loving this one person as much as you always did and always will in spite of real odds: growing older, raising children, earning a living, facing death and taxes and new life together.
Life will not be perfect for Kate and Scott, just as it never has been before, and though their dreams may not always come true—Kate will likely never become a ballerina nor Scott an astronaut—they will still find in that mysterious marital bond something extraordinary. No one but they will ever know or understand their love for each other or their secrets or their weaknesses; no one but Kate or Scott will ever know what it means to be Kate and Scott, and from that private knowledge, from that secret is, I think, where the strength of love is born. It is the only love that cannot be shared between anyone but Kate or Scott; it is theirs alone to cultivate, to evolve, to make fruitful.
Love is a cage and it is freedom, it is strength and weakness and joy and resolve, and, yes, love is patient and love is kind. Today, Kate and Scott will redefine their love for one another in a new and ancient way, and we—not knowing the mystery between them—can only guess and wonder, confident, at least, that they have each put themselves and the other in good hands for their odyssey that lies ahead.
"When I’m driving the highway by myself is when I write best."
Miami was pretty amazing. A colleague and I flew down last Tuesday to cover Art Basel for RL Magazine, but of course there was as much play as work. I had never been to the art fairs, never seen so much beautiful, crazy, enraging, and shocking art in my life; I had never been in a room as big as the Miami Beach Convention Center. It felt as though I had just woken up.
As in Capri, I arrived with no expectations and no real game plan but listened and watched and asked questions and tried to make a story out of everything I experienced. The artists we met have so much passion and believe so strongly in what they’re doing, I mean, you’d have to totally believe in it or else you’d go crazy, and I left feeling as if I too would go crazy if I didn’t start doing what I love most again, which is write. With real love behind it.
Anyway! Long runs on the beach every morning, late dinners at Lure and La Sandwicherie, a private coastal tour by seaplane, and you bet I got a story.
I took this photo underneath a bough of palms at the Soho Beach House; Saturday, December 7, 2013.
Dang. Where have I been all your lives? Time is moving too fast. We spent Thanksgiving at the beach; it was just the unplug-and-do-nothing break that I needed, but something was missing. Mom, Dad, Jane, Emily. I had a cold. Couldn’t play outside. Never enough fresh air and the light faded at four. Still, chocolate cake every day and Nebraska, which was very good.
Tonight through Sunday: Miami! Six days of beach running, art party hopping, and a private tour of the whole joint by seaplane. Follow my adventures there in real time via Instagram.
Last night: While running, made a pit stop at the mid-Manhattan NYPL branch. I haven’t checked out books in years, but it was all so familiar: finding the right stack, searching the author by last name alphabetical, seeing where that search lead—one, two, three—three books was enough to carry home (while still maintaining an 8:00/mile pace). They really do smell like nothing else—words and aging paper and, yes, a little bit of filth, but that’s part of why reading is so thrilling. You never know what you’re going to catch. Finished one last night (The Lost Boy by Thomas Wolfe) and starting Philip Roth’s Goodbye Columbus on the plane. Have you read either? What do you think?
Mister: good. Work: okay. Running: not much. Home: Liquiteria on 15th and Eighth. Want: long hair again and a tan! One of those is attainable. The other, patience, patience, grasshopper.
"I cannot endure to waste anything so precious as autumnal sunshine by staying in the house. So I have spent almost all the daylight hours in the open air."
When I realized about a month ago that, between ultra training, a promotion and unexpected upheaval at work, my sister’s engagement, and holiday travel, I would not have the time to devote myself to my Camp Interactive marathon project, thereby likely missing my $3,000 minimum goal, I emailed the race organizer at Camp Interactive for help. Could I donate less than the minimum, I asked, or have an extended period of time to meet my goal?
The answer for both questions was a flat no. I started to sweat. Through CrowdRise, Camp Interactive will automatically charge my credit card for the difference between goal and monies raised on November 2. That amount is currently $1,500. That isn’t pocket change; that’s more than a month’s rent! Thus for the past several weeks, I have lain awake at night racking my brain for ways to raise money for a charity I frankly no longer care about. I have emailed every ex-boyfriend, top-level executives at my company, family members, Facebook friends, FrED fans. I have shouted into the void.
If you read Mary Pilon’s article "Hitting the Wall" about marathons and charities, published Friday in the New York Times (or if you are running the ING New York City Marathon for a charity or were asked to run for a charity but declined or have been hit up repeatedly by runners looking for donations), then you know that the run-race-to-do-good bubble has officially popped. My roommate sent me the article today after a heated discussion about how sick and tired we are of fundraising—and feeling guilty and resentful for not raising enough—even though months ago, we (perhaps stupidly) pledged thousands of dollars in exchange for a race bib.
Here’s what I know about the act of charity: Give what what you want. Tithe if you wish to tithe. If you pledge $3,000 dollars to an organization and can’t meet that goal but raise, say, $1,500, you’re still giving $1,500 that the organization didn’t have. And maybe you’ll give more later or you’ll work to earn money for another organization. And everyone gives now and then, and now and then, they cannot, or it’s not their top priority, and this is how people remain generous without going bananas.
Reading Pilon’s article yesterday, I realized that I’m not alone in my pre-race fundraising frustration. And that the very friends and family who I hit up for cash have already given and are still inundated with requests. CrowdRise’s motto is: “If you don’t give back, no one will like you.” But why should anyone feel obligated to give over and over again? And do organizations like Camp Interactive truly believe that locking voluntary supporters into set fundraising goals—with the threat that they will be held accountable for any money not raised from outside sources—is sustainable? That it will breed goodwill toward the organization? When is enough enough?
That answer, for me, is now. I’ll never again support another charity that raises funds through CrowdRise. I’ll probably never want to work with Camp Interactive again. And I’ll definitely never again marry fundraising to my long-distance running hobby. In this past month, all the joy and anticipation of training for and potentially finishing the ING New York City Marathon has been sapped and turned to blood-boiling resentment. I’m pissed off at CrowdRise, at Camp Interactive, at the system in general which allows runners to buy their way into a race by asking friends to help chip in, using charity as an excuse. But most of all, I’m furious at myself for signing up for this goddamned race in the first place.
- The Ralph Lauren editorial team needs a new Women's Style Editor ASAP. Must be a strong, experienced writer, preferably with a background in magazines.
- RL Magazine needs freelance writers in Miami, Paris, London, and LA.
- If you or someone you know fits either of these bills, send me your contact info, and let's get down to business.
The ultramarathon is exactly one month away, and I am thinking of dropping out. No good excuses (although will have two if my boyfriend and parents must cancel their travel plans for work-related endeavors that they are trying hard to avoid, but anyway); 50 miles is just a long way to run. I’m getting scared. Ran 20 miles last month and felt great; I ended the run wanting to go further. But on Tuesday, set out for 30 and could only finish 16. I couldn’t breathe; the heat felt oppressive. My energy gels made me sick. I couldn’t drink enough water—until I drank too much. And I kept thinking, What’s the point of all this?! So, runners, tell me: When you lose sight of the goal, how do you get it back? Or do you get it back? When do you know that you really ought to throw in the towel? And what do you regret most—the agony of finishing when you feel like you’re going to die or the agony of quitting before you even begin?
I did something awesome today (and it’s not even noon yet). I unfriended and blocked all my ex-boyfriends on Facebook, inspired by this article, published today in New York Magazine. It was so easy. And reading that piece, which had few merits (the strongest one being repeated references to George Strait’s “All My Exes Live in Texas”, which is quite possibly the greatest country song ever produced), I realized how fucking stupid it is to hang on to old flames via social media. Just because I can doesn’t mean I should or must. Ex-boyfriends are a drag, and I already carry too much weight. Bye bye, tired old loves.
On Sunday, we visited Elbow Beach. This was in Bermuda—it’s been a month now since then. A few of us got in the water and rode the waves, and the water was clear and clean. It was very cold, but once we ducked under, it became bearable, pleasant even. We swam a little, and then the others went back to our chairs. I started swimming out; there were dark spots out in the water that looked like coral or a sandbar. I kept swimming, and I wanted to keep swimming. I wanted to keep swimming till I couldn’t, till I was so tired that I couldn’t swim anymore. And then one of the other girls hollered at me; she told me that there were sharks there, where the water gets deep, and I thought, I don’t want to get attacked by a shark, so I swam back to shore. A week later, I flew west to Missouri for a little homebound rest and rehabilition, and I felt better. But now I’m in the city again, and I love the city, but I am exhausted. It feels like I really did swim out all the way, like I have been treading water for the past four weeks, and there is no sandbar in sight.
In defense of the flip flop.
I waited six months for that bad boy at Ralph Lauren to mark down, and when it did, I pounced: the Vicky sandal crafted from black and yellow Italian leather, racy and bold and subtle all at once. I went, I bought, I took home. And then I tried on. And then I returned.
And then I put on a black flip flop, and I was happy. The end.
Except not the end because the flip flop—or thong if you’re Euro—is a polarizing piece of footwear. On one hand, it’s easy and versatile. It can be dressed up in chic textures and materials. It’s a feat of engineering, all sleek and minimalistic. But on the other hand, it’s ugly. Casual. Unsupportive (of your arch, not your hopes and dreams). Any opportunity to class it up will probably fail. (In eighth grade, for example, my clique was partial to hot-gluing fake flowers on our flip flop straps; during freshman year at college, rhinestone sorority letters were a big deal.) The flip flop is like a neon yellow marker highlighting all your worst foot flaws. Every callus, corn, broken nail, and bunion is on bold, shameless display. And in the summer, in the city, if not much stands between your tootsie and trash—oily puddles, used syringes, dog shit—but flip flop rubber, then you might be better off dead.
Still. I’m a sucker for risk. I like pain and discomfort and the threat of gangrene. And I like the way the flip flop looks more than any other sandal I have ever tried on, purchased, and inevitably cast aside. Made of little more than two slabs of rubber, it goes everywhere, with everything, from the shower to the beach to the club. There is comfort in consistency. Also: I like what the flip flop connotes: casual disregard for fashion, absent-mindedness, like I was in a hurry and couldn’t be bothered to find a cooler shoe (which is the case anyway, 99.9 percent of the time). I like it so much that I’d rather buy a pair in every color than splurge on one chic designer sandal with all the trendy trimmings. (Giuseppe Zanotti, I’m looking at you!) With the money I save, I can finally afford a pedicure, and no other shoe lets wet polish dry quite as cleanly as the flip flop. Believe it.
This time, it didn’t come creeping in the way it used to, the way I am used to, sort of like shower steam sneaking under the bathroom door, but instead, I woke up one morning last week, and it was lying next to me in bed and on top of me and streaming in the window, the opposite of sunlight. It didn’t announce its presence or ask if it could stay but burrowed deeper under the covers and wrapped around my arms and legs and crawled in through my ears and parked itself, and I wanted to cry all the time and sleep forever, and I became afraid of everything, of seeing anyone, of sitting at my desk and staring at the screen and trying not to just get up and walk away to nowhere. It was a little shock, ta-da. Or maybe it had crept in all along, and I just hadn’t noticed, or I had thought I recognized someone, a case of mistaken identity, but you don’t invite just anyone into bed with you. Or do you? You’re depressed, she said, though I barely heard her through the crying. And the worst part is that it felt so comfortable, so familiar and safe, being sad, wanting to close my eyes and never open them again, that I almost wanted it stay. Want it to stay. Creeping around, old friend.