Holding Hands

At church last evening, the worship leader asked the congregation, if we were comfortable, to hold hands with one another as we sang the final stanza of a worship song.

I tried not to snicker. I understood the sentiment of the worship leader. Holding hands, as a congregation, was an expression of unity, comfort even.

But it was terribly Kum-Ba-Yah-ish, holding hands and singing in a church. It was also slightly morbid since we were a congregation of young adults singing about going to meet Jesus when we... er... died.

I was sitting between two young men when this call to hold hands came about. Both of them innocently offered me their hands and so I put my hand in theirs. We clasped hands and sang about Jesus and death. And it felt strange to be holding hands with men who weren't my Someone.

The last time we'd held hands, my Someone and I, we were walking towards towards the departure terminal of the airport. This was The Goodbye. He was going back home and I was staying in Los Angeles. It would be months before we would be together again. We walked silently, our fingers intertwined. I felt small and helpless. I tried not to cry.

When he let my hand go there were many thoughts going through my head, but I didn't think at the time, "I'll miss holding hands."

Holding hands is such a simple act of intimacy. But to get it just right is a skill. Back in high school when I took acting classes, my acting partner and I performed a scene from Romeo and Juliet. Let me just say that it's hard to express any kind of love, Shakespearean or otherwise, when Romeo's holding your hand wrong. Perhaps it was the awkwardness of two teenagers playing at being in love, or perhaps the poor boy didn't know what he was doing, but our fingers were consistently misaligned. Every time he grabbed my hand and put his fingers through mine, he left my pinky hanging.

An article in The New York Times talks about how hand-holding is one aspect that hasn't been affected by the sexual revolution. Numerous interviewees throughout the article talk about how hand-holding is something couples lead up to. Holding hands can sometimes be more intimate than kissing. Apparently there's a higher chance of rejection when you reach for someone's hand than there is stealing a kiss at a party. Hand-holding in public is a sign to those around that you are taken. These days, when the one-night-stand is so common that it's merely a throw-away joke on our sitcoms, hand-holding among couples has become a significant sign of connection and commitment.

When my Someone and I hold hands, I'm struck by how much we say to each other without using a single word. One of my favorite memories from this summer was when my Someone and I went to the Taste of Chicago. As we approached Grant Park with the other hundreds of thousands of people who were also going to the Taste, he instinctively reached for my hand. Once my hand touched his I knew that no matter how many people were out that day, I wouldn't be lost. That day, we talked about pizza, high school memories and probably at some point, as we inevitably do, pirates. He never said, "I'm watching out for you." But simply, by reaching for my hand, he did.

Thankfully, there are no hanging pinkies with my Someone. And even better, we agree that fingers intertwined is how we like to hold hands. The clasping of hands is reserved for small children, saying grace at the dinner table and, yes, people at church you worship with.
The moment the worship song ended last evening, hands were briskly let go. Again, I tried not to snicker. There were many thoughts in my head then too. But this time I did think, "I miss holding hands."

This Absurd LA Life

I've been told by numerous LA transplants that there are three stages everyone goes through when they move to LA.

There's the initial fascination stage --"Oh WOW, I live in LA!" This is followed, inevitably, by the bitter stage --"I hate this shallow, mindless city" -- which is then followed, thankfully, by the acceptance stage. In this stage of acceptance, one realizes that Los Angeles, like any other major city, has its quirks and neurosis. One also realizes that it is possible to live in this city a normal, healthy, happy person with a network of friends and, yes, even a long term relationship leading to marriage and children.

How a person gets from the bitter stage to the acceptance stage affects whether you remain forever a transplant -- "Oh, I live in Los Angeles, but I'm really from New York" -- or whether you say, with confidence, "I live in Los Angeles." Period. No other geographical reference needed.

Six weeks in Los Angeles and I don't think I've hit any of the stages yet. Truth be told, I haven't seen much of the city beyond the ten mile radius around my apartment. People are constantly surprised when I tell them this and look at me as if I'm some sad sod, holed up in my apartment afraid to go outside. Fact of the matter is, I'm not on vacation where there's ample time to wander the streets of Hollywood, sit on the beach in Venice and have coffee in the little cafe on the corner. I live in Los Angeles -- which means I have to go to work, do laundry, get groceries and go to the bank. In between, I get to go play.

Nonetheless, in those golden moments of play, it does dawn on me that I actually live in Los Angeles now. I'm not visiting friends, on vacation or on a business trip anymore. This is it. This is going to be home for a while. And for now, this is what living in Los Angeles means:

Britney Spears and I share the same DMV.
The DMV in Santa Monica that Britney Spears visited to pick up her driver's license is the very same DMV I'll be going to in two weeks to get my car registered. Britney Spears did not have to make an appointment or wait in line. I suspect I will have to do both.

The chances of a celebrity sighting have increased exponentially.
Just this week, a friend IM-ed me saying that there had been a Lindsay Lohan sighting near his office in the San Fernando Valley. She was apparently having lunch at Pit Fire Pizza. While the paparazzi took pictures of Lohan, my friend's co-workers took pictures of the paparazzi.

The evening news and the entertainment news are often indistinguishable.
I'm not exaggerating when I say that two nights ago, the leading news story on the 11PM news was how Britney Spears ran over the foot of a paparazzo while trying to exit a parking garage. This was followed by a story about how the FBI raided David Copperfield's storage unit in Las Vegas. But since the Chicago evening news often leads with the weather, maybe this is not so much a reflection on the quality of news in Los Angeles, but rather the quality of local news across the United States.

I can get great sushi anytime I want.
And if I go between the hours of 4PM and 7PM, I can also get two-for-one alcoholic beverages. Yes, these are indeed very happy hours.

Trader Joe's is always just around the corner.
No matter which direction I take driving home from work, there's a Trader Joe's along the way. Funnily enough, Trader Joe's in Los Angeles has cheaper groceries than Albertsons (the LA equivalent of Jewel) or Vons (the LA equivalent of Dominicks). I can now shop at Trader Joe's without feeling like a yuppie poser. Also, Trader Joe's has an array of good, affordable Californian wine. And at the risk of sounding like an alcoholic, there's a certain pleasure in ending the work week with a glass of wine. Especially wine you can afford.

I can go from glitzy to ghetto all in one day.
About a month ago, a sales rep took me to lunch at Ivy at the Shore which is legendary for its Ivy Gimlet and celebrity sightings. We drank Bloody Marys and ate $25 per plate lunches. At the next table was a former soap opera star from Knot's Landing. Then I went home to my apartment where, across the street, a car horn played the opening phrase of La Cucaracha. I suppose it's possible to go from glitzy to ghetto in any city. But in LA, there's just more irony in it.

Adventures In Shameless Self-Promotion

Cafe Girl is proud to announce that you can now share in my Absurd and Amazing Adventures using RSS or via e-mail. Use the links on the left under "Subscribe To This Blog." Select your favorite RSS reader to get new posts every time I publish. If you'd rather get the latest posts via e-mail, rest assured that you will only get an e-mail whenever there is a new post. No SPAM (absurd or otherwise) here.

Bitter-Sweet

Three months ago, I was introduced to a brand of organic dark chocolate that no one in my pay range should have any business buying.

I remember sharing a bar of this chocolate with my then-room mate. That afternoon, we sat in our living room savouring small bites and relishing the way the flavors burst on our tongues. There were hints of bitter, flashes of spice and the aftertaste of sweet. We were stunned. We've always loved chocolate but this, this, was chocolate we could be in love with.

This memory has lingered with me these few months as I navigate moving my life from Chicago to Los Angeles. I'm mostly struck by how the tastes: bitter, spicy, sweet, mirror so much of what I've been feeling in this new city I must now call home.

I've been bitter. Very much so. It's a sharp, dark feeling, accompanied by a voice that insists, "What's the point? What was the point of uprooting your life to plant yourself in a city where you know no one? You were happy in Chicago, look what you gave up and for what?" And the bitterness seeps out of me and cuts into others. On a bitter day, with one look and one word, I'm able to communicate unequivocally, "I think you are worthless." Funny how stress and change can so quickly bring up the person that years of therapy and prayer have tried to quell.

I've felt spicy. There are days when I'm well-rested, the sky is blue, there's a gentle breeze and I think, "Look, I'm doing it! I'm building a life in a new city. I'm not depressed, I'm not horribly lonely. I can do this." Those are the days I blow dry my hair, put on my make up and walk down the street with the confidence of knowing I'm going to be ok.

And there have been many times of sweetness I've eagerly soaked up. Today, I was hugged by a woman I'd only met briefly. She was so genuinely happy that I'd come to be a part of her bible study group. And for those ten seconds when she and I embraced, I thought, "I feel safe here; I feel loved."

But those are the bursts and flashes; rich and intense. For the most part, life in Los Angeles has been a myraid of bitter-sweet. With every couple I see holding hands, I'm reminded of the sweetness of my Someone and then struck with such sadness he's not here with me. With every dog I see dressed like a human, I laugh at the absurdity then feel a small pang there's no one beside me to laugh with. With every glimpse of clear blue sky, mountain, sunset and ocean, I relish in the pure beauty of God's handiwork and then wish that those whom I love the most could see what I see.

I'm convinced, though, that this tension between joy and sorrow; bitter and sweet is part of Creation. We are designed for this conflict. We are so intricately and marvelously made that we have the capacity to have more than one emotion at once. That's amazing to think about -- not only are we made to feel, we are made to feel wholly, deeply and intensely.

And so, when I wake up tomorrow and it's Friday with the weekend stretching out before me, I'll still feel the thrill of not having to work for two whole days, slightly afraid that I'll be lonely and a little sad my Someone isn't here. But I'll still get out of bed and go on with my day because I know that's exactly how I'm supposed to feel.