Thoughts on Happiness

I had a very good week this week and if it hadn't have been for some Argentinean energy company going through some sort of financial trouble it would've been damn near perfect. (There's no need for me to explain the Argentinean connection, just trust me on it). Why was it so good? Well, because I was happy - very happy? Why was I happy? Well, in short, because an area of my life that I've been stressing about for a while now is beginning to turn around for the better. Maybe this is only a temporary thing and eventually--or even perhaps quite soon--the euphoria will die off, but whatever. That's not the point.

Since I've been so happy this week, I decided to write a few words on happiness. Now, I don't pretend to offer any secret to happiness. I don't have any particular insight that probably hasn't already been popularized in some self-help book somewhere into what makes human beings truly happy. I decided to write about this because I've been sort of obsessed with the idea of happiness lately.

There are several possible explanations for this fascination. It could be because I'm 23 and going through some sort of quarter-life crisis and I don't really know what I want to do with my life and I'm stressed about money, my career, finding an apartment that I can settle into, my love life, my friendships, my family, and a number of other things.

It could be because I live in New York City and people in New York City seem obsessed with the idea of happiness--or maybe it's mostly balance their seeking. The city is a stressful place. Unless you're born and raised here, you don't come to New York unless you really want to make something of yourself. I once read something by someone (I can't remember who) that said "No one moves to New York just to get by." So true. So, there's a lot of pressure on New Yorkers to either make it big or go back to Podunktown where they came from. Plus, everyone seems so fabulous. I always feel like I have uglier clothes, a crappier apartment, a lower salary, a more pathetic social circle, and worse taste than anyone I meet in this town. And of course, the pressure to focus on your career butts heads with the pressure to get married, have a family, and be all cozy and in love for the rest of your life (or something). This is also something I struggle with as a young woman in a post-feminism society. There's always that feeling that if I get married, or, more importantly, if I decide to have children, that I will ultimately have to sacrifice part of my career and professional life to do it. You can't have both all the way. You have to choose. This idea just seems to be exacerbated by the aura of New York, and I also think that in this city, men feel the same way too...well, some of them.

Or maybe I have this obsession because I dated a clinically depressed person for seven months this year. He and I talked a lot about happiness and the struggle to be happy. I used to tell him he could choose to be happy (or, maybe I just told myself that) - that he could either wallow by himself all day or he could choose to do things he knew would make him happy. The problem was, he never chose these things, and since I stopped seeing him I've noticed a lot of those behaviors in myself. Granted, it's not generally that easy to have a healthy perspective on things right after a breakup, so I give myself leeway on that. I would wake up on a Saturday morning and think that the only thing I wanted to do was stay in my apartment, in my pajamas, and watch some sappy movie all day. I would have to will myself out of bed and force myself to leave my apartment. Friends would invite me out, and I would force myself to say yes because I knew that all I had to do was choose to do what I knew would make me happy. And guess what, I always ended up being really happy I did.

I could also be obsessed with happiness because of my general inability to just be happy. Sure, I consider myself a happy person in general. I'm fairly optimistic about life. I try to put my life into perspective (it could always be worse, and in general, I have it pretty good). I try to tell myself that things will work out and, in my experience, they generally do. My problem is, until they do work themselves out, I always worry about worst-case scenarios. What if I lose my job? What if I can't find an apartment before February 1? What if this date is horrible and I got myself excited about nothing? What if there's a sick passenger on the subway and I get stuck underground on the L train when I have to pee? What if the apocalypse comes tomorrow and the Southern Baptists are right about everything after all?

Good gravy. I need to calm down because, as ridiculous as some of those things sound, those are all thoughts that have passed through my mind sometime this week - even if just fleetingly. Thanks to having read American Psycho a couple of months ago, I also had the following thought this past Wednesday evening: "What if this guy is like Patrick Bateman and kills me right here in Central Park?" (He didn't. Obviously.)

I've also been thinking about happiness because of my mother. She called me earlier this week and told me she'd visited the doctor the day before. She had taken my mom's blood pressure, which was higher than it ought to be. The doctor asked my mom if she'd been under stress lately. My mom immediately started crying.

I feel badly for her. I know the feeling. I can sympathize to a certain extent, but I feel really badly for her. I want my mom to be happy.

So how does one become happy? Well there are several things that make me happy: love, friendship, dancing, reading a good book, meeting someone new and interesting, the prospect of experiencing something you've never experienced before but have always wanted to try, a good meal, a good night's sleep, yoga, finding a book, movie, song, or other work of art that speaks to you, knowing you did a good job on something and getting recognized for it.

These are just a handful, but what I've come to find is that I'm happiest when I'm completely free of worry - either because something that I had been worrying about has been resolved or because I'm so content being in the moment I'm in, the future seems to melt away. That's the real reason I was so happy this week - I was experiencing something that made me really excited and happy in the moment, and I forgot about all of those other things I'd been worried about. This didn't mean I stopped caring - I still thought about those things, but I was merely able to tell myself "it's all going to be alright."

Sometimes I wish I was more religious. That may sound strange, but I do. I believe that faith is a powerful thing and I wish I had some sort of unshakable faith in something larger than me. I keep telling myself that none of the stuff you worry about in life matters anyway because eventually you're just going to be dead, so who cares? But that's only comforting to a certain extent because then you can slip into feeling depressed because your life has no value or meaning. I don't feel this way. I'm just saying. Some people think that religion is stupid. I can see where they're coming from, but I don't agree with them. I don't believe there is anything wrong with having faith it something you cannot see. The only problem comes when you start to impose it on others.

So, those are my thoughts. However incoherent. I suppose I could write more, but my apartment is freezing cold and my hands are starting to stiffen. Plus, I'm forcing myself to get out of the house. I think, right now, that would make me happy.

Happy Holidays everyone!

Brooke

p.s. I learned how to say Merry Christmas in Welsh, so Nadolig Llawen!

Viva la Wales

I've always been envious of people who come from rich cultural and ethnic backgrounds. I had a friend in college whose mom was Brazilian, and, even though this girl had never been to Brazil, she spoke Portuguese with her grandmother and ate lots of delicious Brazilian food all of the time. She would talk about the amazing-sounding rice dishes her grandma would make and then, for the life of me, I couldn't come up with one meal that my family made that was unique to us. We basically would just put stuff in a crock pot and hope for the best. Hell, we ate peanut butter bread with spaghetti. That's some sort of original, isn't it?

Or, in high school, I lived next door to a woman who had been in the Peace Corps in Cape Verde for a couple of years and, while there, became pregnant with a Cape Verdian man's child. The child, a girl, lived with my neighbor and rarely saw her dad, but she could understand Portuguese if it was spoken to her and walked around bragging about her unique ethnic makeup.

I on the other hand was nothing but a WASP. The last names in my family - Carey, Miller, Greeley, and Thomas - all reek of Anglo-Saxonism and suggest that, throughout the generations, we never really mixed well with others. I don't know much about my ancestors. I know that my maternal grandmother's parents were Pennsylvania Dutch, but I'm still not really sure what that means, and, seeing that my last name is Carey, I assume we have some hearty Irish stock somewhere in our background. Though if I have a great-great-grandpa Liam from Killarney somewhere in my history, I sure as hell don't know about him. I do know that my great-grandfather Thomas (my paternal grandmother's father) was Welsh, and this brings me to the point of this post.

I lied a minute ago when I said there was nothing unique to our family's culinary tradition. There is one thing that my family eats that I have never known any other American family to eat - Welsh cakes.

Welsh cakes are essentially scones, but if you talked to anyone on my father's side of the family, you would think they were the food of the gods, the sweet nectar of life, the sweetest morsel upon which you've ever set your mouth!

I have one very distinct memory of Welsh cakes, but I can't remember if it's my first or not. When I was 12, I spent Christmas in Florida with my dad and his family. One night, a few nights before Christmas, the entire family (my aunt, uncle, two cousins, both of my grandparents, my dad, and I - and possibly some other people I don't remember) were over at my grandparent's home in Orlando, simply enjoying the togetherness of the season. All of a sudden, I heard someone mention that grandma was making Welsh cakes.

"Oh boy! Grandma's making Welsh cakes!"

"Oh! I love Welsh cakes!"

"Grandma! When are the Welsh cakes going to be done?"

What the hell are these things? "Dad, what are Welsh cakes?"

"You've never had a Welsh cake before?!" his eyes were wide with disbelief. "You have to try a Welsh cake. They're delicious."

This was coming from the man whose favorite dessert was sour cream and raisin pie.

Grandma finished the Welsh cakes and brought a tray into the living room to serve. The family scrambled to help themselves. I picked one up and tasted it.

What was all the friggin' fuss about?

They were good. I mean, they weren't bad. But with all of the hullabaloo surrounding the event, I had assumed I was in for some epicurean delight. Some taste I had never experienced before. Some flavor that I would dream about for night on end after sampling just a bit. Some scrumptious bit that I would crave from then on whenever I felt the need for something sweet.

But no. None of that. The Welsh cake turned out to be a simply unremarkable little bit.

"Brooke, do you want another one?" my dad offered me the plate.

"Um. No thanks. Not right now."

"Good, more for us."

Precisely, more for you. Leave me out of it.

Even when I was 12, I understood that the commotion over my grandmother's Welsh cakes had absolutely nothing to do with the cake itself. It wasn't about some secret family recipe that had been passed down through generations and worked into perfection by Thomas women over the course of centuries. It had nothing to do with the actual taste (basically, it's like a scone but not as good). As I would later tell a friend, "Welsh cakes are not a dessert you crave. They are a dessert you eat when there is a plate of them in front of you, and you have nothing better to do."

The fuss surrounding this dessert had everything to do with my family's identity. My great-grandfather was Welsh, and we like to think of ourselves as Welsh. However, none of us spoke Welsh. We didn't know much about Welsh history (actually, I don't think I know one damn thing about Welsh history). Most of us have never visited Wales. I know that Catherine Zeta-Jones is Welsh, and so is Christian Bale. Does that mean I'm related to them? How big is Wales anyway?

I never knew my great-grandpa Thomas, but I assume his mother made him Welsh cakes when he was a boy and so he made them for his family as a way to preserve some part of their heritage, and my grandmother was now in charge of keeping the tradition and the Welsh pride alive in later generations.

For years after my first experience with Welsh cakes, I disdained them. My mom and I made fun of them for a long time. Since she was no longer a part of the Carey-Thomas clan, she didn't feel the need to step lightly around the family tradition. My sophomore year of high school, I had to collect recipes for a cookbook my speech and debate team was putting out as a fundraiser. My mom didn't have a lot of family recipes in her arsenal, so she busted out her recipe for Welsh cakes. "I don't think I've ever even made a Welsh cake," she said. We put it in the cookbook anyway. I wonder if anyone has tried making them?

Last year, around Christmas, I was talking to my father who mentioned that my grandfather was making Welsh cakes. "I haven't had a Welsh cake in like ten years," I confessed. "I don't even remember what they taste like." Blasphemous.

A few days later I received a package from my grandfather - a box full of crumbling, homemade Welsh cakes. I never asked for these.

I took them to work the next day and told all of my coworkers about them. "They're Welsh cakes. They're not that great. My family makes them. I can't eat them all. Want one?"

They were a hit. My publisher ate about three because he was hungry in the afternoon. "These hit the spot. Thanks," he said through mouthfuls of crumbly dough. I was amazed. I thought they were being polite. But I had a few myself and, like I said, they weren't bad, and I basically ate them because they were in front of me.

As I said in an earlier post, I spent Thanksgiving in Florida this year. While there, I talked to my grandmother a bit about her family. She started telling stories about how her father's family worked in steel (I think) and came to the States from Swansea. She recited a Welsh prayer her father had taught her (essentially, the Welsh version of "Now I lay me down to sleep." I wrote it down phonetically, but I have no idea how to spell it, so I won't even attempt to put it here. Just know that there are a lot of consonants in it. This talk inspired me a bit. It made me realize that I do have a heritage. I am part Welsh, damnit. And I'm proud of it.

I got back to New York and decided that I wanted to learn more about where I came from. I studied history in college and learned all about a bunch of other people and events that shaped the world, but I still know relatively little about the events that shaped me. It's about damn time I figured it out.

I got online (God bless Google) and tried to find a Welsh cultural center in Manhattan. There had to be something right? I looked everywhere, and it was surprisingly difficult to find up-to-date events and organizations, which I found strange, but I was able to find a listing for a Welsh church service held once a month at a Presbyterian church on the Upper West Side. This Sunday is their Christmas service. I am totally going!

So now I'm looking for new and exciting opportunities to be more Welsh. Naturally, then, when my friend from work (coincidentally, also Welsh) invited me to a lunchtime potluck this coming Friday, I decided to make Welsh cakes. Huzzah!

I looked up a recipe online (I didn't have time to call my grandma and ask for hers) and decided it looked simple enough:

(recipe taken from Cooks.com - http://www.cooks.com/rec/view/0,166,134182-240192,00.html)

8 oz (225g) self raising flour
pinch of salt
4 oz (100g) butter/butter
2 oz (50g) castor sugar
2 oz (50g) currants
2 small eggs (or 1 medium egg plus 2 tablespoons of milk)

1. Mix flour and salt, and rub in butter until like breadcrumbs.

2. Stir in sugar and currants.

3. Add eggs and mix to a fairly stiff dough.

4. Roll out dough to approx 1/4 inch thickness (slightly thicker works well, too).

5. Use small/medium diameter pastry cutter to cut into rounds - don't forget to re-roll the trimmings!

6. Place rounds of dough on a moderately hot griddle for approximately 3 minutes each side - the heat of the griddle is critical so as not to over-brown the cakes! Experiment to find the correct heat.

7. Eat hot or cold - but our favourite is warm with a dollop of brandy cream!

Once I figured out what caster sugar was (superfine sugar for you non-Brits out there), I went to Whole Foods (knowing full well that the five-aisle supermarket near my apartment would not carry currents or caster sugar), bought the goods, headed to Kmart, bought a rolling pin and some cookie cutters, and went back to experiment.

And, I have to say. They turned out quite well. I let my roommates try them. They said they liked them, but they could have just been being polite. Regardless, we'll see what my coworkers think on Friday. I hope somehow my coworkers find this unremarkable snack and endearing as I do.

Why I Can't Say No to My Hairdresser

Before a few months ago, I kept my regular hair maintenance to a minimum. I would get my hair cut, on average, once every six months - only trekking to the salon when my ends got so bad that they would crinkle if you squeezed them. Of all of the things I felt I should spend my money on, regular haircuts, dye jobs, highlights, and treatments weren't any of them.

But in June I decided I wanted a big change. I'd had the same straight, dirty blond, long hair for a while now, and I was just bored with it. I had toyed with the idea of going brunette for a while but had been met with only lukewarm reactions when I brought it up to anyone. My mom thought, if anything, I should go blonder, as did every stylist I ever went to. "Have you ever considered highlights?" they would ask as they ran their fingers through my hair in an attempt to, I suppose, demonstrate just how lackluster my natural color was.

"Yes. I've had them. I don't like them."

"Really? Not even a few?"

"No. I just want to stick with my natural color." What is wrong with being proud of what god gave you?

But over the summer, I decided it was time. I made an appointment at the hair salon two blocks away from my apartment where every single person who worked there was Polish - born and bred and cosmetology-school trained. The woman who did my hair was a middle-aged woman named Anya. I told her what I wanted done ("I want to dye my hair brown") and she looked at me quizzically for a moment. I was so worried she didn't understand, that I was going to walk out of the salon with a blue mohawk. But she said, "Okay, but not too dark. Light. Light is better."

Yes, of course. Whatever you say. You're the professional.

Anya did a fantastic job, and all of the other women in the salon were oohing and aahing at my new look. Anya charged me $103 for everything, which I thought was pretty good, but I didn't understand where that extra $3 came from.

I went out into the world as a brunette, and was met with very positive response. The first person to see me with my new look was my then-boyfriend's friend who lives in New York and who I decided to meet up with that afternoon. We walked around Central Park in the sweltering heat, ate popsicles (or, at least I did) and then went to play pool in SoHo (I whalloped him, by the way). I looked fabulous, I had to admit.

A few months passed and then the roots started to show. I remembered why I had always tried to avoid doing unnatural things to my hair - because eventually the natural comes back and taunts you about it. I decided that I wanted to go a bit lighter. I didn't want to have to get my roots done once a month. Way too much work.

I went back to the Touch of Beauty salon on Fresh Pond Road, but this time I was assigned a different girl - Jeanetta. Jeanetta, I would learn was 24, born and raised in Poland where she attended beauty school at the age of 15. I can't remember how long she said she's been in the States, but I think no more than 5 years. Jeanetta loves what she does. She takes immense pride in her work, and, I would also discover, she also takes it quite personally.

"I need to get my roots done," I told her. She looked at me, unsmiling. I thought maybe she thought I was an idiot, but I couldn't figure out why. She combed and parted my hair and then went to the back of the store where she emerged with a giant book full of hair color samples. She opened it and pointed to one that was much lighter than the brunette I had picked out two months ago.

"I like this one for you. It is lighter, but lighter is better."

"Uh. Okay." I said. How could I say no? She was so sure, and she seemed to have my best interests at heart. Plus, you can't really refuse an Eastern European woman who is telling you something and showing absolutely no hint of humor. Try it sometime. I dare you.

"Your hair is too dark. If you keep it this color you will have to do your roots all the time. It is bad for your hair. And it is stupid."

Yes, she called me stupid.

She played with my hair a bit more. "Did you have any other color in your hair besides the brown?"

"No. I haven't done anything with it since I dyed it here the last time. And it was natural before."

She frowned. She didn't believe me.

"Your hair is two different colors. Look. Here it is almost green."

Shit. I had green hair. I knew it!

"I didn't do anything to it. I don't know why it's like that."

"You're sure?"

"Yes!" No, I'm lying. Though, I'll admit, if I had done something to my hair, I definitely wouldn't have told her about it for fear of the wrath that would follow.

"We will go lighter. Lighter is better. It makes more sense."

How can I argue with sense?

"Okay, sure."

She dyed my hair a lighter shade of brown and gave it a little trim. It looked good. I'll admit. It looked really good. That weekend was my birthday. I looked damn cute on my birthday.

I went back a couple of months later. I had just gone through a breakup and was looking for an excuse to treat myself and make myself look pretty. Plus, my roots were showing again and my ends were crackling.

When I had gone to Jeanetta in August, she had suggested that the next time I came in, she would try a lighter color at the roots - a reddish blond that I liked. Jeanetta came up behind me to comb my hair. "I think we should go a little lighter, and then maybe next time you should get highlights. And then you should go lighter the next time, and lighter, and lighter."

"Ok." I had decided I wanted to go back to my natural color eventually. I'd had a dream a few weeks prior that had convinced me I should. But, I figured I'd just highlight my hair for a while and then let it grow out. It would be less obvious that way. Plus, I was beginning to like the treat of going to the salon every two months.

She dyed the roots, rinsed out the color, and examined her look. "Do you want some highlights today? I think maybe you get some highlights today."

Can she do that? Guess so. Fine. Whatever.

She put a few highlights in my hair, rinsed it out and asked me how I wanted my hair cut.

"I just want a little bit off. Just to clean up the ends."

"Okay, but not too much. Just a little bit. Long hair is better."

There is one thing I can say for Jeanetta: she practices what she preaches. She has long, straight hair that reaches about midway down her torso. Plus, she's obviously a natural brunette who keeps light blond highlights on the top layer of her hair.

I like long hair too, so I was okay with her just taking half an inch off all the way around, but something bothered me. What if I had wanted to take six inches off? Would she have done it or hung up her scissors and simply refused on principle? Hard to tell. I'm sure, at the very least, a fight would be involved.

She did yet another good job, and it cost me $45 without tip. You can't really beat that with a stick, especially in New York.

A few days ago, I decided it was, yet again, that time. My ends were ridiculous now. A few months of Jeanetta's conservative trimming had failed to remedy the damage I had halfway up my head. Plus, my hair is thin and it gets stringy if left to grow too long. I was going to ask Jeanetta to take a few inches - maybe three off my hair. I was terrified. But she couldn't refuse...could she?

I had my appointment at 9:30 this morning. Jeanetta saw me and smiled. "Hi, how are you?" she laughed a bit. I think it was the most joy I'd ever seen her express in my presence. Aww, Jeanetta. She has a piece of my heart.

I sat down in her chair. "I want to get my roots done - highlights, and then I want a cut, but I want to take a few inches off this time. Not too too much. Just to here." I indicated a place about an inch under my shoulder. I could tell Jeanetta was displeased.

"That short?"

"Yeah. I just need a change."

"What if we took off a little in the back and then did shorter in the front?"

I CANNOT SAY NO TO THIS WOMAN!

"Okay."

"It will be different." Now she looked excited, as though the thought of being able to shear that much hair off of my head gave her a promise of supreme satisfaction. Good, I'm glad she was happy.

She did the roots - nothing really new there. Though she told me I should only do the top layer because I didn't want to damage my hair. Sounds like a reasonable statement. Okay. Just the top layer.

"What do your friends think of your color?"

"They love it. They think it's my natural color."

It was true. They did.

"Good. That's good."

Jeanetta finished the color (it looked great as always) and began the cutting. "Are you ready?" She was so jazzed. I think she was worried I'd change my mind. She sheared off several inches in the front and, in the process actually stabbed her finger. I felt bad. I guess she got overzealous.

And, in the end, it looked great, as always. I'm glad I didn't say no to Jeanetta, though I didn't really want to anyway.

"Wow! It looks fabulous. Thank you!"

"You're welcome." She smiled. She was pleased. "See you in three months."

"Yup."

I didn't tell her that I would be moving in February and probably wouldn't be back in three months.

I still can't say no to this woman.

She and He

I got back from Florida last night (technically this morning), and despite a five-hour delay, I ended up having a rather pleasant trip home. I made nice conversation with the person next to me, got back to New York in two hours instead of three thanks to a particularly strong tailwind, and got a free cab ride home. So, even though I got home at 2:30 this morning, I really can't complain. I'm sure many people had it much worse.

One of the little thoughts I had in that that extra five hours I was forced to kill was, "Hey, maybe I can use this bloggy-whatsit to post some of my writing!" For those of you who don't know (i.e. most everyone) I've been trying to write more. Working in publishing has come to make me realize two things about being a writer:

1) It is extraordinarily difficult to become a bestselling and/or award-winning author, no matter how talented you are.
2) It is extraordinarily easy to get published depending on your timing, luck, and ability to string a few words together coherently, no matter how unoriginal, boring, or just plain ridiculous they may be.

So that puts me in what some would consider a dangerous or maybe just naive mindset of thinking that maybe I could write a book one day. Why the hell not?

I'm not currently in the process of writing a book. But I have been writing short pieces every so often, and usually no one reads them, so I thought I'd post one and see what kind of reaction (if any) I get. Here it is completely out of context, except I will say that this was written in September - mostly over Labor Day weekend. I welcome any thoughts.


SHE AND HE

"Hey babe," she said as she leaned in and kissed him. "How did the interview go?"

"Meh." He shrugged his shoulders. "Alright I guess. I messed up a few times, and the woman who interviewed me was kind of mean - like very stern - so I couldn't tell what she was thinking."

"Oh." She frowned slightly, furrowing her eyebrows in concern. "I'm sorry, baby, but I'm sure it went better than you thought. Everyone's their own worst critic, you know."

"Yeah, I guess," he said with a half smile. "Not much I can do about it now, right?"

"Nope." She shook her head. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving. I haven't had anything to eat all day except a bowl of Cheerios."

"Me too. You in the mood for anything in particular or do you just want to walk around until we find something?"

"Nah. It doesn't matter. Let's just walk until we find something."

They were in Chinatown at the Canal Street subway stop, and as they walked down the street, they made a point of turning down a relatively empty block in order to avoid the throngs of people out for an afternoon of shopping for knock-off designer handbags. When they finally came to a small Japanese place that wasn't busy, she said, "Wanna get sushi?"

"Sure that's fine." She could tell he couldn't care less where they ate. His mind was obviously still on the interview. She couldn't blame him. She'd done the same thing after countless interviews the summer before when she was trying to find her first job, always questioning whether she could've shown more energy or if she said "like" too many times. It was normal to worry about your performance. If you didn't worry, you didn't care. She was at least glad that he seemed to care, but she wasn't sure what it was he cared about, exactly. Was it the fact that he really wanted to get this job - as a high school English teacher in New York - or was it because he had let himself down? Or was it something else? It was probably something else.

She put his hand on his upper arm. "Hey, stop worrying about it. I'm sure it went fine."

He smiled. "I'm not worried. Like I said, not much I can do about it now right?"

They walked into the restaurant where a small Japanese lady walked them to the nearest table for two and returned seconds later with two glasses of water. He downed his in one gulp.

"Thirsty?" she said with a little laugh. "Do you want mine too?"

"Nah, it's fine. I'm sure she'll bring more."

"Really, it's okay. I don't really want it. I can wait."

He shrugged and put his empty glass down and reached for hers. "Okay, if you insist." He gulped most of the glass down again. "What are you getting?"

"Eh. I don't know. Probably a california roll or something. I'm not feeling very adventurous today."

"Me neither."

The waitress came by a moment later. "Ready to order?" she asked with her notepad and pencil at the ready.

"Uh, yeah. I'll have the spicy tuna roll and an order of vegetable tempura. And could I have some more water when you get a chance?" He ordered first. He always ordered first.

"And for you, miss?"

"I'll have a california roll and an order of miso soup please. And water is fine to drink," she said handing over her menu.

"Thank you," the waitress said and scurried away to the kitchen.

She looked at him. He looked like he'd just woken up or, as she liked to say, like someone had just kicked his puppy. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He laughed, presumably because she asked this a lot. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just kind of bummed about the interview."

"Yeah, well. That's natural. It happens to all of us. But like I said, you're probably overanalyzing it." He had a tendency to overanalyze things. It was one of the things she liked about him - his ability to see all sides of a problem or a question or an issue and tackle them in his mind. But, of course, it had the tendency to get in the way of normal conversation sometimes.

"Yeah, you're probably right. It's fine. My stomach also kind of hurts though."

"Your stomach always hurts." She smiled because it was true. He must produce more bile than anyone she'd ever known. "You're probably just hungry."

"Yeah. Probably."

She hated this. This forced conversation. These vain attempts of hers to try to engage him in the present when he was clearly caught up with something else. She knew, going into this relationship, that this is how it would be. That he wouldn't be the happy-go-lucky boyfriend all the time. It was difficult to deal with, but, in her eyes, worth it. She refused to believe it wasn't worth it.

Her soup arrived. She started slurping it in, burning her tongue a bit, but she was hungry so she kept going.

"You didn't call me last night," she said between spoonfuls. "Did you get my message?" She was being a bitch. She knew she was being a bitch. She hated being that girlfriend who always nagged her boyfriend when he didn't call, but it bothered her. And hadn't she always said it was better to tell someone when they did something to annoy you? Otherwise, you would just become bitter because they would keep doing the same thing over and over again? He had a habit of not calling her back, or calling when he said he'd call. They'd discussed it a bunch of times, and he'd been a lot more responsive lately. He was improving. Why couldn't she just let him improve?

"No. I wasn't feeling really well last night."

"Mentally or physically?"

"Both. My back has been killing me all week, and I don't know why, and plus, I've just been sort of shitty lately."

"Yeah." She hoped he didn't detect the slight irritation in her voice. She was concerned for him - he often felt "shitty," as he described it, which was his code for "severely depressed" or even "suicidal." But, for some reason, she would get irritated when he would talk about it. Obviously, not a lot. That wouldn't be fair, and it wasn't like her to get mad at someone for having a bad day. She had plenty of them herself.

"You know, there will be other opportunities," she said, and then added, "The world is your oyster!" She grinned, unable to maintain a straight face at the cliché.

“My oyster, huh?” he raised an eyebrow in mock skepticism.

“Yeah,” she said, now completely serious. She had turned onto full engagement mode. “You’ve just got to figure out what you want to do and then do it. You’ve got so much potential.” She said the last part with an air of hopelessness – as if she had said it so many times but was beginning to realize it didn’t make a difference.

He laughed – a mix between a chuckle and a scoff. “Yeah?” he said skeptically. “You think I’ve got potential?”

“Of course I do, babe.” She reached her hand across the table and took his hand, holding it lightly. “You’re smart and you’re passionate and you’re personable and you just have so much to offer the world.” She was pleading with him now; There was desperation in her eyes.

He smiled weakly and gripped her hand a bit tighter. He looked at her with a mix of love and sadness in his eyes. She was becoming all too used to that look.

He always looked like he was about to cry, but he never cried. Actually, she had seen him cry once – maybe twice – the entire time she’d known him – almost five years now. And both of those times had been recently. She wished he would cry more. Not just because his therapist said it was good – essential – for him, but also because when he cried, she felt like she was getting through to him, like she was striking a nerve, getting to the bottom of things.

She knew she couldn’t change him. She knew she couldn’t save him. She knew she couldn’t make him happy – not all the time anyway. But she wanted to. She tried to.

“I just need to figure out what I want to do. I need to do something that makes me happy.” He said this adamantly as though he had just come to this decision and was determined to see it through.

“Yes you do. That’s what everyone needs to do.”

“Well, you make me happy,” he said with a smirk. “Can I just do you?”

“Sure,” she replied, a smile spreading across her face despite herself. “But I won’t be able to pay you.”

They both laughed. The mood lightened. She felt satisfied for now. She didn’t want to push him all at once. She would bring this up again some other time when the moment was right. For now, she would enjoy holding his hand while she waited for her food to arrive.