Sometimes You Can't Go Back—No Matter How Early You Wake Up

There are very few times in life when you are given a second chance. Today definitely was not one of those days. I woke up on a friend's entirely-too-hard couch somewhere east of Central Park. It was raining. It was 5:30 A.M. and we were going to see Debbie Gibson and Tiffany at ABC's Summer Concert Series. I guess ABC defines concert as "three songs played over and over to make sure they look awesome on tv." But anyway, it was free, and it was Debbie Gibson—my childhood hero. The website said to be there by 6 A.M. since long lines were generally expected at these events and the fun would start at 7 A.M. We got there around 7...there were no lines or crowds. But hey! It had stopped raining!

When I was about ten years old, my love for Debbie Gibson was about equal to my love of Bon Jovi, although different. I wanted Bon Jovi to marry me. I wanted to be Debbie Gibson. She was the inspiration for the mural I painted on my wall. She had one, so I wanted one. Although, for whatever reason, I made my mural out of “puffy paint” which was used in the early 90’s to decorate t-shirts. I don’t know why I chose puffy paint. It took years to get off of the walls. I think there were still remnants of it when my dad sold that house years later. I had a similiar hat to Debbie, similar earrings, and similar clothes. I read books on her, did reports on her, I even had a miserable attempt at her “Out of the Blue” haircut. Look it up, it’s fairly awful. (Sorry Deb.)

I had a bunk bed in my room at the time, but only the top bunk, in an effort to create more space in my tiny room. I also had a chalkboard and a microphone. It was actually a real mic that my Dad had gotten me for Christmas and there was an accompanying amplifier, but even at that young age, I was keenly aware of my lack of singing ability. It by no means stopped me, but I saw no need to amplify it throughout the house. I used the chalkboard to draw a sea of faces so that I could pretend I was on stage and that thousands of people had come to see me perform the popular songs of Debbie Gibson. I’d get all dressed up in my Debbie Gibson clothes and sing and dance my heart of to all of the adoring, paying fans. I would get absolutely lost in my fantasy concert world. Kind of like I do now in the car, to the amusement of anyone driving next to me.

Only one month after Bon Jovi and Dad introduced me to the magic of live music, I wanted to see Debbie in concert, and somehow tickets were available last minute to her concert at Brendan Bryne Arena. (Later known as the Continental Airline Arena; later known as the Izod Center.) My Dad had to work, so he couldn’t take me. After a lot pleading, which probably went something like, “My life will be OVER if you don’t take me to this concert!”, Mother agreed to take me. 

We had floor seats; this was going to be amazing. And then, the lights went down and there she was. Debbie Gibson was on stage. She was in the same room as me and for the next few hours we would be sharing the same existance. My little heart was all aflutter.

The concert format in those days was as follows: A few opening songs to get the crowd warmed up; maybe a wardrobe change. Then the lights would kick on and dance across the arena in time with the music. The light show continued to build up until the end of the show. In the case of Bon Jovi, there were even pyrotechnics. “Shot through the heart,” and then BAM! Explosions! Debbie stuck to the light show, or well, I can only assume. 

She had sung her opening tunes and then the lights started. My heart began to beat faster in the anticipation of all of my favorite songs. This was the real show, and it was just starting. That’s when mother said, “Ok Jen, the show is almost over, let’s go. I don’t want to get stuck in the traffic of all of these people leaving at the same time.”

“What?” I was horrified. “It’s just starting! The lights mean it’s just starting! You don’t understand! Look!!! No one else is leaving.”

“Fine, one more song and that’s it.”

How could this be happening? Why was she doing this? Didn’t she understand that Debbie Gibson was on stage right now and I was only a few feet away from her and maybe, just maybe, some of her magic would rub off on me since we were in the same room? She didn’t understand. She held fast to what she said and after one more song she made me leave. I never got the chance to see Debbie Gibson again—until today. 

I remembered at dinner last night that I have a Debbie Gibson t-shirt, which I threw on before heading into the city. We decided to crash at my friend's place, since he lives near the park, and we had to be there ridiculously early. The shirt paid off—I think. During one of the breaks Tiffany looked out into the crowd and said, "I like your shirt." It seemed like she was talking to me. But I wasn't sure. Neither was my friend. So I just smiled. Then she said, "It's okay I have one too." I can only assume she meant, "It's okay that you're wearing a Debbie Gibson shirt, even though I am Tiffany." Therefore, let's assume, Tiffany liked my t-shirt. And I must admit, I was quite impressed with her voice. That woman can rock.

I was excited at the dress rehearsal. At the first site of Debbie I squealed like a little girl. They played one song each and one together. I watched Debbie. I bounced. But then I started to realize, it just wasn't the same; it was weird even. (Yes, 20 years later, I still thought it would be the same.) Maybe it was just that she only played one song, well two really, but the new song doesn't count. Maybe if I had heard a slew of the old classics I would have been more stoked. But Debbie is 41, and I am 31, and it's just...different. I thought I'd redeem that one night that my mother prematurely stole from me so long ago, but alas, no. I will give it to her though, she looks downright amazing. 

and so it begins

Not going to lie...Tiffany rocked it.

Debbie's weird now.

I think I've made this same face when (in college) we would drink many beers and then try to memorize the "Electric Youth" dance from the video, which always included trying to fly off of the couch.

So, as I mentioned, Debbie's weird now (garter belt?). The guy to the left was on tour with her back in the day. I distinctly remember him from all of the Debbie Gibson VHS videos I have. The guy on the right seems to have given up and resorted to waving.

Well hell. I'd be stoked too if I was rockin' out next to a keytar.

Ah, the right dancer is excited again! Or possessed. He has a crazy look in his eyes...

Central Park 6 A.M.

Obsessive Tendencies

I wanted to see how many days in a row I could go to hot yoga. This is different than Bikram. I, for whatever reason, just can't stand Bikram. Anyway, the answer was 23 days in a row. (The little Y's mean I went to class. Y for yoga. I'm very creative.) I really wanted to finish the week out before I leave for vacation, but my sore, aggravated body had other plans. At least I got some laundry done tonight. And yes, that does say Debbie Gibson on my calendar. She's doing a show for free in Central Park tomorrow and I am going to go give my ten-year-old self a trip down memory lane.

Questions—but no Answers

Change in life is inevitable. So why is it so hard for people to change? Changing for worse is easy; it happens a lot. I can site extensive examples from personal experiences where people have fallen into holes that they never managed to climb out of—but does just mean that’s who they were “destined” to be to begin with?

Can people ever really fundamentally change? They so often become “set in their ways” and “too old to change”. But at what point does that happen? College, high school, perhaps even younger? Does all of the learning and experience in your formative years set permanently who you are for eternity? How can a person undo years of learning?

I think people can change, because I think it’s too sad to say that they can’t. Maybe the question isn’t "Can people change?" but more of "Do people want to change?" Is change always possible, but limited by personality and character? I think 9 times out of 10, people just flat out don’t want to put the effort in. Self-defeatedness is easy. Transforming yourself is too hard, too scary.

I know I am not the only one whose childhood comes back to haunt them—these are the demons we deal with as adults. But so often, it becomes a crutch, it becomes explanation or even motivation for poorly adjusted behavior. I’m not saying conditioning isn’t valid, it definitely is, and I’ve seen how it can side swipe you when you least expect it. But once you’re aware of it and want to change it—how long would it take to unlearn all of the bad that you’ve been taught and have inherited? Even if after making a concerted effort, is it too easy to fall back into old patterns?

Is an alcoholic ever really not an alcoholic? Is someone who is predisposed to being only able to focus on his or her world ever really a part of anyone else’s? Is someone that was abused ever really out from under those shadows? Can people change?

I'm single again...so here are some stories.

I had just broken up with someone. Well, someone had just broken up with me...via text. I was sad that the seemingly great time we were having turned into a whole lot of nothing in an instant, and I was mad that it ended with a text. (See previous blog.) So, I got up after my 6 a.m. text wake up and went running. But afterwards, I found myself still angry. I went to hot yoga. Still...

So, I called a girlfriend and we started drinking at around 3 p.m. What had been planned as an early night turned into me eating death chicken at 4 a.m. (Again, see previous blog.) As my friend and I made our rounds to different bars, we encountered a rather handsome Irish bartender. Now, just getting dumped by an Irishman and having spent a year of my life with a bartender, these are two things I definitely wanted to avoid. But that goddamn accent will get me every time. I ended up giving him number.

(a month or so elapses...)

Last weekend, I met a school teacher. We talked about religion, philosophy and what it all means at 1 a.m. He left with every intention of calling me. I left and couldn't remember what he looked like. He did call though, and we did talk. He told me all about how his friend is now living with him because he just broke up with his live-in girlfriend of three years.

School teacher: He's just acting so pathetic. He needs to get off the couch and go out and try to meet girls.
Me: How long ago did they break up?
School teacher: Two weeks ago.
Me: Give the guy a break! It's a hard life adjustment to break up with someone after that long especially if you lived together. You have to change your whole life.
School teacher: I don't know. I don't think it'd bother me that much.

Not being on Facebook, I googled him. I came across a website where students could review their teachers. And oh boy, was that hilarious. I think the highlights of what I read were about his affinity for "touching himself," his seemingly over-the-top love of Lord of the Rings, and how much he likes to throw acorns around the classroom. I'm not judging him based on comments made by 15 year olds. They only served to solidify that from our conversation this definitely would not be a guy for me. That and his favorite band is Metallica.

So I decided today that should School teacher call me again, I won't be going out with him. Strangely enough, today is also the day that Irish bartender decided to text me for the first time...five weeks later. That's pretty much all there is to say about that.

What do I want to be when I grow up?

It's getting a little late to still be asking that question, admittedly. Can't I just be a kid again and have summers off? Is that too much too ask? I've been told to consider being a teacher-then I'd have summers off. But, aside from not at all wanting to go back to school, I don't think I have the temperment to be a teacher. Which begs the question, what do I have the temperment for?

One career assessment I took said that I should be an undertaker. That would certainly take care of my lack of desire to deal with people. Funny thing is that my family is in that business, and I learned at a young age that I am terrified of death and dead people. So, that's out. Perhaps with my genetic ability to go from calm to irate in less than ten seconds, I could be a cage fighter or maybe a prison guard. But I am not that strong so I'd definitely get hurt. And since I am still single (sorry Grandma) I need to at least try to be pretty as I can awhile longer. Getting kicked in the face would certainly deter that.

There's a world of options between teacher and undertaker, but it's summer, and it's warm out and I just want to be outside instead of stuck in a cubicle. Maybe someone will pay me just to exist. Wouldn't that be nice? A job traveling would be stellar. But I guess, for now, I'll just get back to writing my weekly newsletter so I can leave at 5 p.m. and sit in traffic. There has to be a better way! 

We're Becoming Idiots

I'm blogging. I'm aware that this is considered part of the social media world. But, much like Hollywood has affected every woman's idea of what romance is, social media is destroying our ability to communicate with each other. It's making us socially inept. And it's not just social media, it's all of it-email, texting, and whateverthehell is the communication trend of the day. Don't even get me started on Latitude.

I'm well aware of the benefits of the internet, texting, Google chat, etc, etc. I love being able to chat with my friends who I don't see on a regular basis during the day. Certain levels of communication are absolutely fantastic. But sometimes, it goes too far and it's slowing breaking us. Back in February I decided to take a break from Facebook because I felt too exposed. Yes, my fault, as I was a "power user." But then I stopped to think-do I really need 300 people knowing that I'm stuck in traffic or that I made a fantastic dinner? Do I need 250 people I never interact with on any sort of personal level knowing that my boyfriend and I just broke up? And do I need these people "liking" the fact that I caught a great sale on shoes today or commenting on whether or not my feelings on work are or are not valid? The clear answer for me was no I didn't, and by that point I kind of wanted to go live in a cave.

So with that, I left the world of Facebook. It became a fun experiment to see who actually kept in touch with me. People became confused. They didn't know what was going on in my life or how to invite me to events. There was even a rumor I left Facebook because I was being stalked. Awesome.

"I want to go," I said to a friend holding a charity event.
"But how do I invite you? You're not on Facebook," he replied.
"You have my phone number AND my email address."

I thought he was kidding-I hoped he was kidding-until a month went by with no invite in my inbox. Now maybe you're thinking, "Perhaps he just didn't want to invite you." Maybe you're right. But I like to think I'm not terrible to be around and, at a minimum, it was a charity event and one would think the more people attending the better. Anyway, I ended up going because someone else sent me the information and it was a great night. But, I digress.

I just think that we all need to remember what it was like to dial the phone, to have face-to-face conversations, and (I know I'm going out on a limb here) have some photographs printed and throw them in a frame instead of relying on Facebook to show off your latest trip to the Jersey Shore. A Cornell graduate asked me last weekend, "Well, say you go on vacation and you take pictures. What do you do with them if you don't post them on Facebook?" Come on now.

Please don't break up with me in a text message. Don't talk to my friend for two hours, not ask for her number and tell her you're going to look her up on Facebook. Don't text my friend to tell her you've decided to try to work it out with your ex-girlfriend after over three months. This is all not okay. Everyone is taking the easy way out and it's killing our character.

We can all sit around and feel special that we have 500 friends on the internet, but how much time have you taken lately to invest in your three real friends? You know, the ones who call when you need a pick me up, or the ones who know your birthday without getting a Facebook reminder. Stop thinking in 140 character increments. Let's all go for a picnic.