five hours till the eleventh hour

The world is ending quite soon.

Today, in between eating more falafel than a human should eat and blasting Bonobo as I speak to constituents, I've reflected on my 24 years on Earth.

If I had another 24 years of existing, I would probably wear jean shorts in the winter. I would drink wine every day, and go swimming. I would definitely stop being lazy about shaving my legs, and I would sit on a park bench without my cell phone. I would probably skip work to do something outrageous for a day, like eating hydrogenated peanut butter with Oreos or surfing in Long Beach with brand new board shorts. I would hang out with Manu more, make sure she doesn't become neurotic like her older sister. I would not quit the flute. I would move to Mumbai for one year and try to dance, before maiming the rest of my limbs. I'd go to Morocco. I would not grow white hair and I would continue eating pasta with ketchup. I would cry for the children who have died, for the children who have starved, for the children who have only seen pain, and I would stop crying for myself. I would make my bed. I would make my mother and father's bed. I would wear a hat every single day. I would do crunches. I would write a book, I would perpetuate my propaganda against cauliflower, and I would never paint my fingernails. I would be a better kid. I would buy a slip 'n' slide. I would kiss everyone. I would dance in the rain.

Unfortunately, we have less than five hours. Tonight is my last chance to eat pasta with ketchup while I wear jean shorts (and get pneumonia). No more thoughts of carpe diem, no more Dr. Phil, no more corny Hallmark cards about la vie. We're done.

Go forth and buy Oreos, while supplies last.

advice from a mother

I had a stroke this morning.

Well, not technically, but I was rendered immobile by a threatening roach I saw in the apartment after I ate breakfast. It rested on the wall jeering at me, taunting me to drop my coffee mug and eyeliner. I emitted soft, painful moans, but my roommates were away, and no one could hear my desperate cries for help. And then it vanished.

My first instinct was to call my mother. I took a deep breath and reminded myself I was a grown up, a 24 year old working woman, and that I had to learn to handle crises without calling mommy.

I emailed her instead.

I told my mother I was going to come home to New Jersey, where the only pest is lovable Charlie the Groundhog, who has comfortably burrowed under our patio. I said I was moving out of New York City forever, that I was never again wearing shorts, that I was going to throw out all of my food and bedding. She told me to be brave, to remember that I am slightly bigger than the cockroach, and then resorted to her favorite retort ("wow. idiot."), before realizing that I truly was a hopeless mess.

She then tried a new approach. "Ruch, of course you are always welcome home. It is your home. But, never run from your fears."

"Mumma, we're talking about a roach. Like, a cockroach."

"Yes, beta."

And so, with direction from my perpetually profound mother, I went to bed in my own place in Manhattan, wearing a ski mask and sneakers, with all of the lights on and my left eye open.

I fell asleep during the staff meeting today, but I didn't let the terrorists win. Thanks, Mumma.

Mayans Ate Burritos, Too.

The world is slated to end in less than three days, and I still have never tried a whoopie pie. I have not been to Morocco or Azerbaijan or Kentucky. Worse still, I have not yet dyed my white strand of hair purple.

And it's killing me.

But, I did discover the world's best bread rolls (no hyperbole, I promise) at a random, overpriced lunch spot midtown east. I also managed to injure almost every joint in my body, save my left shin. I fell in love, fell out of love, broke hearts, had my heart broken, mended hearts, and once even ripped out my own. I felt anguish. I witnessed the first multiracial American President, the death of Steve Irwin, and watched the entire I Love Lucy series. I experienced death of innocent children. I lost faith. I learned that you cannot buy babies from Stop & Shop (those baby carrots are actually carrots!). I witnessed the discovery of the Higgs-Boson, and I fell in love with the beauty of the universe. I was given a telescope, Backstreet Boys cassettes, and lime green overalls. I was given hope, strength, dreams. I wrote half a book and ate entire footlongs. I got a love letter, I sang songs, I flexed biceps. I conceded to my flaws, to my inability to tell time, to my inability to tell failures, to my inability to let go.  I went surfing,  I drank sangria, I destroyed my large nose with a permanent, crispy sunburn. I made beautiful friends. I got a sister, a real one. I was always liked by my parents, even when I threw tantrums, even when I cried. I cried endlessly. I laughed, made jokes, poked fun, laughed and laughed. I went to India, to London, to Paris, to Alsace Lorraine, to Germany, to Dubai, to Canada. I ate cole slaw in the Dominican Republic and got sand in my underwear in Puerto Rico. I ate chocolate in Switzerland. I went to Alabama and ate delicious sour dough bread. I went to the Niagara Falls more times than any human should go. I danced. I wore red lipstick. I scoffed at religious fanatics and was fervently devoted to my friends and family. I ate Greek salad. I only liked orange juice every two months. I could never figure out how to fix my hair. I let flowers dry out and die out. I overdosed on Groupons. I embarrassed myself, I was jealous, I was betrayed. I liked 90s television. I liked sipping wine with my father, touching my sister's nose, and sitting on my mother's lap. I hated socks.

The world has already started to deteriorate. Earthquakes and hurricanes have crippled entire cities and states; war has ravaged nations and staved innocent children; and the fight for affordable medical services continues. People are suffocating, starving, suffering. If we do officially "pop" (or snap or crackle) on Friday, then I don't think we should belligerently yell "carpe diem" and go forth with fulfilling our deepest desires. Rather, we should all take off our socks, put on syndicated television, and with our beautiful friends toast to a world that once was. We should drink to the moments we could share, and forget all about that epic road trip to Kentucky we could never have.


Raise your glasses, friends. We've had a good run.

young & wild & free

For the last several weeks, I've been chained to my bed, unable to look left or right, up or down, and I still cannot touch my ears to my shoulders. In fact, I cannot even remember if touching your ears to your shoulders is a normal bodily function. (I'll be trying till the death.)

My body rejected the idea of 24, and so a disc popped out in my spine and the part of my buttocks that was double jointed has been making an ominous screechy noise. Oh, and some man on the street thought I was pregnant. (I reassured him I was not.)

As always, Patrick was there to help me move back into the city, to make my bed, to bake me apples, while I sat on the couch with my heating pad, pink snuggie, & fistful of pills, my head frozen in his direction. I thought, I actually have grown old with this boy. And then the part of my buttocks which is double jointed screeched again, so I shifted weight to my thighs.

Patrick looked over at the microwave, which bore the weight of my painkillers, steroids, vitamins, fish oil, anti-inflammatories, and the homeopathic remedies from my father. I offered him some painkillers and homeopathic paste, and we quietly sat on the dining table eating the baked fruit with Greek yogurt.

"I feel sore." Patrick cracked his neck.

"Want a fish oil?"

"No, I had mine today," he replied, and licked vestiges of the homeopathic paste off his fingers.

We continued to chew silently.

"Patrick, careful with that paste, it will burn your skin if you have too much. Oh, also, did I tell you about my white hair?"

Patrick looked alarmed. "What? Where?"

I pulled back the hair from my right ear. "See? I'm not making this up!"

Patrick's face visibly contorted with fear. "Why don't you pull it out?!"

"I don't know, maybe I'll dye it purple. I wanted to do that when I turned 70, anyways."

"True."

We continued eating.

I think I've actually grown decrepit with this boy, but I don't mind it much.

"Rucha, what was that your father used to look younger? Turmeric?"