Rocky Road can be an obstacle or an ice-cream flavor…

Rocky road baffles me. It’s an interesting concept to be able to quell your personal rocky road with some rocky road in a pint or a gallon.

Perhaps one of the few things they have in common is that we hover over both.

We, as humans, tend to be hoverers. We harp on everything and can’t let go. Not because we don’t want to. Not because we are rebelling against what we know we should do. But because society just won’t let us.

No one wants to let anyone forget Michael Jackson. Television stations changed scheduled programming to incorporate specials on the Pop legend. Family and friends are blowing up our e-mail inboxes and cell phones with up-to-date news. I have even read that Twitter crashed because of so many people microblogging. In every conceivable medium, people are talking about the king of the 20^th Century. Even if you could care less about the simultaneously famous/infamous star, you can’t help but think about him.      

This morning, on my hour-plus commute to work, every single one of the six preprogrammed radio stations in my dashboard was talking about MJ’s death. The hosts who weren’t talking about it were having listeners call in about it. Every time I clicked from station 1 to 5 to 3 to 4 back to 5, I couldn’t tell if I had even changed the channel. The only thing that changed was voice of the person speaking. I chuckle to myself because at work, the two Cuban seamstresses, who listen to a mini radio straight from the early ‘90s, keep trying to change the channel to listen to their typical Spanish music, and even they can’t find a station (in English or in Spanish) not talking about or playing Michael Jackson.   

Memories. That’s what we have. And “the way he made us feel. “

I heard over and over again (in my car and at work) about his contributions to society. His Thriller album going platinum 28 times. His Neverland Ranch and the joy it brought sick children. His ability to go from rags to riches. His influence on the music industry and the dance world. His role as an idol. No one dare mention his allegations or issues regarding child molestation, hanging babies over balconies or financial troubles. They only talk about the good, the great, the fabulous, the superstar. They harp.  

As much as I tried to escape the chitchat for sheer and utter sickness of hearing about it, it kept on. What’s worse are the songs. The power hours of continuous Jackson hits that only linger with you long after you leave your car. Last night, on my late drive home, MJ wanted to “rock with me all night.” Then again this morning, he wanted me to “beat it,” but even as I tried my hardest, there was no escape.

Elvis Duran on the Y-100 Morning Show tried to make light of the situation and remind listeners that it’s Friday, and normally on Fridays we can all be happy because it’s the start of the weekend. But just because it’s the weekend doesn’t mean the hurt or the sorrow, no matter how great or small, goes away. In the real world, there is no such thing as “your week self” and “your weekend self”. And everyday problems or upsets will still affect you at night, in the morning, at coffee get-togethers, during dinner and when you try to sleep. You’ll push out all the bad and invigorate yourself with the good memories, while still really getting nowhere, but spinning your head in circles by thinking about the past.    

Funny how life works. The underlying symbolism is undeniably uncanny. A brief look at this week’s weather forecast in South Florida promises scattered thunderstorms for at least the next ten days. And it’s as much the end of an era for Michael Jackson as it is for me right now.

Sometimes we just have to leave the pieces, walk away and bank on our instinct that the heart of life is good, even after devastation, shock and hurt.

Yes, rocky road can be an obstacle….but I’ll take it as an ice-cream flavor. With a crew of friends and a smile, I can make it disappear. 

"Summer, Ft. Lauderdale" – a twist on Billy Joel

They say that these are not the best of times, but they’re the only times I’ve ever known.

With the economy getting worse, more and more houses foreclosing, gas prices increasing daily and people getting laid off, life’s tough. Let’s face it. From the millionaire on Wall Street down to the hourly worker at the local fast food joint, no one can seem to catch a break. People are looking for second and third and fourth jobs to afford hovering bills and responsibilities. Meanwhile, they are spreading themselves so thinly that they can’t seem to balance anything. Friends that once meant the world now mean dittily squat. Jobs are wearing us ugly.

And I believe there is a time for meditation in cathedrals of our own.

To cope with it all lately, I’ve been running. I joined a gym to lose some lingering, yet very much unwanted European weight, but mostly, to keep my sanity. Day in and day out, I observe heartbreaking court hearings – of parents rightly separated from their children, of children who are criminals, of people who can’t get their acts together to be responsible. On top of it all, I am attempting to balance a paying job, an internship, LSAT review, family time, friend time and general life (whatever that means).

By the time I pull into the gym parking lot, I am already thinking about my playlist for the day. Will it be hardcore rock for the treadmill, Top 40 for the elliptical or house for the StairMaster? No matter what it is, I can assure you it will be ear-shatteringly loud and it’s gonna push me to push myself until my bones are rattling under my skin, my face is as red as a cherry and my sweat is drenching my clothing. With the assistance of my iPod playlist, my thoughts from the day give me an extra “umph” to literally go that extra mile.

I run for every child whose parents can’t complete simple case plans. I run for those who are stuck in shelter because child advocates don’t follow through with court orders. I run for the kids whose parents are just unwilling to take care of them. I run for the frustration of mixed messages. I run for the traffic that holds me up on Broward. I run for myself. To ease the pain of those who have hurt me, who have forget to call or text when they say they will, who keep things secretive, who have forgotten about me, who have returned to ex-girlfriends, who have used me, even though they say they feel awful about it.

And now I have seen that sad surrender in my lover’s eyes, I can only stand apart and sympathize.

While I run and blow off steam, bouncing in my Nike Shocks to the beat of whatever’s beating in my ears, I come to terms with the fact that the world is simply too big for me to conquer completely. People will let you down, parents won’t complete their case plans, friends will be the ones to hurt you most and excuses saturate courtroom hearings, e-mail inboxes and text messages. Though I can’t justify it, I can recognize it.

Often, though unknowingly, we set ourselves up for failure. Our high expectations are not even on other’s to-do lists, and actions that seem too good to be true, typically are. We are told to expect the unexpected, but more common than not, it’s the usual expected that we get.

As I run, I can remove myself from me and fairly empathize with myself, accepting that occasionally people will shock you, but until then we have our iPods blasting music and our own two feet. It’s almost symbolic. On the elliptical, I run nowhere fast. The wheels are spinning – on the machine and in my head - many miles in 45 minutes. By the end, I have accepted that you can’t change anyone but yourself, yet I feel accomplished, even proud, of the strides I have made myself and in trying to.

For we are always what our situations hand us. It’s either sadness or euphoria.

Adult Xs and Os (hey, at least you’ve been warned)

Is it that X marks the spot, or is it that your eX knows your spot? And no, that’s not what she said.

My eX and I went for our semi-annual coffee catch-up because we always promised we’d remain friends. Admittedly, I was initially hesitant with the whole “friends” thing, coming up with this or that as an excuse to bail. After four years of a whole lot of feelings, it’s almost impossible not to come up with a whole lot of reasons why it’d probably be bad idea to meet up. But since we are both only home in South Florida a few times a year, we decided that we shouldn’t lose what’s left of our friendship.     

Last night, we met up at Starbucks, because, well, that’s just what we do. It’s one of our spots. He didn’t need to ask, and I didn’t need to beg; we both just instinctually knew – when we meet up, we meet up at Starbucks. Like an algorithm.   

Ironically, on my drive over, Y-100 was asking listeners if it’s possible to hook up with ex’s and not feel anything, not have any strings attached (funny how life works, eh?). Some people called in and said “yes, but only if you were both never in love.” A few just said “yes.” But most agreed that “no, someone is bound to get hurt.” If I were to ask some of my best friends, I am positive they would tell you it’s 110 percent impossible.    

With my coffee in hand, I sat with my eX and laughed and reminisced and talked about who’s pregnant, who’s engaged and who’s up to what. This chitter-chatter mixed with the radio’s topic of conversation, of course, got me thinking about the strange relationships we all have with have with our eXs.

Do we go back because our hearts can’t let go? Do we go back because we don’t want to raise our numbers? Or do we go back because our eX’s know our spots?

Two years since our break-up, I can still tell you my eX’s cologne with my eyes closed (Armani Black Code) and his favorite old movie (Top Gun). I can still tell you he loves a slab of prime rib and he’s always down to share spinach dip. He still loves pens (Mont Blanc) and if I suggested going to Marian’s Bagel Host, Chima’s or The Mariott Harbor Beach Club – I could bet you he’d say “When?”  

It’s scarily simple to fall back into the comfort zone. To play the same roles you played during your relationship, even during the short amount of time it takes to drink a tall latte. To wonder where the time went. How quickly the mind forgets the hurt and the pain and the illogical fights, and the whole reason you broke up in the first place. It’s all so shockingly easy.

People have this emotional need to desperately cling on to the past and to wish they could relive and retry everything, which is why we can’t help but remember our spots. We associate every great meal, fun day-trip and crazy night with people. We don’t remember exactly what we wore or who drove or what we ordered, but we remember being euphorically happy at drive-ins and at sushi restaurants.   

But while memories are crucial, they are simply that: memories. Fixations that keep us content. And though I can’t say it’s easy, maybe it’s best to forget old spots so we can find new ones and make more memories.

Our eX’s may know our spots. They may promise to trigger great responses, but only by keeping us tied down. However, when the S&M (sameness and melancholy) becomes daily routine, we find ourselves desensitized and bored.

Thus, as in Tic-Tac-Toe, our eX’s can only block our Oh’s, and who wants to live an unsatisfied life? Now that’s what she said.