minalisms

The past week in California has been an absolute blur. The eight days that I thought would be beyond sufficient to relax, meet friends and see family members have been hijacked by dreaded wedding planning. 

This is why I enjoy living in the Midwest, far from the location of My Big Fat Indian Wedding, as my best friend has dubbed it. The distance allows me to go about my merry way ignorantly hoping that either:

1) My wedding plans will magically and seamlessly and effortlessly come together exactly how I desire; or,
2) My parents will crack under the pressures of too hefty expenses and frivolous familial requests and beg me to marry Ben in a civil court.

But neither will happen. These eight days have brought me to that tragic realization. 

I am an only child of Indian parents who have been anticipating a wedding since the day I turned 22. I’ve delayed their plans for seven years. So, yes, a Big Fat Indian Wedding it will be. 

Three years ago today I met Ben. We refer to it as the night of our “first unofficial date” because neither of us approached the meeting with romantic aspirations.

Up to that point, I was passing my days in Long Beach, while he was hustling in St. Louis. We were not only strangers, but strangers who had 1,800 miles, 26 hours and two time zones between us.

The World Wide Web changed that.

Ben and I became pen pals of sorts. We sent a handful of messages and realized that we were similar in several ways, but one in particular: We were love-haters.

A couple months passed and Ben informed me that he was coming to Los Angeles for a photography assignment. He wrote saying that he’d like to meet in person, and tried to convince me to skip work on a Friday so we could instead hang out, talk, eat and laugh. But I dismissed his crazy proposal and went to work, offering a compromise to see him another time, when I didn’t have to sacrifice a day’s pay to meet a random, possibly dangerous, guy from the Internet.

And I kept my promise.

For our first unofficial date, I met Ben in Downtown Los Angeles. We walked over to The Standard Hotel, where we had two beers and two hours to talk about work, our childhood, our families, music — a lot about music — and ambitions. We ate, and we laughed.

So, he kept his promise, too.

I said it to myself three years ago, and I’ll say it again today: I don’t remember anything being as effortless as that night with Ben. It was simple. It was real. It was fresh and comfortable. Despite salty outlooks on romance, we each had a feeling that this time this love would be too big to hate.

And here we are — three years running.

Whether it was coincidence or kismet, I am thankful.

I’m flying out to San Jose early Saturday morning. For the past week, maybe two, I’ve been counting down to my departure. 

California, I’ve missed you.

My dad and I were chatting online earlier today and he said that he and my mom were finishing household chores because they were “preparing for a celebrity who was coming to town.” 

My parents are so cute,” I thought, embarrassed a little that they were working hard to welcome their own daughter to a neat house; as if their house was ever messy in the first place.

I haven’t visited my family since Thanksgiving. I think it’s the longest interval between visits, despite my too-hopeful promise upon moving to St. Louis that I’d visit my hometown every three to four months. But to make up for the nearly seven-month absence, this stay will be the longest ever since moving out of the house: eight days. Eight days! 

So I’m elated. I love homecomings.

I’ve felt different since the start of 2008. Better. Creatively charged. Ambitious. Clear. Balanced.

Balance! I had been looking for it for some time.

The past two years focused primarily on change: learning, adapting, losing and gaining. And let me tell you, losing when the competition is yourself is the hardest loss to take.