The crazy cat lady.

She stands in line at the grocery store. Her hair newly done. Blond and in a rich lady poof. Her nails shining with a recent shellac. An expensive, orange leather wallet delicately held in her hands. It is the only dash of color to be found amongst her attire. The rest of her covered from head to toe in expensive black fabrics of some kind or another. Maybe wool. The expensive kind. Or mink. Or maybe even mountain lion, but probably not judging from the entire cart of cat food that she wheels closer to the cash register in front of her.

Her eyes dodge and dash from side to side, almost as if she doesn't want to be seen buying so much food for so many cats. Nobody wants to be tagged as the crazy cat lady. She is angry that the maid called in sick today due to the snow storm and now here she is, stuck at the grocery store, in her small mountain town, with the truth. She is the lonely cat lady.

How did cat ladies get such a bad wrap anyway? What is so wrong with caring for a collection of helpless sentient beings who need warm roofs over their heads. It's a spiritual practice for her, relating to her animals. They don't judge, she cares for them almost better than she cares for herself. And she feels as if she is giving back in some way. But how could she ever explain that to her fellow widows and divorces when they ask what the most meaningful part of her day is? Is she really supposed to say, "Well, what really means the most to me is having the ability to open up a fresh can of Fancy Feast for my each of my 12 cats and have the knowledge that I am contributing to the lives of less fortunate beings."

Luckily for her secret identity, the conversations with her fellow widows and divorces never broach meaning. Instead her Chardonnay filled luncheons with her "friends" never grow past empty gossip. Maybe that's why she's so lonely. Oh that word. Lonely. A word she's always felt, but never spoken. Rich women don't get lonely. They have everything. They talk about the poor lonely souls that have to work during the Christmas season, and can't even afford a tree. The lonely people like the waitress she shifted her eyes away from at the grocery store today when she was over come with shame, another word she refuses to admit that she feels, at the contents of her grocery cart. The overflowing Fancy Feast, Kitty Litter, and Cat Nip.

Oh that waitress. She's the one at the restaurant that always asks all those questions. Those meaningful questions that are so socially inappropriate. Like, "Have you had a nice day today?" "What have you been up to?" "Is your family coming into town for Christmas?" So intrusive, really.

And then, there she stands, that damned waitress-- at the grocery store, like a goon, trying to make eye contact and say hello, waving like a maniac, drawing more and more attention as the seconds pass! As if the two of them have some kind of friendship. The audacity.

All of a sudden, hit with a tornado of catastrophic thoughts, the cat lady has to get out of there, she considers leaving the cart and letting the cats go hungry for the night. Thoughts of immediately firing her maid for negligence of household responsibilities turn into a panicked realization that her beloved afternoon Chardonnay binge at the only upscale restaurant in her small mountain town will have to come to an end because small town gossip is inevitable. Her identity wil be leaked within a matter of moments. You know cell phone these days. She wouldn't be surprised if this waitress has already snapped a photo of the cat paraphernalia filled shopping cart on her smart phone (Gd knows how she pays for it with a job like that) and posted it to the world wide web. She might as well rename herself Cat Lady.

In a nervous fit, and sure that the waitress is stationed in the same place she was a few minutes ago, still frantically waiving, she yanks her cart out of line and in an attempt to abandon ship and make a run for her Bentley in the parking lot, she shoves it to the side as she begins to run. "No one de-friends someone who drives a Bentley," she tells her self, as horrific images of flyer's filled with images of her behind a cat food filled grocery cart stapled to trees flash through her mind. Only to run smack dab into the person she is desperately trying to avoid.

The waitress. "Oh! I didn't see you here!" She says. "You've come into the restaurant a few times, haven't you? I always enjoy serving you so much. I always notice what beautiful clothes you wear, and your orange wallet. It's always your only burst of color. So chic."

Stunned. And still trying to maintain her composure from her anxiety attack, she manages to muster a smile.

The waitress continues.

"Isn't this snow storm horrible? I could barely get out to restock my hamster food. I have 12 of them at home. I know it sounds silly, but they bring me so much joy. Oh forgive me, I'm so rude. I didn't even introduce you. This is my best friend from high school Jenny, she's been away studying to be a veterinarian and just came back into town. I was so excited to see her, I was waiving like a fool for what felt like 5 straight minutes, trying to get her attention in this crowded store. Anyway, sorry to talk your ear off, I'd love to say I'll see you soon at the restaurant, but I can't stand the social schmoozing that goes on there, so I quit, but Merry Christmas!"

Destiny= Beer bellies + Basketball.

Sitting in a tennis bubble at age 27 on top of a downtown Denver athletic club. Is this what life amounts to at this age for behind the desk businessmen? A competitive basketball league where their attempts to run of their beer bellies and cubical cellulite with some healthy competition makes them feel like men again. What there they like when they were little boys? What are their dreams? How did they get here? And what is this basketball league reviving inside of them?

Two other women sit on benches of the other side of the gym from me snapping pictures, making their beloved look like superstars. The short, soon to be middle aged desk men glare at the scorekeeper and the refs as if they are the reason for all of their life frustrations. And the whistle blows and it's game time, once again.

The referee. Something about him catches my eye. His number 32 on his shorts. Something tells me this is his art and he watches as these 9 to 5 buffoons butcher his passion. What must that feel like? To know so much more about something than someone ever will and to 90% of the time have to keep it a secret? Maybe all of us have something like that. Some area of natural born expertise that we are given. And whether or not we choose to enhance that gift is up to us.

The ref at the other end of the court splits the black and white stripes of his jersey with his rotund tummy and sports red dreadlocks. His gray facial hair is braided with black and white beads to match his whistle-blowing attire. I wonder how he arrived at this location. Was this once his passion? Is he retired and looking for a hobby? Why is his hair that way? He looks like an artist. Trying to stay in shape.

Funny how all these men from all different walks of life have convened in this very gym for all different reasons, but at the same time, one reason. To play. To forget all else and be in the moment.

The guy to my right wears a pink polo, designer jeans, a conservative, short haircut and some beat up Jordans. Maybe he played basketball in college and now wears a suit, and this is his one time a week to remember his glories past. When does one surrender the grandeur of their dreams and accept reality? That question sounds depressing. Why do priorities change?

Mortality?

Do we realize we are going to die and when that really sets in, does the loftiness of our one envisioned golden destination disappear and do we accept the truth of infinite possibility in the reality we are given?

I look at the ref with the number 32 and he seems different. He doesn't look like the middle aged approaching, 9 to 5, tummy protruding, awkward sneaker wearing, random frustration bursting other men. He looks otherworldly, like his destination is somewhere unique. How is it that he is being forced to exist in this world that seems to be so beneath where he belongs? Not to say that this isn't an integral part of his journey, but he is special.

All of these men will procreate. Or at least most of them will. Soon if not already. How is it that we have arrived at this chapter of life?

These men make me feel sad and I don't know why. I'm sure if I were interacting with them on the street or behind one of their desks, I would feel differently. I would admire their dedication to their wives or dogs or babies. I would envy their homeowner status or upcoming paid vacation and health insurance. But somehow in the midst of the animalistic, passionate basketball floor, I am disappointed. When did these men become old and lame? Is that what's happening to me?

Now, a reader might respond. This is when the real beauty of life begins. The journey becomes internal and wisdom is cultivated and the glitz and the glamour no longer matter. Attempts at showiness become transparent and people are forced to put their money where their mouth is.

A plane flies overhead this tennis bubble with a basketball court inside, on top of this Denver building and I think about the passengers flying to some other destination. All with some purpose. I envy them. Not because I don't want to be here, but because I want to be everywhere at once.

Settling. Sitting still. It's important. Building for growth. Helping someone. Making a difference. It's all so important.

After all this basketball game is going to get these men through their week at work. Maybe some of them will meet a friend here that will introduce them to their future wife. Or maybe one of them will get promoted because they befriended a boss. Or maybe one will be injured and be forced to realize how much he was taking his good health for granted.

Sometimes it all feels so scripted. Like life is one big equation. Like we are all born with a certain recipe and life is one giant baking process. How did I get so existential watching basketball?

Maybe it's that I see how much this means to all of these men. How they envision themselves as the Kobe Bryants on the floor and how much their masculinity seems stoked when they score a basket or push another man down on the floor.

They all have different recipes though, these men. Some are short. Some are tall. Some have spectators. Some don't. One looks like he spends hours in front of the mirror looking at himself. Another I can see up all night with his baby girl, working two jobs and still finding time to exercise. Another, seems a ghost. Maybe he's a woodworker or a craftsman. Why do some of these men evoke stories in my imagination, while others seem unworthy of a mere memory?

After all the questioning, I look at these men and although their bald heads and beer bellies make me feel fearful of death and age, I still wonder where the miracles lie in their lives. And I have no doubt that they are there. In fact, I'm sure within a year, all of their lives will have changed in ways they never could have expected, and this little experience will have served some kind of an integral part of their story in some way.

Maybe they will see the special referee with the number 32 on his shorts one day on the side lines coaching a professional team and they will recollect how he reffed a game of theirs once upon a time.

A Recital in the name of the moment.

She is a supermodel, or at least people always ask her if she is one. No, she just hangs out with her model friend, who happens to be tall too. What is it about being a tall woman? People always assume you're either an athlete or a model, or just corn-fed. She wonders.

She doesn't look corn-fed though. Maybe a little heartbroken, or just sick of carrying the weight of the truth. Beautiful brown skin. A short black dress, with the sides cut out. And high heels. Her very presence is powerful, impossible to ignore. Her best friend, tall too, struts around the lobby of this 5 star hotel like a catwalk, on the arm of the boyfriend she has come into town to visit. Little does she know, she is one of many.

Maybe she knows and maybe she doesn't care. How are people supposed to have one and only these days with all the travel, the technology and the time flying by in the fashion that it does, anyway? Doesn't the strongest connection between two people always prevail? So, what's the point of monogamy? That's what the model friend tells herself.

The tall girl with the black dress with the sides cut out feels differently though as she spots the piano, her saving grace tonight, silently sitting in the middle of this dimly lit, moody lobby. As the model friend and the rich boyfriend glide outside to smoke cigarettes and stare into each other's eyes, she requests that the concierge print off a copy of a piece of music she mastered in the sixth grade, hoping that playing it now, in a swanky Beverly Hills hotel will bring her the same joy it did when she played it for a cafeteria full of proud parents at age 12.

The concierge, a young, handsome, shy, and overworked man seems to gladly fulfill her request and immediately appears from around the corner with the requested Requiem in hand.

She begins to play. The lobby is full of snobby socialites, ordering their bottles of wine and slurping their gourmet pastas, reminiscing about dinners past at other fancy establishments. The bartender madly shakes, stirs and pours drinks. And the concierge examines light fixtures and furniture to make sure everything stays exactly in it's place. The lounge music blares behind her, and her fingers are nowhere near as nimble as they were 10 years ago. But she remembers the feeling, the freedom and the fearlessness of that time, the time when she was young, careless, and full of endlessly motivating, unfulfilled dreams and she continues to play.

Maybe she's playing for the death of the past. The death of a romance. The death of childhood. The death of naivete, and the birth of acceptance. Acceptance of what is. Maybe she's a few steps ahead of her model friend who sits outside, unaware of the piano performance, staring into the eternity of her lover's eyes.

All of a sudden, the bartender can not shake another drink. He politely excuses himself from his thirsty patrons and carries a half full tray of drinks into the kitchen. "Does anyone know what is with this wench who has been attempting to teach herself piano for the past two hours?? She clearly finds it necessary to express her heartbreak to the entire world!!!"

She continues to play. Although her song isn't as melodious as an audience might hope, her sentiments are actively projected throughout the lobby and maybe the discord is disquieting not because of the lack of quality of her performance, but because she actually has a truth to share. A truth that we all share. As humans. The power of the moment.

The concierge rolls his eyes into the back of his head and makes a disgusted face as he cranks the volume of the lounge music in an attempt to drown out her crescendo that matches the crescendo of the thoughts racing through his head. His desire to be anywhere, but here. The song has brought his feelings of frustration and angst right where they belong. To the moment. Right where he can deal with them.

The socialites begin to rustle like uncomfortable fallen autumn leaves, and the comparisons of the sophistication of their food palettes turn to nothing but silent swirling wine glasses and wandering, avoiding eyes. Glances at watches and searching for room keys. Anything to escape the uncomfortable thoughts that arise as the tall girl with the black dress with the sides cut out fearlessly wanders her way through the completion of the story of this song.

And the bartender exhales as he exclaims, "Last call!" and promises himself that he will no longer avoid the inner demons that are keeping him from being everything in life he can be.

The only two that can't hear the music are the model and her rich boyfriend. The man of many women. They sit outside, solidifying one another in each other's souls for eternity. Maybe only to meet again in another lifetime, but ensuring that they will carry the thought of one another with each other forever and always. Especially at the sound of a Requiem, in a hotel lobby, somewhere down the line.

It's a whole different scene in Texas.

A hotel. Mahogany glossed walls. Red leather furniture. Halogen Lamps. Marble Floors. Candle Light. A pianist. Maserati's. BMW's. And Mercedes. One after the other. Espresso. Cappuccinos. Freshly Squeezed Orange juice. Prosecco. Bartenders in tuxedos and Waitresses in short blue dresses. Beverly Hills.

Sounds classy right?

Nothing ever is as it seems. Let me assure you of that.

2 girls enter the lobby. They are no older than 22 and their bodies are so emaciated that they have not developed past the age of 14, but at first glance, one might overlook their prepubescent appeal due to their double- D sized silicone breasts. Louis Vuitton bags hanging in the creases of their elbows (the only creases to be found anywhere on their bodies, mind you), sequined platforms weighing down their feathery, over tanned and probably unnaturally flexible little legs, and hair sprayed and curled stripper hair for days.

"We're from Texas." The blond one says condescendingly to the bartender. She is lost in her cell phone and is too busy to make eye contact as she establishes her position of power and financial prowess. "We used to bar tend, but now we work for our dad's. It's a really different scene in Texas." The brunette says punishingly as she peels a five dollar bill out of her Prada wallet and places it on the bar, smiling and insinuating just how much better her life is than his.

I am the server, thankful that these two didn't sit at one of my tables, I stand and watch out of the corner of my eye. They have secrets. I can tell. My arms are crossed behind my back and I have a smile on my face, but I am watching everything. I wonder if they know. I wonder how they really feel. What do their houses really look like? Do their father's know what their daughters are doing this 4th of July weekend? Why did these two prepubescent "heiresses" travel all the way to Beverly HIlls for the 4th of July weekend? It's not exactly what one would call a Mecca of patriotic celebration.

They shoot back their complementary Bellini's (a champagne and peach juice cocktail courtesy of the hotel for all guests who have just checked in) and I am surprised they don't ask for salt and a lime, but then again, they're from Texas, it's a really different scene out there.

And just like that out the doors they go, squealing as they greet Mr. Wong. I recognize Mr. Wong. He's a guest that has been staying at the hotel since it opened 3 weeks ago. I first became acquainted with him the day that I interviewed to work at this $750 a night hotel.

I waited at the front desk that day and spoke with the girl behind the counter who was not much younger than me and not much older than our prepubescent friends. It was while we were sharing our desire to make a difference in the world and how neither of us knew how we would eventually achieve that goal, that Mr. Wong strutted out of the elevator wearing yellow Ray Bans, a yellow cashmere cardigan and perfectly pressed white linen shorts. The matching yellow rosary he wears prominently around his neck assures him that God has his back. His own attitude is something he never worries about.

Before I could even thank my new friend behind the desk for her time, he pushed me out of the way. Housekeeping had been instructed to pick up ALL the dirty clothes OFF the floor in his room, but he found some socks under his bed! He was under the impression this was a five star hotel! It was in mid-sentence that his complaint came to a screeching halt. More important matters called. He noticed a mirror behind him and the reflection of his bulging calf muscle was enough to completely deter his focus just until the elevator doors opened and a blond and a brunette, wearing their club attire from the night before, greeted him giving him the Italian kind of hello. A kiss on each cheek with an ass grab, and all three went on the their marry way.

Mr. Wong clearly has a thing for the blond-brunette combo I think to myself 3 weeks later, after I am hired to work at this 5 star hotel and I watch the prepubescent duo limp out of the lobby due to the excessive weight of their Louis Vuitton purses and fall over into his Maserati.

I wonder how they know each other, but then my thoughts are distracted when a group of loud Spanish speaking men with unbuttoned neon shirts, loafers and Cartier watches strut through the doors. They go straight to the elevators and pose against their reflections as they wait to go up to their rooms. Mirrors are everywhere in this hotel. The people that stay here love to look at themselves, but surely only from a surface perspective.

My friend at the front desk calls me over and tells me that they would like me to bring a tray of Bellini's to their room. I collect the drinks from the bartender and stand in the elevator with blue velvet carpet as I wait to arrive at their floor. Mirrors surround me in the elevator. I can not escape the image of myself in uniform, holding a tray full of drinks.

I think to myself how strange hotels are. They are whatever you want them to be. A place to take vacations. A place to do business. A place to escape. A place to arrive. A place to make money. A place to lose money. A place to fulfill a fantasy. A place to tell a lie.

As I move upwards in this elevator I realize that today I am here to make money. I am a servant. But there was a time I rode upwards in an elevator towards a different destiny. Several different destinies in fact. Once a vacation with my family. Once a rendezvous with a man I thought I loved. Once to get ready for the wedding of my sister. How strange to realize the different roles we play in life and how our perspective shifts as a result.

I arrive at the door of the neon shirt wearing, boisterous Spanish men, I shake off my existential mind trip and I collect myself as I knock, wondering what I am about to see. I have never knocked on the door of strangers in a hotel before, knowing that I will be welcomed into their room. But, I know that when the door opens, I have my soul, and all I am doing is dropping off their drinks, what is there to fear?

I knock, the door opens, and the two men tell me to leave the tray of drinks. They don't tip me and they lay together, sharing a king sized bed. I leave the room and assume to me what seems to be the obvious. They are a couple and are on vacation. I leave hoping they enjoy their afternoon. I'm annoyed they didn't tip me, but clearly their not from the US and life goes on. I hope they're in love, I think to myself. That would make me feel better about life.

Now it is Sunday night, a few days later. The night before the 4th of July. The sun has not yet set, and the screeching wheels of a Masaratti catch my attention. In through the doors smack the Spaniards with the prepubescents in arms, like babies. Legs wrapped around the men's waste, they should have been sucking their thumbs, but then again, maybe they are saving that for later.

How did they meet I wonder? And I thought these men aren't into the female variety? The men look at me like I know something nobody else does. A quick look. A guilty glance, followed by an entitled order. "We want six of your best shots outside right now!" They stumble outside, giggling uncontrollably, pounding the keys of the grand lobby piano as they pass by, as if to let the world know they had arrived, and there is nothing anybody can do about it.

I rest my head against the wall as I wait for the bartender to make me their shots, wondering what the lesson I am supposed to learn from all of this is. The bartender places the 20 dollar shots down in front of me, I plaster a smile on my face as I carry the drinks outside. The girls are now draped across the laps of their dates, legs spread, with their 4g Iphones on the table, blasting Britney Spears latest hit. I place the drinks down, on fancy, Italian coasters, following the premium protocol, that somehow saves me from showing them how I truly feel.

"Are you married?" The brunette squeals out. Before I have a chance to answer, the blond knocks over her shot, just like a child spills their milk, and all of a sudden I feel like I work in a daycare. "No." I respond as I clean up her drink.

Then a neon Spaniard chimes in. "Well do you like guys with big teeth, because I have..." I cut him off. "No, I like guys with a big soul." Somehow feeling like I have triumphed.

Their laughter gets louder, but I feel better. The mere act of standing up for something is all one needs sometimes, regardless of whether or not the message appears to be received.

As I round the corner back to the bar, my friend from the front desk calls me over. "Hey, you know the deal with those two girls right?" She asks me.
"No." I reply.
"They're hookers."
"What?" I ask.
"Yeah, they're hookers. They've been here for three nights and different men have payed for their rooms every night. I'm pretty sure Mr. Wong is their pimp."

Me and Hector down by the Schoolyard.

I asked him if he carried a gun. He told me not anymore. If he gets caught with a gun one more time, he will go to prison for the rest of his life, and he can't afford for that to happen now that he has his four year old son. His four year old son, who is his pride and joy and reason for living. We don't have much longer to talk, me and the man who has been a part of a gang since he was 13. I'll call him Hector, because I don't know that he would like it if I shared his name, although I told him I wanted to share his story, and that's why I think he trusted me and that's also why I feel obligated to write this.

It’s my favorite part of LA. El Centro del Pueblo.That's where I've been doing my community service . A rec center for under privileged kids in Echo Park. Located on a street lined with murals of Quinceañeras and hip hoppers. And right down the way lives a park with a lake. A lake filled with floating odds and ends, where an enormous fountain spurts out of the middle, like the blowhole of a giant, air hungry whale. I like to imagine that in this park, where homeless couples sleep, an El Salvadorian man fishes, a shirtless, tattooed man plays catch with someone else’s child, and a group of Mexican guys in Cowboy hats play chess, a giant whale lives right beneath the surface of the water, exhaling with all his might, for all to acknowledge the beauty, the magic, and the originality of this part of town.

I just finished my 49 hour sentence yesterday. I made an illegal left hand turn and didn't pay the ticket in time and over the course of those 49 hours, I would say at least every hour that I've been community servicing, I've met some of the most interesting people a person could imagine. Angel, the 70 year old, Cuban ex-pat who always smells of cigars and reads tarot cards in between his Cuban Political meetings. Rudy, the Puerto Rican who just wants to find somebody to love, ever since he lost his wife five years ago. He claims he's been alone too long and he's sick of the hussies who just want to party all the time. Zeek, the half Jewish, half Mexican teenager who has a daughter and is an aspiring actor. He says he knows people who know people. And yesterday, I met Hector.

A black Dodger t- shirt with blue writing. Jean shorts. Bright white nikes. And a silver chain with a cross. He was on one side of the room and I was on the other. The only thing separating us was distance and carpet. A dormant slushie machine behind me and a slumbering TV behind him. We are both the favorites of the community service kids. All the other ones have to go down to neighboring South Central to clean. You know South Central, LA? Where like Ice Cube said, "they say the strong survive, but shit, in South Central, the strong even die." Hector and I get to sit in the front office and greet the people who come in off the streets looking for help. In the moments between crying grandmothers longing for their children to fill their empty homes, young fathers looking to find classes on parenting, and teenagers struggling with addiction and pregnancy, Hector and I get to talking.

I am a privileged white girl. Most people see me and judge me as such. And it's the truth. My dad is a doctor. I grew up in a big house in the mountains of Colorado. I was blessed with a college education. I'm lucky. On paper. But, what I never feel like I get to talk about is what it was really like. It's easy to see a pretty picture and pass it over as just a pretty picture rather than ask what lies beneath. So many times we do this with one another. Conversation stays on that easy, comfortable level, instead of submerging to a place where we realize, we really are all the same.

I wonder what Hector thinks of me. Maybe he thinks I've had it easy my whole life. Or maybe he knows the truth which is that none of us have it easy, no matter who we are or where we come from. An old friend once told me, "If we all put our cards on the table, none of us would want to switch hands." Maybe that's why I wasn't scared to ask Hector about his life. I had a feeling we had a lot in common although the exact circumstances under which we grew up couldn't have been more different. Isn't it true that we all experience it all in one way or another? Life. Death. Love. Sex. Intoxication. Sobriety. Family. Wealth. Poverty. Friendship. Beauty. Joy. Depression. Hate. Remorse. Suffering. Anger. Hope. Trust. Betrayal. Envy. Lust. Comfort. Serenity. The list continues... Isn't life a constant experience of passing states where we feel each one of these things sometimes one at a time and sometimes all at once?

So why did Hector and I have to be so different? Why couldn't we just be two human beings, sharing a room, and some company, and some life experience for both of us to pack with us and take on our ways forever? I trusted that if I loved him for being in a gang, he could love me for being a privileged white girl, and somehow our friendship unfolded from there.

Dios bendiga tu camino. A path paved in gold.

I woke up this morning and put on my one and only suit. A suit I never wanted to purchase in the first place, and in fact cried in the dressing room when I tried it on, feeling like the act alone was selling my soul. The bright orange color of the blouse and snake skin heels made me feel a little better, and I'm sure the purchase would not have brought me to tears had my purpose for buying it been in accordance with my heart.

Interesting how sometimes we must realize something a number of times before we actually listen to ourselves and make a change. I went for a hike two weeks before this trip and as I trudged up the hill, I clearly envisioned my future, and it had nothing to do with medical school.

I looked at myself in the mirror this morning and I felt like I didn't even recognize the girl looking back at me, and it wasn't because of the suit. It was my loss of direction and understanding.

So am I just supposed to show up there and tell them I don't want the golden ticket to a bright future? I think so. And does that make me crazy?

With an economy like this and my gender and my age, shouldn't I be thinking about my retirement like the mute man who lost his vocal chords due to cancer wrote on a pad of paper to me, next to his coffee request, while sitting at one of my tables the other day?

Why would I want to live a long life if the majority of it is spent living a lie? And it was this question that somehow allowed me to will myself into the taxi this morning, stumble across the cobble stone parking lot in my uncomfortable heels and constricting skirt, and tell the truth to the two women waiting to take me to my interview.

When the taxi driver dropped me off, I felt comforted when he referred to me as 'senorita.' Somehow that made me feel like there was still hope left. And the huge billboard that we passed on the way with an image of Jesus that said, "Dios bendiga tu camino" calmed my soul for just a minute. Although I would be lying if I said I didn't wonder, just for a second, if this was Gd telling me to suck it up and go to med school. But then the horrifying image of the skinned cadavers I was forced to inhale and examine yesterday flashed through my mind. And although the doctor I would meet with 20 minutes from this moment explained to me very poetically that part of the journey of a doctor is to face the reality of death and embrace the opportunity to get to know the human body, I still knew in my heart that this was somehow wrong.

A delusion. A desire to please my Father, my facebook friends and my deceased Grandfather, seek vengeance upon the ex-boyfriend who wronged me, his wife, and blast my ego to the world that not only am I capable of becoming a doctor, but I can do it in another language.

So there I sat at a round table, across from an accomplished professor/ doctor with a white board full of important facts behind him, in my new suit with an orange blouse. I have to admit admit a part of me thought how nice it would be to have meetings every day in a room with other colleagues. All dressed in suits. How important I would feel.

What would the doctor sitting across the table from me think if he knew I cried when I bought this suit? He probably would have told me I should have taken that as a sign. But when one's own ego is on a mission to prove something, signs, soulful signs, for that matter, seem to take a back seat.

It only took about five minutes for me to tell him my feelings and then it was over. He told me he was glad to meet me and I believed him. Strange how such intimate moments can happen with strangers, strangers you may never see again, yet are the carriers or vessels that receive and absorb your truth, and then send you on your way.

It was a long walk down a short corridor. He sat me down outside the office of the other doctor who was supposed to give me my "official" interview. He wanted to ensure she didn't want to make an exception and go ahead and interview me anyway. You see the interview cost $1500. $1500 I was not ready to pay. But apparently, to Dr. Maria Elena, her time was definitely worth that money, and I understood. I don't know if the interview would have been much of an interview anyway.

I watched longingly as I waited for her to come out of the office and send me on my way, the curvy Latin women, in their heels, with their lipstick and eyeliner, and tight clothes hugging so femininely their rolls of fat, and I felt filled with desire to be like that. I felt like a little girl climbing into her mother's makeup cabinet and playing with her lipstick, only I wasn't climbing anywhere. I was just sitting there day dreaming about what it would be like to someday be a professional. Wishing I could be one. Dr. Maria Elena never came out to interview me and I made my way out of La Universidad Autonoma de Guadalajara making my peace with the women in the suits, walking their yellow brick road.

How is it that I was wearing a suit and heels just like those other women, but they seemed so different? Could it be that behind those desks and under those clothes they feel just like me, only they are smart enough not to listen to their souls? Or are they living their purpose as I am living mine, and somehow we are both bringing clarity to one another as our high heels clop past each other?

Obviously my 3 minutes on the waiting room couch got a little existential, but who could blame a person for having an out of body experience when turning down what most look at as a path paved in gold, to go back to working in a restaurant in LA?

But as I walked through the streets of Tlaquepaque, a pueblo right outside Guadalajara, today with my loyal mother at my side, I couldn't help but start to see the colors again. I admired Constantino, the man who waited on us at lunch in a whole new way, wondering if he too had winced at the thought of a suit. Maybe he is the son of a famous mathematician, or something of the sort, who always encouraged him to become an engineer, or something of the sort. But, instead he, Constantino, has chosen his heart. To me those are the real soldiers. The ones not living for fame or fortune, but for their truth and liberation.

Skinned. In Guadalajara.

I'm sitting in my hotel room in Guadalajara, Mexico right now, reflecting on the past two hours of which may turn out to be the next two years of my life. How does one go about making a life changing decision? When do you know it's right to jump?

Dr. Mike. I think that was his name. Actually, I forgot his name, but I'll never forget his story. A tall, friendly, gray haired man with a pronounced nose and a North Carolina accent was waiting for me outside the door of his Pathology classroom this afternoon. His wedding ring and an underwater camera case for his kids who like to take underwater pictures were the only two character defining items I could pick out. The rest of him- all white. White scrubs, socks and shoes. Head to toe. A whole classroom full of these characters, almost like monks in a monastery.

40 students facing a slide show of T cells and clotted arteries, or something of the sort. A language I have long since forgotten, considering I haven't touched a science book in 3 years. 3 years ago when I decided I was going to follow my heart and stray from the straight and narrow. Now here I am, and my heart says, I want to help people, but I'm not sure this is the best way. I'm scared. That's all I know: my heart.

Formaldehyde. A scent I never thought I would have to endure again after my freshman biology pig dissection. It's not so much the dead body that bothers me, it's that scent. That heavy, pore seeping smell that I can almost taste and gives me the immediate visual of rotting tissue.

Sitting at an outdoor table, with yellow chairs, facing the windows of the library, crowds of medical students surrounding, smoking, complaining, maybe even flirting, but it was hard to tell. Those white uniforms are awfully dehumanizing. And there I sat talking to Dr. Mike.

It was his story that drew me in and left me thinking, maybe this wouldn't be so bad after all... So long as I could find a friend here like him... Someone who seemed to be a little human.

Raised in Panama city. A military brat. The son of a father who told him he couldn't. He couldn't go to college. He couldn't be anything more than a construction worker. So he descended into a life of drugs and alcohol and lived out of his car. The forest ranger who visited him every morning and sometimes brought him a doughnut one day asked him how he was going to get himself out of this situation. Dr. Mike told him he was going to make a million dollars. The forest ranger laughed at him, but Mike had only a dream to hold onto at that point, and why not dream big? Time passed. His experience with construction grew, and he woke up one day at 25 with a wife and kid. And then the next day, he only had a kid. His wife left him. So there he was, a single father with someone else's future in mind. Funny how when we begin to live for someone else, our true power sometimes manifests itself.

So it was then he mastered the art of the construction business. He had 4 of them. And his bank account reached the 1 million mark. But somehow, something was missing. Maybe it was helping others. Maybe it was school that could help him do that he thought, after all, that was all he had ever wanted to do as a kid... So, he began the process of applying. When they asked him about his SAT scores, he couldn't even remember what the SAT was. It had been over 10 years ago that he took the exam. In fact, he wasn't even sure if he took it. Well, when he received an irate phone call from the woman in the University admissions office telling him to get into her office immediately, he assumed, school was out of the question. But, the source of her anger was due to the fact that a person like him, who scored a 1550 on his SAT, wasn't in school earlier. 2 and a half years and a scholarship later, he was graduating with a degree in Microbiology and a wedding ring on his finger to an aspiring writer and English teacher.

His businesses continued to grow, and 1 million dollars in the bank grew to some other number, two more children were born, and it was after a spontaneous trip of luxury to the Poconos with his wife that Dr. Mike realized he was still was unsatisfied. Sure he could pick up at any time, go anywhere and buy anything, but something else was missing. What was it? Fufillment in his job. Giving back to humanity in his every day life. So that's when he sold everything, packed his kids and wife in the car, and moved down to Guadalajara, Mexico with nothing but a trailor in tow to become a doctor. Now, he's almost done with his second year, and says that becoming a doctor and moving to this country was the best decision he ever made.

I couldn't help but ask him if he was a spiritual man. His response was a quick and definite, "Yes. Everyone is on this planet for a reason." And then he plotted out the next 10 years of his life. He will join the air force, have them pay off his medical debt, and then move to Europe to repay his time, becoming a captain, surpassing his father's rank, and then his life will have come full circle.

As much as this story felt like it had a perfect arc, there was a part of it that made me feel like I was in prison. Is this what I have in store for me? Should I just sign my life away and and become a soldier? Is that what becoming a responsible adult is all about? He had a different career before all of this. He clearly has a multifaceted personality, he made it work,. Can I too? Can I make this sacrifice, living in a place without any friends, family, glitz or glamour?

I've preached for so long about how none of that matters, and now here I find myself facing the possibility of selling everything and literally existing as myself, a pair of white scrubs, and a set of books. Part of that sounds liberating, but the other part of it sounds like it could kill me. Kill my spirit. I love color, music, soul. Am I superficial?

So there I was, giving Dr. Mike a hug goodbye, thanking him for his story, and then within the blink of an eye, I was being ushered down a sidewalk lined in cement walls with steel chimney/ vents. One after the other. I knew we were headed for death, just by the walkway. Rounding the corner I could smell the formaldehyde. The 1970s yellow color of the doorway reminded me of a dated horror movie, like Poltergeist, and when I was handed off to the anatomy professor, in the blue smock, and white gloves, with the lazy eye, I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't actually in a horror movie. He almost shook my hand too, even though his hands had most definitely just been inside someone's intestines.

I saw a pair of ankles peaking out of the doorway from which he exited. There must have been some fairly gruesome dissecting going on in there because I watched him consciously decide to take me into the room right next door where only 2 skinned, dead people rested on the table. Organs, teeth and hair. That was all that remained. How strange that the spirit leaves and the body remains. I had no idea where to look. "Should I look in his lazy eye, or his normal eye? There are skinned corpses on either side of me, be tough Sarah, if you're going to be a doctor, you better be able to handle this." These were the thoughts racing through my head as the formaldehyde seeped deeper into my nasal cavity. As he showed me the heart, the stomach and the intestines, I felt myself wanting to puke and say a prayer all at once.

He opened up the body with such ease. He was totally un-phased by the heart. He put everything back carefully when he was done and then touched his forehead when he wished me well and told me he would be my professor in January if I decided to attend the University. I was thankful he touched his forehead. It felt like a spiritual gesture in the midst of what was a horrific ten minute span.

So here I sit, looking out the window of my hotel room in Guadalajara. It's hot out, but the air is so heavy it looks like it's cold. When does one know when to jump? Don't worry, I'm not talking about jumping out of the hotel window, I'm talking about jumping off the proverbial leap of faith cliff. When does one run towards the fear or flee from it? Is my heart aching because I'm abandoning myself or is it because I'm afraid of taking a risk? At least I know one thing for sure, I will not be becoming an anatomy professor any time soon!