Somewhere Between East and West

When I first made the big move to L.A., I remember thinking to myself that I would only be gone for a year. I thought of it as just another one of my study abroad trips, only this time I would be gone twice as long and only half as far. Not to mention, that the upcoming year was to be one of hard work, determination and undisturbed concentration. I had made the decision to go back to school before I had even finished my initial college degree and in order to do so, I had signed away my life to Sallie Mae in the form of loans I would be paying off until the age of 46. Between my full time student schedule, my four internships, and my part time job, there was little time left for making lifelong friends. Sure, I had become friendly with a few co-workers and fellow students, but none that I was calling up at 11 o'clock at night to tell about my 4.0 gpa for the semester or the cute guy at Starbucks that asked for my number.

The thing is, it didn't really bother me all that much either. I don't think I really had the time to care, to tell you the truth. Besides, I had my "real friends" back home that I could call or text when the important things came up. However, a year later when I found myself with a full time job offer ( more to come ) and a full time relationship ( much more to come ), things began to change. A year turned into two years in the blink of an eye, and the word "home" had slowly begun to switch coasts. Do not get me wrong, a big part of my heart will always lie with my friends and family back East. To this day when we get together it is as if no time has passed at all. We talk as if we were continuing a conversation from the day before and act as if we will be seeing each other again in the days to come.

Yet, when you are MIA for 85% of the year, it is hard to remain as up-to-date and involved in someone's life as you once were. Hell, I lived with my best friend at one point and while to this day, we still talk regularly and visit each other when funds and time permit, we will never be as close as when we shared a wall back in Apt 7212 the year before our college graduation. It is not a sign of a declining friendship, but rather just a part of life. As we grow up and try to find our way in this crazy world, we must sometimes travel a great distance to follow our dreams. Unfortunately, this sometimes results in distancing ourselves from those we once found closest as well.

At the same time I began having a hard time with the idea of drifting further and further from my childhood friends, I was realizing that the preoccupations of both my educational and career goals had somewhat stunted my west coast friendships from flourishing as well. Visiting a new city and finding people with whom you can grab a coffee or catch a movie is simple enough, but building a life in a city thousands of miles from home with people you can call at 11 o'clock at night to talk about the business you want to start or the man you want to marry, well, that's not as simple.

So here I am, somewhere between east and west, between friends and strangers. 

Riding the Bus with my Soulmate

 The other night, as I was leaving work with a colleague of mine, we began to make small talk as we strolled down the street on the way to our respective bus stops. As single women, obviously, one of the first topics to come up was that of men. Over the course of our conversation, she happened to drop a little statistic that I found particularly interesting. "Did you know that public transportation is one of the top five ways that people meet their significant others?," she said. Now, she had to have seen the  "bitch you must be crazy look" that came to my face, as she tried to justify her statement by swearing to me that she had read it somewhere. Now, I am by no means trying to kill the dream for those of you who still buy your metro passes religiously each Sunday with the hopes of encountering Mr. Right while trying to balance your coffee and ipod on your morning train ride. However, I will say that I have been all over this globe and ridden all sorts of public transportation. I was threatened to be stabbed on the metro in Paris, I slept on an ironing board disguised as a bed on one of those over night trains on my way to Denmark, all the while hoping not to wake up with the weird lady from Utrecht lying next to me and I have even ridden the bus next to a woman holding a chicken in the middle of Latin America. Yet, nothing has compared to the unique array of experiences I have had while utilizing the L.A. public transportation system. Seeing as this is a blog and not a book, I will not relay to you every encounter, but instead I have selected, what I believe to be, L.A. public transportation's top three eligible bachelors:

1. The Kobe Beef Guy: On the day that I happened to have the pleasure of meeting Mr. Kobe, the bus was particularly crowded and so we had both been forced to stand and hold onto the same pole for balance.  I was staring out the window, trying to figure out where we were and how much longer it would take me to get to work (seeing as I was, of course, running late) when all of a sudden I felt something sweaty on my hand. Giving Mr. Kobe the benefit of the doubt that the bus had hit a bump and caused his hand to slide down the pole, I politely slid mine down as well, attempting to put a good amount of distance between my hand and his in order to avoid future contact with those clammy bad boys. The only problem is, I don't think he understood that I didn't want to hold his sweaty, germ infested hand because we continued to play this little cat and mouse game all the way from Crenshaw to Fairfax. Finally we made akward eye contact as he looked me up and down (not at all hiding what he was doing, mind you) and said, "mmmmmmmmhhhmmmm. Girrrrrrrrrrl, you fine. Hows about we, you know, go on a date some time? You like sushi? We can go get some sushi. Hows about dat Kobe beef? I bet you like you some Kooooooooobeee beef. Uh huh, yeah dats right, I know how to take a woman out and treat her right. You stick with me and I'll set you up girl. Two words: Kobe beef." Now, as a young, single woman, I have, of course, received dinner invitations before, but I can safely say that this is the first and only time I have ever been propositioned with the promise of pure grade A beef. I mean, how I was able to turn down such a catch, and such a great meal, I just don't know. Seeing as he would not stop heckling me, I decided to turn to the oldest shut down in the book, "Sorry, but I have a boyfriend." To which Sir Kobe replied, "Oooooooh you got a boyfriend?? I bet you do, you is a finnnnee bitch. But girl look at you just jumping the gun. I'm just talking about dinner, but see you want me. Oh, you is a FREAKKKKKKK. Ladies and gentleman, we got ourselves a FREAKKKKKK on the bus! Baby, it's okay, I would want me to if I was in your shoes. It gets cold at night, I can keep you warm after we we finish dinner. Koooobbeeeee beeeef." Thank god, the bus arrived at my stop just as my face was reaching lobster status and the entire bus was left giggling. Even thinking about it now, I'm really not sure how I was able to run off the bus without turning around to get his number and cash in on my beef, but maybe I guess if it is truly meant to be, one day our paths will cross again.

2. The Man who Chews Sticks (yet has money to buy People Magazine): Again, there I was, sitting on the bus, minding my own business, sharing some quality time with Gaga before having to go into work when I was brought back from the edge of glory by a man half sitting down on the seat next to me and half sitting down in my lap. "Excuse me, so sorry," he said, as he slid fully into the seat next to me and smiled, exposing his missing front teeth. I smiled back and resumed my jam session when all of a sudden I took a sharp elbow to the boob. My head darted back towards the man only to see that he now sat with his legs crossed, chewing on a a stick (yes, people, a stick - like a twig that fell off a tree). The jab I felt was because he had attempted to pull the People Magazine from his man bag and wasn't paying attention when he pulled his arm back. "No problem," I said and smiled again as I once more exercised a futile attempt to go to the edge of glory. Naturally, no sooner had I put the earbud back in my ear did I feel a tap on my shoulder. I looked over at the man who was now laughing and screaming how I looked like a celebrity. "Look!" he said. "Look here! You look like this girl here. This myyyy guuuuuuuurl! Uhhh! God Dayyyyyummmm. You must have been sent to me by the universe, you gots to gimme yo digits so we can make something happen." Now, I realize that beauty is in the eye of the beholder and that we all see and interpret things in different ways. However, seeing as I have a butt the size of Russia, hair as dark as the Kardashians and a skin tone that has caused several people to ask if I am Puerto Rican, I'm really not sure how he thought that Madonna and I resembled one and other, but that's neither here nor there. The man was so convinced that we were twins that he got up from his seat and began walking up and down the aisles asking each passenger if they felt that I resembled the woman in the magazine. Luckily, as he reached the back of the bus, we reached my stop and I was able to dart out the double doors only to see his toothless smile turn to a frown and the twig drop from his lips as he yelled to the driver "not to let his soulmate get off the bus without saying goodbye". Luckily the bus driver took pity on my poor soul and drove off without paying any mind to Twiggy.

3. The Man who Shits in his Shirt: Now, I must admit that I, myself, was not so privileged as to have met this fine fellow, but this story came to me from a very reputable source and so I believe every word and have decided that his tale is so epic it would be a crime not to share it with you fabulous folks. So there my friend was just casually standing on a street corner in downtown, patiently waiting for her bus to arrive when she noticed, what appeared to be, a homeless man out of the corner of her eye. She quickly looked away and stared down the road, hoping that she would see her bus begin to peek out from around the corner. Upon realizing that her bus was nowhere in sight, she backed away from the curb and turner her head around, only to see the man unbuckling his belt and pulling down his pants. He had laid a shirt against the wall of a building and began to squat with his bare ass up against the wall. Half disgusted and half frozen from mortification, she stood frozen in her tracks and felt her lunch beginning to work its way  up into her esophagus. She then (and I kid you not folks) witnessed the man take a shit into the shirt. Once he was finished, he then took the shirt over to the garbage, emptied its contents, folded it back up and put it into his backpack. As my poor friend looked back down the road, she sighed in relief as she saw the bus coming down the block. When it arrived she climbed aboard and began depositing her change when she noticed the Shirt-Shitter get on behind her and begin rustling for change to pay his fare (I am assuming that he must have had somewhere important to go, seeing as he felt his dollar fifty would be better spent on LA public transportation than on a burger from the dollar menu so he could use the restroom).

Now, I am not trying to be the typical single, female, New York born and bread, cynic, but if one of the top five places to meet people in L.A. is riding public transportation and the best they have to offer are beef enthusiasts and shirt shitters, I think my time might be better spent trying to like cats than trying to locate Mr. Right.

Hello, Have We Met Before?

Two years ago I stood on the corner of Rue de la Tremoille, just off the Champs-Elysees and watched my parents' faces slowly drift away through the tiny window at the rear of a taxi cab. As I waved my arm back and forth amidst the cold October air, I had not the faintest idea as to what exactly I was saying goodbye to. At that point in my life, goodbye was still just a word, one whose entire meaning was still somewhat unbeknownst to me. On that day, on that street, in that moment I said goodbye to my father forever.

Two years ago yesterday fate found it necessary to take him from this world unexpectedly, without the slightest warning sign as to its plans. When I returned to New York for the funeral, it didn't seem real. His car still sat in the driveway ready for him to leave for work the next morning, his coffee cup still sat at his desk half full waiting for him to return for the last few drops and his cologne still hung in the air as if I would turn the corner and see him fussing with his tie. I don't know what came over me but I spent the next few days rummaging through everything I could find. I didn't know what I was looking for or what I was hoping to find, I just kept scouring. I think I thought that maybe I would open some small, secret box full of answers, but, in fact, the only thing I seemed to find were more questions.

I learned a lot about my father when he passed (some of which I think I had rather not known), but even so, I found myself confronted by so many questions that I would never know the answers to. There were so many things that no one would ever know about him, so many things that died on that December night with him. I couldn't help but to wonder how I could have lived with a man for 20 years and only scratched the surface of who he truly was, how I could have shared blood with someone and yet felt as though he was still somewhat of a stranger to me.

People think they know someone by looking at them, talking to them, going to school with with them and even by going to bed with them. However, truth be told, how well do we ever really know anybody whose path crosses our own? How well will they ever really know us?

On that night my father laid in bed struggling to bring air into his lungs, the night my mother desperately tried to resuscitate him, the night my sister fought with her trembling hands to dial 911, the night my youngest sister awoke to the sight of my father being carried out of the house on a stretcher, and that same night that I danced atop a Dutch bar unaware that my life was unraveling thousands of miles away, we all changed. That one night changed everything, and yet that one night was still just one night, only one piece of who we became, of what we have encountered within our lives.

I'm sure at one point or another people have looked at us and judged us without knowing where we were coming from. Likewise, I'm sure people have looked at us and judged us because of where we were coming from. Everyone's road has bumps in it, some of us just hit them sooner than others. Thus, making it difficult for us to relate to one and other from time to time. I hope that this blog is able to entertain you, even just a little, but if I can also leave you with one meaningful message, I would want it to be this: people are the way they are for reasons. My time with my father was cut short  and for this reason, it will always be a little bit harder for me to allow myself to get close to someone, to put aside my fear of losing them in exchange for the possibility of gaining something wonderful, even if only for a little bit. However, with that being said, I have also learned to look at people in a new way; to ask questions and to question answers.  No one's story is printed on their face. You will only ever know as much about a person as you are willing to discover and you will only ever encounter truth when you have gained trust.

I'm in love with a man named Martine. . .

The most important man in the single gal's life is not her father, her brother, her boyfriend, her best friend, her trainer or even her bartender. . .it's her maintenance man. Trust me, ladies and gents, laugh all you want, but I speak the truth. Ever since I've embarked on this great adventure of living alone, I have been met with a great many challenges that have helped me to grow as a strong, independent, self assured young woman. However, that being said, there have also been quite a few times where, even I, will admit that it would have been nice to have a man around (i.e. to be my wing man during the great roach incident). Well, ask and you shall receive folks because lo and behold the universe looked down, took pity upon my poor single soul and sent me the greatest gift a girl could ask for. . .Martine.

I remember the first day we met. The sun was shining, birds were chirping, flowers were blooming and there was a sweet summer breeze that filled the air. I had just moved in and the building manager had called me to her office to retrieve a rather large package that had been delivered for me. When I got there, I realized that it was the infamous futon that I had decided would serve as my bed.
Once the building manager awkwardly asked me where my boyfriend/fiance was to help me carry the box and was then shocked to find out that I possessed neither, she started rambling off in Spanish about "girls today" and began feeling around her cluttered desk for her walkie-talkie. It was then that she called to the heavens and summoned down the angel, Martine to help me. Now, me, being the stubborn ass that I am, insisted that I could handle the situation by myself (Note: this office that I had to go to is in fact across the street in my complex's sister building). So, there I was dragging this massive piece of crap out the double doors and into the street. Well, the manager must not have had faith in my capabilities (not that I blame her) and called for Martine anyways - and thank goodness because as I attempted to pull the futon off the curb and into the street, I stumbled over the curb myself, lost my grip on the box and wound up sprawled out in the street, underneath that friggin futon. As I laid there, preparing to see the white light. . .or get laughed at by passerbys my savior, Martine arrived.

Now, Martine is by no means a Roman god, but rather a little old Spanish man with a white santa beard, a beer gut and a balding head covered up by an old, faded baseball cap. However, he has a little heart of gold, god bless his soul. He ran right over and lifted the box off of me, helping me to my feet. He smiled and in broken English scolded me for taking it by myself. As he lifted the box with great ease and led me across the street to my apartment, he lectured me about what was and was not safe for chicas to be doing.  When we finally reached my door, I thanked him profusely and reached to give him a hug. Well, I don't know if I honored him or scared the shit out of him because the look in his eyes was definitely friendly and yet, freaked the fuck out at the same time. After that, I continued to wave to him and ask him about his day when I saw him. I've even met his daughter and chatted about Dora the Explorer. At first, I thought he took a liking to me because I was the only person in the building who was under the age of 40 and didn't look like Rick Ross, but then I realized that I'm pretty sure I'm just the only person that ever says hi to him and asks him about his day - and let me tell you what folks - I don't even go to that office anymore. Martine picks up my packages from the office before I even get notified that they have arrived and leaves them inside my apartment for me. If I need a lightbulb changed or a drain unclogged I need not wait an hour before my needs are attended to. He even opens the laundry room for me after hours if I run out of panties and need to run an emergency late night load. I've never considered myself much of a a good Catholic, but let me tell you I thank God every day for sending me that man. We've only just met, but I think this is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

I fought the roach. . .and the roach won

Living by yourself, especially as a woman, there are countless moments where you find self-assurance and great accomplishment in the completion of the minutest of tasks. Hell, putting together a futon made me feel like I could have built the sphinx. However, with that said, there is also the occasional moment where you find yourself wishing you had an extra hand around the house. For instance, oh i don't know, maybe like when you find yourself in the midst of a mexican standoff with a cockroach!
So, there I was one fine evening, minding my own business, attempting to take care of some school work, when I casually looked up from my book to see a rather large and suspicious figure looking up at me from the table. Yes folks, it was. . .a cockroach. The little fucker had me so scared I couldn't move for ten minutes, then I realized I had to take action before he got away and rallied his friends to come attack. I slowly closed the textbook sitting in my lap, raised it and slammed it down. Freaked out by the fact that the man cave had been invaded by one of these disgusting little suckers and scared shitless at the idea that by some chance he had survived the impact and would come out from the shadows to seek revenge, I piled every book I could find on top of the one I had used as a weapon and quickly grabbed my sweater and purse and fled the scene of the crime.
My heart was racing as I flew down the street, making a direct bee line for the 24 hour grocery where I was determined to find a stronger, more effective weapon than a marketing textbook. I stood in the "home and hardware" aisle for at least a good 15 minutes staring at a wall full of bug bombs, roach sprays and flea traps, trying to figure out my next move. Then, all of a sudden a little Spanish man appeared and began to finger through the various bottles of Raid before picking up the one that I had sitting in my basket. Ah hah! I had found a man who held the answers to all my questions! I creepily inched towards him and smiled. When he smiled back my diarrhea of the mouth caught up with me as I spilled the entire story of my evening and asked him just how effective this spray stuff would be. While he stared at me with "well ya freakin weirdo" eyes, he assured me that the spray should be fine but if I really wanted to make sure those suckers weren't coming back I should invest in the bug bomb. As I went on reading the bug bomb labels, my poor little bewildered friend fled the aisle and left me to my own internal debate about just how badly I wanted to make sure these little suckers knew who was the boss of apartment 204. After another 20 minutes of deliberation, I finally decided that Raid would be my weapon of choice (not so much because I didn't think that the bug bomb was necessary, but more so because have you ever read the back of those things?! I was too afraid that I was going to wind up exterminating myself in the process). So, I made my purchase and began the walk home, when my stomach began to twist. What if he survived? What if his family found him dead and now they were going to seek revenge? I couldn't go back. They were waiting. So, I went to Starbucks to prolong my return. I even debated going to a movie. Hell, the thought of surrendering the apartment all together and letting the roaches take over even crossed my mind. Then, I slapped myself back to reality, put on my big girl panties and walked home.
When I finally got to the door, it took me a good few minutes to actually bring myself to revisit the scene of the crime, but as I entered it seemed as though all was as I had left it. I quickly whipped out the Raid before I even had a chance to remove my sweater and began spraying every doorway, window and corner of the apartment. When the job was done, I sat down on my futon (that I built with my bare hands) and took a look around the man cave. I had defended myself against the roaches without help from anyone. I was going to be okay. I'm telling you its those little things that give you the confidence necessary to take on the greater things in life (even though I continue to fully Raid the apartment once a week and it took me a good two weeks to actually lift the books that had killed the little guy and deal with the scene of the massacre.)

Welcome to the Man Cave

While I may have embraced the man cave lifestyle, I have not exactly been quick to show off my humble bachelor pad just yet (call me crazy but I figured I should probably wait until the visitor in question at least had a chair to sit on and glass to drink from). I let one friend come up a week after I moved in while she waited for me to finish getting ready for the bar, and god bless her soul she lied to me the whole time telling me how cute everything was (I'd like to thank the $5 bottle of CVS wine for those complements). However, all visitors (and by all I mean 2) have not been so embracing of the situation. 

A few nights ago, I went to see a friend perform his comedy act downtown. Afterwards, since I lived in the area, I invited him back to hang out for a little. Now, due to the fact that I had more whiskey than sense in me at the time, I forgot that the man cave wasn't exactly ready for visitors, but I figured I was dealing with a dude. Dudes don't realize or care about things like that, right? I mean to them, an apartment is an apartment, a bed is a bed, and any decoration that doesn't involve a picture of Scarface or a playboy bunny is a waste of money and wall space. . . ummmm, not so much, as I quickly discovered.
Before we even set foot inside of the apartment, I heard the words "Oh my god" muffled between slight chuckles. He then proceeded to give me a lecture on the Walmart futon I was using to sleep on and about how a bed is something you use everyday for multiple activities and an entity which really merits investment in a quality piece of furniture. Woops. I wound up telling him that I had a real bed being delivered soon to shut him up. . .that was a lie. I'm sorry I'm not sorry that instead, I do have a pair of the cutest little lace up booties on the way! Which stands to reason why the walk in closet is the one decorated room in the apartment.
I mean, looking back in hindsight, I should have put 2 and 2 together. I had been to his apartment before and unlike my man cave, he had more of a man hut. Not quite the man palace, but definitely a few steps up from the man cave. I mean, for christ sakes the man had a vacuum and a rug cleaning machine ( I mean, in comparison to my place I was impressed that he had furniture period but I figured you guys might need a little more convincing). My visit even came complete with a cup of hot cocoa. I might as well have checked into the four seasons. Now, while the man cave is far from being a "home" just yet, it is not like I am living like a complete dude. I mean, I can still vividly remember, and I kid you not, waking up my sophomore year of college on an air mattress on the floor  in the midst of a true man cave. I sat up to see what time it is, and to my surprise found the air mattress acting as an island in the middle of a huge body of water.What's worse is, when I began shaking him furiusly to let him know a pipe must have burst or something, he told me to calm down and go back to sleep, that they had had that problem for weeks and would maybe eventually fix it, but for now as long as they wore shoes it wasn't that big of a deal. Ladies and Gentleman I swear I speak the truth. I mean I may not own a vacuum (or even a rug to vacuum just yet) but at least I know I won't be floating away in the middle of the night! Plus, I did wind up upgrading slightly and making the hot cocoa investment for the cave. Even so, I think a little trip to Ikea may be required before I introduce anyone else to the cave of manliness. 

Emergency Room Epiphanies

There's nothing like a casual trip to the ER to put your life into perspective. Yesterday, after posting a new blog entry for all you fabulous followers, I started to get ready for work when I decided it would be a good idea to throw a few curls into my hair. Sounds like a pretty lame start to the day, right? Don't worry, it gets better. Anyways, seeing as the man cave has yet to be fully decorated, there is only one small rug in the bathroom, thus leaving a good deal of tile floor exposed. Normally this wouldn't matter except for the fact that I have, since birth, had this chronic problem of flooding the bathroom when I shower. It does not matter how high the bathtub is, how large the shower curtain is, how secure the shower door is -- I will still find a way to create a small lake outside of the bathing area. As was the case yesterday when I seemed to install a small swimming pool in my bathroom after my morning shower. Seeing as I was in a bit of a hurry, I wasn't exactly paying attention (another pretty big problem of mine) and seemed to miss the pool, fall and take a curling iron to the face. Yes folks, I slapped myself in the face with the curling iron.
As I quickly scrambled to my feet and over to the mirror to assess the damage, slews of curse words poured from my mouth and tears began to fill my eyes, I watched as my chin and lip began to change color and double in size. I was certain that my future would now consists of part time acting gigs as "the blob" and guest appearances in the circus as "the girl with no lips" (I'm not dramatic at all lol). Furthermore, seeing as I had just moved from across the country I had no idea what the hell to do next. First of all, I don't have a freaking doctor yet, second of all LA is kinda weird I didn't know if they had heard of things like First Med before, and the lastly, the thought of having to walk into an emergency room and be "that girl" amongst people with actual problems was mortifying. So, I did what any other strong, self-respecting, independent woman of the world would do. . .I called my Mommy. After sending a series of mortifying pictures that have already been erased so as to never again be seen by human eyes, she was able to show them to some doctors who told me I needed to see a plastic surgeon straight away. Like what?! Anyway, I began asking anyone and everyone I knew in LA if they knew of anyone. I mean, what else was I going to do? I usually turn to google for problem such as this, but I figured if I tried to google "plastic surgeons in LA" my computer would explode from all the search results. I mean I'm pretty sure my freaking maintenance man does plastic surgery on the side. Long story short, one of my friend's Dads turned out to be a doctor and he said I needed to go to an emergency room and have someone look at me in person asap to assess the damage.
So, there I was, on a bus to Cedars-Sinai, in the middle of LA, by myself about to play the role of "that girl." I got to the emergency room and tried not to laugh at myself as I explained the story to the check-in lady and two different nurses before finally taking a seat in the waiting area. Now, I have never been good in hospitals. Doctors make me nervous, germs freak me out, and past encounters give me looming anxiety. As I sat there next to people coughing, bleeding and crying, I felt my stomach slowly tying itself in knots. And then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, I burst out in tears. Not because I was afraid of what the doctors might say about my face, or because of the past traumatic experiences that I associate with hospitals, but instead because I didn't know who I was going to list as my emergency contact. For the past four years of my life, it had always been my best friend, with whom I shared an apartment and pretty much everything in my life. Now, I was in a a new city, with new people, and pretty much new god damn everything, EXCEPT a new emergency contact. Now, please folks, give me a little credit, the tears of course did stem from the deeper issue of moving away from everyone close to me, rather than jus having to give some cocamame name to put on a piece of paper in case I passed out before the doctor discharged me. But none the less, it forced me to put a lot of things into perspective. When I walked out of the hospital, I still missed my friends and family and would have given anything to see one of their faces when I walked out of those automatic doors, but at the same time there is something to be said for the reassurance in your ability to take care of yourself and stand strong as an independent individual in this whirlwind world in which we live.