I met my oldest niece Z shortly after she was born in Chicago. It was about 18 years ago and my first visit to the Windy City. The only thing I really remember from that trip was how tiny she was. I have all these bits and pieces of her chronology in my head, but in my mind’s eye she’ll always be the happy-go-lucky two-year-old who fell over backwards from the weight of a parka I put on her. Instead of crying, she broke out in squeals of laughter.
I think unless you have children living with you, you don’t realize just how quickly time evaporates. Sixteen years vanish in a blink of an eye, and on this day I find myself at Z’s high school graduation dinner. It’s funny, I know she’s about to turn 18, but at the head of the table I still expect to see a toddler and not a young adult…with a boyfriend no less!
Her mom had organized the dinner at Crustaceans, a fusion Vietnamese restaurant in Beverly Hills because it is owned by Z’s late father’s cousin. Many of the black/white photographs on the restaurant’s walls are of Z’s paternal ancestors, tracing back to imperial roots. Dinner, attended by Z’s maternal family, is here as a nod to Z’s paternal side of the family, and we all feel Z’s dad’s (Anh Tú) spirit tonight.
For dinner we have asparagus/crab soup…
salad with VN dressing…
grilled fish with tumeric and dill (chả cá)…
bò lúc lắc (“shaking” grilled beef) …
all served with fragrant jasmine rice and garlic noodles…
It is a lovely dinner, with the adults on one end of the table reminiscing about what was and the kids on the other end laughing about what’s to come. My sister’s husband’s cousin asks her how it feels to have a child graduating from high school, and as she replies, in the moment I suddenly feel immense pride for her. When I wrote earlier that I always see Z as a little girl, it is because I have a distorted view of what is. Often when I think about my sisters, I still see us as a bunch of kids goofing around at home, even though I know we are adults with our own families. How did my big sister whom I horrified by punching her best friend’s little brother in the gut (though she always supported my decision to do this) in elementary school raise a child for 18 years…and survived it? I can barely manage to look after two cats. I’ve written before that my parents amaze me for having raised 3 kids under immense circumstances, but to see my sisters, who are my generational peers, raise kids…that’s a whole other kind of freak-out realization.
My father sees Anh Tú’s gait in the way Z strides across the floor, her straight shoulders full of confidence and reminiscent to my mother of Anh Tú’s posture. The marvel of genetics, however, is no clearer to me than in her mouth and smile, the two traits I remember most clearly about her dad. So in watching this beautiful young woman that my niece has become, we all feel the nearness of the departed.
So kids, if you see a bunch of adult relatives looking at you with tears glimmering behind their eyes, they’re not on drugs. It’s because you make them feel old. Just kidding…sortof. The truth is they wish you could stay their babies just a little longer.
It’s been almost five weeks since I started the bootcamp program to tone up my body. I’m here to report that I’ve put on two pounds, my jeans feel tighter and looser in different parts, and the 6-pack abs are still nowhere to be found. This is where I’m reminded of an YouTube video on how to fake abs. If I assessed my body’s jiggliness quotient (JQ) as cottage cheese level those five weeks ago, I’d say I’ve successfully upgraded to jello. Sigh. So the mochi I ate probably didn’t help my cause any either. Who knows, maybe in 4 more weeks my JQ will be at mochi level. For now, I’ll keep telling myself that I’m slowly building muscle mass and see what happens at the end of my bootcamp in mid-June.
I’ll admit I do feel stronger, more energized, and that’s enough to keep me vested in the program. The body image issue, however…well, instead of moping over my own theory of relativity (freefall from aging + inertia also from aging = long sleeves + lower hemlines) (is it any wonder I’m blogging about travel and fashion and not physics?), I exact my revenge on gravity with some retail therapy on the westside. Beverly Hills to be exact. How about we test out the gravitational pull between the boutiques and my checkbook?
I’ve probably driven down Wilshire Blvd a thousand times, and this is how it looks and sounds on a very windy day:
No, I don’t bury my sorrows in hard drinks doled out by seedy bartenders in dark bars (that’s only appropriate for birthdays). I prefer to escape in boxes upon boxes of Manolos and Louboutins showered upon me by my favorite shoe guy at Saks–doesn’t the store look all sunny and innocent on the outside…
when all kinds of sins of gluttony are committed inside?
I won’t confess to my own sins (what happens at Saks stays at Saks…er, in my closet) but how about I take you on a drive instead:
Lest you think it’s all rosy posy in this part of town, even the F word (foreclosure) has been whispered here–look closely at that yellow sign below:
And like any other American town, there are typical schools
and boring storefronts
just blocks down the tony bubble of my sweet escape.
Tags: Beverly Hills, Chanel, Louboutin, Manolo, Rodeo Drive, Saks
