i saw some guy's balls tonight!

it didn't require me to get any unsuspecting individual drunk.
or necessitate dishing out any money.
and most notably, i didn't even have to ask.

in an effort to detoxify myself of my recently escalading quarterlife depression, a counselor recommended i try yoga.

now, we rodriguezs do not exercise. the doctors in our family subscribe to the notion that we are born with only a certain number of heartbeats, and by exercising, thereby raising one's heart rate, we are just setting ourselves up to die sooner.

but i've been so wound up lately that i thought yoga might have some takeaways on relaxing and breathing the way a normal individual -- one who isn't balancing academic trouble with single-handedly holding her family together and deciding the rest of her life in the next two weeks, might do.

so i dug out the black yoga pants (the ones i bought on a whim about four years ago when i first failed to become a yoga connoisseur) stuffed in the back of my dresser drawer, put them on, and dragged my ass to the studio. i always dress for the occasion.

ladies and gentleman: tonight's ineptitude is only matched by my ability to screw up tanning (see fake baking).

i'm not sure why i have no problem writing a doctorate level thesis while in college on the severity of psychopathology in comorbid patients, but i can't fucking figure out how to do yoga well.

hey yoga studio.
harvard called.
they want their idiot back.

i proved tonight that not only am i bad at finance and accounting and calculus, but my inabilities and handicaps extend into quite a fine menagerie of life activities. and yet, somewhere in between the doggie-style and missionary warrior poses, the testicles of the guy in front of me became readily visible. i'm not talking like i-see-the-outline visible. i'm talking like full-on-hang-out-i-know-that-he-shaves-his-balls visible.

tonight, not only did i realize how to better utilize my flexibility, but also i learned that in the face of balls, my maturity level drops to that of a twelve year-old. because it doesn't matter if you're ten or twenty-five: "testicles" are funny. "balls" are even funnier.

and so while i walk away from the yoga experience a whole lot sweatier, much more aware of my limitations, and very sore, i'm not sure if i'm any more relaxed or if i can breathe any easier.

but at least i got to see some balls, right?

and as far as i'm concerned, there is no better measure of a good time.

in the throes of text books and text messages, loan statements and bar tabs, social democrats and fiscal republicans, my last few reflections have lost sight of why twenty-nothing was originally established -- to explore and pursue what's really important: getting laid. growing up and going down.

as my decision about whether or not to exercise my law school deferral option looms closer, i'm reminded to think about the fundamental reason why people go to graduate school.

as a profakesional, i could not wait to get to a life of world traveling winter breaks, sleeping late, drinking savvy alcohol, setting my own schedule, and not having to deal with the abundant stupidity inevitably found in the (nonprofit) workplace.

i was excited to begin the journey from immature professionalism to what i hope will be an undubiously successful career.

but what no one told me about graduate school is that -- actually -- i'm up earlier and in bed later. or that mingling among stupid people makes me appear infinitely smarter. or that binging on alcohol makes my tolerance higher, my jeans tighter, and my liver weaker. or that finally having time to travel doesn't mean i actually have the money to do so.

and if last night's passing out naked on my bed with the shower running and all the lights still on is any indication that i'm growing up, then it is very clear to me that i'm ... growing down.

since it's taken me the vast majority of today to get over my margarita-martini hangover, i decided that this evening warranted a reexamination of the foremost study of twenty-something-ness: drop dead fred.

the movie is about a mid-twenties dippy girl revisited by her childhood imaginary friend who helps her escape a world that demands absolute perfection when her life starts falling apart. while lizzie works to sort out her life, fred tags along causing mischief, and gradually helps her break free from the domineering relationships that threaten her growing up and into her own.

so given how difficult business school has been for me, the thought of continuing to promote my mediocrity in a world of judgmental superiority by going to law school makes me cringe. essentially, what drop dead fred suggests is that were i just a half-measure less sane, i'd need -- or already have -- an imaginary friend to confront this world that promotes flawless excellence.

conventional wisdom suggests that graduate school is a good idea if one wants to develop an expertise in a particular vocation or is deeply interested in a particular subject ... or is trying to delay real bills and real responsibilities in the real world.

and if only one of the conventional criterion must be true for graduate school to be considered a good idea, than i have no other choice but to accept my law school fate. (in compliance with criterion number three, naturally.)

but what deeply worries me is the academic sustainability, mental endurance, and physical fortitude required to survive another three-and-a-half years at harvard. although the people i've met in business school defy the harvard stereotypes by being only partially competitive, only somewhat snobby, and only slightly self-confident, i worry that the above-average intellect but below-average sociability found in law students will overshadow the enjoyable part of the twenty-something graduate school experience.

because what drop dead fred teaches us is that during the toughest times in life, friends help us be our very best. and that it is incredibly important that we feel loved -- even while descending into madness. and that maybe, in the end, the line between reality and fantasy isn't as clear-cut as we'd like to believe.

... at least -- i would argue -- not as clear cut as the line between margaritas and dirty martinis should be.

for those of you that remember my friendship heights (see false advertising) incident, i found this picture quite appropriate.

despite the cruel presumptions made about me because of my school affiliation, it turns out that attending harvard business school impresses people who don't know that i am, for all intents and purposes,

unimpressive.

after just three short days of being back in purgatory (think business hell with a 24-hour sushi chef), i'm already tired from not enough sleep, frustrated by too much finance ... and i just remembered how inadequate and immature this place makes me feel.

over winter break, i forgot what it's like to not be the smart child. i forgot that here, laughter is confused with immaturity. i forgot that at school, my inabilities are measured against older, albeit rarely wiser, peers with far more capabilities.

business school purgatory is this isolated economy in which currency is hidden within one's student id card. the gold standard is replaced by the diamond engagement ring standard. the population is exactly one-third minority. the government is a dictatorship. and the biggest inflation problem is grades.

oh yeah, and (sexual) demand is driven by the elastic supply of single, "b-school-hot" (which is very different than actually good looking) women.

(not to change the subject, but while we're talking about sexual demand ... i'm currently watching tv and there is a commercial for valtrex. how much would they have to pay you to go on in between segments of grey's anatomy to say "i have genital herpes?" fortunately, dear readers, i'm pleased to share with you the good news that my latest STD test assures me that i'm clean enough to scrub the floors; unfortunately, that guy on the commercial wasn't as picky as i am.)

anyway.

what has become evident to me as i begin term two of this (once enjoyable) learning is that purgatory disarms me of my best defense mechanisms. last semester, a select few of you were privileged enough to participate in an exercise that only harvard could dream up -- the best-self feedback -- or, as it is more lovingly called here: the-tell-me-how-good-i-am-project. thank you to everyone who assured me that, at my personal best, i'm an overachieving, demanding, stubborn, perfectionist bitch. a particular thank you for the positive oral sex feedback.

in pseudo-hell, there is no room for overachieving. no tolerance for stubbornness. and certainly no opportunity for perfection. but there are demands. unreasonable ones, nonetheless.

which makes me even more bitchy. on a positive note, i suppose that at least that's one element of my "best-self" defense mechanisms.

my new professor told us that expected equals average -- at least in the world of finance. so what makes this phenomenally difficult is that despite the fact that i'm not expected to be anything but average, i can't be content with mediocrity.

and so, i'm left to depend on that which differentiates me from the other brown-curly-haired-blue-eyed-ocd-jd-mba-cg-s:

no STDs
a good sense of humor
an ability to make anything sexual.

and if that translates into inadequacy and immaturity, then bite me.

yes please.

... whereas, i'm just dumb.

dear superficial readers: there has been overwhelmingly negative feedback to my touching honesty about that which plagues my twenty-nothing soul. as such, we now return to our regularly scheduled bitchy, sardonic, and crafty program.


brian: what? are you george costanza?
me: worse. i'm jewish and latina.


i woke up last night in a cold sweat.

it was either the down comforter combined with the recent effects of global warming. or what woke me from my dream about the all-you-can-eat buffet in heaven was the fear that i have become -- or at least have come way too close to -- everything i despised about my high school, my sorority, and the gossipy mothers of the kids with whom i went to elementary school.

now i have long admitted that i know tiffanys the way venezuelans know plastic surgery and floridians know cuban sandwiches. but it was the purchase of my first (closely followed by my second) faux-juicy jumpsuit that i conjecture was my breaking point.

the only solace i can find in this horrid situation is that it isn't a real juicy jumpsuit with some slanderous word silk-screened with sequins studded across the ass. but it is velvet.

sigh.

it's not that i have anything against juicy or jumpsuits or jews in juicy jumpsuits; it's that i absolutely hate what they stand for.

i have zero tolerance for snobby-ness, trendy-ness, or pretentious-ness.

no patience for tight black pants, tight black sweatpants, or tight black leggings.

and absolutely no stomach for really skinny people.

(in fact, i discriminate against size zeros.)

so what finally put me at ease last night was allowing myself to believe that while i gave into all that i dislike in this world on the surface, i'm really only faking it underneath. and i'm all about faking it.

(i can give you a list of first-"hand" observers if you'd like confirmation.)

i fake-bake. i own only fake sunglasses and a fake prada bag. one part of my body is surgically fake. and honestly, i fake liking most people i meet too.

essentially, as i wade the waters between childhood and adultishhood, i -- like most of my student and young professional peers -- am stuck with champagne taste and beer money. i want the luxurious or shiny or soft or trendy objects, but sure as hell don't want to pay for them. or, more importantly, be associated with the stigmas attached to them.

it's kind of like having flip flops but decorating them with rhinestones. or like going to harvard but denying it vehemently while in other area codes. wait a minute...

i'm not sure if my down-to-earth standards have been compromised or if faking it is my undercover attempt to mock that which i'm not good enough to be a part. afterall, you have to fake it 'till you make it. right?

... it seems to me that life was much easier when i just faked orgasms.

dear readers: apparently my last post was a little too "heartwarming" for those of you who use twenty-nothing as a procrastination vehicle from real life obligations and/or a reminder of how good you have it in comparison to my twenty-nothing shit show. as such, i have been working on a real gem. in the meantime, i fell upon this list and, in an effort to utilize this as a forum for education, i found it appropriate to share. xoxo, DBR

Fourteen Things That It Took Me Over 50 Years To Learn
by Dave Barry

1. Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.

2. If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word would be "meetings."

3. There is a very fine line between "hobby" and "mental illness."

4. People who want to share their religious views with you almost never want you to share yours with them.

5. You should not confuse your career with your life.

6. Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance.

7. Never lick a steak knife.

8. The most destructive force in the universe is gossip.

9. You will never find anybody who can give you a clear and compelling reason why we observe daylight savings time.

10. You should never say anything to a woman that even remotely suggests that you think she's pregnant unless you can see an actual baby emerging from her at that moment.

11. There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age eleven.

12. The one thing that unites all human beings, regardless of age, gender, religion, economic status or ethnic background, is that, deep down inside, we ALL believe that we are above-average drivers.

13. A person who is nice to you, but rude to the waiter, is not a nice person. (This is very important. Pay attention. It never fails.)

14. Your friends love you anyway.

warning: the surgeon general has determined that cigarette smoking is dangerous to your health, and that this post isn't funny. again, dear readers, i must remind you that these more serious posts are essential for me to win oprah's "sharp, irreverent, and unfailingly heartwarming" validation of my book/blog.

sometime back in 2005 when my blog was more frequently laced with artistic wit and clever sarcasm, an overgenerous friend compared my writing to that of the much more talented -- and much more famous -- aaron karo.

when i proudly relayed that comparison to my boyfriend-at-the-time, after choking back laughter of wholehearted disagreement, eric also informed me that it wasn't a coincidence that aaron never mentioned his girlfriend: she specifically requested that he never writes about her. so i took that as a message that, with the exception of unsurpassable stories and unrequited praise, i should leave him out of twenty-nothing.

unbeknownst to him, i've been writing chapter eleven of my book for two years now.

it's working title vaciliates between: "dating is dead" and "relationships & sex: not necessarily mutually exclusive categories."

i suppose that eric and me making the logically-based-but-not-quite-emotionally-founded decision to take a break from our relationship -- and me being left to deal with the fragments, loneliness, and shattered pieces -- leaves me the opportunity to explore perhaps one of the most painful challenges of the twenty-something experience.

break ups.

(dearest readers: let this be a profound lesson -- never break a woman's heart. especially if she has a blog.)

relationships and intimacy are the two elements of growing up that, i would argue, leave us the most vulnerable. all our young lives we search for someone to love. someone who makes us complete. someone who takes our breaths away.

we choose partners.

and we change partners.

a few nights ago, i caught up on something i've been needing to do for a long time: i just shut the door and lay down on the bed and put in three hours of good, solid self-pity.

this past semester, somewhere in between the new friendships and the phone calls home and somewhere in between all the changing and growing and somewhere in between the classes and the pretending to study for tests ... i forgot.

i forgot that you can't just forget the past. and i forgot that sometimes the things we want to forget are the things that we most need to talk about.

when i started writing this blog post last night, i thought i was ready to talk about the specific emotions associated with the break up that have finally hit me. i thought i was ready to talk about how defenseless and isolated and regretful i feel. i thought i was ready to talk about how breaking up enables us to be incredibly self-conscious yet simultaneously self-unaware.

i thought i was ready to talk about love. falling into it. and if it's ever possible to fall out of it.

i thought.

i thought i was ready.

but it turns out that i'm not.

it turns out that breaking up with someone you love is incredibly painful. and you often just have to ride out the pain. hope it goes away on its own. hope that the wounds heal. there are no solutions. no easy answers.

and you have to deal with the heartache because you can't outrun it. all you can do is take a deep breath and wait for it to stop hurting so badly.

because the thing about relationships -- the warmth of emotional and physical attachment -- is, that in spite of the heartache and in spite of the vulnerability, they are impossible to live with.

and impossible to live without.