Mind the Gap

So I do a lot of writing about make up and a few weeks ago I received a press kit at work from Bobbi Brown. In it, was a large poster with this image of a model supposedly wearing the new raspberry make up by Bobbi Brown. I enjoyed that she had such a large gap in her front teeth. Kind of a rebellion against the world’s standards for beauty and all that…

But then, I was in London, riding down an escalator in a tube station and who did I see but my gap toothed Bobbi Brown friend. Except now the gap is gone. Why was this done? Was it because she looks more like the typical image of beauty with no gap? Or because British people might take the gap thing personally? Like it was a mockery of their stereotypically bad teeth? Who’s to say? But I did think the photoshopping was interesting.

Ouch

Yesterday I had to get a Hepatitis A shot.

I do NOT do very well with shots. The chance of me becoming a heroine addict is pretty close to the same risk of me becoming anorexic. It will never happen. I hate needles and I love food.

I was with my friend Laura when I went to get the shot. She was very supportive and even held my sweaty, nervous hand while it was being given to me. Seriously, you would have thought I was in the middle of getting an epidural to give birth to triplets with as much fear as I was displaying. Afterwards, for like 10 minutes, the nurse kept asking if I was going to be ok because I couldn’t seem to catch my breath and kept sinking further in my seat.

I survived though and all was well until this morning. My friend Katie, who has been staying with me the last several days, was in bed with me at 6 a.m. when I rolled over onto Rosie and noted that my arm felt like a very large man had punched it.

Now I’m more than a little afraid that I have caught Hepatitis A. At least in my left arm. I can barely lift it. The only reason I’m typing this entry with both hands is because I used my right hand to lift my left arm up to the keyboard. That was a painstaking process. Sometimes I think I psyche myself out, but sometimes I think maybe having a needle stuck in your muscle really freaking hurts. (And believe me, I have big muscles in my arm. I am, as they say, toned. Ok. That’s a lie. But there is some muscle there I think.)

I don’t know what Hepatitis A feels like, but if by some chance it feels like you’re tired, bored and wish you could just curl up in front of your laptop watching Lost all day with your gimp arm, then I think I have it.

The Dream

One of my New Year's resolutions was to run a half-marathon. I imagine when I do it I'll look like this guy. Either like this or dead. Because, let's be honest, running that far might kill me.

My Airplane Reading

I get this feeling sometimes that after the world ends, when God destroys all our buildings and our flags, we will wish that we had seen everybody as equal, that we had eaten dinner with prostitutes, held them in our arms, opened up spare rooms for them and loved them and learned from them. I was just another stupid child in the flow, you know; I didn’t know any of these things. I didn’t know that it didn’t matter what a person looked like, how much money they made or whether or not they were cool. I didn’t know that cool was just a myth and that one person was just as beautiful and meaningful as another… Like I said, it felt important to climb the social ladder, it felt important to defend our identities, it felt as though we were saving our own lives. – Donald Miller, Searching for God Knows What.

I like how he says stuff.

Huh?

Jenn and I occasionally become confused using the photo booth application. Apparently.

I Recommend

As it happens, I don’t just waste time writing a blog, I also spend a significant amount of time reading them. Why this is, I do not know. I mean, I could spend a few pages trying to analyze the human fascination with other people’s lives, but really I think I’m just nosy and spend more time than is probably healthy online. So I end up on other blogs.

This week I was introduced the Julia Allison’s blogs. (I’m definitely coming in late on this one.) She’s the editor of Star magazine and a columnist for Time Out New York. She’s also pretty darn close to my age, but somehow light years ahead of me in career success. If you have several hours to burn, I’d recommend reading the blog she and her ex boyfriend, Jakob wrote together (jakobandjulia.com) and if you want to become stalkerishly obsessed with someone who is totally obsessed with themselves, then check out her constantly updated juliaallison.tumblr.com.

I read other blogs too. For a long time I was hooked on fashion and celebrity sites: PerezHilton.com, thesuperficial.com and gofugyourself.com. All three are still at the top of my list for totally mind-numbing ways to waste your time.

My other two random ones that I check quite frequently are thisfish.ivillage.com and dooce.com. Both quite pleasant reading, in my opinion, about two relatively normal people who happen to be good writers. Also, dooce totally hooked me with her photos of her dog. I’m a sucker for pooch pics.

Spare Change

This week Jenn and I stayed in her dad’s sweet flat near a very bustling Oxford Street. For those unfamiliar with Oxford Street it’s home to the fantastic department store Selfridges, three glorious H&Ms, the flagship Top Shop store and my new favorite French Connection. Today we went to Camden town, easily one of the coolest spots in London—if not the world—in my opinion. It’s a lively hub with an odd mix of punk, gothic, narcotic-lovers, tourists, falafel selling, incense burning, random foreign and British people. I cannot describe it. Ever. Just put it on your top places to visit. Apparently a lot of people do because I saw a sign in the tube station there today that said more than 55,000 people come through the station every Saturday. That’s a heck of a lot of people.

The thing about both these places is that they are full of people who appear to be homeless. People who sit on the curbs, curl up on the benches or generally stand with empty eyed gazes watching the crowds move by, often holding an empty, dirty Starbucks cup and hoping for your spare change.

And all week long, I’ve walked past every single one of them. I haven’t paused to offer help. I haven’t even dropped the change in my pocket into one single cup. They have been as invisible to me as they are to almost every other one of the literally thousands of people who pass them all day long. Every single day.

I do not feel good about this. My reasons for not helping are not good ones. I don’t drop my spare change because to me, that seems ridiculous. If you truly want to help someone, you pause, you offer them help. You buy them food. You ask them how much money they need. You ask them their name and where they’re from. You show them that you care because not feeling invisible probably means more in the long run than a few spare pence.

And so I hate the change dropping method. But then I don’t pause for two reasons. One, I am afraid. I know this is stupid. They’re homeless. They’re barely clothed. What will they do to me? My fear is obviously irrational. My second reason is also a sort of fear. And this one, I’m even more ashamed of. I’m afraid of what other people will think. Will they think I’m attempting some kind of ‘holier than thou’ charitable giving effort? Will they wonder what the crazy American is doing with the homeless man? Again, pathetic excuses.

My God is very clear on His feelings about the poor and the way I am supposed to treat them:

“I was hungry, and you gave me nothing to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me nothing to drink. I was alone and away from home, and you did not invite me into your home. I was without clothes, and you gave me nothing to wear. I was sick and in prison, and you did not care for me.' "Then those people will answer, 'Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty? When did we see you alone and away from home? Or when did we see you without clothes or sick or in prison? When did we see these things and not help you?' "Then the king will answer, 'I tell you the truth. Anything you refused to do for any of my people here, you refused to do for me.' – Matthew 25.

When, in the past, I have paused to help someone like this, I have never regretted it. I’ve never felt threatened. I’ve only felt like I was doing the right thing and so I’m pretty ashamed of how I’ve behaved this week. I don’t think I’ve done the right thing at all. But, I don’t like to waste time feeling guilty. If I was going to spend time with my guilt, there are plenty of other things in my life I’d probably be focusing on to be honest.

So, I guess I’m just going to try to change. Something that’s obviously going to make me a little uncomfortable, but well, if we’re going to be honest, just posting this entry makes me feel uncomfortable. (In case I haven’t made it clear, I worry about what other people think of me and I fear this entry makes me seem a) like a jerk who ignores homeless people and b) a little preachy).

I guess the thing is though, whether you think of Jesus as your savior or just as a nice guy who lived 2000 years ago and had a lot of pretty decent advice, if you’re reading this, I assume you’re a member of the human race (except you Rosie, thanks for reading pup!), which means you can appreciate the fear of being invisible and the pain of being so poor you put aside all pride to beg for money. And if by some chance, you consider my rambling thoughts here the next time you pass that guy with his cup, then I’m glad I wrote this.