Okay, she didn’t eat a human eyeball. This wasn’t Survivor. Just a rip-roaring Saturday night out on the good town. But pictures of Branzino balls? Not so pretty.

And I would have and should have at least posted a picture of a discrete stand-alone eyeball because this might be sending the wrong message, but said pictures – even of cartoon eyeballs – made me want to gag a bit. Which is a sign of something unto itself. And so. We have here a very undisgusting sketch of the human eye. I quite like it.

But I digress. I have a story to tell. (And stories to coax from you.)

I already told you about my Saturday night. But I didn’t tell you about an important part of the night. The part when my very good and very proper friend reached over and plucked the black beady eyeball out of the birthday girl’s whole fish and then ate it. To be perfectly honest, I didn’t witness the entirety of this event. When my eyeball-eating-friend flashed a mischievous grin and reached her fork across the table and said I will eat that eye, I may or may not have excused myself to go to the bathroom.

But she ate it. The eye of a fish.

Apparently, in some cultures, this is good luck. Dad was known to eat an eye or two in his day to shock us. But for me, someone who ducks for cover when they bring me a whole fish instead of pretty white filet and shivers at the sight of skin, this was a big deal. A big enough deal that I have chosen to devote an entire blog post to one ill-fated Branzino eyeball and what this late eyeball means to me.

I am an unadventurous eater. Once upon a time, I was pretty much willing to eat everything. Sure, when left to my own devices, I favored mayonnaise and white bread sandwiches and Sour Patch Kids, but I distinctly remember eating mussels and venison and rhubarb. And today I will not go near these and so many other things. (I am allergic to rhubarb, but no one believes me.) Today I won’t even eat lobster which greatly offends some people I know. I am not the pickiest of eaters, but I like what I like. I am not good at tasting new things.

I am not an adventurous person. It occurs to me that how adventurous we are in our diet is connected to how adventurous we are in our lives. I don’t think it is a coincidence that someone who avoids foods based on what they look like (I do not like fish that look like fish, anything with bones, sardines give me the willies) is also a person who is afraid of flying and non-organic dairy and most everything else.

This is not just a silly post about an eyeball. Well, it is mostly a silly post about an eyeball. But it is also more. These things matter. What we eat, how adventurous we are, how open we are – these things inform who we are. And then add kids to the equation and things get even more complicated. Our kids watch us. They watch what we eat. They watch what we don’t eat. They notice when we run away from an innocuous fish on a plate. Or when we race the cart past the tank of lobsters at the grocery store. This is not just about us and our foibles.

This is about living life. The good life does not necessarily entail gobbling up eyeballs at swanky restaurants. But I think it probably does involve taking risks, trying new things, tasting new things. If we are so stuck in our (squeamish) ways, so appalled by novelty, are we truly living?

This is about eyes. Fish eyes, yes. But also our eyes. The way we see things and ourselves and the world. The way we absorb our moments. The way we process the hue of celebration and laughter. The way we perceive life. Emerson said, “To the attentive eye, each moment of the year has its own beauty, and in the same field, it beholds, every hour, a picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again.” That moment when my good friend ate an eye? It was silly and beautiful. It was a unique picture I will not forget.

This is about stories. What is life without stories? Silly stories? Serious stories? We bloggers and writers and people? We are story-tellers, living our days, living our material, acting and reacting to the characters in our chapters. Our days are pages. Pages stuffed with words and questions and pictures. And each of us lives and loves and laughs toward an unknown conclusion.

So, yes, this is about one eyeball. But it is also about more. It is about the fraught and frivolous tapestry that is human existence. It is about adventure and aversion. It is about so many things. But instead of enumerating those things, I would like to sign off and go enjoy this serene snow day with my two tiny girls. They are still in their PJs and just on the other side of my office door. And before we play, before we dive into the books and boardgames that await us, I am going to tell them a silly story. A true tale. I am going to tell them that Mommy’s friend at a fish eye. I anticipate smiles and silly faces and amazement and some brilliant laughter. We’ll see what I get.

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Okay, it’s your turn. Tell me your craziest food story. It can be about you or someone you know or someone you saw on TV! What’s the weirdest thing you’ve ever eaten or seen someone eat? Are you an adventurous eater? Do you think there is a connection between bravery in diet and bravery in life? Are your kids good eaters or do they subsist on a diet of, say, chocolate milk and Veggie Booty? Just asking.

I sit here. Alone. At my little table and my little Starbucks. Outside the vast windows, fat flakes of snow tumble down. Bundled souls amble by, wrestling mangled umbrellas, fighting impossible gales of winter wind.

And I am inside. And warm. But exhausted. Exquisitely exhausted. My coffee is gone. It’s time for another. But I will wait for my refill. I want to get this down first. And I apologize in advance for this post. I am not sure it will be that terrific. I have a hunch it will whip around in different directions like the snow that swirls outside. But that’s okay.

It is a deadline day. This morning, final edits for LIFE AFTER YES were due to my editor. And I have spent the last twenty-four hours poring through my own story, furrowing my brow, scrutinizing the splash of words. I didn’t sleep much last night. No. I couldn’t really sleep because I knew this was my last chance to coddle my creation, to caress its pages. This was my last chance to make sure it was perfect.

And you know what? It isn’t. Because there is no such thing.

Last night, I stood in the kitchen with Husband. Nervously, I clutched my book in my hand. And because he knows me and he loves me, he said what I needed to hear.

He said, “It’s okay if there are mistakes. You are allowed to have mistakes.”

And I fought him on this. I told him that he was wrong, that this is it. That it’s time for perfection. But then I thought about it a bit more and realized that maybe he was right. (He usually is.) Have you ever read a book and found a typo? Because I have. Many times. Even in books I love.

And then I realized something else. Maybe Husband wasn’t just talking about my book. Maybe he was talking about something bigger. Maybe he was talking about life. Because life is a story, isn’t it? And we can polish it and polish it, but there will always be pages that are better and worse. There will always be mistakes. And this is okay, isn’t it?

This is real.

But even after having this mini-epiphany about the futility of obsessing over the manuscript of existence, I worked furiously to make sure my story was just right. I dogeared pages. Made little notes in the margins. I reworked some sentences. I chose some new words.

But you know what? It is not just right. Because there is no such thing.

Minutes ago, I hit send. I let go. Of my story. Of a creature I have protected for years now.

And as I sit here watching snow dance, shaking from caffeine and pride and awareness, I realize something. Something simple and profound. Something hardly revolutionary. That something?

I am not good at letting go.

And I need to work on this. Because isn’t life about letting go of things? Of moments and hours and days and years? Of people we love? Of places that are no longer home? Isn’t life about progress, about stumbling along sidewalks slick with existential snow? We might slip, but we must walk anyway. We might fall, but then we will stand and keep going.

Lao Tzu said, “By letting it go it all gets done. The world is won by those who let it go. But when you try and try. The world is beyond the winning.”

And so. Today, I did it. I let go of something big. And I am scared and relieved and happy and sad. I am all of these things. Like those flakes, I am all over the place. Worried about the typos on my pages, the mistakes in my world, the cracks in my concrete. Inching toward acceptance of all these things.

And now. Instead of spending another thirty minutes combing through these words, these ones right here that you are reading, to make sure that they are perfectly punctuated and shrouded with the right level of metaphorical gloss, I will publish them.

I will let go.

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Are you a perfectionist like I am when it comes to your life or your writing? Are you good at letting go of things? Of people or the past? Do you forgive yourself when you notice mistakes in the manuscript of life? If we all acknowledge that there is no such thing as perfection then why do we strive for it so fervently? Is it snowing where you are?

I am the product of an elite education. Dalton. Yale. Columbia Law.

The point of this post is not to remind you of my scholastic pedigree. No. The point is a lot more complicated. And decidedly more vulnerable. The point is hazy, but it exists. And here I sit squinting, trying to see it. Because this blogging gig? It’s not just about hawking my words and sentences. No. It’s about excavating my own neuroses. It’s about analyzing my own anxiety.

And I know better. I know that I am Me. That I am knee-deep in said neuroses and awash in said anxiety and no matter how hard I try, I probably won’t be able to arrive at an objective diagnosis. Of course not. But that won’t stop me from trying. I like a good challenge.

And I know better. That it’s one thing to have an exquisite education and glittering opportunities and incomparable connections. But it is another thing to talk about these things. And yet another to put them in writing. These are things to be thankful for, but things that should not be discussed. No. These are trappings of privilege. And privilege is a taboo subject.

Never talk about privilege.

You know what? Like so many of you, I am a bit sick of should. I am a bit perplexed by social strictures that seem a bit stiff. I am interested in honesty, in universality, in cracks. And I have cracks. They aren’t even tiny. They are big and bold and jagged. Stuffed with genuine worry, authentic questions, and notable insecurities. So maybe I am being imprudent here, but I am going to talk about the cracks.

I loved the schools I attended. Loved. And maybe this is not customary. But my experience was positive at each alma mater. I remember particular teachers. Particular books. Particular papers I wrote. Particular seminar discussions. My school days were bright and busy and, frankly, I miss them sometimes.

At school, I worked hard. Hard enough to get A’s and a sprinkling of lesser grades that made me sweat. Hard enough to graduate with an accolade or honor here and there. Hard enough to make that resume shine. Hard enough that graduation days were rich celebrations, beautiful bridges between one great place and the next. Hard enough that at the end of it all, I passed a very hard and miserable exam, and landed gracefully at a high wattage Manhattan law firm.

And at that law firm, I did just fine. I was an efficient and ebullient cog in a well-oiled machine. I got decent reviews. I got along well with my colleagues. And then I fled. And fast.

And now. Now I am home. And working. And mothering. And writing.

And worrying.

Worrying about a lot of things because this is a parent’s job. But worried from time to time about one thing in particular that I have been prudent enough not to articulate to myself. Or to the masses.

Until now.

Sometimes, I worry that I have wasted my education. And I know this might seem silly. Or even offensive. But sometimes I feel that with my particular degrees from my particular alma maters I should be doing more. That I should be doing something more meaningful. That I should be helping more people, or solving environmental or political crises, or rising in the ranks at some major uber-powerful institution that does good things. Sometimes, I worry that I took plum spots at stellar schools that could have been filled by others who were a bit more hungry and a bit more ambitious to alter the flawed landscape of our world, to fix the problems that need fixing, to amount to some more conventional glossy greatness.

This is why I gave this blog its name. Because though Ivy, I’m quite insecure. (Maybe because I am Ivy, I am particularly insecure because I am particularly aware of, and strangled by, shoulds?)

This is why I am treading tricky trenches here. Risking something. Talking a bit more openly.

Because as time passes, my own worries are becoming less opaque and I want to explore them. Because I think that in tracing the contours of my own insecurity, I am surprisingly gaining confidence. I think I am beginning to believe that my education hasn’t been wasted, but has been put to very good use.

I learned to write at these fine schools. I learned to think at these fine schools. I learned to ask questions at these fine schools.

Maybe that’s why I am willing to go there. To that raw and risky place of things not to discuss. To utter sentiments that might provoke. To ruffle pretty and peaceful feathers.

Maybe that’s why I am willing to come here. To this safe haven. To confess shards of complicated truth. To expose cracks.

Because I am finally realizing that I worked so hard, that I continue to work so hard, for a reason.

The reason? This.

This life. This family. These words. This story and its infinite and unfolding chapters.

Or maybe I have wasted it all and I am making big, bad excuses that are clever and well-told.

But I don’t think so. I don’t.

Not anymore.

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• Looking back, how do you feel about your education? Overall, was it a positive or negative experience or somewhere in between?
  
• Do you think you have made the most of your opportunities or do you sometimes wonder? Do you think you have succeeded because of your education or despite it?
  
• Do you ever have this sinking and shaky feeling that you have wasted something? Time? Love? An opportunity – educational or personal or romantic?
• Do you think that someone with two Ivy League degrees should be engaged in something more “serious” than raising kids and weaving self-indulgent words?

ILI DAILY CHARMS

* “You are not your stats.” A sage reminder for bloggers and non-bloggers alike from Megan Jordan at Velveteen Mind.

* What good are dreams? Big question and beautiful words courtesy of Big Little Wolf of Daily Plate of Crazy.

* Is there a solace in silence? How do you manifest your rage? Deep questions that will make your brain buzz from Ronna Detrick of Renegade Conversations.

Today Sister C sits for the first day of the New York Bar Exam. And I am nauseous. Not nauseous because I am worried she won’t pass. I think she will. Nauseous because I remember that exam all too well. Nauseous because those were two of the most torturous days of my youngish life.

And she hasn’t passed yet, but I am already so proud. I am proud because C has been studying hard, pulling late nights, and she has a young baby. Baby Bulldog is just six months old and C has been logging endless hours learning the bland intricacies of New York law (blech) when she could have been tickling tiny toes. I am proud because I know this hasn’t been easy.

So, yes. She got pregnant in law school. And gave birth a few months after graduation. Many would say that she should have graduated and taken the bar exam with her peers this past July. Many would say that she should have gotten the career rolling before popping out a delectably cute son. Many would say she did things out of order. That it should have been Bar before Baby and not the reverse.

But I disagree.

And not just because she is my sister and I love her to tiny pieces. I disagree on more objective, principled grounds. I think this society of ours is far too obsessed with its schedule of shoulds. Who says it is always better to firm up a career before starting a family? Who says we shouldn’t sometimes do things at the same time? Who says it is always better to wait?

Many people would say that Sister C should have waited. But you know what? She had the courage not to. When Dad was diagnosed with terminal cancer two weeks before Sister C’s wedding, things changed. Our Donnelley world shifted. I think, I know, Sister C realized like I did that life has cruel limits, that days are unpredictably numbered. I think, I know, she realized that family is it. And so, she went for it. She battled morning sickness while studying at school. She donned a polyester cap and gown in her final trimester. She spent several weeks at a law firm before welcoming her little guy.

And today. Today, she will kiss her little boy goodbye and go sit at a desk somewhere in this fine city and fill in tiny bubbles and take a big step toward a big future that is blindingly bright, but unknown. And when the long day is over, she will go home. To her man. To her baby. To her family.

And then tomorrow, she will do it again. And then it will be over, mercifully over, and I will take her out. And we will celebrate. We will go to the right kind of bar and sip a tall glass of wine. We will talk about babies. About family. About futures. We will talk about life. How, like the bar exam, it is multiple choice. But how in life, there is more than one right answer.

We will clink glasses and smile.

Two lawyers. One past. One future.

Two sisters. Always.

Two moms. Forever.

And I will say then what I write now. That I am deeply proud of her. For being exquisitely brave. For doing things in her own way. In her own order. For blazing her own trail. For having a baby, an impossibly sweet baby, before taking that exam.

For not waiting.

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Leave a comment and wish Sister C good luck! Do you agree that there is no such thing as out of order when it comes to life? That there is no objective schedule of achievement we should heed? Do you think that having a child before cultivating a career is brave or foolish? What are you waiting for?

ILI Daily Charms

* Do we lose ourselves in marriage? Stephanie Klein seems to think so. Click over to read her raw and searching post on the fate of self in the sea of commitment.

* Are pictures enough? Becca from Drama for Mama serves up a timely reminder that blogging isn’t such an empty endeavor and easy catharsis after all. Maybe there is a profound purpose in memorializing moments that might otherwise fade.

* Do therapists mess up their kids? Yes, according to Bruce over at Privilege of Parenting. But Bruce assures us that, “we ALL mess up our kids in our own unique ways.” Cheerio!

[Sorry to disappoint, but this is not a post about Tiger. But there will be one. Because I just don't get the uproar (pun intended and exceedingly clever). He was a wild man, a very bad boy. And he delivered a public apology that was or wasn't genuine. He and his wife have stuff to talk about. But me? I'm over it. Except apparently not. Oh.]

Enough about Tiger. Let’s talk about me.

I have a mild allergy to adulthood.

Actually, I am not sure it is so mild. Responsibilities? Chores? Calendars? Taxes? Bills? Budgets? Wrinkles? Schedules? Stocks? These things give me existential hives.

And yet. I tolerate adulthood because I must. Because though I whine like a toddler and pout like a baby, I am an adult. Because at thirty-one, I am a big girl. Because there is no going back. I have no choice.

Why the allergy? I’m not entirely sure. It’s complicated. And these answers are cop-outs, but they are mine and I hold them dear. I think there are many reasons why I am having a hard time with this growing up business. One of them?

Wildness.

We adults – and particularly we perfect parents – are not encouraged to be wild. No. We are implored to be prudent and responsible and organized. We are supposed to make lists and plans and beds. We are expected to live within boundaries. We are supposed to color inside the lines. We are supposed to be civilized, to use our inside-voices at all times. We are supposed to be healthy and get sleep and drink lots of water.

We are expected to be good girls and boys.

But here’s the thing. Sometimes, I don’t want to be a good girl. Sometimes I want to go out and drink wine and dance and be young again. Sometimes I want to stay up past my bedtime and swim in deafening music. Sometimes, I want to scribble and shout and celebrate. Sometimes, I want to break rules.

Sometimes, I want to be wild.

It was a wild weekend.

And I’m tired. So tired. But I can’t stop smiling. Literally. Can’t stop. And this is not like me.

Friday night? Not so wild. Husband and I ate takeout on the coffee table and watched a DVRed episode of The Bachelor. But Saturday night? It was nuts. For me at least. I got dressed up. I looked hot. (Roar.) I wore heels. I sipped champagne with good friends. I laughed ceaselessly. I ate dinner at a swanky restaurant downtown at 10:30pm! There were celeb spottings! (Tracy Morgan, Rachel Zoe) We ordered the $75 truffle macaroni & cheese! At 1am, I climbed a fire escape to a club where I savored more champagne and Red Bull until after 3am!

It was wild. Now it is worth mentioning that there are various species of wild. My wild? Not at all like Tiger’s. There was no prowling, no misbehaving. I only talked to one man the whole night and he was our waiter. It was a girls’ night. On the grand scale of Wild Life, it was pretty tame. But for me, for this harried and happy mom, it was indeed wild.

And I came home and tumbled into bed next to my snoozing man. And four hours later, I was up. And a mom again. For the first half of the day, I was a shell of a person. My sentences had holes. But I stuffed them with little girl snuggles. I held court on the couch “supervising” and “delegating.” But I was so happy. I can’t explain it. I didn’t even remember it was Sunday.

And then. Last night. Husband and I met a handful of other couples to take over Wollman Rink in Central Park. We had the ice to ourselves. We skated into the night against a backdrop of city lights. Actually, I skated for about five minutes before retiring to the heated tent to sip hot chocolate. Another late night. A little less wild. But absolutely wonderful.

And this morning? I am so beyond shredded with exhaustion. Moving slowly. But quaking with awareness. That life is good. That I am where I should be. That this adulthood thing? It’s actually not half bad. I sit here at Starbucks near Toddler’s Preschool, sipping bitter coffee. Still smiling.

As I write this, I realize that it is okay to go back, to regress, to get wild once in a while. If only to remember. If only to realize that this place, this here and now, this tame territory, is quite lovely.

Thoreau said, “We need the tonic of wildness, to wade sometimes in marshes where the bittern and the meadow-hen lurk, and hear the booming of the snipe; to smell the whispering sedge where only some wilder and more solitary fowl builds her nest, and the mink crawls with its belly close to the ground.”

So. I sit here. A person. A parent. An adult. A wild thing.

And today I make some vows. To allow myself to leave the nest from time to time. To permit myself to wade in the marshes, to lurk in tangled places, to surrender to the booming, to smell that sedge, to crawl with my belly close to the ground.

Today I pledge to protect my own wild life.

(Roar.)

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Tell me about the last wild night you enjoyed. Tell me about your wildest night ever. Do you think we parents and people are encouraged to lose our wildness? Do you think it is important to protect our wild life even as we tread the territory of adulthood? Speaking of adulthood, are you allergic too? Do you think Tiger’s “issues” boil down to wildness or entitlement?

**Are we writers the worst (or perhaps best) gossips of all? Check out this great post over at Diary of a Virgin Novelist.