On Monday afternoon, I took Baby to music class. Truth be told, we arrived a whopping twenty minutes late because with my Box Brain, I’m even more delinquent with the everyday details. But we got there. And with plenty of time for her to run about on the rainbow carpet and frolic with friends and sing and dance under the parachute. The class ended like it always does with many bubbles and many happy kiddie giggles.

After class, I popped Baby in her stroller and we started our short trek home to reunite with Toddler and Nanny. After half a block though, I stopped. I bent down next to Baby and asked her, “Do you want to have a french fry date with Mommy?”

“Yeah!” she crooned.

And so we turned into the little vegan restaurant right there. We’d had some trouble with a certain grumpy old man in this restaurant before, but I decided to test my luck. Thankfully, the restaurant was almost completely empty. There was just one man at the bar scarfing tomato soup. (Hey, it was Matt Dillon!) Baby and I settled at a small table in the back. I ordered her a plate of fries and myself a bowl of chilled corn soup.

And we talked. We talked about the purple room she now shares with her sister. We talked about her beloved grandparents Moo Moo, Grammy, and Dad-Dad. Nanny texted me to tell me that our cats had vomited all over our brand new duvet cover. For whatever reason, I decided to share this horrific tidbit with Baby. She laughed deeply. “Oh no! Cats peeped on bed!” And I told her, no. They threw up. “Oh no! Silly cats!”

Our food arrived and Baby began a careful process drenching her fries in dip dip (ketchup). She fed me a few. She counted little fry bits (up to eight! genius!) She asked me how my soup was. Good, I told her. She asked me to strap her into her high chair – a safety detail I admittedly neglected – and I obliged. Then she finally started to eat. I smiled as she took a single fry and bit it from the side like an ear of corn. She ate all her fries this way. After a little while, I finished my soup.

“Eat it all up?” Baby asked.

“Yes, sweetie. It was delicious.”

“All done too!” she proclaimed. And then she started yelling “Fry fry!” over and over at a barely appropriate decibel. It was then that I noticed that the famous grumpy old man had taken a seat at the next table.

Check please.

We took the remaining fries to go in a little plastic box. I let Baby hold this box in her stroller and she shook it vigorously. A makeshift maraca. As I was strapping her into her stroller, I asked her something.

“Was it fun to have a date just with Mommy?”

“Yeah!” she screamed. And then she put her hand up for a high five.

I pushed this little girl home. I smiled the whole way. And as I smiled, warmed by experience and realization, my little creature shook that box of fries and kicked those little legs.

Do you agree that it is important that we have experiences with each of our children alone? Do you have fond memories of one-on-one experiences with your parents? (I do. I remember catching a big trout with Dad at Vick’s Pond when I was eight or so. And I remember pizza dates with Mom after preschool. We would sit in the very back of Pizza Joint and she would cut slices into small bites and then we would share.)

Last night’s Happier Hour with Dani Shapiro? Pure magic. The setting (Pure Yoga West) was serene and stunning. The wine (St. Francis Wild Oak – 100% hand-crafted from hand-picked fruit) was delicious, the food (Peacefood Cafe) was vegan and scrumptious. And the speaker, Dani herself? Downright exquisite.

Honestly, I didn’t know how last night would go. I didn’t know how a bevy of Manhattan women would handle the fact that they would have to slip off their shoes and recline on yoga bolsters. I vastly underestimated my comrades. People were happy to plod around barefoot and to take a seat on the floor. The atmosphere was peaceful, almost profound. Candles flickered, conversation hummed. Happiness snaked through an assortment of smiles. There were many smiles.

When the program began, Dani and I sat side-by-side in chairs. I introduced Dani, read a brilliant passage from Devotion, and then, per Dani’s wise suggestion, we proceeded in a casual conversational style. What ensued was an organic and unplanned exchange about identity and religion and life. Dani speaks as beautifully as she writes. Her voice, soft but strong, carried soothingly. Her words, well-chosen and effortlessly arranged, cast a welcome spell on us all.

The conversation was rich with story and question, with personal details and universal threads. It was as if in listening to one woman’s story, we were all glimpsing our own. I wish you could have been there because it is hard to describe. But here I try. Toward the end of the evening, Dani asked if she could borrow for a moment my dogeared copy of her book. Of course, I said handing it over. And Dani flipped to a page in her own story and began reading. The passage was about a “diminutive woman, perhaps in her early seventies, with short gray hair and an impish, dare I say Buddha-like, face.” A woman named Sylvia Boorstein.

“The whole world is a lesson in what’s true,” [Sylvia] said. “Everyone is struggling. Life is difficult for everybody. Once you’re in, there’s no way out. You have to go forward. And we all die in the end. So how to deal with it?”

The words sliced through everything: through my racing mind, my rapid pulse, my general state of agitation. That was it, wasn’t it? In a few simple sentences she had addressed the essence of what I felt. She knew about the roller coaster, the slow ascent, the rapid downward plunge. I was here. I had reached my life. I had built it by decision and by accident– and there would be no other. So how to deal with it?

Devotion, page 35

Last night, these words, Dani’s words, sliced through everything: through my scattered mind, my fractured focus, my general state of overwhelm (I am moving in two days and am a bit of a mess). That was it, wasn’t it? In a few simple sentences, Dani, with the help of a sage woman named Sylvia, had addressed the essence of what I felt (perhaps what we all felt, whether we are willing to admit this or not).

I am here. Struggling in the way everyone struggles. I have reached my life, a life that is good and laced with difficulty. I have built this life by decision and by accident. And there will be no other. So how to deal with it?

And? You are there. Struggling in the way everyone struggles. You have reached your life. You too have built this life by decision and accident. It is yours. So how to deal with it?

So how do deal with it? I don’t pretend to know the answer. But the question is one that echos in my mind this morning, this good Wednesday morning. Maybe we deal by opening our eyes, and minds, and hearts. Maybe we deal by stumbling and seeking. Maybe we deal by devoting to our days, by carving meaning in our moments. Maybe we deal by collecting and cherishing the wise words of others who suffer and struggle alongside us, and with us, in this thing called life. Maybe, in the bright sunshine of summer days, we deal by squinting to see the teachers who hover close. The Sylvias. The Danis. Maybe, just maybe, we deal by simply continuing to ask in our own imperfect ways.

Thank you, Dani, for last night and even more so for slicing through the tangled knot that is my mind.

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• Do you agree that everyone is struggling and that, on some level, life is difficult for everybody?
• Have you ever encountered someone who said something that sliced through your mind and captured the essence of what you’ve been feeling?
• Would you be game to mingle barefoot and sit on the floor during a talk?
• This is life. So how to deal with it?

Last night, I had the distinct privilege of co-hosting a wonderful event with De Beers. It was Elle Magazine (who prominently features Life After Yes in this month’s issue!) who played matchmaker and set me up to partner with the esteemed diamond company. The evening was absolutely amazing and indeed a sparkling success. I wish that I could tell you everything that happened last night, every stunning detail, but, alas, I will stick to the highlights to give you a taste of the delicious diamond-and-champagne soaked affair.

An intimate group of eighty or so women (many from the fabulous 85 Broads network of which I am part) and a sprinkling of men gathered in the Magic Room on the top of the LVMH Tower in Midtown. We sipped Dom Perignon and viewed an exceptional array of diamond jewelry. When the time came, I stood in front of the coiffed crowd and introduced myself, said a little bit about my book and the importance of diamonds to Quinn’s story, and then I introduced a remarkable man.

Mr. Andrew Coxon. This gentleman has over four decades of experience in the diamond industry and is one of the world’s leading experts in the field. He stood before us all and spilled fascinating secrets about the mystique and science of diamonds. The crowd was captivated by his charming British accent, his priceless anecdotes (carrying a $6 million diamond in his pants pocket through airport security), and his philosophical and practical insights into the world of diamonds.

Mr. Coxon’s lecture was brilliant, but one thing in particular stood out to me. The idea of beauty. He spoke about how beauty so often transcends the 4Cs, certificates, ratings and other criteria, about how it is up to us to determine what is beautiful, how there is something profoundly subjective and instinctual about beauty. Mr. Coxon explained that when it comes to choosing a diamond (and a man? and a career?), it is all about the eye, mind, and heart.

After taking some questions from members of the rapt audience, Mr. Coxon invited us all to come up and check a machine he had on hand to test the beauty of diamonds. He explained that many perfectly-rated diamonds, when placed under this magnifying machine, are seen to be subtly or profoundly flawed.

How many of us went up there to do this Husband Test? Not many. I think we were all scared. Scared to know.

Hamida Belkadi, DeBeers’ CEO, closed the evening with a few words of her own. She told the most wonderful story about meeting her husband. She was in town from France for the weekend visiting her sister. They were at a party in a garden. Hamida said that she spotted a man in the distance, on the far side of the crowd. And she said she knew. In that instant. That this was her man. And sure enough, he is. Hamida said that this is really how we should all choose our diamonds. That we should wait for that magical that’s it feeling to overtake us.

I am well aware that I am rambling a bit here, that there is no ready focus to today’s thread. But that’s okay. That’s life. Really, I just wanted to crack a window into last night’s magic. To be honest, I’m in a bit of disbelief that I was invited to host such a lovely evening. But I am ever thankful that I was.

And today. I am smiling. In my mind dance images of dreamy diamonds. In my mind swirl questions about instinct and love and beauty and brilliance.

Thank you, Elle Magazine, 85 Broads, Hamida, Andrew, and DeBeers for including me in such an exquisite evening. I am honored and humbled beyond measure.

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• Do you agree that there is something enigmatic about beauty that transcends objective criteria?
• Do you believe in love at first sight (when it comes to people and things)?
• Would you have taken the Husband Test or would you prefer not to know about the true nature of your stone?

Two weekends ago, I saw three movies! Please note that I do not like exclamation points, but I feel that one is warranted in the foregoing sentence because, prior to said weekend, I have maybe seen a total of three movies in the past three years. (Cheerio, parenthood!) Well, that’s a bit of an exaggeration. But I like exaggeration, so onward.

I watched one movie at home, so it doesn’t really count. It also doesn’t count because I stretched out on the couch and fell asleep nine minutes in. I hoped the vampire action in New Moon would keep me alive and kicking. Alas, no. The other two movies were actually in the theater. One was enjoyed with a gaggle of girlfriends and the other, with my main man. And here’s the thing, the odd thing: the two movies couldn’t have been more different and I really liked them both.

Sex and the City 2. Terribly reviewed. Wildly fun. Was this movie stuffed with cutesy quips and predictable plot points and over-the-top fashion and borderline-offensive sexual and political displays? Absolutely. But. Were there scattered moments of sincerity and nuance and was it all-in-all quite entertaining? Indeed. My girlfriends and I left the theater smiling big, reliving the flick’s silly moments, and talking. It was a Friday afternoon and we migrated from the theater to my deck where we sipped wine and continued to talk. About life and love. About sex and the city. In this often too-serious world of ours, this was a delectably frivolous and fabulous way to head into the weekend.

Please Give. The final movie I saw. With Husband. This one was pretty well-reviewed. And considerably depressing. Have you even heard of this movie? I hadn’t. But it was playing in our favorite theater and the time was a good one and it got good reviews. It was a thoughtful and nuanced movie. A bit depressing. Incredibly real. The kind of movie I would want to write. Anyway, I liked this movie for its subtlety, for its apt portrait of humanity and mortality. I left this one not smiling, but thinking and asking. Another cinematic success.

And so. What’s the point here? Just that I saw a trio of movies in a two day span? No. The point is a bit more meaningful and elusive. The point is that it sometimes seems that there are types of art and entertainment that we are supposed to embrace and enjoy and there are types that are forbidden fare. And, in the event that we do happen to savor the more fluffy choices, we are certainly not advised to admit it. Because how does this look? After all, do serious and intelligent people like movies like SATC2?

Yes. They do.

Why this debate today? Two weeks after the fact? Because. Because as I set out on this writing adventure, I think about these things. I think about the stories I want to write and those I’m expected to write. Because I feel a profound tension within me sometimes between the serious and the silly. And I celebrate this tension, this resident complexity in my creative core, but sometimes I feel as if I am supposed to crowd out the silly and pursue serious.

But I don’t want to do this.

Since Life After Yes was published one month ago, several people have read the book and said something to me. Something like: It was a fun book. I could not put it down. It was easy to read, but it also had philosophical heart and true depth and asked real questions. They say this, or some variation of this, and there is a tinge of surprise in their voices. That a book can be both heavy and light, laced with threads silly and serious.

And in response to these bemused readers, I trot out my latest and greatest metaphor. I say:

“I like to think of my book and my blog writing as vitamin gummy bears. They taste good, but they also pack a nutritional punch.”

And people seem to like this. They smile and nod. But do they buy it? I’m not so sure. Maybe candy and vitamin are intrinsically incompatible. Maybe artistic light and creative darkness do not belong together. Maybe silly and serious should stay in separate boxes.

I don’t know, but I don’t think so.

What I do think is that we should allow ourselves to enjoy (and write) the stories we like whether they are all candy or all vitamin or somewhere deliciously in between.

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• How often do you see movies? Have you seen any of the movies that I mentioned here?
  
• Can you watch a movie at home without nodding off?
• Do you feel pressure to like certain kinds of books and films?
• Do you agree that, on some level, entertainment should be an escape and we should permit ourselves to enjoy a range of stories cinematic or scribbled?
• Do you feel pressure in your own writing to stick with more serious themes?

Not my 6.5 pound gain. I don’t think. Sorry to disappoint. Or mislead. Truth be told, I haven’t stepped on a scale in a couple of weeks. Which is not my norm. Ever since Toddler was known to be brewing in my belly, I have made a point of weighing myself. I didn’t want to go the surprise seventy pound pregnancy route and a daily check-in seemed to be the way to go. And it worked. I only gained twenty-five pounds with each babe. And I’ve kept up the habit of number-checking since.

Until recently.

Recently, I’ve been under enough pressure and stress. I don’t need that extra oh-I-ate-soy-sauce-and-gained-two-pounds-in-five-minutes angst. So. I’ve forsaken the scale. Instead, I’ve opted for the clothing test. My skinny jeans? They fit fine. And, yes, they are stretchy, but that’s legal. And lovely.

The truth? I’ve been riding this publication wave. And I want to enjoy it. I want to suck every ounce of this experience. And I don’t want to be distracted by the ups and downs of a flat piece of technology that chills on my bathroom tile.

Denial, you say? Perhaps. I have been indulging. This weekend at my college reunion? I did not pass up that glass of wine for fear of the calories. I did not limit myself. And you know what? This is the way it should be. There are happy times in our lives, exquisitely beautiful times in our life, when we should just plunge in and go for it. Not play it safe. Not count. Not chide ourselves.

There are times to live.

I am friends with the author Emily Giffin. Yes, on Facebook. In the odd event that you are not familiar with Emily or her best-selling candy-colored novels, she is a bit of a phenom. And I have a bit of a soft spot for this chick because she too abandoned the sparkling legal world to write away her days and raise a family. Anyway. Emily’s latest book Heart of the Matter is waiting for me on my bedside. And it is selling like hotcakes. And she is touring around this fine nation. As she should. And one of her recent updates on Facebook made me smile. Because, really, it reminded me that despite her commercial magic, she is a human being. Her words:

Official (almost over) book tour weigh-in. Four weeks=a whole lot of French fries and drinks=6.5 lbs! Up slightly from my 6 lb average book tour gain.

This woman, this writer? She has been on tour for almost a month and, per the bits I gather online, she has been doing late-night shots and scarfing room-service fries and she has a bit more of her to show for it. And? The fact that she is willing to shout this from the rooftops of her digital palace? It makes me like her. It does. Because I am sick and tired of people pretending like they are perfectly disciplined and sensible creatures. (Because, frankly, I am often one such pretender.) I am even more sick and tired of those who are actually not pretending. Those who never have that extra fry or fifteen.

So, Emily? Bravo. I plan to plow through your purple-wrapped prose soon. Once I get a minute to breathe. More than anything, I applaud your humor, your authenticity, your honesty.

It’s not just your starry words that make you shine.

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• How often do you weigh yourself?
• Did you (or your wife) weigh yourself (herself) during your (her) pregnancies?
  
• Have there been very happy times in your life when you’ve indulged, and knowingly, and happily?
• Do you gain or lose weight at happy times? At sad times?
  
• Do you respect people who are honest about their very human tendencies?
• Have you read Emily Giffin’s latest? Would you like to? I plan to zip through my copy and then send it on to one of you when I’m through. In the upper right corner of the title page I will inscribe my top-secret weight at the time of mailing Leave a comment on this post before 6am EST Friday, June 12th for a chance to win.