Love.

If you hate someone, you hate them. There's no, "I hate you but I'm not in hate with you." It's solid. It doesn't change.

Not like love. That changes from person to person, from subject to subject.

This weekend, I saw the two extremes of love -- that of a new mother and child, and a couple in love.

My best friend finally had her son on Friday afternoon. She had a fairly rough pregnancy, considering she's so tiny and the baby was big. But it all happened quickly. Connor was born without incident, beautiful and a perfect 6 pounds, 10 ounces.

When I walked in to see her in the delivery room, I couldn't help but tear up. She was beautiful, glowing like I'd never seen her before. And he was flawless, full of innocence and instinctual love for his mother.

It was the purest form of love I've ever seen. I couldn't help but be blessed to be a part of it. All of a sudden, my best friend had a new family. And you could tell she was more in love with her life at that moment than ever.

That afternoon, I drove home to see my boyfriend. It was his last night before graduating Airborne school at Fort Benning. He just had a few hours of free time before he had to be back at the base.

When I saw him, he got out of his car, and ran to pick me up and hug me. You should have seen the way he looked at me. He's done it a few times before, but not always. Wide-eyed, dreamy. I imagine the same way I look at him.

I knew then, as I've known for awhile, that we were in love. And nothing, not distance or occupational hazards, could change that. It amazed me at that moment more than others before. And I'll never forget it.

Right now, I'm in love with love. And I don't care how obnoxious it is to everyone else.

Right now, if feels like it was made just for me and him. You know the kind ... where you feel like you're the only people in a crowded room. The kind where you want to see and touch each other at every moment of every day. The kind where you just sit and stare at each other, mapping out the details of their face.

It's totally lame, but totally lovely. You should try it someday.

Roly Poly

I've always loved roly-polys. Ever since I was little.

I remember sitting on my grandmother's front walkway, seeing them crawl all over the place. I used to like touching them just enough so they'd roll up in balls. I would never squash them like most kids, just give them a nudge or two.

They're all over the place right now. Crawling on the concrete patch where the dumpster sits outside my apartment. I haven't thought about roly-polys in a long time, until recently.

Today, when I took Penny outside, I realized for the first time how bad it would suck to be a roly-poly. All they do is crawl around, roll up in balls and occasionally get stuck on their back. I saw one this morning in that position. So I rolled him over. He scurried off to do God knows what.

According to Wikipedia, they don't even have any known predators. Ants don't even want to eat them. Imagine living only in dark, damp places, not having anyone who wants you.

Funny how what used to amaze you as a kid now seems sad, in a way.

Fear the Fear Itself

Sometimes I remind myself of what scares me. That way I won't be surprised by fear when it slaps me in the face. Here's a list, or something like it. Mostly for me; not so much for you.

• Sharks and deep water
• Needles/shots
• Marrying the wrong person
• Dying a violent death
• Poverty
• Losing another loved one

Fish Hooks and First Timers

I learned something this weekend. A few things actually. Starting with how I am a girl. And whether I like to admit it, I have girl moments.

On Saturday, after a day of lounging around, my boyfriend and a few friends decided to venture out to Lenny’s in Atlanta. I’d heard it was fun, but apparently, I wasn’t prepared.

I am a plain Jane. I’ll admit that. But I love to see different strokes in different arenas. The freaks, the geeks, the gays, the rednecks, I get off seeing how they all congregate. It’s healthy.

I knew when we pulled up I’d get my fair share of it all. Some guys were setting off fireworks in the parking lot while a DJ blasted some techno on the other end. Skateboarders were rolling around the lot, occasionally olleying on a makeshift ramp they’d built out of scrap wood.

We hadn’t even walked in yet. And I thought it was awesome.

A freakishly tall black man dressed head-to-toe in leather greeted me at the door. He had a Mohawk and a bull ring in his nose, which naturally captivated me. I felt a little out of place, but I was fine with it. So we ventured into the band room to check out the punk playing on stage.

An Asian chick with a fan flashing her tits danced on the platform while a guy banged away on his electric guitar. There were mohawks and black leather dresses, combat boots, a little S&M attire, a few dreads and … wait, what was that?

I glanced over at my roomie, who was standing in the corner, just in time to see her boyfriend jerk her away from a guy with a pink mohawk. She was dangerously close to getting jabbed by a fish hook sticking out of his back.

There was blood dripping off of it, and for a split second, I thought maybe it was two separate pieces stuck to him with some sort of costume glue. I thought, “No way in hell that’s what it appears to be.”

It’s called body suspension, my boyfriend explained. And yes, it’s real. He had seen it on the Discovery Channel.

Wikipedia defines it as “hanging the human body from (or partially from) hooks pierced through the flesh in various places around the body.” But to me, it was much more complex.

I have never, never in my life, been almost brought to tears by a group of people, an act, a “recreation,” anything that was said or felt by someone other than me. I am a naturally open-minded person, very accepting, wiling to hear others’ opinions and understand them before I pass (or don’t pass) judgment. But this was different. It felt wrong, perverted, dangerous, evil. Everything all rolled into one.

And then it started. My girl moment. I looked to my right, saw someone hanging from the ceiling with four strategically placed fish hooks in her back, and almost felt like I couldn’t breathe.

Not too long after, I looked at my boyfriend and told him I was leaving. “I have to get out of here. I don’t care how.”

He followed me outside, patiently, while I proceeded to attack him for not freaking out with me. Did he think this was normal? That this was something worthy of tolerance? What was wrong with these people? They were destroying their bodies, one of the greatest gifts we have.

It was bad. And I immediately knew I was wrong.

He explained that it wasn’t something he would do or encourage, by any means, but these were people, and who was he to say what they were doing was wrong? I needed to stop. They weren’t bothering me. And most of them look just like I do during the week anyway.

He was right. And I realized at that moment I was being one of the people I disrespect. I despise. I was being intolerant and judgmental. I was being a bitch.

I hadn’t seen that side of myself. And I didn’t like it when I did. So instead of hailing down a cab and leaving, I walked back to the porch outside the bar (the only area free of ceiling contraptions) and did what I intended to do. I enjoyed his company, had a few drinks and people watched.

This morning, after a night of fish hook dreams, I decided to research body suspension. Apparently, it’s a way to achieve euphoria, some sort of spiritual experience for some people. The hooks are temporary. Usually only worn for one night or two. And they can be placed in the chest or the back.

It’s weird, that’s for sure. I would never do it. Nor do I care to ever see it again. But, ironically, it taught me a little something about myself.

I can’t choose what or who to be tolerant of. I’m either accepting or I’m not. I’m either open-minded or closed like a locked door.

I choose to be open. Even if fish hooks don’t suit my black high heels.

Don't Eat the Apple

I got another wedding invitation yesterday. About the millionth I've received since I graduated from college four years ago. I'm not sure what makes people think they have to get married at this age or that age, but I'll tell you one thing. It's damn near depressing.

You have your whole life to spend with someone. Your whole life. And people feel that if you're not married by 25 or 26 or 29 you're missing out on something. If you're still single by then, then maybe you should just pick your most likely soul mate.

I know that sounds ridiculously bitter and jaded, but really. Most everyone I've seen that's married starts getting tired of each other at around the 5th year. And if not, definitely by the 10th. And if not, then their minds start to wonder and someone cheats, or someone thinks about cheating or they have a baby because they think that's going to solve all their problems -- when the truth is they won't be able to solve them. Because, most likely, they just picked the wrong person to spend the rest of their life with.

There are a few couples I know -- two actually -- that I really believe are going to make it. Yes, two, out of the million weddings I've been to. Other than that, well, I guess everyone else just made a hasty decision.

I wonder what's made us, as a society, that way. So quick to make decisions of that magnitude. When our parents' parents were married, that was it. There was no, "Well, if it doesn't work out we'll just get divorced." You fell madly, deeply in love with someone. You got married. And you were in it for the long haul. If you had differences down the road, you learned to love each other despite them. Despite all the troubles of the world that beat you down -- bad economies, Vietnam, four children who wouldn't stop crying, money troubles. All of it. You persevered.

Who wouldn't want that? That kind of love you know won't go away. The kind of love you don't want to go away. I guess maybe a lot of people just give up on it -- the idea that there's someone perfect out there for them. I guess maybe I'm one of the few people who still believes in it. Yes, I still believe in it. Even after watching more than a few friends in their 20s go through their first divorces.

Maybe some people miss that one person. Or they screw it up somehow. Maybe some people decide against it because they're one of those who stray from true happiness.

But it's there. For everyone. It's got to be.

There's an Adam to every Eve. The trick is just avoiding all the serpents along the way.

She Loved to Eat

A few days ago, a teenager was killed at Six Flags Over Georgia. He jumped two 6-foot fences to enter a restricted area underneath the Batman roller coaster, presumably to retrieve a hat that had flown off while he was enjoying the ride. He was decapitated by the coaster as it flew by.

Tragic. Especially since he was so young.

But what interested me most about the story wasn't how the accident happened. It was what his family members told the press that were covering the story.

A teary-eyed aunt of the boy said he "loved to eat," and he "was a ladies man."

She meant it sincerely, I'm sure. But it sounded so, so ... I mean, couldn't they come up with something better to sum up that boy's life?

It got me thinking. What will people -- friends and family -- say about me when I die? It's not morbid; just practical. Let's face it, the only two things that are for sure in this life is that we'll all be born and we'll all die. Sooner or later.

I'm not even sure what I WANT people to say. Maybe that I loved to write, I loved my family, I put everything in me into everything I did (except waiting tables). I loved to laugh. To smile. I loved long walks on the beach?

How do you define a person in a couple of words? A 10-second news bit? I have no idea. There are the standard, "She loved life" bits. The obligatory "She loved God and her family" comments.

It's easier, by far, to pick what I wouldn't want people to say. Like, for example, "She loved to eat." Or "She could drink most men under the table." Maybe even "Every once in a while she skipped brushing her teeth before she went to bed."

Make way for a 15-top

I'm officially a starving artist.

After six weeks of lounging around as an unemployed writer, I'll start my new part-timer today waiting tables. At a salsa club.

Fun. Not fun. I can't decide. I'm too damn old to be bringing cold beers and margaritas to college students going out on a Monday night. That's for sure. But thus is my life. Or so it's become.

I can't help but NOT be excited about branching out of my 9-to-5 dream world where I sit in front of a computer, pretend to write and surf MySpace all day. That wasn't exactly ideal either, but the perks were good. I had coffee made for me everyday. Lunch brought to my office. A view. Steady pay. Insurance. And I didn't have to shake my ass for some overweight 20-something trying to get his groove -- and his drunk -- on.

We'll see how it goes, I guess. If I leave tonight smelling like limes and fish tacos, I'm not sure how I'll last. I'm not opposed to hard work, sweaty work, but I've realized recently how spoiled I am in the career department.

A medium margarita? Salt or no salt?

So it goes.