On Seaweed and Life

My grandpa died when I was five years old. I know this not because I can recall the year that he passed, but because he died two weeks after my birthday. We were all at his house in Entre Rios, Argentina when it happened. I can still remember the spongy sensation and the smell of lemon, sugar and butter in my mouth from my birthday cake. A cake that he insisted on making sure my family purchase for me. I can't quite remember who showed up for my party other than my cousins, but I can tell you that the glasses were to the right of the cake. I can tell you that there were potatoe chips, palitos, and other party mix in front of the glasses. And I can tell you that to the right of these there was a bottle of coca-cola.

I can still remember softness of my aunt's curls when she hugged me after she told me the news. I can sense the comfort, the security that receiving this news from his chair had on me. I can feel the warmth that her body sought to share with me.

I still cry when I remember this. He's passing was my first heartbreak.

Maybe it was fate, maybe it was destiny, maybe it was a necessary step in some master plan that some old bearded guy that lives in one of the many clouds in the sky had planned out, but the previous summer (January) my whole family, including my grandparents, decided to go to the beach with my parents, uncles, aunts and cousins. This would be his last summer.

My grandpa was sort of the goofball that I somewhat resemble now. He was one of the most loyal people you'd ever meet. He was a union member. He helped anyone that needed a hand, and sometimes at his own sacrifice. He not only saw the world as it should be, but he sought to do something to change it.

He saw the good in people.

During one of those days in our last vacation my grandpa and I were in the ocean playing. The tide had changed that day, and there were tons of seaweed all over the waves and the rocks. I detest seaweed. It has always made my skin crawl. To this day I still can't even smell sushi because of the smell of seaweed. Still, my grandpa insisted on me playing with him, and because he knew how much I disliked seaweed he cut me a deal. He knew how uncomfortable I was with seaweed, so in order to placate the effect of the seaweed he offered to stand in front of me facing the beach with his back to the sea. This way he created a sort of human border with his legs- a wall that protected me from the seaweed.

My friends always say that I'm a gambler. That sometimes when I date guys, and I really like them I just let them in and become very available. That my game is risky not because I lack the ability to edit my impulses, but because I lack the ability to protect myself. I have a feeling that this is more than with just dating. I don't have a lot of friends. This has been a conscious effort on my part. I've done so because of two reasons: First, I would do anything for any of my true friends. Second, this much love need not be diluted with the amount of friendships that I accumulate. There is only so much I can give.

Recently I fathomed a lesson that until now had been elusive to me. I learned the lesson that my grandpa sought to teach me that summer's day at the beach: a little wall never hurt anyone- in fact deconstructing it can be fun. Because, unlike that summer's day, now, there is no one else there to love you enough to stand in the way of seaweed and you.

Oscar Wilde once said: "Be youself; everyone else is already taken." This is exactly what I've been doing lately. I've stopped trying to pretend that I'm perfect, and I've started loving the uniqueness of the imperfections that make me who I am.

A few weeks ago I was put in a position that was uncomfortable for me. The sea of this ambiguous friendship became clouded with seaweed, and for the first time, instead of attempting to swim evasively trying to salvage some of it, I did for myself what my grandpa had done for me almost two decades earlier. I stood my ground. I built some boundaries and demanded them be respected.

For the first time I protected myself not because I was scared of being hurt, but because for the first time I felt that I was something worth protecting. For the first I saw in myself what my grandpa had seen twenty years before during our last summer together: the object of his love. I'm the object of my love, and because of this I've picked up a new habit. You might know about it because I advice people to follow my lead on my facebook status update from time to time.

I dance every morning while in the shower. I dance by myself with myself. I dance like I dance when I'm out- I dance like no one is watching. I dance this way not because no one is watching, but because those who matter are probably dancing with me already. Not because there is fear that this might be your last spring, your last winter, your last summer. But because there really is no other way to live than to enjoy every second-every millisecond of this life. Because you are good enough, significant enough, for the simplest reason that you are who you are and I am who I am, to enjoy this life. Because you are - I am- someone worth protecting.