It’s Sunday afternoon, and I’ve just returned from the beach. My family is renting a house for a few days in Wildwood, NJ, where they all have fond memories from childhood. I just need to know where all of the local Wawas are.
They’re all still there, buried under umbrellas, beach towels, and layers of 50 SPF sunscreen. I opted to come back to write, a decision I felt a twinge of guilt about. But as in favor I am of beaches, there’s nothing more relaxing to me than a quiet room and the soft glow of my laptop.
My brother is sitting on the plush, clay colored sofa of our rental, eating something off a long, wooden stick and watching Family Guy clips on YouTube.
“What’s that?” I ask him, opening the fridge to find a cucumber.
“Chip stick,” he says casually.
I watch him for a second, and then go back to putting together a lunch.
Yup, I have a brother. I know I’ve mentioned that before somewhere. He’s 20, he works in landscaping, and he’s kicking ass at Pokemon Go.
I love my brother. He’s weird, and at a very young age, he’s embraced and developed a deep understanding and appreciation of that weirdness. He gave college a shot, it wasn’t for him. He was on the swim team for awhile in high school, excelling in diving, before deciding that he really didn’t want to do that either.
What perhaps seemed like him actively not choosing to participate in activities or opportunities, was actually him rejecting what wasn’t normal, or didn’t come naturally. It’s a practice that most people, myself included, don’t fully grasp until much later in life. He’s been widdling himself down to the leanest, most authentic version of himself this entire time and he’s pretty close to being done.
It wasn’t easy. Before he really got a hold of his “Ricky-isms”, he was easily upset and defensive. He got frustrated when people didn’t respect or understand his choices. What some people may have thought was a simple request or question, such as asking him if he wanted to go to the mall, was really like asking him if he wanted to bang his head against a wall.
(Accidental poem!)
His blunt response: “Why would I want to do that?”
By diving really deeply into his interests and eccentricities, he’s brought so much joy into his life. He’s so confident and it’s amazing to see how much it’s changed him. Instead of laying on the beach, he’s spent half of his time in Wildwood at the arcade, returning with prizes like big, plastic skulls and decks of Magic cards. When it comes to fucks, he has none.
Not a single one.
He’s Ricky, and this is how you be a Ricky in the world.
I’m inspired and envious of his rare talent.
But luckily for me, and those of us who are still drunkenly stumbling through who we are, columnist Heather Havrilesky has come to the rescue with her new book, “How to be a Person in the World”.
And she brought Advil for the hangover.
Havrilesky is best known of her advice column, “Ask Polly”, in The Cut, a section of New York Magazine. I’ve been following “Ask Polly”, for years, before I went to Iceland, before I got divorced, and even before I got married. Before a few weeks ago, I had never “asked Polly” anything, but had found solace and understanding in what other people asked, and how she replied.
“How to be a Person in the World” features her very best Q&As that go beyond just one of two paragraphs of advice like “Dear Abby”. No, in Havrilesky’s lengthy responses are introspective nuggets and gems of wisdom, drawn from Heather’s own personal experiences of just figuring shit out.
No topic is left uncovered.
She rails on a man asking her to give him reasons NOT to cheat on his seemingly disinterested and stressed out wife. Her reply was that his brazen request of “give me reasons not to” was a “pretty elaborate way to justify something that’s unjustifiable. It’s a brave-looking way of being a total chickenshit.”
She challenges him to “show up and make himself vulnerable” in his marriage, instead of choosing to “disappear and force her (his wife) into an inherently vulnerable position,” and to “resist the urge to avenge your wife’s lack of desire by fucking other women”.
I think her response to that letter is one of my favorites, and one that she was still riled up about at the book reading I attended two weeks ago at Motorco Music Hall.
“I mean, are you for real?” she said to us, exasperated when recalling the man’s request.
But that’s where Havrilesky shines, when she’s ripping off the rose colored, kalediscope glasses many of us wear when we’re hiding from the discomfort of reality. Most of her replies, while extremely empathetic and well worded, often have the same overall “are you for real?” tone to them.
If you’re hiding in the cool, quiet shadows of insecurity, Havrilesky will shine a light that would make a blind man blink.
“As long as you aim to please men, you don’t,” she tells a woman who’s tired of putting herself out there.
“You must not treat yourself like you need someone to fix all of your problems,” she instructs another woman, who wonders if all guys are commit-a-phobes. “That’s not fair to you.”
“No one wants to hear your self-created, self-perpetuated narratives,” she informs the woman always chasing men with girlfriends.
“Drunken grandiosity has its appeal,” she admits to the reformed party girl. “But you’ll never learn or grow.”
While she gives stellar career and relationship advice (I could keep quoting her, but I would probably just end up re-writing her entire book), she also urges her readers to find joy in the complicated messes they are.
“Imperfect things are the most beautiful things of all,” Havrilesky says.
For a very imperfect person such as myself, Heather’s writing is a life raft. It’s required reading for the 29 Year Old & Still Single Club (current members are just Sandra and myself). It’s crucial for anyone who knows they’re different, and needs someone to show them how that’s going to be OK.
The best thing gleamed from “Person in the World” was Havrilesky self-identification as an “oily, salty” anchovy rather than a “sweeter, snackier, littler” Little Debbie Snack Cake.
Through this method, she recognizes that 1) Not everyone digs anchovies 2) That’s not a bad thing. Guys she dated, for example, who were looking for a cute little snack cake, were surprised and disgusted when they licked off the frosting and found fish. So she stopped trying to be an adorable, pocket-sized dessert, and instead, chose to fully embrace what she really was: one of the most delicious things on pizza.
She wasn’t a good snack cake, but she’s a really fucking awesome anchovy, in search of people, places, and experiences that fucking LOVE anchovies.
Havrilesky is the fairy godmother you always wanted. But instead of waving her magic wand and getting glitter and sprinkles everywhere, she drops bombs that go off page by page, leaving you windswept, vulnerable, and raw. It’s here that Ask Polly fanatics find the good stuff, in the rubble of misconceptions and insecurities. It’s here where we can wrap her words around us like a cozy, lavender scented cashmere blanket, finally able to relax and get both comfort and warmth from our truth.
This book is one of the most valuable things I have on my journey of self-discovery. It’s a sail that carries me from the lonely, dark places where I’m to blame for every career endeavor that went wrong, every relationship that went awry, and every flaw I have. It carries me to a sunny, bold new planet where everyone is as imperfect, and as addicted to olives, as I am.
A planet where I attended a wedding last weekend, and was seated with a table of couples. Instead of feeling discouraged, instead of wondering who I could have or should have brought, on this planet, I danced to The Backstreet Boys, befriended pretty bridesmaids and took ridiculous photo booth pictures with my little sister.
In this brave new world that Havrilesky has pioneered, I am a brave new me. Instead of engaging in a pity party for one, or secretly scratching at old wounds in the middle of the happy couple’s first dance, I’m joyful, even delighted at the unknown.
This me spins, twirls, giggles and just thinks, “Thank God I didn’t bring someone who doesn’t like lemons.”