I am in hot, humid, sweaty-in-all-the-wrong-places Central America, and I am invited to a Christmas party.  Eager to experience the holiday through a shiny new cultural lens, my mistletoe and I happily accept.   In the name of cross-cultural exchange, I carry an innocent little twig of mistletoe, in hopes it will aid my mission to gather a more intimate knowledge of the culture, if you know what I mean.  Wink-wink-elbow jab.

The taxi drops me off at the address.   It’s dark.   It’s muddy.  I’m wearing red heels.  I can envision it now:

Perfect little tan bodied, long-haired, hoop earring donning Latina female number one: Who brought the idiot who can’t even walk like a proper woman in tacones?

Perfect little tan bodied, long-haired, hoop earring donning Latina female number two: Pshhh, who cares.  She’s a gringa–what do you expect?

As I not-so-gracefully tip-toe my way around the emerging pieces of rock that play a cruel game of peek-a-boo with me and the dry, hard earth, threatening to make a fool out of me with just one wrong step, I reprimand myself for not just surrendering to flats and settling for stumpy.  But what latin lover is going to want to whisk the stumpy, sweaty girl off her feet?  None.  Especially a stumpy, sweaty girl that, for reasons unknown, is dangling a strange, berry-laden plant above her head.

My schizophrenic thought-process is immediately put on hold in response to a disturbingly sudden, high-pitched shrill that echoes throughout the air.

As I approach the house, I hear it again, but this time much louder.  And again.  And once again.

As I make my grand entrance into the door of the tin-roofed home–a bit nervous, knowing I will be a stranger in the room–I am greeted not with the warm welcome I was optimistically envisioning, but rather, by an unexpected, alarming scene of sorts that instantaneously sends a wave of nausea rushing through me.

The image is just as horrifying as the sound:  A massive pig, larger than most of the humans that surround it, is being violently chased in circles around the backyard.  There are five males, each armed with what appears to be an oversized mallet, scrambling around the yard, determined to deliver a mighty blow to the panic-stricken pig atop its head to render it unconscious, at which point its throat will be pierced with the large machete that dutifully hangs from the wall.

I quickly ascertain that heels were most definitely an inappropriate selection of footwear for this party.

Well, That’s Awkward

I am horrified.  I have no idea what to say, do or even feel, and can’t bear to watch as they silence the pig’s last desperate squeal, and collectively heave it onto a large wooden chopping block to saw off its head.

As the rest of the attendees take delight in gathering around the cauldron-like wok they have suspended over a fire with the help of three heavy-duty chains, patiently awaiting sliced pieces of pig fat to be fried and served, I, on the other hand, sit on an opposite side of the yard, quietly sipping my lager and contemplating, philosophizing, mourning.

Witnessing this event was a great mental exercise for me, and one that boldly challenged my perception of reality, ostentatiously mocking it with its unabashed display of complete and utter opposition to my ingrained cultural norms, which was, by extension, opposition to everything I had previously known to be true.

I fling the mistletoe to the ground.  There will be no stolen kisses tonight.

Words such as PETA, animal cruelty, and inhumane come to mind, as I question the ethics–or, perhaps, lack of ethics–of the human race.  But then, I’m suddenly also forced to question myself.  My automatic reaction is to be appalled, and to proclaim such an act as loathsome, detestable and just plain cold-blooded.

But then, I think, is it actually?

I remind myself that we, too, kill thousands and thousands of pigs each year for consumption, and, according to some recent documentaries, we aren’t as “humane” in our practices as we might like to think.

That said, I question why it doesn’t bother me if I don’t have to witness it with my own eyes.

Worth Contemplating, But Not My Point

I don’t intend for this to be a statement of my position on the integrity of eating meat, because, frankly, I don’t have one.  I am from Scranton, Pennsylvania.  There’s no question that I like meat.  Right now, it’s not about that; it’s about the far broader message that can be extrapolated here.

No matter how you dice it, the simple fact is that it’s unfair for me to judge, because I’m judging based on a different set of rules.   A set of rules that we’ve internalized and perpetuated among ourselves as truth, when, in reality, it’s not truth–it’s purely our perception of truth. Relative to this example, it’s our perception of how we view right and wrong.  And this, to me, was wrong.  But I’ll tell you what–to the people at the party, there was nothing wrong about it.   Their truth is that the merits of to-kill-a-pig-or-not-to-kill-a-pig just isn’t a debate that exists.  On the other hand, what does exist is the need to eat, and, frankly, it’s a luxury to have meat at all.  No one is disturbed.  No one is shuddering.   Instead, they are rejoicing.  They are grateful to be fortunate enough to even have the opportunity to kill a pig.

There are some obvious implications that should come as no surprise, namely that, as I’ve stated before, reality is subjective.  But it goes beyond that, and makes another, perhaps less salient point:

Subjectivity implies choice.

You have two choices:  Allow society at large to define your perspectives on your behalf, or define your perspectives for yourself.

What do you really think?  What do you really believe?  … Do you even know?

There is no inherent benefit in accepting the perspectives that society arbitrarily determines for us–whether it’s right versus wrong or any other myriad of possibilities.  There is a perceived benefit, though, and it goes by the name of fitting in.  But, in my view, that’s far from beneficial; quite the opposite, actually.  On the other hand, when you’re capable enough to cut through the noise and learn how to think independently of the group, that’s where the real benefits lie.

Am I saying that I’ve shed my deeply ingrained culturally-based thought patterns overnight, and am a newly converted, red heel wearing pig butcher, in the name of independent thought?  No, certainly not.

But am I open to the possibility that this isn’t as loathsome, detestable and cold-blooded as I was originally inclined to think?

Yes.

If there are currently 7 billion people (that’s 7,000,000,000, in case you need all of those fancy zeros to conceptualize just how many people that truly is) on this planet, and all of us have different perceptions of what’s right or what’s wrong, or whether or not red heels do anything at all to detract from stumpy sweatiness, then it would be preposterously arrogant of me to assert my own perception of right or wrong as truth.  Extended beyond pig killings, if we can learn to apply a similar thought process to other traditionally rigid ideas, such as religion, marriage or even what constitutes success, who knows?  We might just do alright for ourselves, after all.  Not to mention a possible diminishing of supremacism, americentrism, racism, and a host of other ugly -isms and the unflattering baggage that comes with it.

It all starts with the pig, I say.

And with that, I take all of my assumptions, and throw them haphazardly to the wind.

I am left with only two questions:

1)  Where can I find some more mistletoe?
2)  Who’s your daddy now, life?

Philly, represent!

Fate vs. Reality

I don’t believe in fate.  I don’t believe in destiny.  And as much as I want to imagine that somewhere in the world, there’s one lucky* special person out there who would make the perfect gouda to complement my oversized glass of Merlot, I think that’s a bunch of happy horseshit, too.

It’s certainly a nice idea, me skipping off into the sunset with my new hot pink Brazilian thong rammed properly up my Hawaiian Tropics buns, sipping a piña colada with some stupid little flower in it, accompanied by a tall, dark, semi-scruffy (what can I say, I dig a 5 o’clock shadow) picture of perfection with an unnaturally white smile who just happens to share the same passions as I do, including global travel, entrepreneurship, reading, writing, philosophizing and Donkey Kong.

While this is certainly not an unrealistic or unattainable scenario, the fact of the matter is that if this were the case, my Hawaiian Tropics buns Pennsylvanian winter cellulite and his well-defined biceps did not find one another as the result of any divine intervention.  Regrettably (fortunately?), Hasselhoff is not my soul mate after all.

Soul mates do not exist.  Fate does not exist.  And destiny sure as hell is on par.

Cynical, aren’t I?

Before plummeting into a fit of despair, allow me to qualify my claims and explain why this perspective is a good thing, and how being a little cynical can increase your quality of life exponentially.

Here are the standard definitions of fate, kindly copied and pasted, courtesy of dictionary.com:

1. Something that unavoidably befalls a person; fortune; lot.

2. The universal principle or ultimate agency by which the order of things is presumably prescribed.

3. That which is inevitably predetermined; destiny.

4. A prophetic declaration of what must be.

5. Death, destruction, or ruin.

Now, is it just me, or did anyone else notice that the same word by which people often refer to with affection — “It was fate that we met that night!” — also means “death, destruction or ruin?” That should have been a big red flag right there.

Here’s the deal: Pie-in-the-sky constructs like fate and destiny imply that we have no choice in the matter.  All systems are a go, and you’re essentially just a pawn. A marionette. A puppet. You might as well be Bert or Ernie. You’d be just about as productive. You’ve got no control.

I don’t know about you, but the only time I’ve truly lost control involved me, a London tapas bar, and a Spaniard.  That aside, the rest of the time, I, like you, are continually making conscious decisions about how I choose to spend my time and, ultimately, my life.

• Did you drag yourself out of bed this morning, force yourself to sit through rush hour traffic and then miserably sit through work today, relying on 24 oz. cups of coffee to make you look like you care?  That’s was a choice you made.
  
• Do you wish you could travel but complain you don’t have the money?  Did you go out and lease a new car this year?  That was a choice you made.
  
• Are you stuck in an unfulfilling relationship, and have resorted to becoming a bitter, old maid because you’ve been together for so long, that it would just be too difficult to start anew?  That was a choice you made. (That you should really, really remedy right away.)

As a matter of fact, every single thing you did today was a choice that you made. Even attending that pointless, let’s-congregate-in-the-conference-room-so-we-feel-like-we’re-being-productive staff meeting.

You’re probably thinking, “Ashley, you piece of *@&$, I have to go to work because I have to make money.”  Technically, no, you don’t have to go to work at all.  No one is making you.  No one has a gun to your head.  You’re making yourself because you want what’s offered in exchange: Money.  But what if you wanted something more than just money? (I should hope you do.) Can dragging yourself to your job tomorrow morning give you what it is you want beyond a paycheck?  If the answer is no, I’d seriously urge you to reevaluate what choices you’re making, and where you might be able to make better ones in the future in order to balance things out a little.

Too many people rely on the “if it’s meant to be, it’ll be,” or my personal favorite, “everything happens for a reason.”  That is the biggest bunch of absolute @*%$! I’ve ever heard.

NOTHING happens for a reason.  Things happen because you make them happen (or don’t).

Why am I raining on the parade?

Because too often, people use these nonsensical, feel-good mottos to dictate the course of their lives.  When things go wrong, it’s much easier to take a deep breath and convince yourself that it wasn’t you who made a bad choice.  No, conscience, it wasn’t my fault; everything happens for a reason.  Whew.  Good, I was beginning to worry there for a second.

This is nothing more than a lazy avoidance of responsibility for your actions, and a justification for that avoidance.

Now for the good news: Once you start acknowledging the fact that your entire life is within your control, you don’t just reap the negative consequences of having made a poor choice, you also reap the limitless positive benefits of recognizing your power and then using that power to create the life you want.  You are not a marionette.  You are a human being with opinions and emotions and likes and dislikes, and you’re also a human being who is entitled to what it is they want out of life.  All you’ve got to do is choose it.

I was fortunate to come to this realization years ago, and since I credit it as having been my most valuable and effective life tool.  Many people ask me how I am able to travel the way that I do.  Really, there’s no secret involved.  I am not more capable, more intelligent or more savvy than any of you. What it comes down to is simply the fact that I choose to find opportunities for myself.  I actively seek them out.  I do not travel because it was in my cards, or this was my destiny.  I travel because I choose to, and I make it happen because it’s important to me.

Once you realize the world is your playground, and you can choose to live any reality you’d like, then it simply becomes a matter of prioritizing.  If you want to go hit the town tonight and spend $100 on overpriced cocktails and cover charges into clubs full of sweaty, questionable people wearing sparkly lycra, go ahead.  Alternatively, you could skip tonight’s meat market and put that $100 toward a plane ticket fund, and then mingle with sweaty, questionable people WITH ACCENTS in Spain 6 months from now. Is there even really a question?

I guess I should probably wrap this up with some well-thought out, clever closing, but to be honest, I don’t feel like it.  So I’m choosing not to.  See how easy that was?

*Disclaimer:  All funny cross-out words are the stylistical trademark of Andrew MacPherson, and I blatantly stole it for this post.  You want to see someone who puts this principle into action and really chooses their lifestyle, on their terms?  He’s your man.  I’d encourage you to go see what he’s up to, but be careful. He’s addicting.

Thoughts?  Agree?  Disagree?  Think I’m evil?  Would love to hear any stories about making conscious choices to improve your life, and what the results were!