Grappling to overcome first love

What makes us such prisoners to the grip of first love?
Or is it just me?

I have a theory that we fear never being as close to someone (non-familial) again, and it is this fear that magnifies the pain of letting a first love go.
I'm fairly certain that some of my most embarrassing moments occurred with my first boyfriend, and vice-versa. The next time around, in a new relationship, things won't be as new or awkward, I won't be as green or young. I'm not just talking about sex either, I'm talking about every portion of first love. The incessant feeling of butterflies -- really just a kinder word for nausea -- that accompanies the first month of the relationship. The I-can't-believe-you-just-said/did-that, moments. The terror of meeting the family. The family dinners in which one parent spots a hickey and then brings it to the attention of everyone at the table. The "accidental" sleepovers. The first big fight.

There is nothing quite like first love.

When Judith Jones' husband Evan died, she wrote, "I doubted that I would ever find pleasure in making a nice meal for myself and sitting down to eat it alone. I was wrong. Instead, I realized that the ritual we had shared together for almost fifty years was a part of the rhythm of my life, and by honoring it I kept alive something that was deeply engrained in our relationship."

Evan may not have been Judith's first love, but he was certainly her greatest. And my ex-boyfriend may not be dead, but sometimes I feel I've lost a loved one.

How do we find pleasure in relationships past? Is it possible to maintain rituals, to celebrate what was, to cook with first love?

Is it healthy?

Judith Jones

This morning, a clean copy of Judith Jones': The Tenth Muse, My Life in Food awaited me in the book room.
I met Ms. Jones a few years ago, she was petite and lovely. She told me about how she visits the union square market every other day, and always prepares delicious meals for herself, despite living alone.
But today, I met her anew.
I couldn't put the book down.
I savored every page, word, experience, flavor and photo.
I made an effort to walk by her office three times, and I inhaled deeply, hoping for a draft to escape the empty, still office.
Judith is in Vermont for the summer, but I hope to see her again someday.

For dinner, I made myself a fried egg, blanched asparagus and hollandaise, which ribboned in pale yellow, dotted by bits of pepper. Delicious.

I've realized that I have two passions in life; food and fashion. Are they mutually exclusive?

Sunday, Sundae.

Some dread Sunday. I think it is perhaps my favorite day of the week. Sunday brunch, the Sunday times, it is the last day to lazy around before a bustling work week begins again. It's like dessert, you savor it because it's the last portion of a meal, it's also the sweetest.

On this Sunday, I saw Woody Allen's Midnight in Paris. I suggest you see it if you haven't already. I found it full of wisdom in an ironic, jovial sort of way. In the film, Kathy Bates says something along the lines of, "It is not the job of an artist to succumb to the despairity of life, it is the job of an artist to fill the void of emptiness created by life." The film is all about how we long for the past, to live in another era, to experience another time, and how each of us must come to terms with our own present.

The most wonderful part of the day was the meal I shared with my aunt afterwards. We ate gaspacho, crab salad, and pâté on crunchy french bread, outside a small french bistro on 81st and Broadway. I was thrilled to order a glass of white wine, no proof of ID necessary. We talked about the film and I externally processed my complicated life plans. I'm only 20, and I already feel as though my life is sand, rapidly running through my fingers. I'm plagued by a fear that I'm running out of time, that I'm failing to make critical decisions and soon it will be too late, I'll find myself old, dissatisfied with my job and ultimately depressed. This sounds rash, but it's true. I imagine I'm not the only 20 year-old feeling this way.

My aunt spoke about sacrifice, she told me that it is important when making decisions to recognize that every option involves sacrifice. It is in weighing sacrifices, almost economically, that we can come upon the right decision.

I'm not sure that she said that at all actually, but that's what I took from the conversation.

It's like Bill Clinton's lists of goals, perhaps we should always revert to the basic tool of a pro's and con's list. Weigh our sacrifices, analyze the cost-benefit of the equation. Above all, know that there exists no perfect scenario, that everything involves sacrifice.

Midnight in Paris had me longing to travel to France, which further complicates my already shaky life plan.

Back in the city for a second summer to collect wisdom.

It's time to begin writing again.

Armed with a broken foot, a new internship, and a refreshed spirit despite my best friend leaving yesterday -- it is the end of week 2.

I adore my grandparents.
They left for CT at the end of last week, but the apartment is littered with their remnants: Keebler Chips Delux cookies, stacks of ambiguous papers and books, and my grandmother's unhealthy collection of miniature bath products, and jams.

I am working for Knopf. I have my own badge equipped with a proximity card that allows me to enter and exit through every door. For those of you who cannot appreciate the thrill of such seemingly benign power, you have clearly never been an intern.

This morning I sat in on a sales meeting via conference call. The interesting thing about the advent of non face-to-face business meetings, is that no one can see each other's expressions. There was a litany of eye-rolling, head shaking, and pantomimed temple shooting. My boss is too handsome to be straight and working in publishing. He is Spanish, and speaks with one of those slick, effortless lisps. He bought me lunch on day 2.

Collected wisdom thus far this summer, has come from books. Random House has a room of free books from which we are free to take whatever we like. The liberty to take new, crisp, free books, has likened me to the greedy little fat girl in Gourmet Garage, camped out by the bread sampler tonight.

I finally read Bill Clinton's autobiography, a few years late, I know. I loved the preface the most. Clinton says he read a self-help book that taught him the necessity of listing. The book instructed him to make lists of long, short and medium term life goals. Then to categorize each goal in order of importance (A, B or C). Finally, the book said to list under each goal specific activities designed to achieve the goals. Bill's goals were boring, something like: be successful, be a good husband and a good person. He definitely fell short with the husband goal.

Could this simple method of setting and accomplishing goals really be effective? I've decided to try for myself. Being a more visual person, I've stuck notecards on the walls in the hall. I won't say what my goals are specifically, but I will tell you that one of my activities designed to achieve a goal included deleting my facebook. Yes, I have taken that leap, and I already feel like a marginalized outsider. I have no idea how I'll remember birthdays.

What are your goals?

It feels like I've entered publishing during a civil war. The just-familiar world of words and books is shaking and crumbling at my feet. Tho new is seceding form the old.

This morning at work I was sent to retrieve as many copies as I could of Crain, a magazine that had published an article about the company.

The article was front, center, and large. The graphic displayed a Kindle with great, sharp, teeth attacking and consuming a hardcover book. Although it was a drawing, it may as well have been a photograph, because that is literally what's happening.

Some have advised me not to enter the world of publishing, because it is a dying field. As each new mac invention and digital-portable-whatever gets thrown onto the market, another newspaper, or paperback book gets bulldozed by its modernized counterpart. It's like Fahrenheit 451, without the burning of books, of course.

The ipad is now selling children's books that are interactive and whose pages you physical turn with your hand. Of course, physically turning really means finger gliding across the screen. Our children will be inept page-turners.

In Alice in Wonderland, the clock ticks, the cat talks, and you literally follow Alice through the rabbit hole.

I can't imagine growing up without real books, ruined book covers that I drew on with a crayon, or bindings, tattered and frayed from constant and relentless reading.

The Magic Skates was one of my favorites. The pictures were bright, and I could hold the sweet smelling, shiny pages right up to my nose as my mom read aloud. Can you imagine a parent putting their child to bed with an ipad? How cold.

My mom says that she felt the same way about the transition from records to CD's. She couldn't imagine choosing the modern version and foregoing the aesthetic appeal and bold sound of a record. But it happened. Will it happen to books and newspapers?

I feel like I'm setting myself up for heartbreak. Why enter an industry that is being pruned of all the things I love most? Just the other week, and editor at Open Road yelled at one of the techies because at a publishing company, we have no machines with word processing applications.

It is a luxury to be in the business of reading.

I feel that way despite having spent all day organizing book shelves.

It wasn't so bad. I bagged 5 books. Among them: A guide to happiness, Paul Newman's biography, a book about werewolves, and a new Gleick to add to my collection.

Today was also the last day for my fellow interns. We spent our lunch hour eating pizza and sharing thoughts in a circle. The topics discussed included favorite or least favorite person in the office. And, of course, office crush. We were gossiping to such an extent, that we closed to door to the small conference room, lest anyone overheard us.

It's harder to write when you're down, why is that?

Yesterday was a dark day. I left work with a toxic inferiority complex, generated by the growing knowledge that my fabulous internships are direct results of my very well connected grandparents, and not necessarily my own merit.

Many of my family members have thrown in an encouraging, slightly anecdotal word to the contrary.

The only person who has been successful in bolstering my confidence is my grandfather. In typical Ash style, he reminded me of his reputation, something he values dearly. And comforted me by saying that he would not have used his connections had he lacked faith in my ability to uphold is reputation.

This was on speakerphone while my mom cut his hair. I am still beaming.

I'd never walked up Madison at 7PM.

At 3PM, I find a variable assortment of runners, mothers with perfectly dressed children, small outfitted dogs, and, of course, normal people. But yesterday, as I perused the east side of the street, I found and felt something very different.

On 71st street, between a Prada and Ralph Lauren is a church. A few blocks up between more fancy boutiques, another church. Around the corner of a stiletto, spinning on a swarovski crystal pedestal, a trickle of a line is forming for the soup kitchen. Cardboard boxes, umbrellas and blankets are building forts like the ones my brother and I would make in the living room.

For me, it was the collision of real and fake, idealized and actual. The doors of Ralph Lauren opened, and fragrant, freezing air poured out. It smelled materialized, rich, luxurious. The homeless man wreaked of urine, tobacco and sweat.

I feel like I'm caught in a world where nothing is real.

4 Danish boys came over tonight for pizza and lots of beer. It was nice to be around people my age, boys was just an added bonus.