Poor Ava's Almanac... VACATION: LIFE'S ABRACADABRA

This picture of a gleeful, elated moi was taken whilst I was on vacation in Turks and Caicos. For my trip, I purchased the novel One Fifth Avenue by Candace Bushnell as my beach read.  And as you can see from the pic, I couldn't have been happier with my choice-- this book literally cradled my heart. So much so that the thoughts flashing through my head at the exact moment the camera's flash went off were to the tune of... Wow!!! Candace is truly a romantic, butterfly evoking genius. Maybe even a modern day Bronte.  Sure, she’s not as graphic when it comes to the “moment” in her characters’ love stories as say… a Harlequin Romance novelist, but... oh, shame on me for even thinking this!... of course not all "great" books must also serve as soft porn...

Yep, I thought this. And the butterflies I felt in my stomach when reading about the love affair between Phillip, aka unmarried forty something Screen Writer with two failed marriages; and Schiffer, Phillip's past "maybe" love, kept me on my back and in the sun till I finished the book later on that evening.

It was probably the glow of Turks and Caicos’ pearl dust beaches or the fact that I was inhaling the island’s liquid diamond, otherwise known as frozen margaritas; but, during the seven plus hours I stayed out there reading this book, I felt I was in the presence of The Notebook.   With lines such as, "If the sex wasn't good the first time, it got better.  If it was great the first time, it would go downhill. But mostly, if the sex was really great, the best sex you'd had in your life, it meant the two people should be together", I started to fancy myself back in love with the grantor of the greatest sex of my life and even welcomed the stomach jolting that all that entailed.  

Now, fast forward to two years later: 

I decided to read this book again during a horrendous “woe is me” week—I was in desperate need of the heart quickening, rock in the pit of my stomach that I experienced when I first read it.   Unfortunately, this time around, I did not get that love on ecstasy feeling I had on the beach; instead the above pictures happened… 

After reading lines like, “ ...By rote, she changed her clothes and got onto a treadmill.  She increased the speed, forcing her legs into a run.  A perfect metaphor for her life, she thoughts.  She was running and running and going nowhere...”, I just couldn't help it--
I slid down the rabbit hole and landed in depression boulevard.  At this juncture, I did what any normal, responsible gal will do during such bottomed out emotional times: I updated my will to reflect my recent clothing purchases, made some last minute revisions to my already prepared incase of emergency suicide note (mama I would rather you bury me in my new Alexander Wang gown and not my Dior sheath as originally requested); and then finally, I tried to tackle the problem at hand.   Why was this book depressing to me now? More importantly, what was wrong with my judgment two years earlier when I thought One Fifth was Manhattan's  version of The Notebook ?  Well, after much thought,  my conundrum gave way to today’s lesson of the day: 


NEVER TRUST THE FEELING OF CONTENTMENT YOU GET WHEN ON A VACATION OR AT A BAR.  IN ANY ROUTINE WEEK, ONLY TRUST THE FEELING YOU HAVE AT 2.P.M ON A WEDNESDAY. 

XOXO