My very first trip to Hawai'i was epic.
I wish I could tell you that it was epic in that way that conjures up images of laughter-filled Luaus and Alohas galore and hula skirts swaying in the breeze with me holding a Blue Hawai'ian (with umbrella, please) in one hand, and a coconut shell in the other (huh? Not even sure that's a thing, but it's the image that came to mind) dancing to the sounds of some cheesy version of a Don Ho song played on a slack-key guitar somewhere in the distance... Alas, that is NOT the epic-ness I mean.
So here's the thing: I had been wanting to go to Hawai'i for years. YEARS. At one point in my colossally ill-fated marriage (oh, there's a story and a half! For another day...), I finally realized that taking me to Hawai'i was simply not on my ex-husband's list of "Nice Things To Do For The Wife". Nope. Not anywhere on that list. But then, a few years into that "marriage-cum-farce-cum-tragedy", I suddenly, and without notice, found myself without said husband, but with a lingering desire to see Hawai'i.
Shortly post the trauma of my "woke-up-suddenly-without-a-husband" incident, a dear friend who had flown all the way to DC from revolution-frenzied Cairo just to take care of me and sit with me in a cold, dreary garage (which is where I would escape to every day, sometimes for 8 hours a day, just to smoke endless cigarettes and stare off into the space of winter... like I said, trauma), and I went to the movies. It was February. It was cold. I was beyond depressed, I'm not even sure there's a word for it! We went to watch "Just Go With It" (Adam Sandler, Jennifer Aniston - silly, rom-com, set in Hawai'i). After the movie, I turned to my friend and said "You know what? Fuck it. It's too cold here, let's go to Hawai'i."
Well, it was not to be. Several reasons, not the least of which was that the kind of Hawai'i experience I was seeking at the time involved a budget in a range that would have seemed unseemly in the midst of a divorce proceeding, and the fact that it was a 15-hour trip (!!) and I needed a beach and cocktails, STAT! But don't feel too sorry for me, we ended up hopping a plane to Cancun and spending 10 days in paradise - well, if you consider me sitting on a balcony overlooking the ocean with a drink in one hand, 3 cigarettes lit at once in the other, and a constant stream of tears running down my face paradise, then yeah... it was awesome. But, I digress...
So, Hawai'i. Fast-forward two years post-divorce-a-rama and I'm visiting New York City in March, hanging out with nothing to do, contemplating many of life's mysteries, including the mystery of how to cope with my beloved father's battle with Stage 4 lung cancer (he has since passed away, sadly). I randomly posted something to Facebook about how I wanted someone - ANYONE - to take me to Hawai'i. A few days later, someone offered to do just that. Hallelujah! It literally took me three and a half seconds to decide, on the spot, to buy the ticket. We were leaving in two days.
Now, I'm all about context, and for you to really appreciate the events that follow, you have to understand the context within which they occurred, so bear with me... The woman who extended the invitation to Hawai'i was a "tangential friend". By that, I mean she was someone I knew, but not very well. I know her husband a lot better, having worked with him for many years and through him, I had met her once, but had remained in cyber-touch with her for several years. For the sake of protecting my own ass, let's call her "Sandy". Sandy is a writer of fiction. She was headed to Hawai'i to research her latest installment in her series of mystery novels, this one to be set during the Pearl Harbor attacks. She had found an amazing deal on airfare and accommodation in Honolulu and just needed a companion - she thought of me, I said yes, and we were on our way. The deal was that I would pay my own airfare, but room with her since the room was already paid for. Okay. So off we go.
Now, I will interject here, for the sake of foreshadowing, that there was a lingering moment after I pressed the "purchase" button on Expedia where I felt a pang of hesitation; a tug of doubt. I didn't know Sandy very well, but what I did know of her left me with thoughts of "I'm-not-sure-how-stable-this-person-is". I can't exactly explain why, but there you have it. Well, maybe I can explain it a little bit. Sandy is the kind of woman who emanates an air of victimhood, but in the most passive-aggressive way possible. You know the kind of person who says things like "Well, look at you all dressed up and freshly manicured! I wish I had the time to do that, but with the baby and the writing and just daily living, who has the time?!" - those are literally the first words she said to me when we met up in the airport for our flight to Hawai'i. Oh, and by the way, I should point out here that the "baby" is eight years old. EIGHT. Yeah. Not so much a baby, I would say, but hey... At any rate, I conveniently and ill-advisedly chose to ignore my pangs and doubts and INSTINCT (a running theme in my life, by the way. Just ask any friend of mine, and you'll know... oh boy, and HOW), because absolutely nothing was about to get in the way of my dreams of Hawai'i. Nothing. Not even the small, meek voice inside my head that whispered "No, girl... no. No good can come of this." Shut up, Voice of Reason, fuck off.
Here's what I knew about Sandy:
She was funny.
She was a talented writer (well, she's probably STILL a talented writer, but she's dead to me now, so I speak of her in the past tense).
She was vocal and shares a lot of unnecessary stuff on social media, much of it about her "baby" and his myriad health issues (you know the type; Facebook and Twitter updates of how "my kid is in the hospital with life-threatening XYZ, pray for us please... when will this end?!"? Yeah. THAT kind of sharing. Listen, I'm ALL for sharing, but seriously people, if your kid - or ANYONE important to you - is in the fucking hospital, HOW ARE YOU ON FACEBOOK WRITING ABOUT IT!! Come on, now!) And on a side note, let me tell you, at some point, you post too much shit about your kid ending up in the hospital with mystery illnesses and I'm GOING to call Social Services because you either have Munchausen-by-proxy syndrome or you need a better pediatrician for your kid, Jesus!
Sandy was harried. Always commenting on how little time she had to do all the things she'd like to do. She betrayed her insecurities about her appearance, her weight, her asthma, her depression, her husband (who is quite handsome and in far better shape than she is; although I suspect he may not be entirely of the heterosexual persuasion... but I digress) by constantly commenting on them in one form or another. This tendency played itself out rather exhaustively during our eight days in Paradise. EIGHT days.
What I didn't know about Sandy going into this journey - but what I suspect my gut knew and was trying to tell me - was that, in addition to all the things I list above, she was also fucking psycho. But, I started to see glimpses of this psycho-ness pretty much off the bat... by which time it was too late to back out(seriously, Hawai'i is FAR).
TROUBLE IN PARADISE - DAY 1
So, we're in Hawai'i. We check into our hotel in Waikiki (not a great place, but you know, 2 beds, a bathroom, it'll do). We are hungry. So, we head out onto the "strip" and walk into a Cheeseburger in Paradise (already, right there, you know this is a bad idea...) We order drinks - and I realize pretty damn quickly that I am going to want to drink a LOT on this trip - and we start chatting...
No less than 20 minutes into this awkward dance of "well, we're in Hawai'i together for eight days... tell me, Sandy, what brand of crazy ARE you, exactly?", I am in the middle of answering Sandy's question about whether or not I believe in God (I swear to God, I am not making this up)... I'm saying "well, I don't really believe in religion, per se... but I DO believe in G..." and the next thing I see are Sandy's eyes opening wide - wider than what is normal - and she sort of braces herself on the table by hitting it with both her palms and BAM! She's under the table in one fell swoop. Meanwhile, I can hear yelling from the front of the restaurant, which I have my back to, and there's a sudden surge of commotion and folks diving under tables in a sort of synchronized dance of domino-effect diving. People are yelling "Down!!! Everybody down!!! Gun!!! Nobody move!!!" Yeah, so I dive. And on the way, I hit my knee pretty badly on the side of my chair, my Havaiana flip-flop (only the one on the right foot) goes flying off my foot, and with my face planted firmly into the grimy floor of the Cheeseburger in Paradise on Waikiki Beach, I begin to pray... and curse... a LOT.
My conversation with Him went something like this:
"Please dear God, I am begging you, do NOT let me die like this. For one thing, I CANNOT die with this woman as my last witness. No. Just no. For another, you KNOW what I've been through and how much I wanted to be here... you CAN'T do this to me. It's my FIRST NIGHT. At least let me enjoy Hawai'i for 24 hours before you end it all. Let it be said 'she died a happy woman in a beautiful land'; not 'Here she lies. After a couple of really shitty years with a nasty divorce and a dying father, she died on the floor of a Cheeseburger in Paradise on her first night in Hawai'i, with a woman she barely knew and didn't even like too much. RIP.' No, man. Seriously. NO"
Okay, so I didn't die. But, let me tell you, it was harrowing. I've been held at gunpoint for hours in a ditch in Cairo in the 90s; I've been stuck in an office in Ramallah during a cross-fire; I've survived plane rides in Mozambique with a pilot who, I swear to God, was 12 years old and couldn't read or write, but could fly a fucking helicopter... I CANNOT die like this. I just can't. Ultimately, the whole "shoot-out-in-Paradise" turned out to be a really sick prank by a bunch of teens who called in a fake threat to the restaurant and we all went home alive, if not a little bruised, and a little drunk. But, this night was a precursor and a definite omen of what was to come... oh, Lordy.
MORE TROUBLE IN PARADISE - DAYS TWO THROUGH SEVEN
And so it went...
It turns out, Sandy is also quite moody. She liked to sleep very early and to be up at the crack of dawn (which is a deal-breaker for me, frankly. I'm a night owl. We all have our thing. If you're over the age of 7 and you sleep at 7 PM and are awake by 5 AM, I'm sorry, but we can't be friends). On day two of this unfolding adventure, we ventured out to the beach, which was one step away from the door of the hotel, and yet, I only sat on this beach for two hours out of the eight days I spent in Hell, I mean, Hawai'i. Here's the only proof of me on the beach
Following this mini-beachside jaunt, as we were heading back to our hotel via a short-cut through the mall, we were lured into a cosmetics store boasting "Dead Sea Miracles" for your skin. On impact, I could tell that the saleswoman was Israeli. That's neither here nor there, but I mention it so that you can imagine her - tall, blonde, attractive, and aggressive. Not rude, necessarily, but bold. And with that unmistakable Israeli accent, she somehow got Sandy in a chair and proceeded to pick apart all her flaws, from her sagging, sallow skin, to her under eye bags and dark circles... oh, it was brutal and painful. Made all the more so because of Ms. Tel-Aviv's constant comparison between Sandy's skin and my own. Now, don't get me wrong, I have my issues just as much as the next girl, but I do make a rather concerted effort to take care of my skin because I am vain as all get-out and because it's something I watched my mother and my grandmothers do my whole life. Sandy, on the other hand, does no such thing and that's okay; except for the fact that having it pointed out so brazenly by Ms. Tel-Aviv was awkward and hard to live through. And throughout the entire 10-minute episode of "This is Your Skin", Sandy was squirming in her chair, responding to Ms. Tel-Aviv's comments with one excuse after the next: "Oh, well, of course I'm sweating, it's a hundred degrees out!", and "I don't have time to take care of my skin, what with the baby and all" - I remind you, the "baby" is EIGHT FUCKING YEARS OLD. Anyway, the point is, it was brutal and I wanted to get out of there so fast. I found my exit at the moment Ms. Tel-Aviv tried to convince Sandy to purchase a skin cream made of pure gold and dead sea salt and what I am going to assume included ingredients made of angel urine and virgin skin because for $140 ON SALE, that better be some pretty goddam amazing face cream! At that point, I pulled Sandy off the chair and got the hell out of the clutches of Ms. Tel-Aviv. But, the misery hardly ended there. The rest of this day and night were spent with Sandy going over the conversation again and again, and me trying to somehow comfort her and urge her to "ignore that bitch". And I don't blame her either because it was tough; I sympathize. But it also led to a conversation later that evening that would define this trip, and my Hawai'i dream in general, for me.
AN EVENING CHAT... GONE WRONG
Back at the hotel, we sat on our beds and started chatting. It was early. WAY too early for me, but Sandy was beginning to show signs of sleep and I was wide awake, so I decided to take a sleeping pill to help hurry the process along so I wouldn't end up awake in a hotel room with a sleeping roommate and nothing to do at 9 PM. Also, I should tell you that in addition to severe shortness of breath, Sandy snores. And I don't mean quaint, faint snoring - no, I mean snoring like there's an elephant in the room, but that elephant is being smothered AND has a megaphone attached to its nose. THAT kind of snoring. It's not pretty. It also means that whoever has the misfortune of sleeping in the same room as her is fucked. That would be me. So yeah, I popped an Ambien. Sandy asked if she, too, could have one, so I obliged (she mentioned something about how she sometimes needs a sleeping pill, something I totally get, to go with the cocktail of other meds she takes for depression, anxiety, asthma, the works! Hey, I'm not judging, merely reporting)
So there we are. Two women in a hotel room, getting a little loopy on Ambien. Fun times. So again, for context, let me just explain one thing: I began to need Ambien following my ridiculously harrowing divorce. I have suffered a particularly cruel form of insomnia my entire life, an insomnia that was exacerbated once my marriage was turned on its head and split into a million little pieces of extreme pain. I needed something - anything - to get me to sleep, if even for a few hours, however poorly. So, my doctor prescribed this. And it worked, just not in the way it is intended to work. For me, Ambien messes with my head in a big way. It makes me loopy and acts a little like a truth serum, but not in the way that's sexy and adorable. No, more like in a way that makes me compelled to say EXACTLY what's on my mind (not that I have a problem doing that anyway, but this magnifies it!) whether or not it's appropriate to do so. When I was going through my divorce, this was the greatest thing ever because so much of that situation was inexplicable (and remains so), that the ONLY thing that made me laugh through the many, many tears was the moment at which I could pop an Ambien and "see things clearly" - which wasn't really with any clarity at all, but it sure felt like it. Anyway, the point is that I tell it like it is anyway, but do so that much more when I'm 'under the influence' (it should be noted, by the way, that I have stopped taking any medication to help me sleep, in large part due to the following fiasco).
At some point in this casual conversation, Sandy starts to talk about health and wellness and fitness overall. She then begins to lament her own lack of either of those, blaming it mostly on "the baby weight" and on the fact that a year prior, she had knee surgery and had to stop running... although, I will tell you, between us, I don't think Sandy has run a day in her life. Okay, maybe when she was eight years old, but not since. Whatever, it's all good... we all make shit up about our fitness routines and our weight and our appearance. Hell, by the time my marriage ended, I was so overweight and so out of shape, and yet, I somehow managed to convince myself that I looked fabulous and that I had, maybe, 10 pounds to lose. The fact is I was closer to 40 pounds overweight (and I'm 5'2", so that's a WHOLE EXTRA PERSON I was carrying on my slight frame, and yet, I was in denial and could list a million and one reasons for why I was in such bad shape, none of which included the admission that I was just fat and lazy. But I digress...) So, I'm the first to admit that we see what we want to see and we project what we'd LIKE people to see. And here's what's wrong with that when it comes to our weight: for me, it's not about vanity alone. It's also about health. And I know "fat" is the new four-letter word and one can be torn apart and ripped to shreds for using it in the context of describing another woman, but at the risk of being chastised, I will say it: Sometimes, you're just fat. It doesn't make you a shitty person, it doesn't make you ugly, it doesn't make you stupid. It just makes you fat. It means you're carrying around more weight than your body should have to carry around, putting at risk your heart health, your bone health and increasing your risk for a plethora of less-than-desirable disease in the years to come. That's the truth, and it may be hugely unpopular to say it out loud, but there it is.
I, for one, am not the type of woman who enjoys or participates in any kind of body shaming and mean-girl type of behavior. I mean, sure, amongst my nearest and dearest, I can be brutal and awful and mean - I'm human and I'm being honest; and anyone who claims to not occasionally look at another person, male or female, and ask "what the fuck is that?" is a liar - but generally speaking, I try to keep that kind of behavior to a minimum and I prefer to be a champion for women everywhere versus a challenge. I don't give a shit if you're carrying around a few extra pounds here and there as long as you feel good and you're healthy. But, if you're overweight to the point where it's actually posing a threat to you, then as your friend, if you ask (and in some cases, even if you don't), I will tell you the truth. I will tell you that "yes, you need to lose some weight." and I'll do that because I care about you. I'm a hard-core feminist, but I'm not the kind of feminist who will grow out my armpit hair and let my bikini line grow rogue just to prove that I don't fit into some prescribed notion of "femininity"; I'm the kind of feminist who believes that women rock in every way, shape and form; but also that women should support each other however and whenever they can. Part of that support is to be honest with each other. I could do the whole fake thing and say "Oh honey, you're beautiful at any size and don't let anyone terrorize you into thinking otherwise!", but you know what? That's not fucking true. When you can't BREATHE, and you have SLEEP APNEA, and you haven't had sex with your husband in YEARS (partly because of the "baby", partly because you're "too tired" and, I suspect, partly because he might be "gay", but no matter...), then no, you're not okay at any size. You're actually not okay at all and you could die young, so I'm not going to just sit there and nod and lie to you. Because that's not supportive at all. That's sabotage.
So, on that note, I told Sandy the truth when she said that she probably needed to lose about "10 or 15 pounds to reach her 'pre-baby' weight"... I told her that I actually thought she should go see a professional and have herself properly weighed and assessed and manage her health issues with the help of someone who knows what they're doing. When she asked why I recommended this, I told her the truth. I told her that it was because I believed she may be grossly underestimating the extent of her weight gain and the extent of the threat to her health. I was HONEST. Now, I understand that I should have paid closer attention to my audience. I should have noted, for instance, that someone who probably needs to lose closer to 50 pounds but states with confidence that she has about 10-15 pounds to lose is probably someone who is so delusional and is just not ready to hear the truth just yet. I should have just kept my damn mouth shut and realized that (a) I don't really know this woman very well and what business is it of mine to get involved at all?, (b) she didn't really ask for my opinion and/or professional assessment of her health, and (c) not every truth that comes to mind must necessarily come to mouth. You know, I'm learning, it's a process... but that night, I did not keep my mouth shut, and aided and abetted by the wonders of sleep-aid, I blurted it all out to an unsuspecting woman, who ended up in the bathroom in tears, leaving me on the other side of a locked door listening to muffled sobs and apologizing on my knees, to no avail.
The following day was torture. There was me, again asking for forgiveness and trying, with no luck, to explain why I said what I said and how I meant for it to sound versus how it probably sounded. Sandy was having none of it. None of it, I tell you! Instead, we headed off to the Pearl Harbor site and onto the USS Missouri in complete silence - the most awkward war memorial tour in the history of sight-seeing adventures. Talk about war, man, I tell you... it was not fun. I snuck off at one point and called my sister to get her point-of-view. My sister is the sanest, most level-headed person I know on this planet. Her opinion matters more to me than that of anyone else's, so when she said "what the fuck is her problem?? You have nothing to apologize for, except for unintentionally hurting her feelings!", I believed her and it put some of this in perspective.
Back at the hotel after 4 hours touring the sights on a rainy day in Hawai'i, I figured, "shit, we have 5 more days of this... I won't make it if they're spent in guilt-inducing, shameful silence", so I broke that silence by saying that I needed to be allowed the chance to apologize or else I would have to find alternate accommodations for the remainder of the trip. Sandy did that thing that passive-aggressive people are so good at; that thing where they say "oh no... you have nothing to apologize for... I'm fine, thanks, I'll just sit here at my computer being fat..." Faced with that, you either take it (which I cannot) or you push on, determinedly. Okay, so I pushed. What followed was a heartfelt apology, the likes of which I have never before given, replete with explanations, justifications, modifications and considerations:
"Please understand that I meant to be helpful, not hurtful... I'm so sorry my words hurt you so much, that was not my intention... I'm an asshole, I know, I should have kept my thoughts to myself..." and so on and so forth. And, for the most part, I meant it, too. By that, I mean that the apology was sincere, but the impetus for it was less inspired by my actually feeling a need to apologize, per se, and more by a realization that the only way to end this awkwardness and to move beyond the unfortunate-ness of this incident was to just say "I'm sorry" and be done with it. In retrospect, what I should have done was just say "I'm sorry I hurt you, I did not mean to", and packed my shit, and just checked into the beautiful Westin Hotel on the beach, which is where I had wanted to be all along, alone, with my new friends Gene and Sally (more about them in a minute...), instead of stuck in that crappy hotel room with snore-a-thon Sandy and her passive-aggressive splendor and rather shitty personality. That's what I should have done. But then again, I should have never married my ex-husband, but I don't always NOT do what I know I should NOT do, you see?
Once I finished my epic mea culpa, Sandy launched into a diatribe of her own, complete with a sob story of being bullied throughout her life, a mother-in-law who consistently makes remarks about how her son "will never leave you because of your weight, but...", an abusive upbringing with a doped out mother and an absent father, blah, blah, blah... all valid and I empathize, I do, but NONE of it remotely relevant to anything I may have said and none of it my fault, ultimately. Then, when she had finished with this "cry me a river"-worthy re-telling of her miserable life, she looked at me with such vitriol and spat out venomously "...and you know what, Naila? You should talk, because you wanna know something? You're fucking fat, so there!" BAM! And there you go, ladies and gentlemen... from "the abused" to "the abuser" in 2.3 seconds FLAT.
It was at this point of the conversation that I realized "oh yeah... it's gonna be one of those situations... one that I will have to bear for the sake of - I don't know for the sake of what, exactly, but nonetheless..." You have to remember, I was not of entirely sound mind and soul at this point in my life... my father was dying of lung cancer and I was traumatized by events related to my marriage, so I was tired... and vulnerable... but mostly, tired. And so somehow, miraculously, I stuck it out. But I spent most of the next five days alone, at the Westin Hotel, overlooking the ocean - an ocean I never touched save for that very first day, post fake-out-shoot-out. Tragic, really.
But from the ashes come blessings, or something like that... Sitting on the patio of the Westin, writing frantically and web-surfing for hours on end, I must have looked particularly pathetic one day when Gene and his wife, Sally, came and asked if they could sit with me... within minutes, I was blurting out my life story to this couple in their 70s, who were complete strangers to me, but who comforted me and came and sat with me every day until the day I left. The little blessings. With Sandy, things were civil, if not a tad strained. But for the sake of my sanity and maybe even hers, I kept our interaction minimal, and fake with pleasantries. All I wanted was for this to be over...
On the last day in Hawai'i, I got a call from my mother telling me that my father's latest test results had come back and the news was bad. Very, very bad. Doctors had initially given my father a year or more to live; at this point, they said he had "two months at most" (interestingly, my father died two months - EXACTLY - to the day of this diagnosis, but that's another story for another day). I was devastated. And I won't get into the one million and one ways in which my father means the world to me and the sheer magnitude of the loss of innocence I feel having lost my Dad, but suffice it to say, I couldn't get as far away more quickly from Hawai'i and from this woman whom I had grown to hate steadily as the days went on. The single last person on the planet I wanted to be with upon hearing the news of my father's rapidly declining health was this woman. I remember feeling like I was trapped in a way that triggers anxiety attacks of epic proportions. By the end of that day, and in anticipation of a 15-hour trip back to NY, I made a decision that would trigger a reaction the likes of which I could not have imagined: I decided that there was no way in hell I was flying back to NY sitting anywhere near Sandy.
In a moment, I realized that I actually found her to be an insufferable human being, filled with issues and toxicity that I wanted nothing to do with. I was so angry with myself for having stuck it out dutifully in her company for so many days and I was determined to have nothing more to do with her. Oh, and I was fucking EXHAUSTED and couldn't face the prospect of being stuck in Coach class, crammed into a space hardly large enough for a maggot, much less a human, next to this person I could not stomach for 15 hours. Nope. And therefore, I announced to Sandy that I was going to use my points on American Airlines to upgrade to First Class if they would let me. I said it apologetically, like, "I'm sorry, but I'm so tired [because I haven't slept in 8 fucking days because you snore like a beast], and I am so sad and I just can't face a long-haul flight with my legs in my chest", but what I REALLY meant was "I fucking hate you. I think you're a horrible person without an ounce of genuineness in your body, with too many issues and you're too difficult for me to deal with, so fuck you, I'm upgrading to First Class. Aloha, bitch!"
Sandy was not pleased. Oh, Sandy was not pleased at ALL. The next thing I know is Sandy is all over Facebook and Twitter writing the. most. awful things about me and manipulating and twisting every part of the story, starting with how I mooched off her and never offered to pay for half the room (which is absolute bullshit because I actually had offered and she had declined, so instead I paid for ALL of her meals, but whatever, who cares about the truth when there's a social media audience to regale?) and going on to insinuate that I had a pill-popping problem and that after I told her she was "fat and ugly", I went on to blame that conversation on my addiction to "meds" and on and on and on... Then, she told the Twitterverse that I had "abandoned her in Coach and bought an upgrade to First Class" and isn't that just disgusting? And thus was unleashed the ugliness of the cyber-sphere. People I've never met, and Sandy has a notable audience what with being a published author and all, were writing about me and tweeting the most awful things about what a "shitty person you are! You deserve to crash on the plane!", and "oh, you poor Sandy, how awful, who is this disgusting person you're traveling with" and more, oh so much more, of just plain, hateful and horrible things to massacre me from a population of men and women who knew nothing about me, had never met me, had not actually heard the story in its accurate form, and yet jumped on this bandwagon of hate and fear and evil that was astonishing to me. It went so viral that friends of mine in CAIRO called me, while I was at the airport watching this whole fiasco unfold in speechless wonder, to ask "What the fuck is going on in Hawai'i?!! Your 'friend' has lost it!"; and that's exactly what had happened... she had finally just lost it. There were a million things I could have done in retaliation and yet I chose to do nothing at all. I sat in front of her, waiting for our flight, and watched my Twitter feed and Facebook feed fill up with lies and half-truths about me and the kind of person that I am and all the while I just pretended I was none the wiser.
Finally, I went to the ATM and withdrew the amount of money I "owed" her for the hotel room and I went up to her and handed her the money. She refused it rudely, pushing my hand away, and said that I should donate it to a cause I cared about, "if you care about anything, that is..." I promised Sandy that, in her name, I would most certainly do just that. I promised that I would make a donation in her name towards mental health. And I walked away.
I never saw Sandy again. Not on the flight to Houston. Not on the second flight to NYC (but, in fairness, I was cozily ensconced in First Class by that point). And not at the airport. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm not even sure Sandy ever made it to NYC. But I don't actually give a shit. I blocked her and her husband - my one-time friend and colleague - from anything social media related and I actually disabled my Facebook account for a month just to get away from all the insanity. I got to NYC and collapsed on my friend's couch and cried for 3 days straight. I wasn't necessarily crying because of Sandy and her psycho-ness, but more because it had all just been too much - my Dad, my marriage, my shattered dreams of a Hawai'i that was fun and magical, my brush with death on Night One (okay, maybe "brush with death" is a slight exaggeration, but you know what I mean), and just the exhaustion of seeing my name plastered all over some strangers' walls and feeds degrading me in all the ways available to those who so comfortably hide behind their anonymity online, but who are probably shit cowards in real life and would NEVER have the balls to say those things to my face. You know, the kind of people who can look a dangerously overweight woman in the face and tell her she's "not fat at all! You're beautiful!", even though they're all thinking the exact opposite but are too chicken-shit to tell the truth. THOSE kinds of people.
A few months later, Sandy AND her husband went on a mini-Twitter frenzy and tweeted and re-tweeted an article at me about "Bullying and Body Shaming", but I shut that shit down immediately and reported them both for harassment and had it removed. I haven't heard a peep from them since.
And as it turns out, I STILL just want someone to take me to Hawai'i because in my mind, I haven't been yet. Is that too much to ask?
I wish I could tell you that it was epic in that way that conjures up images of laughter-filled Luaus and Alohas galore and hula skirts swaying in the breeze with me holding a Blue Hawai'ian (with umbrella, please) in one hand, and a coconut shell in the other (huh? Not even sure that's a thing, but it's the image that came to mind) dancing to the sounds of some cheesy version of a Don Ho song played on a slack-key guitar somewhere in the distance... Alas, that is NOT the epic-ness I mean.
So here's the thing: I had been wanting to go to Hawai'i for years. YEARS. At one point in my colossally ill-fated marriage (oh, there's a story and a half! For another day...), I finally realized that taking me to Hawai'i was simply not on my ex-husband's list of "Nice Things To Do For The Wife". Nope. Not anywhere on that list. But then, a few years into that "marriage-cum-farce-cum-tragedy", I suddenly, and without notice, found myself without said husband, but with a lingering desire to see Hawai'i.
Shortly post the trauma of my "woke-up-suddenly-without-a-husband" incident, a dear friend who had flown all the way to DC from revolution-frenzied Cairo just to take care of me and sit with me in a cold, dreary garage (which is where I would escape to every day, sometimes for 8 hours a day, just to smoke endless cigarettes and stare off into the space of winter... like I said, trauma), and I went to the movies. It was February. It was cold. I was beyond depressed, I'm not even sure there's a word for it! We went to watch "Just Go With It" (Adam Sandler, Jennifer Aniston - silly, rom-com, set in Hawai'i). After the movie, I turned to my friend and said "You know what? Fuck it. It's too cold here, let's go to Hawai'i."
Well, it was not to be. Several reasons, not the least of which was that the kind of Hawai'i experience I was seeking at the time involved a budget in a range that would have seemed unseemly in the midst of a divorce proceeding, and the fact that it was a 15-hour trip (!!) and I needed a beach and cocktails, STAT! But don't feel too sorry for me, we ended up hopping a plane to Cancun and spending 10 days in paradise - well, if you consider me sitting on a balcony overlooking the ocean with a drink in one hand, 3 cigarettes lit at once in the other, and a constant stream of tears running down my face paradise, then yeah... it was awesome. But, I digress...
So, Hawai'i. Fast-forward two years post-divorce-a-rama and I'm visiting New York City in March, hanging out with nothing to do, contemplating many of life's mysteries, including the mystery of how to cope with my beloved father's battle with Stage 4 lung cancer (he has since passed away, sadly). I randomly posted something to Facebook about how I wanted someone - ANYONE - to take me to Hawai'i. A few days later, someone offered to do just that. Hallelujah! It literally took me three and a half seconds to decide, on the spot, to buy the ticket. We were leaving in two days.
Now, I'm all about context, and for you to really appreciate the events that follow, you have to understand the context within which they occurred, so bear with me... The woman who extended the invitation to Hawai'i was a "tangential friend". By that, I mean she was someone I knew, but not very well. I know her husband a lot better, having worked with him for many years and through him, I had met her once, but had remained in cyber-touch with her for several years. For the sake of protecting my own ass, let's call her "Sandy". Sandy is a writer of fiction. She was headed to Hawai'i to research her latest installment in her series of mystery novels, this one to be set during the Pearl Harbor attacks. She had found an amazing deal on airfare and accommodation in Honolulu and just needed a companion - she thought of me, I said yes, and we were on our way. The deal was that I would pay my own airfare, but room with her since the room was already paid for. Okay. So off we go.
Now, I will interject here, for the sake of foreshadowing, that there was a lingering moment after I pressed the "purchase" button on Expedia where I felt a pang of hesitation; a tug of doubt. I didn't know Sandy very well, but what I did know of her left me with thoughts of "I'm-not-sure-how-stable-this-person-is". I can't exactly explain why, but there you have it. Well, maybe I can explain it a little bit. Sandy is the kind of woman who emanates an air of victimhood, but in the most passive-aggressive way possible. You know the kind of person who says things like "Well, look at you all dressed up and freshly manicured! I wish I had the time to do that, but with the baby and the writing and just daily living, who has the time?!" - those are literally the first words she said to me when we met up in the airport for our flight to Hawai'i. Oh, and by the way, I should point out here that the "baby" is eight years old. EIGHT. Yeah. Not so much a baby, I would say, but hey... At any rate, I conveniently and ill-advisedly chose to ignore my pangs and doubts and INSTINCT (a running theme in my life, by the way. Just ask any friend of mine, and you'll know... oh boy, and HOW), because absolutely nothing was about to get in the way of my dreams of Hawai'i. Nothing. Not even the small, meek voice inside my head that whispered "No, girl... no. No good can come of this." Shut up, Voice of Reason, fuck off.
Here's what I knew about Sandy:
She was funny.
She was a talented writer (well, she's probably STILL a talented writer, but she's dead to me now, so I speak of her in the past tense).
She was vocal and shares a lot of unnecessary stuff on social media, much of it about her "baby" and his myriad health issues (you know the type; Facebook and Twitter updates of how "my kid is in the hospital with life-threatening XYZ, pray for us please... when will this end?!"? Yeah. THAT kind of sharing. Listen, I'm ALL for sharing, but seriously people, if your kid - or ANYONE important to you - is in the fucking hospital, HOW ARE YOU ON FACEBOOK WRITING ABOUT IT!! Come on, now!) And on a side note, let me tell you, at some point, you post too much shit about your kid ending up in the hospital with mystery illnesses and I'm GOING to call Social Services because you either have Munchausen-by-proxy syndrome or you need a better pediatrician for your kid, Jesus!
Sandy was harried. Always commenting on how little time she had to do all the things she'd like to do. She betrayed her insecurities about her appearance, her weight, her asthma, her depression, her husband (who is quite handsome and in far better shape than she is; although I suspect he may not be entirely of the heterosexual persuasion... but I digress) by constantly commenting on them in one form or another. This tendency played itself out rather exhaustively during our eight days in Paradise. EIGHT days.
What I didn't know about Sandy going into this journey - but what I suspect my gut knew and was trying to tell me - was that, in addition to all the things I list above, she was also fucking psycho. But, I started to see glimpses of this psycho-ness pretty much off the bat... by which time it was too late to back out(seriously, Hawai'i is FAR).
TROUBLE IN PARADISE - DAY 1
So, we're in Hawai'i. We check into our hotel in Waikiki (not a great place, but you know, 2 beds, a bathroom, it'll do). We are hungry. So, we head out onto the "strip" and walk into a Cheeseburger in Paradise (already, right there, you know this is a bad idea...) We order drinks - and I realize pretty damn quickly that I am going to want to drink a LOT on this trip - and we start chatting...
No less than 20 minutes into this awkward dance of "well, we're in Hawai'i together for eight days... tell me, Sandy, what brand of crazy ARE you, exactly?", I am in the middle of answering Sandy's question about whether or not I believe in God (I swear to God, I am not making this up)... I'm saying "well, I don't really believe in religion, per se... but I DO believe in G..." and the next thing I see are Sandy's eyes opening wide - wider than what is normal - and she sort of braces herself on the table by hitting it with both her palms and BAM! She's under the table in one fell swoop. Meanwhile, I can hear yelling from the front of the restaurant, which I have my back to, and there's a sudden surge of commotion and folks diving under tables in a sort of synchronized dance of domino-effect diving. People are yelling "Down!!! Everybody down!!! Gun!!! Nobody move!!!" Yeah, so I dive. And on the way, I hit my knee pretty badly on the side of my chair, my Havaiana flip-flop (only the one on the right foot) goes flying off my foot, and with my face planted firmly into the grimy floor of the Cheeseburger in Paradise on Waikiki Beach, I begin to pray... and curse... a LOT.
My conversation with Him went something like this:
"Please dear God, I am begging you, do NOT let me die like this. For one thing, I CANNOT die with this woman as my last witness. No. Just no. For another, you KNOW what I've been through and how much I wanted to be here... you CAN'T do this to me. It's my FIRST NIGHT. At least let me enjoy Hawai'i for 24 hours before you end it all. Let it be said 'she died a happy woman in a beautiful land'; not 'Here she lies. After a couple of really shitty years with a nasty divorce and a dying father, she died on the floor of a Cheeseburger in Paradise on her first night in Hawai'i, with a woman she barely knew and didn't even like too much. RIP.' No, man. Seriously. NO"
Okay, so I didn't die. But, let me tell you, it was harrowing. I've been held at gunpoint for hours in a ditch in Cairo in the 90s; I've been stuck in an office in Ramallah during a cross-fire; I've survived plane rides in Mozambique with a pilot who, I swear to God, was 12 years old and couldn't read or write, but could fly a fucking helicopter... I CANNOT die like this. I just can't. Ultimately, the whole "shoot-out-in-Paradise" turned out to be a really sick prank by a bunch of teens who called in a fake threat to the restaurant and we all went home alive, if not a little bruised, and a little drunk. But, this night was a precursor and a definite omen of what was to come... oh, Lordy.
MORE TROUBLE IN PARADISE - DAYS TWO THROUGH SEVEN
And so it went...
It turns out, Sandy is also quite moody. She liked to sleep very early and to be up at the crack of dawn (which is a deal-breaker for me, frankly. I'm a night owl. We all have our thing. If you're over the age of 7 and you sleep at 7 PM and are awake by 5 AM, I'm sorry, but we can't be friends). On day two of this unfolding adventure, we ventured out to the beach, which was one step away from the door of the hotel, and yet, I only sat on this beach for two hours out of the eight days I spent in Hell, I mean, Hawai'i. Here's the only proof of me on the beach
Following this mini-beachside jaunt, as we were heading back to our hotel via a short-cut through the mall, we were lured into a cosmetics store boasting "Dead Sea Miracles" for your skin. On impact, I could tell that the saleswoman was Israeli. That's neither here nor there, but I mention it so that you can imagine her - tall, blonde, attractive, and aggressive. Not rude, necessarily, but bold. And with that unmistakable Israeli accent, she somehow got Sandy in a chair and proceeded to pick apart all her flaws, from her sagging, sallow skin, to her under eye bags and dark circles... oh, it was brutal and painful. Made all the more so because of Ms. Tel-Aviv's constant comparison between Sandy's skin and my own. Now, don't get me wrong, I have my issues just as much as the next girl, but I do make a rather concerted effort to take care of my skin because I am vain as all get-out and because it's something I watched my mother and my grandmothers do my whole life. Sandy, on the other hand, does no such thing and that's okay; except for the fact that having it pointed out so brazenly by Ms. Tel-Aviv was awkward and hard to live through. And throughout the entire 10-minute episode of "This is Your Skin", Sandy was squirming in her chair, responding to Ms. Tel-Aviv's comments with one excuse after the next: "Oh, well, of course I'm sweating, it's a hundred degrees out!", and "I don't have time to take care of my skin, what with the baby and all" - I remind you, the "baby" is EIGHT FUCKING YEARS OLD. Anyway, the point is, it was brutal and I wanted to get out of there so fast. I found my exit at the moment Ms. Tel-Aviv tried to convince Sandy to purchase a skin cream made of pure gold and dead sea salt and what I am going to assume included ingredients made of angel urine and virgin skin because for $140 ON SALE, that better be some pretty goddam amazing face cream! At that point, I pulled Sandy off the chair and got the hell out of the clutches of Ms. Tel-Aviv. But, the misery hardly ended there. The rest of this day and night were spent with Sandy going over the conversation again and again, and me trying to somehow comfort her and urge her to "ignore that bitch". And I don't blame her either because it was tough; I sympathize. But it also led to a conversation later that evening that would define this trip, and my Hawai'i dream in general, for me.
AN EVENING CHAT... GONE WRONG
Back at the hotel, we sat on our beds and started chatting. It was early. WAY too early for me, but Sandy was beginning to show signs of sleep and I was wide awake, so I decided to take a sleeping pill to help hurry the process along so I wouldn't end up awake in a hotel room with a sleeping roommate and nothing to do at 9 PM. Also, I should tell you that in addition to severe shortness of breath, Sandy snores. And I don't mean quaint, faint snoring - no, I mean snoring like there's an elephant in the room, but that elephant is being smothered AND has a megaphone attached to its nose. THAT kind of snoring. It's not pretty. It also means that whoever has the misfortune of sleeping in the same room as her is fucked. That would be me. So yeah, I popped an Ambien. Sandy asked if she, too, could have one, so I obliged (she mentioned something about how she sometimes needs a sleeping pill, something I totally get, to go with the cocktail of other meds she takes for depression, anxiety, asthma, the works! Hey, I'm not judging, merely reporting)
So there we are. Two women in a hotel room, getting a little loopy on Ambien. Fun times. So again, for context, let me just explain one thing: I began to need Ambien following my ridiculously harrowing divorce. I have suffered a particularly cruel form of insomnia my entire life, an insomnia that was exacerbated once my marriage was turned on its head and split into a million little pieces of extreme pain. I needed something - anything - to get me to sleep, if even for a few hours, however poorly. So, my doctor prescribed this. And it worked, just not in the way it is intended to work. For me, Ambien messes with my head in a big way. It makes me loopy and acts a little like a truth serum, but not in the way that's sexy and adorable. No, more like in a way that makes me compelled to say EXACTLY what's on my mind (not that I have a problem doing that anyway, but this magnifies it!) whether or not it's appropriate to do so. When I was going through my divorce, this was the greatest thing ever because so much of that situation was inexplicable (and remains so), that the ONLY thing that made me laugh through the many, many tears was the moment at which I could pop an Ambien and "see things clearly" - which wasn't really with any clarity at all, but it sure felt like it. Anyway, the point is that I tell it like it is anyway, but do so that much more when I'm 'under the influence' (it should be noted, by the way, that I have stopped taking any medication to help me sleep, in large part due to the following fiasco).
At some point in this casual conversation, Sandy starts to talk about health and wellness and fitness overall. She then begins to lament her own lack of either of those, blaming it mostly on "the baby weight" and on the fact that a year prior, she had knee surgery and had to stop running... although, I will tell you, between us, I don't think Sandy has run a day in her life. Okay, maybe when she was eight years old, but not since. Whatever, it's all good... we all make shit up about our fitness routines and our weight and our appearance. Hell, by the time my marriage ended, I was so overweight and so out of shape, and yet, I somehow managed to convince myself that I looked fabulous and that I had, maybe, 10 pounds to lose. The fact is I was closer to 40 pounds overweight (and I'm 5'2", so that's a WHOLE EXTRA PERSON I was carrying on my slight frame, and yet, I was in denial and could list a million and one reasons for why I was in such bad shape, none of which included the admission that I was just fat and lazy. But I digress...) So, I'm the first to admit that we see what we want to see and we project what we'd LIKE people to see. And here's what's wrong with that when it comes to our weight: for me, it's not about vanity alone. It's also about health. And I know "fat" is the new four-letter word and one can be torn apart and ripped to shreds for using it in the context of describing another woman, but at the risk of being chastised, I will say it: Sometimes, you're just fat. It doesn't make you a shitty person, it doesn't make you ugly, it doesn't make you stupid. It just makes you fat. It means you're carrying around more weight than your body should have to carry around, putting at risk your heart health, your bone health and increasing your risk for a plethora of less-than-desirable disease in the years to come. That's the truth, and it may be hugely unpopular to say it out loud, but there it is.
I, for one, am not the type of woman who enjoys or participates in any kind of body shaming and mean-girl type of behavior. I mean, sure, amongst my nearest and dearest, I can be brutal and awful and mean - I'm human and I'm being honest; and anyone who claims to not occasionally look at another person, male or female, and ask "what the fuck is that?" is a liar - but generally speaking, I try to keep that kind of behavior to a minimum and I prefer to be a champion for women everywhere versus a challenge. I don't give a shit if you're carrying around a few extra pounds here and there as long as you feel good and you're healthy. But, if you're overweight to the point where it's actually posing a threat to you, then as your friend, if you ask (and in some cases, even if you don't), I will tell you the truth. I will tell you that "yes, you need to lose some weight." and I'll do that because I care about you. I'm a hard-core feminist, but I'm not the kind of feminist who will grow out my armpit hair and let my bikini line grow rogue just to prove that I don't fit into some prescribed notion of "femininity"; I'm the kind of feminist who believes that women rock in every way, shape and form; but also that women should support each other however and whenever they can. Part of that support is to be honest with each other. I could do the whole fake thing and say "Oh honey, you're beautiful at any size and don't let anyone terrorize you into thinking otherwise!", but you know what? That's not fucking true. When you can't BREATHE, and you have SLEEP APNEA, and you haven't had sex with your husband in YEARS (partly because of the "baby", partly because you're "too tired" and, I suspect, partly because he might be "gay", but no matter...), then no, you're not okay at any size. You're actually not okay at all and you could die young, so I'm not going to just sit there and nod and lie to you. Because that's not supportive at all. That's sabotage.
So, on that note, I told Sandy the truth when she said that she probably needed to lose about "10 or 15 pounds to reach her 'pre-baby' weight"... I told her that I actually thought she should go see a professional and have herself properly weighed and assessed and manage her health issues with the help of someone who knows what they're doing. When she asked why I recommended this, I told her the truth. I told her that it was because I believed she may be grossly underestimating the extent of her weight gain and the extent of the threat to her health. I was HONEST. Now, I understand that I should have paid closer attention to my audience. I should have noted, for instance, that someone who probably needs to lose closer to 50 pounds but states with confidence that she has about 10-15 pounds to lose is probably someone who is so delusional and is just not ready to hear the truth just yet. I should have just kept my damn mouth shut and realized that (a) I don't really know this woman very well and what business is it of mine to get involved at all?, (b) she didn't really ask for my opinion and/or professional assessment of her health, and (c) not every truth that comes to mind must necessarily come to mouth. You know, I'm learning, it's a process... but that night, I did not keep my mouth shut, and aided and abetted by the wonders of sleep-aid, I blurted it all out to an unsuspecting woman, who ended up in the bathroom in tears, leaving me on the other side of a locked door listening to muffled sobs and apologizing on my knees, to no avail.
The following day was torture. There was me, again asking for forgiveness and trying, with no luck, to explain why I said what I said and how I meant for it to sound versus how it probably sounded. Sandy was having none of it. None of it, I tell you! Instead, we headed off to the Pearl Harbor site and onto the USS Missouri in complete silence - the most awkward war memorial tour in the history of sight-seeing adventures. Talk about war, man, I tell you... it was not fun. I snuck off at one point and called my sister to get her point-of-view. My sister is the sanest, most level-headed person I know on this planet. Her opinion matters more to me than that of anyone else's, so when she said "what the fuck is her problem?? You have nothing to apologize for, except for unintentionally hurting her feelings!", I believed her and it put some of this in perspective.
Back at the hotel after 4 hours touring the sights on a rainy day in Hawai'i, I figured, "shit, we have 5 more days of this... I won't make it if they're spent in guilt-inducing, shameful silence", so I broke that silence by saying that I needed to be allowed the chance to apologize or else I would have to find alternate accommodations for the remainder of the trip. Sandy did that thing that passive-aggressive people are so good at; that thing where they say "oh no... you have nothing to apologize for... I'm fine, thanks, I'll just sit here at my computer being fat..." Faced with that, you either take it (which I cannot) or you push on, determinedly. Okay, so I pushed. What followed was a heartfelt apology, the likes of which I have never before given, replete with explanations, justifications, modifications and considerations:
"Please understand that I meant to be helpful, not hurtful... I'm so sorry my words hurt you so much, that was not my intention... I'm an asshole, I know, I should have kept my thoughts to myself..." and so on and so forth. And, for the most part, I meant it, too. By that, I mean that the apology was sincere, but the impetus for it was less inspired by my actually feeling a need to apologize, per se, and more by a realization that the only way to end this awkwardness and to move beyond the unfortunate-ness of this incident was to just say "I'm sorry" and be done with it. In retrospect, what I should have done was just say "I'm sorry I hurt you, I did not mean to", and packed my shit, and just checked into the beautiful Westin Hotel on the beach, which is where I had wanted to be all along, alone, with my new friends Gene and Sally (more about them in a minute...), instead of stuck in that crappy hotel room with snore-a-thon Sandy and her passive-aggressive splendor and rather shitty personality. That's what I should have done. But then again, I should have never married my ex-husband, but I don't always NOT do what I know I should NOT do, you see?
Once I finished my epic mea culpa, Sandy launched into a diatribe of her own, complete with a sob story of being bullied throughout her life, a mother-in-law who consistently makes remarks about how her son "will never leave you because of your weight, but...", an abusive upbringing with a doped out mother and an absent father, blah, blah, blah... all valid and I empathize, I do, but NONE of it remotely relevant to anything I may have said and none of it my fault, ultimately. Then, when she had finished with this "cry me a river"-worthy re-telling of her miserable life, she looked at me with such vitriol and spat out venomously "...and you know what, Naila? You should talk, because you wanna know something? You're fucking fat, so there!" BAM! And there you go, ladies and gentlemen... from "the abused" to "the abuser" in 2.3 seconds FLAT.
It was at this point of the conversation that I realized "oh yeah... it's gonna be one of those situations... one that I will have to bear for the sake of - I don't know for the sake of what, exactly, but nonetheless..." You have to remember, I was not of entirely sound mind and soul at this point in my life... my father was dying of lung cancer and I was traumatized by events related to my marriage, so I was tired... and vulnerable... but mostly, tired. And so somehow, miraculously, I stuck it out. But I spent most of the next five days alone, at the Westin Hotel, overlooking the ocean - an ocean I never touched save for that very first day, post fake-out-shoot-out. Tragic, really.
But from the ashes come blessings, or something like that... Sitting on the patio of the Westin, writing frantically and web-surfing for hours on end, I must have looked particularly pathetic one day when Gene and his wife, Sally, came and asked if they could sit with me... within minutes, I was blurting out my life story to this couple in their 70s, who were complete strangers to me, but who comforted me and came and sat with me every day until the day I left. The little blessings. With Sandy, things were civil, if not a tad strained. But for the sake of my sanity and maybe even hers, I kept our interaction minimal, and fake with pleasantries. All I wanted was for this to be over...
On the last day in Hawai'i, I got a call from my mother telling me that my father's latest test results had come back and the news was bad. Very, very bad. Doctors had initially given my father a year or more to live; at this point, they said he had "two months at most" (interestingly, my father died two months - EXACTLY - to the day of this diagnosis, but that's another story for another day). I was devastated. And I won't get into the one million and one ways in which my father means the world to me and the sheer magnitude of the loss of innocence I feel having lost my Dad, but suffice it to say, I couldn't get as far away more quickly from Hawai'i and from this woman whom I had grown to hate steadily as the days went on. The single last person on the planet I wanted to be with upon hearing the news of my father's rapidly declining health was this woman. I remember feeling like I was trapped in a way that triggers anxiety attacks of epic proportions. By the end of that day, and in anticipation of a 15-hour trip back to NY, I made a decision that would trigger a reaction the likes of which I could not have imagined: I decided that there was no way in hell I was flying back to NY sitting anywhere near Sandy.
In a moment, I realized that I actually found her to be an insufferable human being, filled with issues and toxicity that I wanted nothing to do with. I was so angry with myself for having stuck it out dutifully in her company for so many days and I was determined to have nothing more to do with her. Oh, and I was fucking EXHAUSTED and couldn't face the prospect of being stuck in Coach class, crammed into a space hardly large enough for a maggot, much less a human, next to this person I could not stomach for 15 hours. Nope. And therefore, I announced to Sandy that I was going to use my points on American Airlines to upgrade to First Class if they would let me. I said it apologetically, like, "I'm sorry, but I'm so tired [because I haven't slept in 8 fucking days because you snore like a beast], and I am so sad and I just can't face a long-haul flight with my legs in my chest", but what I REALLY meant was "I fucking hate you. I think you're a horrible person without an ounce of genuineness in your body, with too many issues and you're too difficult for me to deal with, so fuck you, I'm upgrading to First Class. Aloha, bitch!"
Sandy was not pleased. Oh, Sandy was not pleased at ALL. The next thing I know is Sandy is all over Facebook and Twitter writing the. most. awful things about me and manipulating and twisting every part of the story, starting with how I mooched off her and never offered to pay for half the room (which is absolute bullshit because I actually had offered and she had declined, so instead I paid for ALL of her meals, but whatever, who cares about the truth when there's a social media audience to regale?) and going on to insinuate that I had a pill-popping problem and that after I told her she was "fat and ugly", I went on to blame that conversation on my addiction to "meds" and on and on and on... Then, she told the Twitterverse that I had "abandoned her in Coach and bought an upgrade to First Class" and isn't that just disgusting? And thus was unleashed the ugliness of the cyber-sphere. People I've never met, and Sandy has a notable audience what with being a published author and all, were writing about me and tweeting the most awful things about what a "shitty person you are! You deserve to crash on the plane!", and "oh, you poor Sandy, how awful, who is this disgusting person you're traveling with" and more, oh so much more, of just plain, hateful and horrible things to massacre me from a population of men and women who knew nothing about me, had never met me, had not actually heard the story in its accurate form, and yet jumped on this bandwagon of hate and fear and evil that was astonishing to me. It went so viral that friends of mine in CAIRO called me, while I was at the airport watching this whole fiasco unfold in speechless wonder, to ask "What the fuck is going on in Hawai'i?!! Your 'friend' has lost it!"; and that's exactly what had happened... she had finally just lost it. There were a million things I could have done in retaliation and yet I chose to do nothing at all. I sat in front of her, waiting for our flight, and watched my Twitter feed and Facebook feed fill up with lies and half-truths about me and the kind of person that I am and all the while I just pretended I was none the wiser.
Finally, I went to the ATM and withdrew the amount of money I "owed" her for the hotel room and I went up to her and handed her the money. She refused it rudely, pushing my hand away, and said that I should donate it to a cause I cared about, "if you care about anything, that is..." I promised Sandy that, in her name, I would most certainly do just that. I promised that I would make a donation in her name towards mental health. And I walked away.
I never saw Sandy again. Not on the flight to Houston. Not on the second flight to NYC (but, in fairness, I was cozily ensconced in First Class by that point). And not at the airport. Actually, now that I think about it, I'm not even sure Sandy ever made it to NYC. But I don't actually give a shit. I blocked her and her husband - my one-time friend and colleague - from anything social media related and I actually disabled my Facebook account for a month just to get away from all the insanity. I got to NYC and collapsed on my friend's couch and cried for 3 days straight. I wasn't necessarily crying because of Sandy and her psycho-ness, but more because it had all just been too much - my Dad, my marriage, my shattered dreams of a Hawai'i that was fun and magical, my brush with death on Night One (okay, maybe "brush with death" is a slight exaggeration, but you know what I mean), and just the exhaustion of seeing my name plastered all over some strangers' walls and feeds degrading me in all the ways available to those who so comfortably hide behind their anonymity online, but who are probably shit cowards in real life and would NEVER have the balls to say those things to my face. You know, the kind of people who can look a dangerously overweight woman in the face and tell her she's "not fat at all! You're beautiful!", even though they're all thinking the exact opposite but are too chicken-shit to tell the truth. THOSE kinds of people.
A few months later, Sandy AND her husband went on a mini-Twitter frenzy and tweeted and re-tweeted an article at me about "Bullying and Body Shaming", but I shut that shit down immediately and reported them both for harassment and had it removed. I haven't heard a peep from them since.
And as it turns out, I STILL just want someone to take me to Hawai'i because in my mind, I haven't been yet. Is that too much to ask?
