At the entrance to the temple.

We rounded a corner in our tuk tuk, the road here better kept than most of the others we’d been on. It was paved, not, dirt, to accommodate for the heavier flow of traffic – cars and tour buses and tuk tuks and scooters. The air smelled of diesel, the sky overcast, the air humid, sticky, and still. There was no breeze. There was never a breeze.

The road curved, following the edge of a massive lake the color of olives. And there, across the water, it came into view.

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I have to tell you something.

I’m an absolute sucker for weddings. I basically turn into a squealing frenzy of crazy every time we find out we’re actually able to make it to a friend’s nuptials. It probably doesn’t take very much explaining to understand why.

 

If I got an email from a wedding, telling me it was a dethroned prince, and offering to share millions of dollars with me, I would IMMEDIATELY give it my bank account and routing numbers. That is how much I love weddings.

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Phew.

Being interviewed by Dave in Australia, and trying not to giggle because that’s what I tend to do while on camera.

 

Things have been a whirlwind lately. Rand and I just got back from New York yesterday, and he had to immediately fly to Vegas (like, immediately), so we got to say goodbye to one another at the gate, just like people did in the 90s. It was magical, and also garnered a few stares, which I’m sure had to do with the fact that we’re adorable (and not because we’d both gotten up at 5AM Eastern and looked like we’d been traveling for days and were now making out at Gate C11. I hope).

I’ve been on so many trips in the last few months – Australia, Oregon, California, Pennsylvania, New York, Boston, Minnesota, New Jersey. And in two weeks we’re leaving for England and then South Africa. There’s more on the calendar in the coming months. I’ve made some good progress on the book, but not as much as I’d like, and I’ve recently been so busy with other projects that I realized the only way I could get you caught up is to do a round-up. Do you remember my round-ups? I know. It’s been forever.

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“I am NOT ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

 

When my first boyfriend ever broke up with me (over the phone, on a school night, while I tried to hold back the tears), he gave me a list of reasons why. Among them: “You are immature, sarcastic, and fickle.”

I spent a good chunk of the next few years being haunted by his words, and doing my best to change. I wasn’t successful. A decade or so later, I told Rand about it.

“Um, yes,” he said, as though nothing could be more obvious. “Yes, you are. And those things make you awesome. That guy was an idiot.”

There are times when I am entirely comfortable with who I am. There are other times when I am not. Usually, it’s something I can ignore. But every now and then something happens that makes me take a long, hard look at myself. It’s excruciating. And also sort of wonderful.

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