‘Make Your Life Prime Time,’ TV host advises

In her book, “Make Your Life Prime Time: How to Have It All Without Losing Your Soul,” TV host and media personality Maria Celeste Arraras shares lessons she learned from her parents' divorce, the adoption of one of her sons, the betrayal of her unfaithful husband and how she triumphed against all odds as a woman, a mother and a professional. Writer focuses on a time in her life when she rushed to judge someone harshly.

People are Neither Good nor Bad, Just Products of Circumstance

We all have a tendency to look at the world in terms of black and white, when the world is actually a quilt of shades of gray.

The moment we come to terms with this concept, our horizons open up and we get a much better understanding of others and of ourselves. Looking back, I came to terms with this in 2003 during an interview with Humberto Zurita, a very talented Mexican actor, in his Miami apartment.

At the time, he was the villain in a popular Telemundo telenovela called Thief of Hearts. When I mentioned how evil I thought his character was, he gave me a reply that was perplexing and profound and has stayed with me for years:

“People are neither good nor bad,” he said. “People act according to circumstance.”

I thought about his comment on the way home. I thought about all the times I had drawn a line and labeled people “good” or “bad.” How many times had I rushed to judge someone harshly?

And then I thought of Ada Perkins.

We were both teenagers in Puerto Rico, she a year older than I, when we both liked the same boy: Pedro.

Back then, when my girlfriends and I wanted to go to the disco, we would tell our parents that we were headed to the big debutante events and would get all dressed up in our long puffy dresses that looked like wedding cakes. To keep up the charade, we would ask a friend who my parents considered a “serious boy” to pick us up at home. As soon as he arrived in his car, we would toss a bag with our makeup, blouses, and miniskirts to him out the second-floor window. We would then drive to the nearby Burger King and change into our party clothes to hit the San Juan clubs.

On those nights, I frequently ran into Pedro, and he would ask me out. But I initially kept my distance because I was told he was dating Ada Perkins. He denied it over and over, until he finally convinced me and I agreed to go out with him.

Pedro took me to a club for our date and he started showing off right away. He bought champagne for all my friends who stopped by our table to say hello. It was the first time someone bought me champagne.

Dom Perignon, no less.

With his dad’s credit card, no less.

Again, he insisted he didn’t have a girlfriend, and I let my guard down enough to fall for him further. He gave me his wristwatch and I wore it proudly, as a symbol that we were officially a couple.

That night, Pedro got in a lot of trouble.

After he dropped me off, he got into a fight and ended up with a broken hand, and his father found a copy of the bill with charges for all the bottles of champagne.

That should have been a warning sign right there, but I got sidetracked when I heard he had surgery on his hand and was convalescing at home. A friend convinced me I should pay him a visit — not that I needed much convincing.

She drove me to his house, and while she waited in the car I built up the courage to knock on the door.

I was about to knock again when the door opened. It was Ada Perkins. We had a couple of girlfriends in common, but there was nothing friendly about her that afternoon.

“What are you doing here?” she asked with a sense of authority that would have led anyone to believe she owned both Pedro and the house.

“I came to see how Pedro is doing,” I said, wanting to flee for my life and trying to sound sarcastic and secure, like her. “And what are you doing here, playing nurse?”

“No,” she responded. “I’m here as his girlfriend.”

Okay, I really wasn’t expecting that response, and I would have been more than happy if the earth, in pity, had swallowed me whole. To add insult to injury, she asked me in to meet Pedro’s mother. I don’t remember what excuse I gave her to avoid further embarrassment, but I left with my tail between my legs before I could suffer any further humiliation.

From that day on, every time I ran into her it was very . . . unpleasant. She would stare at me with narrowed hazel eyes, and if looks could kill, I’d have been dead on the spot. She had a nasty attitude, I decided, and I instantly labeled her the “bad one.” (Never mind Pedro, who had lied to us both.)

Our mutual contempt lasted for a couple of years — way after she broke up with Pedro and was crowned Miss Puerto Rico in 1978, way after I dated him a couple more times in college and lost interest. He was out of the picture, yet Ada and I held a grudge.

Then something unexpected happened.

I was home from college the summer of my twentieth birthday, celebrating the birthday of one of my friends at a San Juan club, when I noticed the front door swing open and a mane of blond hair make its way through. Ada walked in looking more gorgeous than ever. Yet this time I didn’t feel that rush to puff my feathers like a rooster in a cockfight. Instead, I felt an unexplainable desire to instantly bury the hatchet. I got up from my chair and walked over to her, and the smile that appeared on my face came straight from my heart.

“Hi, Ada, how are you?” I said, extending an open hand and leaning in to kiss her on the cheek, as is our custom.

She took my hand, smiled, and kissed me back. She said she was glad to see me, too.

I walked back to my friends that night feeling a sense of relief and liberation, that something out of balance was right again.

The next morning, when I unfolded the newspaper, I saw a picture of Ada Cecille Perkins Flores on the front page. And next to it, a picture of wreckage. Ada had been killed in a car accident after she left the club that night with her boyfriend, who, the story said, had been driving under the influence.

She was twenty-one years old.

That last meeting was my last chance. Our last chance. And I feel deep inside that it was no coincidence. I know that had I not taken the opportunity to make peace with Ada, although it was over something trivial, I would have regretted it for the rest of my life. Her memory reminds me that holding on to grudges and resentment means choosing to carry those burdens.

On the night I last saw Ada Perkins alive, I chose to move through life without that weight. When she took my hand, I think she did the same, and I learned an important lesson about judging others.

I like to think we both would have agreed that neither one of us was bad, after all.

Rest in peace, Ada.

Excerpted from “Make Your Life Prime Time: How to Have It All Without Losing Your Soul” by Maria Celeste Arraras. Copyright (c) 2009, reprinted with permission from Atria Books, a division of Simon and Schuster.

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