lost in new york

every time i ride the subway i get lost. i keep finding new and different ways to get lost. i exit the wrong way, end up on a street i didn't mean to, start walking in the wrong direction. i enter through the wrong entrance and have to turn around and walk out. i try to take a train that isn't running and have to go the opposite direction to pick up a train that i can take. it's exhausting to be wrong, to be confused, to be overwhelmed.

this is what i signed up for, after all. i needed to get out of the comfort of my own skin., of a place i knew like the back of my hand. i needed to shake up my perspective and do something new. i knew it was going to be different and i knew it was going to be hard. knowing it and living it are two different things, though. i keep telling myself, one day i will get this. one day i will know which exit to take, i will know where i am when i get outside, i will know where to stand and what is going on and watch knowingly as new people try to figure out the train. but what if that never happens?

as i rode the train from my apartment to gowanus last night to go to a reading by all of these people that i follow on the internet but have never seen in real life, i realized that maybe the point of new york isn't to get to a point where you know what you are doing. there's so much to do here and so much to see that maybe the point is to always be a little lost. if you're not a little lost, you aren't doing anything new. if if you aren't doing anything new, then maybe you no longer need new york?

how you live your life

it's impossible to describe how you live your life after terrorists set off bombs in your city. you avoid saying the words "terrorist" and "bombs" because they still scare you. you wake up every morning crying because your alarm is set to npr. you don't change your alarm because you don't know how to feel other than sad.

you work from home because terrorists set off bombs four blocks from your office. you leave the tv on the news all day, even though it upsets you with it's content and reporting. you have multiple tabs open on your computer to different twitter feeds, constantly hitting refresh, refresh, refresh. you hope that someone will say something to make anything make sense. you need to know every story of heroism, death, injury. you need to feel connected to your people, your city. you contemplate never leaving boston ever again. you need to refresh.

you go to jamaica plain for lunch because you have never been there and always wanted to go. you sit by a pond and eat a sandwich, watching teenagers, adults, eight-year olds walk around the path. you want to hug every single one of them. you wonder what you would tell a child. you wonder how to explain that there is no way that anyone could have stopped this. you can't cry anymore. you watch a bad movie instead.

you wake up crying because terrorists set off bombs on the street you walk to and from work on. you take the train to work, passing national guardsmen and a blacked out copley station. you are thankful for sunglasses. you have meetings and want to scream that none of it matters because people have died. you look across the table and see red, bleary eyes and realize you are not alone. you refuse to respond to people from out of town who try to talk to you about things other than your city and its people.

you go for a walk at lunch. you stop at the makeshift memorial that has formed two blocks from your office and watch a monk pray. you see a tv news man push a girl trying to deliver flowers out of the way so he can get a good shot of the monk. you leave. you buy three hydrangeas from the three of you for the three of them. you elbow reporters out of the way to drop them off. at night, you see your friends because you can't be alone. when you are alone, you watch only the news and then none of the news. you can only fall asleep with murder, she wrote on in the background.

you wake up in the middle of the night and forget that terrorists set off bombs in your city. you remember. you cry.

you walk to work, thinking it will feel less weird. you get to the street you normally walk down and make a left at the metal gates covered with flowers. cops stand in groups of two, three, four, shoulder to shoulder in front of the local businesses. "there's nothing wrong," they say. "we're just here to make you feel safe." military police walk toward you, always in groups of two. you see more cops than you do non-cops. in the eight blocks, you pass eight metal barriers guarded by cops, decorated with flowers, signs, and teddy bears. you pass four armored trucks. you realize how easy it would be to dissolve into a police state. you take a right and see a middle aged woman ask another, wearing a marathon jacket, if she can hug her. the survivor agrees. they embrace.

you pass the same memorial you left flowers at the day before. it's less crowded and you walk toward it. someone has replaced the chinese flag with an american flag. there are more flowers. people have started taping notes of love to the cement. you are thankful for sunglasses.

you watch the news conference releasing the pictures of the suspects, the pictures of the guys that look like your brothers or your friends. you hear the words "armed and dangerous." you feel the words "armed and dangerous." you don't want to get on a crowded train to go home. you don't want to go home. you want to do anything. you leave work. you go to dinner with your friends. you wonder why anyone would want to blow up a marathon. you think about hats. black. and white.

it's impossible to describe how you live your life after terrorists set off bombs in your city because you are not living your life. you are living your new version of life.

missed stop

i missed my stop on the train today. i was on my way home from work on the tuesday after a three day weekend and the day before i leave for vacation, also known as a Busy Day. i was texting two friends separately about the same conversation i had with a third friend, a conversation that just so happened to be about one of the friends being texted. there was a lot on my mind and nothing on my mind. 

i looked up as the doors were closing, expecting to see the stop before mine, and instead i saw the roof of the little hut where people stand to wait for the train, clearly announcing we were at brookline village. immediately, i saw a version of me jump up, scream "this is my stop!" and run toward the door. i'd seen any number of people do the same exact thing. 

two nights ago, i was at getting on the train at boylston. the doors shut and all of a sudden a woman was banging on the doors yelling, "my daughter! open the doors! my daughter!" in her haste, she turned her head and was yelling toward the back of the train, not the front. other passengers yelled, too, and the doors open. she got off the train and scolded her four year old, who had gotten of the train without her permission. 

there were two possible options for me if i jumped up and ran to the door. i could make it, sneak off the train, and be home in three minutes. i could also miss my chance and have to ride for two minutes to the next stop with people who had seen me act like a complete crazy person. i stayed put. 

i got off the train at the next stop. i'd seen it from afar any number of times when my friends were giving me rides home, but i'd never walked to or from it before. the light drizzle that had started on my walk from the office to the train was beginning to pick up. i looked across the tracks where i could wait for another train to come and take me back the one stop, and looked up the hill in the direction i was pretty sure was home. might as well give it a try, i though, and started up the hill.

it turned out to be very easy to get home. i walked up the hill, took a left, walked half a block, took a right, and was at the end of my street i usually ignore. instead of passing apartment buildings and city shops, i passed three story houses as wide as they were tall. Many were duplexes, some had porches that wrapped around the side, one had a bench in front with a wicker back, lit up with christmas lights.

in one house, light flowed from a window in a back room. i looked in on a family sitting down to eat dinner together. i wondered how long they had lived there, if there were children who grew up in this house who still came home to it during the holidays, what it would have been like if i grew up there. i wondered if they knew that people walked by their house, looking in on them, dreaming about all the things that could possibly be. 

it took me five minutes to walk that way instead of three.

tarot

my friend shannon read my tarot cards last night. what that really means is i shuffled a deck of cards, she dealt them, and then she read what a book said that they meant while i took notes. we were doing a yearly reading, so there was a card for every month, a card to sum up the year, and then we did a clarification card at the end. i wrote the month, the card, and what i took to be the most important point from the two paragraphs of fortune she read. 

we created this story for my year. up through august, things were going to be rough. i was going to have a hard time, go through some things, and have some hard decisions to make. then, life would start to become clearer, i would start to travel more, and by the end of the year, be starting something new. i was pretty sad at first, hearing that i was going to go through turmoil and confusion, through hard times that were going to last through most of the year.

as i continued to write, though, and my year started to turn around, i began to wonder if the point of the tarot reading is not what the reader tells you but what you write down. i went into 2013 with a distinct plan on what i wanted to do with my life, without thinking about what it meat to execute that plan, what it means to go through each day of this year reeling, waiting, dreaming, crying. the tarot made me look that plan in the face. it made me understand that at the end of this year, the most i can hope for is hope for 2014. 

but knowing all of that, it's still okay. i have this feeling sometimes. it's like i'm high above and see where i am in the context of my life. i can vividly see everywhere i've been. i can make out what is directly in front of me. beyond that, there is a vast openness. i keep my head down, pushing forward, not knowing where i'll end up, but knowing that it'll be exactly where i need to be. 

tattoo

For the past few months, I've been thinking about getting a tattoo. It started pretty innocently. At work, we started joking about getting tattoos to celebrate a co-worker's 30th birthday. I have never wanted a tattoo, even though makes me the minority in my own family. My mom went to get a circle of roses around her ankle to celebrate her 50th birthday. She said she always wanted one, but worried she would regret it. At 50, she realized she was old enough to make a smart decision. My brother got his first of many tattoos soon after his 18th birthday. It's a piece of black art on his upper back.

"What does it mean?" I asked him when he first came home with it.
"Nothing."
"What do you mean, nothing? You just got a tattoo you are going to have forever that doesn't mean anything?"
"Yeah, so?"

I thought maybe when I got older, went to college, I would understand. But I never did. My dad thought tattoos were gross, my former boyfriend didn't think they were pretty, and I just couldn't imagine why I would want to purposely sit for an hour and feel pain.

As we sat around talking about tattoos at work, I started to wonder what I would get even thought I knew I would never actually get anything. I thought about potential placements and what would look good there, but more importantly, what I could get that would really mean something to me.

A few weeks later, I discovered the Pen & Ink blog, which relates the stories behind people's tattoos. One of the first posts was from a man who had a rabbit on his back. He explained, "I got this tattoo because I suspected one day I would think it would be stupid."

That's when I got it. Getting a tattoo wouldn't be about what I actually got placed on my skin, I would be about the fact that I did it. It would be a constant reminder that there was a time in my life when I chose to go through something painful because I knew I would be more beautiful afterwards. And how could I ever regret that?

work

These bumper stickers that say Every Mother is a Working Mother are bullshit. Propaganda of the affluent. And an insult to actual working moms with jobs."
-- A Gate at the Stairs, Lorrie Moore

When Obama supporter Hilary Rosen claimed that Ann Romney had never worked a day in her life, she ignited a firestorm of criticism. It started with Ann Romney saying that raising five sons was hard work, moved to Rosen apologizing for what she said, and ended with President Obama saying Rosen said the wrong thing. What she said was politically incorrect, but it was not incorrect. The problem here, is the definition of work. For Romney, work is something that is hard but rewarding. For working mothers, work is something you need to survive. 


The work Ann Romney did for her kids was the same work my mother did for me and my brother when we were growing up. It was the same work that every attentive mother does. My mom took us to and from school, made our lunches, came to every sporting event or band competition. She was there for us when we needed help with our homework, she fed us every meal, and took us shopping for new clothes and school supplies at the beginning of each year. All of those things are hard, and draining, and she did them because it was what was best for us.


My mother also had to do more, though. She had to go to her job every single day because she needed to earn money for us to live. She didn't do this because she wanted us to have a nicer house, or a fancy car, or the trendiest clothes. She did it because she needed us to have a house, a car, any clothes. She worked because had to.


I go to my job every day because if I didn't, I wouldn't have any money to pay rent or buy food. There is no other option. At night or on the weekend, I choose to do chores that are not that fun. I wash my clothes, wash my dishes, clean my bathroom, go to the gym. I do these things because it is for the best, even though it is also hard and draining. 


When my mom chose to have kids, just like Ann Romney, she made the decision that she wanted the reward of having kids even though it meant having to do a lot of things that are hard. The selfless decision that women make to have children in the first place is something to be admired, but let's not kid ourselves. The choice to have children, with everything it entails, is not the same as the need to survive. 

red sox

As I left my apartment this morning to go out to run some errands, I grabbed at hat to wear. I don't wear hats too often but when I do, I usually default to my Red Sox hat. It occurred to me as I was walking around that perhaps I should have chosen a different hat. It was only a week after the Sox completed the greatest regular season collapse in baseball history and days after they forced out Terry Francona, the manager who made the Red Sox blowing a lead be something unexpected. It was no time to be showing pride in my team.

I got the hat in 2003, the first year I lived in Boston. It was after the season had ended, after the Aaron Boone home run crushed my soul, after I had been a fan for all of my 18 years with no championship season to show for it. The Red Sox were my team, though, and I wanted the hat. The mood after that season was different than today--not from the team, the manager was still fired, but from the fans. The way the season ended was horrible and probably worse than what happened this year. We didn't know anything different, though. We mocked ourselves for thinking that they could actually win the World Series. We bonded together, like we did every year, over the misery of defeat.

This year's Red Sox collapse reminded me of what being a Red Sox fan before 2004 meant. It didn't mean winning championships, or even winning games. It meant having Don Orsillo's giggle waft throughout our house all summer long. It meant listening to my Dad talk about wins and losses and trades and rules. It meant, win or loose, going to a game felt like Christmas morning. It meant seeing Red Sox fans in other areas of the country and high fiving them.  The Red Sox wove themselves into our lives and became a family member.

After this season ended, I was pissed off off at them, disappointed in them, concerned about their future, and questioning my loyalty to them. I still loved them, though, so I wore the hat.

nine eleven

There is nothing special or new or even particularly interesting about my 9/11 story. I was two weeks away from my sixteenth birthday and just started my junior year of high school in South Portland, the only home I had ever known. I was sitting in band rehearsal in the second period of the day when Erin Falconer sauntered into the practice room twenty minutes late. I had known Erin for my whole childhood. We went to the same elementary and middle school; she lived down the street from my best friend and next door to my hairdresser, a friend of my Mom’s. Her dad coached me in softball. I was never more than friendly with her, though, and there is no reason I should remember her, ten years later, when we aren’t even facebook friends. 

Erin was the type of student who usually showed up late and didn’t care. She wore pants that were so baggy you couldn’t see her feet. Our shared geography and affinity for band were all we had in common. She sauntered into the band room that day, late slip in her hand, and said with an air of nonchalance, “All of the secretaries in the main office are freaking out. Apparently a plane hit the World Trade Center in New York.”

At the time, I didn’t know that I had just learned of a terrorist attack. I didn’t realize that I would spend my next class, a study hall, watching the towers fall over and over again on a television the teacher had rolled into the room. I didn’t expect to become addicted to the twenty-four hour news coverage. I wasn’t yet haunted by the picture of the young Indian man who ate at the restaurant I worked at near the hotel where the hijackers were known to have stayed. I would never have heard the rumors that circulated around school that afternoon about our town’s rank on a maximum destruction for minimal effort list based on the amount of oil stored near our school. I probably couldn’t have even picked the World Trade Center towers out of a New York City skyline poster. Most of all, I had no way to know that moment would define my generation.

There will always be the demarcation lines. We are old enough to remember where we were when we heard the news. We are young enough to have it define our worldview. We never voted in an election where terrorism wasn’t an issue. We don’t understand wars that have an end. We look back on the Clinton-era as the good old days when the most outrageous lying that went on in Washington was about extramarital sex, not weapons of mass destruction. The victims of the lies suffered embarrassment rather, not death.

When we graduated high school, we left our parents and our lives for a world that was scary in ways that were never known before. The first time I ever lived on my own, I lived on the eleventh floor of an eighteen story, three-tower dorm in Boston. Somehow navigating my first day of classes, figuring out the train system, and living in a high rise became political acts. We wouldn’t let the terrorists win.

Ten years later, the lasting effects are becoming clearer. We weren’t shaped by the unity that came in the days following the attacks, but rather the response that followed. We are cynical and untrusting. We are disengaged. We mourn the deaths of that day, but we don’t mourn the loss of America as a super power. We never knew that America.

Earlier this year, when I learned that Osama bin Laden had been killed, I sat in my studio apartment in Brookline once again unable to turn off the new coverage, tearing up. I frantically reloaded twitter, searching for the latest reaction. I texted my friends, hoping they were still awake. It wasn’t long before I realized I was sobbing uncontrollably. I cried because remembered what it was like to be proud of my country. I cried for all the people who died trying to kill this man. I cried because someone else died. I cried because I felt relieved from ten years of stress that I didn’t know I had. But mainly, I cried because I will always remember Erin Falconer.

happy dad's day

Very few people in my family understand the word dad. For some, the man that should have been their dad died before he could move from a father, the man who is biologically related to them, to a dad, the man who would raise them. For others, they dad they knew died before he could watch them grow up to become teenagers. Their dads never got to see them graduate high school or college, fall in love, fall out of love, or grow into adults. For me, Dad is the guy who has been there for it all.

When the Bruin's won the Stanley Cup on Wednesday, I immediately opened my computer and sent a message to my dad. There was no text in the body of the e-mail; it only consisted of the subject line “YAYYYYYYYYY.” I knew Dad would understand what the e-mail was about. I knew he would be watching the game. He was the one who tried to get me to watch hockey while I was growing up. We lived in Maine, after all. He successfully taught me about baseball, and tried taking me to AHL hockey games and watching Bruins games with me on TV. I never got into, it, though, until I moved away and went to a school that rivaled Maine's college team. Dad didn't let it phase him, though, and quickly learned the ins and outs of my team so he could share his interest with me.

I knew that Dad would check his e-mail that night. He always claimed that my brother and I were the ones who inspired him to embrace new technology. We got him a DVD player five years after everyone else in the country had one, an iPod when he was still listening to records, and a GPS even though he still trusts his maps. But Dad had a car phone before any of our friends did, and a Blackberry before I understood the difference between that and a Palm Pilot. It was true, though, that he didn't quite understand what it meant to have his devices. When I traveled to see my college hockey team play in the national championship game, Dad knew he was going to want to send messages to me while I was in the stadium. I gave a tutorial beforehand clarifying the difference between an e-mail, a text message (SMS as he called it), and a blackberry message. Even since then, I have been at hockey games with my non-internet phone and returned home to find e-mails from Dad asking about the in game score.

While I wanted for Dad to respond, I opened another tab on my Internet browser to see what was going on with my social networks. My twenty-something friends were celebrating with tweets and status updates. None of us had been alive the last time the Bruins won the cup. Now, we had seen all four major sports teams in our city with their championship in the past seven years. I posted a status about how lucky I was to be a Boston sports fan in this era.

I saw the number in the title bar of my e-mail tab, and I jumped over to see Dad's response. He called the win “spectacular.” I can sense the awe in his voice, the appreciation, the understanding of how great this was after living through a 39 year drought. It was something none of my friends could understand. He wrote of how happy he was for the goalie, sentiments I had wanted to send back in my response. I wrote back, and he responded once more before I fell asleep. I was happy to share the moment with someone I knew would appreciate it the most.

It never occurred to me that, in the time I spent being grateful for Boston sports, I should have been grateful for Dad. Grateful for e-mails that need no context, peanut butter and fluff sandwiches, lobster dinners, minor league baseball, and a mustache. I should be grateful that any day I want can be a dad's day.

technology

There are many arguments against social networks, like facebook and twitter, and the technology that helps us keep up with them, like smart phones and tablets. Bill Keller's recent article in the New York Times makes the point that by forcing us to think in 140 characters, twitter is making it's users less thoughtful, more rash, and basically not as smart. We no longer know where to go without a GPS system, and no longer know how to interact with human beings.

This weekend, I hung out with seven people in a three day, three state whirlwind trip. I was the only one who did not have a smart phone. The first time I noticed this was half a day into the first leg of the trip: a bike trip around Block Island. We stopped at a seafood restaurant for lunch. I was already tired from the two hours of biking we had done, hungry for food, and excited to be sitting on a chair that was larger than my hindquarters. I settled into my seat and looked at my menu, unaware of what the others around me were doing. After I had decided on the lobster roll and a $2 Narragansett on tap, I looked around the table to see my five other friends all checking their smart phones.

I commented on how I was the only one without a fancy phone, and my friends started to talk about what they were each doing. Two were checking their email, two were checking in on Scavengr, and one was checking in on foursquare. I knew what all of these things were from being an informed twenty-something. The two friends checking their email began asking about the two different location tracking tools, and a debate ensued about which was better. One friend installed the Scavengr app and another installed the foursquare app. They did a social check in, so they could say they were hanging out with each other at a certain place. I sat with my hands on my lap, watching as they talked about their social networking tools. I had nothing to add.

The next day, three of us went into New York City. After meeting up with friends in Brooklyn, navigating our trip from our hotel near Times Square to Brooklyn via GPS on the smart phones, we headed back to Times Square to try to find a bar to hang out in. By that point, the two smart phones had died and we were on our own to find a place to go. We did it the old fashioned way. We asked two sets of cops where we could find a fun, low key bar in the area. Neither set had any ideas. We went to two hotels to try to ask a concierge, but it was too late for them to be helping. We went to one hotel bar that turned out to be closed already. Finally, a movie theater employee gave us a bar name and intersection that we could head to. We used our commonsense and navigation skills to find the intersection but, an hour after we got off the train, we found ourselves two blocks from our hotel without a bar in sight.

We hadn't wanted to go back to the hotel to charge the phones, afraid that we wouldn't want to leave again, but we gave in and headed back. One friend owned an extra battery for his phone. It took 10 minutes for him to change the battery, search for a bar, and call to make sure they were still open. We went back outside, hopped in a cab, gave him the exact address of the place we wanted to go, and were at the bar fifteen minutes after leaving the hotel.

Those who avoid social media and the technology around it like to come off as better than those who do use it. They say that they don't need to interact online, they would rather interact in person. They say that they don't need the internet at their hands at all times, since they got by just fine without it before. The problem is, though, the world we live in is not the world we used to live in. We live in a world where our real life conversations revolve around things that happened on facebook and twitter. If you avoid it, you deprive yourself from participating in that in person interaction. We live in a world where concierges' close at 10 pm, because they expect you to be able to figure enough things out on your own to get by without them.

I thought about getting an iPhone a year and a half ago when my Verizon contract was up, but at the time, I couldn't justify switching providers and paying extra money for the convenience of having internet on my phone. It was a luxury I didn't need. The day my new contract is up in September, I plan on going to get one. It's necessary for me to fully participate in life.

family

A few months ago, if you would have asked me for a definition of my family, I would have told you that it includes all people related to me. I also could have named all of those relatives without having to use any of my toes in the process. The problem I started to see with that definition, though, was semantics. Related is defined as connected or associated. So by my own definition, my family would be everyone I know. That is definitely not true.

What I really meant, I figured, was blood relation. Family is anyone related to me by blood. That made sense until I realized that on my very short list of family members, two of them were family by marriage, meaning I shared no blood with them. This was becoming slightly more complicated than I expected. Also, wasn't being family more than about who gave birth to whom? Having a family member meant being loving and helping each other through tough times. By that definition, then, were all of my friends my family members, too?

Then, my shifting thoughts of family were completely blown up by the recent (i.e. yesterday) marriage of my second cousin (by blood!), Lindsey, in New Jersey. The problem with Lindsey's wedding was that I met all of these people that my mom considered family that a) I never knew existed and b) weren't actually related to her by blood! These were my mom's maternal uncle's wife's family members. My mom spent years growing up with them. Being incredibly confused by the whole situation, I kept making the point to anyone who would listen that I wasn't actually related to any of these people. After I started talking to them more and more, though, my point changed slightly. "We aren't actually related," I would say, "but I want them as my family!" These were nice, fun, loving people who all had a good time together. Who wouldn't want to be a part of that?

The problem was that they didn't fit any of my definitions of family, except for my first one which I wrote off as lame. Sure, they were connected to me, but they were not related to me by blood, they did not marry anyone related to me by blood, and the hardest time they had helped me through was deciding what drink to order at the bar. And yet, I felt connected to them.

In trying to make me feel less confused about the whole situation, my mom explained that being family wasn't about how you were blood related, but having a shared history with someone. The only problem? I had no shared history with any of these people, except for the few that I had met at the bridal shower two months before. That hardly seemed like enough to be family, though.

As I continued to talk to them, as they let me dance my crazy-awkward-white-girl-from-maine style with them, as they talked to me about sports, as they hugged me goodbye, and as we promised to see each other again, I understood that family has nothing to do with blood, marriage or relatedness. All it has to do with is sharing love. When I love the same people you love, we are family.

laundry

for the first time in my life, i live alone. no roommate, no family, just me and those possessions i deemed worthy enough to box up and move with me. going into this situation, i knew there were going to be perks (yes, i did just leave my dishes in the sink for two days without washing them, thank you very much) and drawbacks (my stuffed animals don't talk back), but what i didn't realize was how my outlook on life would be drastically altered. the time i get in the shower in the morning is no longer determined by when it will be free, but rather when i need to get in there to get to work on time. that 78 pound box of furniture that i ordered without knowing the weight is no longer something for a group of people collaborate on carrying, but rather a way for me to meet the new neighbors as i bring up pieces of the table in 5 different trips. weekday evenings are no longer something that just pass by without much thought or effort, but rather events to be for which i need to plan.

honestly, i was frightened by these weekday evenings of being alone. five whole days of just me and nothing else. what does someone who lives alone do with four hours a night? i worried i would go crazy holed up in a studio apartment with no cable, no roommate, and no pet. immediately, i started to think of things i could do at night that involved leaving my apartment. the less time surrounded by no one the better. the first thing that came to mind was laundry. the building i live in does not have any laundry machines in it, and the nearest laundromat is about a five minute walk away, so i figured one night a week i could do laundry. it would get me out of the apartment, take up some time, and be productive.

little did i know, that my focus on doing laundry would help me cope with the new lives-alone version of myself. first, it gave me purpose in figuring out how to plan for and get through my other nights alone. it turns out that having small, mundane goals for each night is exactly what i need. doing a load of laundry only takes an hour, but it somehow makes those four hours easier to get through. i now try to come up with a small goal for every night of the week. some nights i make myself a nice dinner, others i watch a movie, and sometimes i even make a goal to clean my apartment. that small bit of direction to start out the evening makes the rest of it feel like something to enjoy--a reward for accomplishing what i set out to do.

now that the laundry has helped me figure out how to structure the rest of my life, i realize that i actually enjoy going to the laundromat. that's right, laundry, a chore i used to hate doing, is now something i actually enjoy. how did that happen? logistically, doing one load of laundry for an hour a week is much better than doing two, or three, or even four at a time once a month. one load isn't that heavy and takes very little time to fold. hanging out at the laundromat isn't even that bad. i can read my book and i've even made friends with the man who works there. so if i ever feel like i am missing out on social interaction by living alone? i can just go do some laundry.

as i was sitting in the laundromat tonight, i realized doing laundry once a week wasn't just about making my life a little easier, or talking to some random people about cats. it's not that i don't mind doing laundry now, i actually have a fondness for laundry that was never there before. when i felt like my life was spinning in many different directions and i couldn't see anything through the fog of alone-ness, the simple act of doing laundry helped me center, focus, and move forward. is it weird that i now have an emotional attachment to doing laundry? probably. but every week for a few moments as i sit and watch my clothes spin around and around in the dryer, i am reminded that if i can do laundry on my own and have it be okay, i can do anything on my own and have it be okay.

new year

Graduating college lead to many life changes. The major impacts came right away: supporting myself, trying to find things to do with my time, and an overwhelming lack of purpose. There are many less obvious changes, though, that appear to have a longer-lasting impact. I’ve gone through a subtle shift over the past few years from looking at my life from a September to May schedule to a January to December one. Not only does the new schedule mean no summer vacation, it means I place greater value and thought in to New Year’s. No longer is this holiday about the mid-point of a semester and a break from “real life,” it’s about taking stock of what happened in the past year, where my life is right now, and where I want it to be going.

The past few New Year’s were pretty easy. My year was good, I was happy, and I had a set path. There wasn’t really much to come to terms with because my life was traveling along as expected. This year contemplating my place in the world is much more difficult, though. It was a rocky year with unexpected events. I was sad for much of it, my life is currently in upheaval, and I am totally unsure of what my future holds. At the same time, I can’t just brush off and forget what happened this year. There were lots of good times, and I am in the processes of learning from the bad. As much as I want to take the easy road and say “good riddance” to 2010, I know that I cannot do that.

So here I am, stuck between happy and sad, progress and remembrance, hope and reality. How is it that I am supposed to go out and celebrate this ambivalence? My decision: stop thinking about it as a year. The turnover from 2010 to 2011 is not just the change of a year, it is the official change of the decade. (Think about it, we didn’t start at the year 0, we started at the year 1.) When I think about my current life in comparison to where I was 10 years ago, as opposed to where I was last year, I achieve a much better perspective.

In the past 10 years, I have attended high school and graduated, moved to Boston, attended and graduated college, lived in 8 different apartments (plus one house), fallen in love, worked 3 different jobs, made (and remade) countless friendships, and traveled around the country. I’ve also fallen out of touch with friends, felt homesick (for many different places), missed people terribly, and mourned the death of family members, pets, and relationships. I’ve been angry, sad, frustrated, and lonely. I’ve been happy, content, joyful, and loved. Over the past 10 years I have gone from a 15 year old girl to a 25 year old woman. And the whole way, I have lived.

So tonight I will celebrate, not because I am happy this year is over or because I want to remember how great it was. I will celebrate the possibility of the coming year. New Year’s Eve is no longer a time to celebrate a break from real life. It is a time to celebrate the actuality of real life. I have the opportunity for a whole new year of experiences, relationships and living. Happy New Year, indeed.

the christmas story

Earlier today, I realized I was listening to “O Holy Night” on repeat. I always enjoy listening to Christmas music around the holidays, but it was strange for me to be so fixated on this song. It’s not happy, peppy, or heart warming, which is how I usually characterize the season. At the end of the song, I feel a sense of emotional release. I feel like I’ve let out a giant sigh. It got me thinking about the Christmas story. Even though I’ve heard the story at least 50 times in my young life, I haven’t spent much time actually thinking about it. It’s hard to take those words of something that happened so long ago and realize what was actually happening, so I decided to picture myself in Mary’s shoes.

I figure that I’m living in Massachusetts, dating some guy, let’s call him Joe, who grew up in Maine. All of a sudden, Paul LePage, the new Maine governor, decides that anyone born in Maine has to go to the state to prove that they exist. Joe and I have to gather up our donkey and walk to Maine because of this guy. And did I mention that I am nine months pregnant? Not only am I pregnant, but Joe isn’t even the father. Some angel appeared to me to tell me that I am pregnant with the son of God. The son of God?! Can you believe that? Well, I am having a hard enough time dealing with it myself without everyone else I know judging me for either being crazy or a slut.

So Joe and I show up in Portland and get counted, only to realize that it is too late to go back home that night. Just as we realize this, it starts to rain. So here I am, stuck in the middle of nowhere with my donkey, a husband who only half believes that I didn’t cheat on him to get pregnant, and I’m soaking wet. Since everyone else had to come from all across to state to prove to Mr. LePage that they exist, too, (and probably planned ahead and reserved a room at the local inns,) Joe and I can’t find a place to stay.

Trying to keep me dry, Joe decides to ask a local farmer that we pass if we can stay in his barn. Don’t get me wrong. I am pretty grateful to be dry, but I took one look around and realized this was not going to be an easy night. There was hay everywhere, mooing cows, baaing sheep, a chicken just ran across my foot, and don’t even get me started on the smell. As I turn to ask Joe how things could possibly get worse, my water breaks. It doesn’t matter anymore who the father of this baby is, all that matters is that I am about to give birth. In a barn.

The night was long and hard, but after hours of labor, I gave birth to a healthy baby boy. Joe was there to help me the whole way. At some point, I got used to the smell and my own moans drowned out those of the animals around me. The rain had stopped, and the sun was rising on a new day. I let out tears of joy at the same time that my baby cried that first time.

I look at Jesus and I looked at Joe. It doesn’t matter what happened the night before. It doesn’t matter what everyone else thinks about our baby. All that matters is that we made it. Looking at the two men in my life, I feel an overwhelming sense of love. It doesn’t matter if the love that created my baby is different from the love that creates every other baby in this world. Love is love.

I always get so hung up on the fact that this story has a happy ending. Mary has a healthy baby boy who goes on to become the King of the Jews. All these years I’ve been missing the real emotions behind the story, though. Mary and Joseph had a really hard life and Christmas Eve was anything but celebratory. Everything was up in the air, they were in a strange place, and everyone was doubting them. The story of Christmas, though, is their triumph over all those obstacles. The birth of Jesus is a huge, emotional release. It is only out of the lowest, hardest times that greatness can happen. Christmas is about going through a tough situation, having a little faith, and coming out better on the other side.

exercise

almost a year ago, i joined the ranks of many of my twenty-something peers and signed up for a gym membership. having graduated college only a few years prior, i was still dealing with the fact that i had a lot more free time than i knew what to do with. i spent much of that extra time preparing and eating delicious food so decided i could probably fit in some exercise to my schedule. at first, my trips to the gym went pretty well. i would go a couple of times a week before work. even if i didn't see many physical results, i felt better about myself knowing that i had spent time making myself healthier.

it wasn't long though, that those trips to the gym fell to only on the weekend, or only one morning per week. the truth of the matter is, i just don't enjoy exercising. don't get me wrong, i don't loathe it, but there is nothing fun about standing on a large piece of metal, repeating the same action over and over again for 30-45 minutes until it makes me physically uncomfortable. sure, listening to music can help with the boredom, as can watching one of the tvs that the gym provides for just this issue. but listening to music is more fun without heavy breathing getting in the way and watching tv is much easier while sitting on the couch.

even though the trips have started to dwindle, i still try to go. even if there is nothing appealing about actually going to the gym, the side effects make it worth it. there are no two ways about it, i feel better about myself after i have gone to the gym. i feel productive, less lazy, and more likely to do things with my day instead of wasting it away.

i've always made it clear that my goal in life is to be happy, and all decisions i make are based on whether i will be happy or not. i've learned, though, that immediate happiness is not the only thing i have to think about. sure, it would be easier to sit on the couch than go to the gym, but in the end, it is worth the momentary discomfort for the longer-lasting feeling of happiness with myself.

windows

I picked up the frame from the windowsill, looked at the picture inside, and sighed. “You had so much potential,” I thought to myself. I stared at the windows the picture had been perched on. They could be seen as somewhat useless since not even a sliver of natural light makes it the 25 feet down the hall from the closest outdoor facing window. The only reason the window can be qualified as “somewhat” useless is because it does allow me to communicate in hand signals with those trying to talk to me while my door is shut and I am on the phone.

What the window lacks in usefulness, it makes up for in personality. One trip around the office told me that. Whether it’s cartoons from a Far Side calendar or pictures of pets, these windows are used as the perfect place to display the wit, warmth and all around good natured-ness of the office occupant. It’s brilliant, really, like a version of social networking for the office environment. I can put out there what I want people to think of me. It doesn’t matter if I’m an incredibly boring homebody, I can make myself anyone I want to be through what I display on the windows.

My first effort at trying to be cool via my window decorating went pretty well. I taped up a picture from a newspaper of David Ortiz as he was being sworn in as a United States citizen. He was focused in the frame, wearing a designer suit with fancy sunglasses and a world series ring, in front of hundreds of other everyday people with blurred out faces. The everyday people were wearing everyday clothes, and definitely no sunglasses. This was perfect. It showed my love for sports, as well as my sense of humor. Anyone walking by my office would know that I was spectacular, just from looking at this picture.

After months of leaving this picture on my window, and having it start many conversations, I started to fret. I was definitely starting to look boring. If I couldn’t find something else that was funny by now, my life was totally stale and bland. People must be walking around talking about how crazy it was that I still had that picture up. I mean, it wasn’t even baseball season any more! It was then that I started looking for something to replace Ortiz, and a few months later, I thought I had it.

After travelling to Washington, D.C. to see my Alma mater win the NCAA College Hockey championship, I returned with one souvenir and it had nothing to do with hockey. While at a mall, I got roped into a tourist trap. I was pulled over to a kiosk surround by a crowd of people. The man running the booth asked me if I would stand in front of a green screen and stick my hand in front of me. Not wanting to seem crazy for objecting, I went along with it. The crowd of people cheered and smiled. Then, they asked me to turn, tilt my head up, and make a kissing face. I peaked out to my friends in the audience and I swear someone gave me a thumbs up, so I did as I was told.

What resulted was one photoshopped image of me shaking Barack Obama’s hand and one of me kissing him, which I could purchase with a frame for what seemed like an un-absurd amount of money. I knew I had to get one, but couldn’t decide which. The shaking hands picture was good, because I might be able to convince people I actually met the president. The kissing picture was a little bit awkward. If people actually believed I met the president and kissed him on the lips, that would be weird. At the same time, though, it was really funny and absurd. I couldn’t imagine anyone would actually think I kissed the president. I bought the kissing picture, with a gold plastic frame that said Washington, D.C. and had monuments etched on the side.

On the trip back to Boston, I realized this was the perfect item to replace Ortiz on my window. It was hilariously over the top and kitchy. It would inspire conversation about how I got the picture and what it would have actually been like if I had met Obama. I returned to the office, moved the Ortiz picture to my bulletin board, and gently placed the frame in the window. It immediately fell off. The first problem with this picture was that it was actually in a frame and needed to be propped up somehow on the uneven, shallow windowsill. After fiddling around with it for a few minutes, I succeeded in the balancing act. I went to sit at my desk and waited.

One person walked by. Then another. And another. I saw one of them look at the picture, cock her head in puzzlement, and continue on by. My heart started to sink. Finally, someone else walked by, stood outside my door for a minute staring at the picture, looked at me and said, “Is that...?” Excitedly, I launched into the conversation about D.C., Obama, and hockey. After what felt like a five minute explosion of conversation from my end she said “Oh, cool,” and left.

Over the next few days, a few more people stopped by to ask me about the picture, and I found it less and less exciting to talk about. “No, I didn’t actually get to meet the president,” I would explain before trying to point out how the picture was funny in spite of that. Other than the handful of people who asked, though, thankfully the masses of people I expected to ask about the picture never turned out. Me and Barack became the big while elephant in the office. “I won’t mention it if you don’t,” I’d secretly plead to anyone who stopped by to chat.

A few months later, while out for drinks with some co-workers, the truth came out. Although I have no idea how the topic came up, I was explaining how the picture was taken at a kiosk in a mall. “Ohhhhhh,” someone said. “That’s Obama? I thought it was your boyfriend. I thought it was weird that you had a picture of you guys kissing on your window.” I was immediately horrified. Here I was, trying to portray myself as fun-loving and quirky, and instead everyone thought I was flaunting a romantic relationship to them!

When I arrived at work the next day, I looked at me and Barack. I didn’t have anything to immediately replace us with, so if I didn’t want us sitting in the window anymore, it would have to empty. At the same time, I still loved that picture. It reminded me of the great time I had on that trip and how hilarious I think I am. I moved the picture to the bookshelf behind my desk and stared at the empty window. It was better to be boring, I decided, than misunderstood.

fake me

routines have always been my friend. while others crave surprise and the unknown, i crave stability and the known. sure, i like being surprised. but i want you to tell me that on a specific day at a specific time, you will be surprising me. the same thing can be said for my non-work life. i like doing different things with different people, but i like knowing that my plans will always revolve around a 9-5 job.

i've been building to this way of living my whole life, really. starting from a young age, the main constant in my life was sleep. no matter what i did that day, where i was, or who i was with, i would end the day by going to bed. my earliest memory of falling asleep was after my mom would come into my room to tuck me in and say goodnight, she would hit play on my primary-colored plastic tape player. at first, i'm sure the tape that was in there rotated, but all i remember is always falling asleep to a tape of the beatles magical mystery tour that my dad had made for me. i needed that routine of having my mom turn that tape on for me so much that if, in the horrible situation that sometimes happened, i got to the end of the first side before falling asleep, i would climb out of my bed, walk out of my room, down the hallway to the top of the stairs and yell "mooooooooom, my tape needs to be turned over." she would dutifully walk up the stairs, turn the tape over, and tuck me back into bed, completing the bedtime routine once more.

as i got older, the time i went to bed changed and i stopped listening to music, but i kept to my new routines. instead of music, i would have a set topic to think about until i fell asleep instead of letting my mind wonder. i had a phase where i would think about what outfit i would wear the next day. was it better to wear the forest green jeans with the cat t-shirt and the flannel over it? or should i go with those acid wash jeans instead? for a solid year, i would actually pray until i fell asleep, but only in the way that a child understands prayer as a means to an end. "please god," i would plead, "let tomorrow be a good day. let us catch the bus to school on time, and have tabitha save me a seat in the back of the bus. and please have school be good and let me be in a group with my friends for math time instead of the people i don't like." i would continue to walk god through my day and all the things that i would like to go well until i fell asleep sometime around catching the bus home from school. if, on the off chance, i got through my whole day and was still awake, i would start the process over, thinking of more and more things that god could do for me.

somewhere in middle school, i discovered the mother load of falling asleep thinking topics: the future. at the same time i was discovering insecurities and popularity in the real world, i was exploring an idea that would carry me through all of those things. even if things weren't going my way at the time, i convinced myself that when i got to my mid to late twenties, things would be much better. in the future, i was very popular and had no insecurities. i was successful, happy and smart. every night, i defined this future version of myself more and more. i would think about what clothes i would be wearing until i fell asleep, or how i would wear my hair. eventually, i developed a version of myself in the future. character traits and looks developed into where i would live. where i would live made me think about what job i would have, who my friends would be and what cooky situations we would get ourselves into. throughout high school, i continued to rely on future me as a crutch both to help me fall asleep and to escape the awkward, sometimes unpleasant present.

i still haven't totally deserted this version of myself, either, even though here i am in my mid to late twenties. sure, i just turned 25 and am on a general path in life, but that doesn't stop me from day dreaming about me as a 26 year old stay at home writer living in minneapolis who volunteers at animal shelter. that's because future me was not actually me in the future, it was a fake version of me that i had created. fake me can still do whatever she wants. the reason fake me is fake, though, is because she doesn't have to deal with the realities of life.

it only rains on fake me when she is on a climactic, extremely emotional run before everything works out in the end. real me doesn't run that well and especially not in the rain. fake me had a dog that only needed to be walked on sunny, warm days. real me wonders what i am supposed to do with a dog when i go away for the weekend or what my neighbors will think if he barks too much. fake me doesn't really have to work to achieve any goals. real me has to deal with failure. if fake me gets into any uncomfortable situations, she has a casual, smooth way out. real me tries too hard and makes awkward small talk.

there is a slight chance that i am going to go crazy for having a fake me, but real me likes to think that is a positive sign to have such an active imagination. real me also recognizes that this is a coping mechanism to deal with the fact that life isn't always fair, good things don't always happen to good people, and plans change. also, fake me is the only reason real me still even attempts to run, so she can't be all bad.

to a man

the start of fall is one of the greatest times of year. in my book, it's second only to christmas. the weather is perfect for my wardrobe decisions. i no longer have to worry about planning for the drastic temperature changes that summer heat and office climate control bring and don't yet have to choose my footwear based on the number of inches of snow on the ground. fall is also my birthday season, so people like to spend this time of year giving me things and making plans to hang out with me. perhaps best of all, though, are the sports. lots and lots of sports. they playoffs have started in baseball, football teams are starting to find their identity, and the puck has dropped on college hockey season.

the main side effect of all these sports is an abundance of television watching. i seem to be always watching sports, watching highlights of sports i missed, or watching sports commentary to hear other people break down the sports i have already watched. as you can imagine, there are certain things that i, an unathletic twenty something woman, get annoyed by in the commentary of middle-aged, former athlete men. they overanalyze the slightest things and comment about how great the teams that i hate the most are, but i am usually happy with hearing another point of view or getting to relive a great moment. there is only one thing, though, that will actually make me change the channel or stop watching, and that is when one of these talking heads uses the phrase "to a man."

growing up as a girl in the nineties means i have an odd relationship to feminism. the word feminist has been demonized due to the radical nature of the movement in the seventies. it is assumed that if you are a feminist you hate men, don't wear a bra, refuse to shave, and are likely a lesbian. discrimination against women was so ingrained in our culture in the sixties, that the movement had to go radical to really affect change. unfortunately, it came with the negative fall out. one of the things the movement did was start to change the collective vernacular. you didn't have a mailman, you had a mail carrier. you didn't have a chairman, you had a chairperson.

i've seen some writers try to apply this logic to the phrase "to a man" and use "to a person." it just does not work in this situation. the phrase is used to emphasize truthfulness. "i talked to the coach," the commentators will say, "and, to a man, he said they might not make the playoffs this year." i understand the point that these coaches or commentators are trying to make, that this was a tough statement to hear, but it is probably true. to make that point, though, we have to assume that the truth is too difficult for a woman to hear, so it can only be told to a man. the same point cannot be made by using "to a person." this somehow implies that the truth is too difficult to tell a non-person. i don't know about you, but i've never wanted to shield my goldfish from knowing the full story.

the reason that i love sports is because it transcends the self. i am a red sox fan, along with millions of others. together, we cheer, complain, hope and resign ourselves to the end of another year. as a fan, we get to be a part of the team. i am never going to win the world series, but i can be a part of a group that does. when a sports commentator or coach says "to a man" it automatically alienates me. i am not a man, so does that mean i don't get to be a part of their world? it reenforces the old boys club world of sports where only the athletes or the male fans are included.

as i have gotten older and shed much of the self-consciousness that comes with adolescence, i have realized that there is nothing wrong with being called a feminist. it just means that i believe that men and women should have equal rights and that our society shouldn't do anything to harm that. i know that there are many women's issues that are way more important than this phrase, but it is one of the easiest ways to see that biases still exist. i know that whenever i hear that phrase, i feel slighted. i am not on the "in" crowd. i am not smart enough, popular enough, cool enough, or man enough to know the truth. sure, you might say that i am overreacting to the issue, but i hope you would tell me that to my face and not just to a man.

the case of the missing hammer

Recently, one of my co-workers sent around an email asking if anyone had seen his hammer. It was a simple question, really. He went to use his hammer and could not find it. As I tried to move on with my work day, I could not stop thinking about the email. There it sat, glaring at me like the rest of the emails I had yet to respond to or thoughtfully place in one of my 172 email folders. I couldn’t decide what was worse: that I had 172 email folders, that I knew I had 172 email folders, or that I was contemplating making a new one for this hammer email. A quick check of my office confirmed I did not have the hammer, even though a quick check of my memory would have proved I hadn’t seen a hammer in at least three years. With this conclusion behind me, I set off to figure out what happened to the hammer.

First, I felt bad for the guy. I imagine the poor soul rummaging through his desk looking for the hammer. No one actually has a tool box at work, right? If I needed to keep a hammer, it would be right there in the top drawer of my desk next to my granola bar stash and the Liberace pocket mirror I have on hand in case I smear pen on my face during the day. When he couldn’t find the hammer in his desk, he probably started checking out his typical office haunts. It could be by the printer. Maybe he took it with him when he went to pick up that sign he just printed to remind everyone that they can save paper by not printing things. Or he could have left it in the kitchen when he went to check on the mystery smell someone had told him about earlier. Finally he must have decided the most logical conclusion was, even though he is the admin guy for an office of 99 women and 15 men, one of us must have taken it.

Then, my mystery-loving brain started churning. I ignored the swarm of emails coming in and shoo-ed away the people who were hovering around my office waiting patiently for me to have time to think about their problems instead of my current dilemma. Was it Colonel Mustard in the library with the pipe? Who could have taken the hammer? And, even better, what could they be doing with it? Immediately, I jumped to the obvious. Janet was still angry with Brianne for neglecting to water her plants when Janet took a three week cruise on the Mediterranean. Of course Janet stole the hammer and was hiding in the bathroom until Brianne walked in unsuspectingly. Those plants years of upkeep that Brianne washed down the drain. Janet wasn’t sure what she would do when her enemy walked in, but she knew a hammer would help. All I knew was that I was waiting until I got home to use the bathroom.

Maybe it wasn’t so sinister. If there is one thing that TLC has taught me, it’s that anyone can build a desk with a little MDF (Is that what it’s called?), wood glue and a hammer. Meghan was always complaining about her metal desk. She must have come in early so as to not offend anyone with her project. If she hadn’t returned the hammer yet, she must still be working on the desk. Now that it was 2 pm, I bet she had a slab of wood with three uneven legs on it and realized building things was harder than Paige Davis made it seem. I had no doubt that by now she had glued her shirt sleeve to the floor so she couldn’t respond to the email. I took a lap around the office to see if she needed any help. Meghan was happily typing away as I walked by her office, though, and when I placed my ear up to the bathroom door (no way was I going in!) to see if Brianne needed any back up, I didn’t hear anything.

I returned to my desk to face reality. The co-workers I had tried to ignore were back and waiting. Even more emails had come in, pushing the hammer one down so far that, horrifyingly, I had to scroll to see it. I realized where I needed to file the email. Instead of spending time trying to solve a problem I had no specific knowledge of, other than my Clue-playing and TLC-watching expertise, I could spend my time helping to fix things in my control. While I couldn’t resolve the case of the missing hammer, I could resolve the issues of those asking for my help. People always tell me “It’s not the destination, it’s the journey,” but you know what? Sometimes it really is as simple needing your hammer. I deleted the email.

friday

i glanced around the living room to look at the remnants of my evening. the white bag with the red and white "tasty burger" sat on the area rug next to the coffee table. thirty minutes ago, that bag was crisp and clean, advertising the new burger place a few blocks away from my apartment. fifteen minutes ago, i was hurrying home with the top of the bag scrunched in my hand. the bag moved with me as i dodged traffic and red sox fans, dug through my tote bag to find my keys, propped open the door to the mail room as i unlocked my mail box and collected my mail, and climbed the three flights of stairs to my apartment. five minutes ago, i propped the bag on the floor to conveniently catch the wrapper of my gorgonzola hamburger when i was done.

white napkins littered the dark table in front of me. i only use napkins on rare occasions for especially messy meals. this was a rare occasion. the three-quarters full box of onion rings looked more like gray and red than white and red from the grease that had soaked through the cardboard. next to the onion right box sat a white paper cup with plastic lid and straw. the bright pink i saw through the lid was mocking me. there were just two sips of the strawberry milkshake left. i wasn't sure if i could do it or not.

the tv remote, wii remote and a few books lay scattered behind the food. i had ravenously shoved them aside to make room for my dinner. on the other side of the coffee table, my legs were propped up. it was a good thing i changed into my incredibly ugly, unquestionably comfortable capri elastic waist "university of pink" sweatpants before i started eating. as i leaned forward to grab the tv remote--the DVR was asking me if i wanted to save or delete last night's project runway i just finished watching--i realized there were pieces of fried batter perched on my red sox t-shirt.

as i contemplated whether to eat the batter or not, i thought about how i should have gone to the gym this morning. i thought about how i should have gone to the gym after work. i realized neither was going to happen now, so i might as well accept that. i thought about if this was really my life. friday night, home alone while my boyfriend is out with friends, indulging in dinner and reality television.

i thought about how last night it was me who was out with friends. i wore my sparkly shoes. we drank fancy cocktails at a local restaurant. i had duck. they got me a card for my birthday. we were tipsy on alcohol, laughter and life. i came home to a boyfriend expecting me. we watched the end of the movie up on HBO. i sobbed uncontrollably because the movie was so heartwarming.

i thought about how i was absolutely, inexplicably, absurdly, one-hundred percent as happy tonight as i was last night. i wiped the crumbs from my shirt and finished the milkshake.