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Blue (Doop Dee Do)

By on February 24, 2010 in humor, true story

 Today was one of those days.




You know, the sort of day when you wake up on the wrong side of the bed. A sad day, a sorry day, a day defined by experts as a “terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad day.” At least that’s the scientific term for it.

I believe these types of days are also known as ‘blue’ days, but you know what? I hate that expression.

“I’m blue.”

“You seem blue.”

“Sue looks blue, how about you, doop dee doop dee do.”

God.

Even if it didn’t sound inane, I would still be annoyed by the fact that blue is my favorite color and I don’t want it co-opted by all the gloomy Eeyore-types out there. Look, I’m UPSET, just let me mope without the additional concern that my soul mate is a patchwork cartoon donkey.

The worst part about days like today is that I can’t even feel miserable without feeling badly.
Here’s an example: I wake up with the sense of having slept under a lead blanket, and when I open my eyes I see last night’s ‘wintry mix’ has transformed into heavy, steady rain, zillions of drops thunking down to earth. I rummage through my dresser like a sleepwalker, aiming for the most fashionable-yet-waterproof outfit I can conjure, and grumble like an old man.

Of course, it’s only rain. Not an epic flood or potential disaster scene. Nothing to complain about unless you’re some spoiled yuppie who’s never known Nature’s true misery.

‘Get a grip, you big baby,’ yells the voice in my head as I stand on the side of the road, whimpering. I am waiting for cars to stop long enough that I can cross the street. ‘You’re not even at a crosswalk.’

I tuck my chin into my chest. ‘They aren’t even slowing down,’ I whine. ‘And water’s dripping into my glasses!’

‘At least you HAVE glasses!” says the voice. “At least you aren’t fleeing for your life with a baby tucked under each arm!’

‘Yeah, on what planet?’ I mutter into my jacket.

‘UM, Haiti, or Darfur, or even New Orleans, you insensitive—‘

Then I’m sprinting, booking it to the car, hoping (and failing, it turns out) to make it to work on time.

But that’s what I mean. No ignorant misery here. Just annoyance topped with a healthy dose of self-loathing.

Or later, at the shopping center. My job requires me to buy products from stores—Glade, Tide, you name it—and ship them to coworkers overseas. Today, a super urgent request came in from China. They needed the stuff by the end of the month. Well, do the math: China = really far away + end of month = 3 days from now -  products on hand = I have to go to the store. Today.

So I trundle up and head out into the rain, whipping around in the company Navigator, and it’s not even fun driving a car like a boat because I know this trip means I will have to stay late tonight, probably until 8 or 9PM, to finish a presentation that is also, of course, due tomorrow.

I drip as I stalk along the aisles at Target, trying to ignore my cart’s squeaky wheel and wondering why, at this age, I am still wearing pants that don’t fit. I pass through the home goods and ponder how the hell I’ve managed to not only own but wear slacks that are simultaneously 1) too short, 2) too tight, 3) too baggy. I feel overweight AND homeless AND far too old to be wearing clothes I don’t like when I control everything about my life and still can’t manage to put on a pair of pants. That. Fit.

As I walk past the home décor—art deco mirrors and big balls of green sod (I’d love to know how clods of dirt enhance a room’s décor, by the way, no wonder nobody has any taste these days)—I see a sign that reads:
LIFE.
Be grateful. Every day of life is precious.
Sigh.

Thanks for reminding me of my mortality. Be grateful, you fruitcake, you’re going to die. That’s just what I needed to hear.

The thing is that I get it. I get it, OK? Universe, I know you’re broad and beautiful and full of endless possibilities, like the cereal aisle at a grocery store, but sometimes all I want is to sit down at the cosmic breakfast table and have my cereal chosen for me. I don’t WANT to have all these feelings and pressures and Pop Tarts for dinner if I get home at 9:30 because someone in China needed a bottle of Mr. Clean. I’d like to spend a day without all this AWARENESS of other people and their feelings and how I should be leaping around with ecstasy because I have a job and a home and even Pop Tarts, for that matter. I just want to stand on my shiny-white, over-privileged, self-indulgent pedestal and throw a tantrum and not feel GUILTY for once, OK?!

Phew.

Well.

I think it’s time to brush the crumbs off my computer and go back to bed. Tomorrow will probably be better. I’ll wear an obnoxiously green shirt and some loud jewelry, and that will help. I have a feeling I will sleep like a rock, too, and a shower in the AM probably wouldn’t kill me. As my grandfather loved to say, tomorrow is another day.

Besides, it’s really not so bad as all that. I only have one kind of cereal anyway.

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Lynn Truss

By on February 22, 2010 in creative writing, humor, mindfulness
Dear God, I love Lynn Truss.
She is, rather famously, the author of Eats, Shoots and Leaves, a witty little volume about punctuation and perfection in today’s society. Perfection may be over-rated, she seems to say, but out of respect for yourself and English nerds the world over, please learn the basics of correct grammar. (As I am already perfect, I won’t be concerning myself with on-going editorial education. Just do yourself a favor and don’t check this blog for grammatical consistency, or you might stop reading it altogether.)
Truss’s second book, Talk to the Hand, lives in a world of much the same spirit as Eats, Shoots & Leaves. This time, however, the subject at hand (har) is courtesy. The novel’s subtitle says it all: The Utter Bloody Rudeness of the World Today, or Six Good Reasons to Stay Home and Bolt the Door.
I know what she means. I may be young(ish), but I was raised with the expectation that I attend to a roster of fundamental courtesies including, but not limited to: respect elders; say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’; do not interrupt; listen when others speak; be kind to children; apologize when you’ve hurt someone; allow everyone a turn. They all derive from the simple concept that every person, big or small, deserves as much respect as anyone else, including yourself, because you are not, in fact, the center of the universe.
I know as well as anybody that my last statement can be hard to internalize; remaining polite and aware of others is difficult, certainly. But it’s worth it.
Besides, if you refuse to honor other people by following a simple set of principles, you’re a cretin.
But enough about MY thoughts. Here is a passage from Talk to the Hand, one that I hope inspires you to shout from the rooftops, change your life, or even pause, for just a second, before sending a text while out to dinner with another human being.
“This is my grand theory of social alientation in the early twenty-first century, by the way, so don’t miss it, pay attention. This thing is, we are kings of click-and-buy. We can customise any service. We can publish a blog on the internet. We are always reachable by phone, text or email. Our iPods store 4,000 of our own personal favourite tracks. Well, sod the gratification of our dopamine neurotransmitters in such an alarming context. The effect of all this limitless self-absorption is to make us isolated, solipsistic, grandiose, exhausted, inconsiderate, and anti-social. In these days of relative affluence, people are persuaded to believe that more choice equals more happiness, and that life should be approached as a kind of happiness expedition to the shops. This attitude is not only paltry and degenerate, but it breeds misery and monsters. And in case you can’t hear me thumping the table, that’s what I’m doing. Right. Now.”
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Superbowl XLIV

By on February 9, 2010 in humor
Ah, the Superbowl. That magical time of year when everyone gathers around the television to eat obscene amounts of chicken wings and yell at the ones they love to shut up during the good stuff (football OR commercials, depending on your preference. No one wins.).
Of course, I realize that might be a blanket statement. Lots of people watch the Superbowl in a bar and yell at perfect strangers.
The important thing is that we are yelling together, spittle sprays witness to our unity, our love for entertainment and copious amounts of beer. And aren’t we having fun??
Thanks to clever advertisements, however, I truly enjoyed Superbowl XLIV. Since I will never, ever pretend to be a sports blogger, consider this my recap of America’s Favorite Sports Event.

What was YOUR favorite? What can we creatives learn about storytelling in the face of spittle and chicken wings?
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5:30AM Is Not an Acceptable Hour for Kickboxing Class

By on January 22, 2010 in humor, true story
This morning I watched the sun come up over the ocean.
I tried, anyway.
I had this merry idea as I was driving back from the gym. Look, it’s 6:40 and the sky is still that purply shade of blue. The pre-dawn color! You could make it!
As my odometer crept past the speed limit, I began a series of mental handshakes. What a great idea this is! You’re gonna love it! Don’t you always lament the fact that you live on the Eastern coast and never see the sunrise? Isn’t it one of those things you should do at least a thousand times before you die? So that you can know you really LIVED? How many sunsets has anyone seen? Oh, wow, this is gonna be GOOD for you.
Sigh.
It’s endless, this monologue. It’s as if there’s one super-energetic, cracked-out part of my brain that is constantly cheerleading, doing back flips and handstands and encouraging the team to GO GO GO! FIGHT FIGHT FIGHT!
Meanwhile, the team tries to decide how best to strangle her.
She even piped up during class the morning. The one time of day I am completely focused on my physicality, lost in flesh and sweat and the effort it will take to gut out just twenty more minutes, seven more push-ups. But this morning I was tired, and my defenses were low. She pounced.
How many times have you been to these classes? she asked. How come the instructors don’t know you by name? All the other regulars are on a first-name basis with each other. Why are you shutting yourself off to the world like this? Shouldn’t you make an effort if you want to get to know people? How do you ever expect to expand your social horizons if you don’t make the time to say hello? What, are you nervous? Is it because you’re here ALL THE TIME and NO ONE KNOWS YOU? Come on, don’t feel like a loser; it’s your own fault.
I doubt anyone noticed my muttered curses and punching exhale as we held in plank for an extra 30 seconds.
But now I am buoyed by serotonin, ephedrin, flooded with chemicals that make workouts addictive and tri-athletes psychotic. I zip over the bridge into town and note with glee that the sky is still blue, save one strip of pink near Manhattan.
Yes, I can see the Manhattan skyline from my window. And I do NOT envy any of you. Or your commute.
I pulled into the parking lot just as my favorite song ended. I shrugged up my W&M hoodie like a real badass white girl and leapt into the morning.
I should probably mention at this point that I’ve become a little deluded about the cold. Remember when I was complaining about the freezing wind and the snow and the fact that I couldn’t figure out how to turn on my heaters? (Whoops.) Well, I’m over that now, and these 50-degree days are absolute ambrosia for my wearied and frostbitten soul. At one point, I almost considered taking a beach day, but then the breeze blew the hood of my thermal coat into my head and I reconsidered.
So now I am prancing toward the beach, but it is only through sheer force of will that I ignore how chilly it is. The wind is blowing right through my sweatpants, and although it’s a far cry better than it was when all those people died from avalanches in the Midwest or whatever, it’s still awfully nippy.
I stare at the ground and stalk past the children’s playground, along the sandy slats under lamplight and over the final cresting dune. There’s the ocean–frothing in it’s new day glory–
WHAP. The wind smacks me upside the head. Involuntary tears begin rolling down my cheeks. I sniff and look at the horizon, scanning for the red and orange that burn with the sun, but purple prevails. Even the pink over Manhattan has slumped into a soft shade of yellow. I fill my lungs with all this fresh oxygen, try to smell the salt spray despite my runny nose. I consider settling in, curling down to watch the day progress.
Aren’t we having fun?
Then, the voice of Reason. She rarely speaks to me, so when she does, I listen.
Elizabeth, this is your life. It’s only as necessary as you need it to be.
Within seconds I am sprinting back toward my apartment, tears streaming into my sweaty shirt. As if 5am kickboxing wasn’t insult enough.
Even the cheerleader is silent.
Soon I am sitting on my couch, folded into a bathrobe and a big furry blanket. I cup the first mug of coffee between my hands and watch the seagulls hang in the gray air above the phone lines. Their wings flap slowly, even lazily, as they caw into this (ironically) sunless dawn.
Below, a flock of little black birds–sparrows? finches?–zip past, pumping their little bodies furiously through the air. They look exhausted, but seeing as how birds rarely emote, I may be projecting with that one.
I sip my coffee and reach for my computer, letting my mind linger beside the seagulls. Sometimes, the path of least resistance is the best for everyone involved.
The sparrows can have this morning. Let them fly to the sunrise if they can.
Or were they finches?
Maybe I should brush up on my ornithology.
Sigh.

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I Display My Artistic Genius

By on January 11, 2010 in humor, quarter-life crisis, true story

My coffee table looks like a craft store.
Hundreds of magazine clippings, Mod Podge and an X-Acto knife scatter across the particleboard. These are images torn from global publications: spectacular landscapes, curious objects, women fraught with couture and impossible beauty. I’ve collected them over months like seashells, bits of color and shine to a magpie eye.
In other words, I love making collages.
God, I’m such a nerd.
Here’s the thing. I lay in bed yesterday, watching the sun creep above the rooftops, and considered all the possibilities of the day before me. I am determined to find space in my days for everything that matters to me—family, friends, physical prowess—and am prepared to use all my planning, wit, and determination to achieve it.
Granted, I didn’t get out of bed until 11AM, but sloth is a priority, too.
As I stood by the stove eating cereal at the ambitious hour of noon, I felt an overwhelming urge to do something. (Go figure.) Not just wash my face and brush my teeth, either. No, I was overcome with the urge to actually create something, to build with my hands or mind a thing of beauty, a carefully woven concept, to stretch my thoughts and shake the cobwebs out of the corners of my musty worldview.
Time for a road trip!
I zipped up the Parkway with a burgeoning sense of joy. I sang along with the radio and watched the river slip by, the choppy waters of tidal strait frothing past and away. Shifting to fifth and sailing through the sky, I rocketed into New York with all the hope of a wide-eyed pilgrim.
I wanted art, you see; I wanted a creative stimulus. On my way to visit a grade school girlfriend, I felt sure we could come up with something. Grace is a kindergarten teacher with a penchant for opera and foreign languages. No doubt she’d think of a craft to entertain our Saturday night.
I crossed my fingers for macaroni necklaces.
Four hours later, we’d sat in her Brooklyn walk-up with Thai takeout and no plan.
“The night’s really getting away from us,” she said.
I speared a chunk of eggplant and nodded. “Most places will be closed by now, right? Museums and art shops and things?”
“Yeah.” We looked at each other. “We could always just go to a bar now and make paper snowflakes in the morning. Or something.”
“True.” Then inspiration struck. “Let’s dress up!”
We squealed and ran to the bedroom. The night was a flurry of cute dresses, high heels and camera poses.
What? You were expecting artistic genius?
The morning was sunny. We sat at the kitchen table facing each other, drinking tea and wearing matching nightgowns that we bought in high school. In our twelve years of friendship, every single sleepover included a moment like this.
As we prattled along, I became aware of tiny ripples in the room, our words echoed silently by the ghosts of conversations in our past, our younger selves hovering at every angle like bright spirits in the dust motes. The rooms changed, the length of our hair and the flow of our limbs, throaty speculation now textured by violent experience. But we sat in the crosshairs of our whole lives, in a tunnel of a thousand instants just like this one, these parallel windows stretched to past and future. The room pulsed with energy, vibrant and flaring like a frame of imperfect film.
Tonight, memory floods a blank canvas. I have lived the new artistic impression, walked the shifting stage of history.
I sort through the scattered images on my table and pull what draws my eye. Fingers linger over certain attitudes, a tree with familiar leaves, a black and white screen. I draw and build, arrange and rearrange, and listen carefully to the murmur of a story, indistinct but drawing close as I search with these new eyes.
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This Is What Happens When You Sniff Candles For a Living

By on December 18, 2009 in humor, true story
I’ve been wrapping presents for about 45 minutes now, and my brain is starting to liquefy. Too much holiday spirit, perhaps.
It is pretty nice, in some ways. I am pleasantly surprised by the techno music on my iTunes, for example. Granted, I have no idea how it got onto my computer. For all I know, it could have been uploaded by elves in the middle of the night. But I like these beats.
Then again, I just spent a full thirty seconds considering the merits of double versus triple ribbon curling. (I settled for double. I’m not crazy.)
It’s about 3 degrees outside, and the wind is howling along the sea. But my little apartment is cozy; I’m baking, and I’ve got candles burning.
For those of you who don’t know, candles are kind of my thing. I work for a fragrance company, and I am deeply—emotionally, psychologically, the whole kaboodle—invested in scented candles. These two happen to be pine- and fireside-scented. And they both just ran out.
I stand up, and scraps of silvery wrapping paper fall to the floor like so many snowflakes. The bottom drawer of my desk/dining table is the designated candle drawer—I had so many I needed a place to keep them all.
Autumn Wreath? No, too much apple cinnamon.
Coconut Bay? Not exactly a winter wonderland.
Citrus Green Tea? This isn’t a yoga studio.
I sigh and rummage and rummage and sigh. My bathrobe hangs on my shoulders like a quilt, swinging gently against my giant plush sneaker-shaped slippers. Look at me, a big baby swaddled in cotton fuzz and hilarity.
My life isn’t that complicated. Choosing a candle shouldn’t be so hard.
Oh. Here we go.
Vanilla Cupcake. I hold it up to my nose, inhale the delicate smell, the sweet play of sugar with warm cream. Perfect.
I grab the matches, and that’s when I realize.
I’m baking vanilla cupcakes.
Against my desire, I shut the drawer. I sit back and pull up my next skein of silver ribbon. I’m almost finished; things could be worse.
Besides, I love this song. Those elves have good taste.
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My Longest Relationship Has Been with My Car

By on December 17, 2009 in humor, true story

It’s complicated.


Did you ever have a conversation with a car?

I have had about a million: with my car, on long trips; with parked cars, especially those akimbo to actual parking spaces; with moving cars, in almost every circumstance imaginable.
Just last week I had a heartfelt conversation with a moving car that took off my driver’s side mirror when it passed.
Cars are like pets, in a way; they grow to mirror their owners, sometimes to a freakish extent. It’s hysterical.
Today, for example, I drove home on my lunch break. As I approached the new span bridge descending from the hills to the spit of land sandwiched between river and ocean, the sun shattered across the water and blinded me. In the half-second it took to blink and refocus my hopeless eyes, a and silver Versa zipped past, skimming ahead and swerving like a dragonfly, only more dangerous. The bumper sticker said 26.2. As I trundled over the crest, eating Marathon Man’s dust, I caught sight of the behemoth behind me. A massive blue truck, sporting a face full of chrome and a set of roof tracks that made it look 12 feet tall. As he revved approximately three inches from my exhaust system, I noticed a series of pipes and frames covering the bumper. Somebody pull this guy over, he’s about to rear-end me with a church organ.
Most car conversations are friendly, though. A scene from last week:
After I slug a recycled suitcase into the trunk, I hear my Civic sigh. “Again?”
“Yep.” I swing into the passenger’s seat like the saddle it is, well-worn and essentially molded to my ass. “Looks like it’s just you and me again, hoss.”
“Don’t you have any friends?”
I kick into gear and pretend not to hear; I won’t dignify that comment with a response.
(For the record, YES, I have lots of friends. They just don’t live near me and refuse, for some reason, to visit. If Jersey strip malls and suburban watering holes aren’t a draw, I don’t know what is.)

Sometimes, on road trips, I cheat on my car. I feel terrible about this.

Cars have been my closest kin for many of my incarnations. When I flee to new cities or far-flung states, only the chariot witnesses my transformation. I become talkative, vivacious, ostensibly dangerous and cool. Sometimes I’m nerdy (Boston ivy league campuses); sometimes I’m a ditz. But I’m never quite me. I’m never quite the same mass of twisting curls and seafan capillaries. I am nameless, roaming, a blank canvas waiting to capture the world.
When I leave, fraught with the color and play of light on foreign sidewalks, glittering facades, my car is my closest friend. I climb inside and close my eyes, breathe for a minute familiar air. I feel experience crackling against my skin, pinwheels of excitement when old meets new. I am alive, brilliantly, truly.
On the road, I am just another ’98 Honda, scuffed at the corners and slightly worse for wear. But I too am a rocket, a ship’s wheel, a ticket to anywhere. And in this moment—like all good Civics—I could go on forever.
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The Evolution of Hipsters

By on December 14, 2009 in creative writing, humor, true story
Hey there, Dear Reader. I can’t stop to chat–am busy having awesome adventures that I fully plan to detail on this blog just as soon as I have the time–which is to say not tonight. However, you MUST enjoy this Evolution of Hipsters provided by the creative and oh-so-accurate editors at Paste Magazine.

It begins with the Emo, a personal favorite due to the unfortunate misrepresentation of my sophomore year-self to a visiting soldier from Mississippi. Apparently in certain circles a simple pair of glasses leaves one labelled for life.

Also I am terrifically emo.
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A Very Happy Apocalypse

By on December 7, 2009 in humor, true story
Squish.

Good afternoon. I just stepped on a piece of brownie.
Lovely. I look down at my bare foot as my sleepshirt slips down my shoulder. Sunlight streams through my windows, slanting against a golden table runner, watery rings from cocktail glasses.
In the bathroom, I rub my eyes. Nothing like curls to look a hot mess in the morning. My cell phone beeps forlornly, lost in a tangle of couch cushions and garland frills. Beneath my Ikea-inspired Christmas-tree-in-a-vase (ornaments looped onto Torka decorative stalks), a dozen peppermint cupcakes wait like little toy soldiers.
Why cook for your guest list when you can cook for a hundred?
I flop down on the couch and stare out the window. The ocean twinkles in the distance, throwing merry sparks of blue sky. So different to yesterday, the misery of cold, rain and sleet and wet-eared snow slapping across the windows. But this room had been an island, a cabin of warmth and lamplight inside the groans of a ship in a storm. We were a bunch of girls in little black dresses, giggling, gossiping, garnering eliciting well-timed eye-rolls from the only man in the room. I was told my Chex Mix tasted like crack. Everybody liked the punch.
I daresay my first party was a womping success.
Affairs in order, I crawl back into bed. 600-thread-sheets, the first Harry Potter–this feels like something to celebrate.
***
Hark, hear the bells, sweet silver bells…
The choir sings with high quavering voices, vibrato shimmering in the night air. I can see my breath, but I can’t feel my toes. 
All seem to say, throw cares away…
My family and I watch the annual hometown Christmas tree lighting, surrounded by hot cocoa and school kids in hats. A tradition in the riverside park, a reminder that winter is here to stay.
My sister stands tall in the top row, a senior soprano with snowy skin. Her classmates crowd the steps of the bleachers, jaunty scarves and shivering hands clutching sheet music like muffs. Mom and I hop from foot to foot, dancing like nutjobs in the bitter cold. Scanning the crowd, my sister looks toward us. “Patty!” we shriek. A couple of starstruck fools.
When the show is over, we flee the scene. The entertainment will continue–local rockers and the like–but nothing tempts like reclaiming extremities.
Back at home, Mom builds a fire. I curl in a ball on the couch and turn on a movie about the apocalypse. It takes me a minute to realize the explosions I hear are real. Fireworks. Calamety and catcalls echo from the end of our block, sounds that shatter above the choppy river.
I turn off the TV and hustle to the window. Noses pressed against glass, we see fiery streams blossom high in the sky. The show is dramatic, larger-than-life. Probably larger than technically safe.
“They really get the point across, don’t they?”
I look at Mom. “What do you mean?”
A staggering KABOOM as light flowers the heavens.
“It’s CHRISTMAS!” she thunders, and we laugh and laugh. The fire hisses.
“Bet ash is landing on some of the revelers.”
“Surprised the actual fireworks haven’t hit anyone yet.”
Just then my sister bursts in through the door. “I can’t feel my toes,” she wails.
I pull out a blanket. She sits by the fire. “We were just remarking on the killer display.”
“CHRISTMAS!” Mom yells. We nearly lose it.
“One of the fireworks hit a tree,” Patty says. All casual.
 “What?! Was it bad? Was anyone hurt?”
“No.”
“Killed?” Patty gives me a look. OK, so maybe this is not the apocalypse.
The three of us watch a blinding finale, our bodies brushed by the heat of the fire. I resist the urge to poke at my sister; she’s almost 18, after all. And when the show’s over we stare for a minute, at smoke still swirling through the dark sky.
This winter may be frigid, but the cold is outside; the weather is frightful, but our fire’s delightful. We are warm and close and happy together, for a moment a family lost in good cheer. 

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Adulthood = Achieved

By on December 4, 2009 in humor, quarter-life crisis, true story
It’s official: I am a real person.
How, you ask? Simple, really: I hung a picture for the first time ever. Like on a wall, with a hammer and a nail.
Maybe that’s not a big deal to you, but it’s something I seriously never thought I would do. Much like planning my dentists’ appointments. Or turning 25.
Grown-up things sneak up on you like that.
One minute you’re eating peanut butter and jelly and jockeying for seat space with the same girls you’ve eaten in the school cafeteria with for years, and you’re all stressing about your hair and your skin and the boys sitting at the table behind you punching each other; the next minute you’re eating peanut butter & jelly and stretching out your legs because you’re sitting by yourself in the work cafeteria, and the boys behind you are men talking in hushed voices (and they’re older than your father).
And you sit alone and wonder—the voice in your head as loud as a companion’s would be—if this is actually how it’s supposed to be, if you’re really supposed to cross your legs at the ankles and concern yourself about things like the delicacy of inter-office politics and makeup that merely keeps up with the Joneses, so to speak, because you finally know that you are pretty enough to get by without it, and does that make you vain or does it make you vapid, and if you’ve really devoted all this mental energy to a conversation that isn’t happening in real time does it even matter at the end of the day because no one is there to judge you. But you judge yourself, anyway, and it’s worse than someone with answers because the questions never end. You want to be the person you thought you’d be now, back when you were awkward and young and dreaming, that girl who was smart and funny and racing the wind for the next adventure. And you look around and think of all you’re still wanting, all the things you planned, and you feel your hopes crowding, galloping against your ribs like horses, and you try to soothe them, to calm them with platitudes like sugar cubes, the sweetness of your small and ordinary victories. Eventually they settle, lower their proud and beautiful faces, nose softly at the fence and one another. They shuffle around the fields of your heart, magnificent and waiting, and you vow that one day you’ll throw the gates open, that you will finally set them free.
And for now?
Well, for now you’ll achieve a variety of firsts. Your first cavity, your first paycheck, your very first quarter-life crisis. You will hang a painting for the first time, and you will come to work with a new sense of self. The cafeteria will be a little bit brighter, the conversation a little more certain.
And that peanut butter and jelly sandwich will be just as delicious as you remember. 
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