it’s been a year. one of the bad ones. but, when it’s been a year in my world, it’s also time for a fresh start in a new apartment. and so, come wednesday morning, i’m packing it all up (including the emotional baggage) and moving back into the district. the world begins again anew on january 1st or with the cycling of the moons. but my world starts over with the exchanging of keys and a security deposit.
be a pal, won’t you? and help me with that box of silverware and wine glasses? or, perhaps the emotional baggage piled by the front door?
i think i’m ready. even though i didn’t know how to write a blog post. literally. didn’t recognize this new fangled wordpress situation and didn’t know how to write a new blog post. but – as you can tell by the words written here – i figured it out. and i think i’m ready to figure it out some more.
literally. and figuratively.
i’ve deemed this the year of parisian everything. coffee and champagne and coquettishly undone hair. books and museums and high heels. stripes and leopard and a stride full of grace and power.
a little bit slouchy, a lot incognito, but all chic.
leather and metals and sneaks. perfect for noshing a baguette, kicking serious booty and looking tres stylish.
a frothy ball gown, serious updo and the quintessential it girl.
that certain je ne sais quoi that american born, francophile tom ford has mastered.
here’s the solution: deactivate facebook. “unfollow” him. hide. be like an ostrich and bury your head in the sand. but everyone knows what an ostrich looks like when they’re neck deep in desert – just a rump in the air.
i’m guilty of it. as are most of my girl friends. if that relationship doesn’t work in your favor or he blows you off after date #2, wipe him out. electronically, virtually, symbolically. he’s gone. trouble is, he’s not really. he’s still – so far as i know – a real, live human being walking around on two legs (unless my voodoo magic really does work), living his life like a real, live human being. and here i am. rump in the air. frantically deleting, sanitizing, unfollowing and deactivating.
my behavior is absurd. sometimes cathartic. never permanent. and always more trouble than it’s worth.
if i’m not worth date #3, then why is he worth even a swipe of my right pointer finger? he’s not. i will continue to live my life. one of grace and dignity and technological avoidance. and if that won’t work? well, then i have another finger for him.
i went to a monster truck show last weekend and wore a foam truck on my head. my girl friends and i slurped a snow cone out of a fist-shaped plastic mug that spins in circles. we fought over the blue cotton candy (so much tastier than pink) like we’d never heard of calories or sugar. our night ended at a bar, but do you know how comfortable it felt being young?
how many times do i fret over whether he likes me or whether my manager was giving me the stink eye at work today or if i’m skinny enough to rock the dolce & gabbana corset dress to the black tie gala this weekend? how many times do i say no to sugar or fun or giggling? how many times should i have just said yes? to fun and freedom and paying for it all with an extra-long run in the morning?
here’s to blue cotton candy and foam headwear. and the girls that helped me say “yes” more often.
what if – just what if? – being raised an independent, self-sufficient girl made me into the independent, self-sufficient woman i am today? what if being taught i didn’t need anyone else to accomplish great feats (climbing up the slide, paying rent) means that i don’t need anyone else? what if i’m ruined by my independence?
i think the city is finally getting to me. i no longer bat an eyelash at an overpriced beer (or, as the case was last night, monster truck rally snow cone in commemorative cup) and my nose doesn’t tingle at the scent of day old bar trash slurping down the street. i’m aware of and affected by homeless men begging for change in grassy medians on a sunday morning…but it is what it is. and i no longer have any delusion of a charming southern gentleman casually bumping into me at some capitol hill bar and sweeping me off my feet. hell, i don’t even dream of aforementioned politico buying me a drink. it just doesn’t work that way.
pardon my bitterness/reality check/pessimism. but this is my city. it is cold and callous and exceedingly unromantic. especially as i get older. i say all of this not for your pity – do not feel bad for me, i happen to kind of love this place – but because it’s the first step in me accepting it. this is not some sex & the city drama. this is not more 20-something self help aspirational/inspirational lifestyle mumbo-jumbo. this is real, real. like, day old trash slurp dripping off my sneakers sitting in the corner of my 860 square foot apartment i share with a roommate and a dog real. this is get me off tinder and hinge and match.com and just find me my capitol hill prince already real. this is rolling your eyes because metro is delayed for a water main break and charity gala tickets clouding up your email inbox and searching craigslist on the daily for a little slice of northwest real estate (i’d even settle for noma). this is contemplating a juice cleanse and then making reservations for bottomless brunch instead. this is the city at 29 and still frantically single.
i think the city finally got me.