Cutie texted me last night, and like conjuring a genie with the rubbing of a lamp, so did he conjure me with the tap of an LED iPhone screen.
As much as I don't like to think of myself as someone who would change plans for the sake of a boy, travel out to the middle of Brooklyn at 2am, (knowing that I have to wake up early the next morning for a double at work) and have nothing on me but a small clutch with a few essential items, like, my keys to keep me company: I am that girl.
Here is where I like to draw a line of distinction though: this is not me traveling out to Williamsburg and then subsequently Crown Heights for a "Dominos Pizza" chow-down-a-thon. I have definitely found a new person whose traits are nothing like the other people I have dated, and I like that. I chalked Cutie up for a one-night only event and therefore felt the stakes of what could or couldn't happen between us drop. So, I was pretty thrown off by the fact that he wanted to see me again, but I felt I had the upper hand in that I didn't really give a rats ass as to what this could or could not mean in the "ohmigawd grand course of my life ohmigawd."
And my day leading up to the "I'm at the bar we met at right now" text from him was a very fulfilling and exciting day, Guy Free! I'd worked out for the first time in a week (no more cold, yay!), I did laundry (feeling fresh :) ) and then I had my first improv class show for UCB's Level 401. I followed the class by getting drunk and bonding with the cast, and then I thought I would round out the evening by keeping the buzz going with my best friend as we walked all over mid-town talking about guys and girls and stupid people. It was a great day! And then: Cutie decided to make it even better.
I'll be honest: as I am writing this blog, I feel exhausted right to my bones. I got about 3 hours of sleep, worked 12 hours straight and am now finally home to realize I still haven't folded my clean clothes that are now winking at me from the other end of my bed. OK, fair enough, I deserve this, seeing as I made the conscious decision to partake in some delicious desert to my full course meal of a day, rather than do any of the dishes that are very visibly piling up. But, meh, worth it!
I don't really know where Cutie and I are going, if there needs to be any direction to this, if I want any direction to this, but I do know that as much as I bitched and moaned about my feet hurting and feeling really wiped at work, I smile with the not-so-sectret knowledge that it was all for the sake of throwing late night evening plans to the wind and taking an opportunity I am not sorry I took. Plus, the work outfit I had to buy at American Apparel this morning looks really good on me (I only had the same clothes from the night before to wear to my shift!)
I like to think this whole experience is more of a symbolic step of upgrading to a way of feeling more confident about myself and the people I allow into my life. I like this better than scared, lonely and worried 24 year old I was when I met Dominos and Serendipity, that was putting too much stake in those two! Screw that! (no pun intended)
Sunday, September 30, 2012
Friday, September 28, 2012
Feeling Stoopy
Crowded subway. It's rush hour. I'm still groggy from the nap I woke up from. I think I dragged my butt in to work in just about the slowest "get-ready-and-go" I have ever done in 15 minutes. At least, I felt slow when I reached for the conditioner for a second time in the shower and only after lathering it in realized I had already done that step. D'oh!
So, anyway, crowded subway... I'm too "stoopy" [Stoopy: (Stoo-py) A word used to describe the groggy or, in cases of Natalie's family, utter lack of brain function when awaking from a long nap.] to take out my book or put on my head phones and listen to Maroon 5 again, so I let my eyes wander.
Oh, the crotches one sees on the subway. Have we all noticed this and not said anything? Am I coming into an awakening I've never had before? Sitting on a train in New York directly positions the person sitting to have their face almost exactly at the same height as the crotch of the person standing. I suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed. I tried to dart my eyes down and instead found them resting on the package on an enormous Pakistani man sitting across from me wearing jeans that were far too small for him, so his incredible girth was spilling out and over the confines of the denim, revealing a very dark and hairy under belly that I cringed to look at. I glanced up and noticed he had noticed I was staring. I quickly feigned boredom and picked at my nails.
Cut to: crowded passageway on my walk from the 7 to the BDFM trains that span the length of an avenue block in New York. It's a nice tunnel, well lit, there are murals on the walls, and every now and then there are weird quotes that don't seem to really make a whole lot of sense to me. Every time I walk past "Gutta Cavat Lapidem" I repeat the mantra to myself like it's a secret code only I know. So, I'm walking down the passageway and again, my eyes begin to wander. There are so many people in that passage! Everyone is tall and short and fat and thin and male and female all at once! Sometimes, I need to look at my hands to remind myself that I am indeed a human and not a sheep, because falling in line with the throng makes me lose all sense of individuality (I guess this is why I am always listening to music when going to work). I start to analyze what everyone is wearing: "Nice boots, I'd wear those!" and "Terrible shirt" and "Is that a man? or a woman?" Yet, as each person passes me and goes on their way, there is a short moment of eye contact, and then we both look away.
Ahhh... There is it: Eye contact! The only way to not have that walk become a triviality and mind-numbing parade of faceless humans. But, watching all these people watch me made me feel like I was suddenly held together by a bunch of blocks of wood. What am I wearing? I feel so stupid in these pants, I feel like everyone behind me is getting a good look at my butt and everyone passing me can see the shape of my boobs and I feel like I could scream! I took deep calming breathes. I even made up a poem in my head.
It's times like these when I really need to stand in a field of wide openness and just let the wind pull back my hair and the sun burn my arms and the grass tickle my feet.
"Gutta Cavat Lapidem:" A water drop hollows a stone.
Who is getting hollowed? Me? Or the City?
I need another nap.
So, anyway, crowded subway... I'm too "stoopy" [Stoopy: (Stoo-py) A word used to describe the groggy or, in cases of Natalie's family, utter lack of brain function when awaking from a long nap.] to take out my book or put on my head phones and listen to Maroon 5 again, so I let my eyes wander.
Oh, the crotches one sees on the subway. Have we all noticed this and not said anything? Am I coming into an awakening I've never had before? Sitting on a train in New York directly positions the person sitting to have their face almost exactly at the same height as the crotch of the person standing. I suddenly felt incredibly embarrassed. I tried to dart my eyes down and instead found them resting on the package on an enormous Pakistani man sitting across from me wearing jeans that were far too small for him, so his incredible girth was spilling out and over the confines of the denim, revealing a very dark and hairy under belly that I cringed to look at. I glanced up and noticed he had noticed I was staring. I quickly feigned boredom and picked at my nails.
Cut to: crowded passageway on my walk from the 7 to the BDFM trains that span the length of an avenue block in New York. It's a nice tunnel, well lit, there are murals on the walls, and every now and then there are weird quotes that don't seem to really make a whole lot of sense to me. Every time I walk past "Gutta Cavat Lapidem" I repeat the mantra to myself like it's a secret code only I know. So, I'm walking down the passageway and again, my eyes begin to wander. There are so many people in that passage! Everyone is tall and short and fat and thin and male and female all at once! Sometimes, I need to look at my hands to remind myself that I am indeed a human and not a sheep, because falling in line with the throng makes me lose all sense of individuality (I guess this is why I am always listening to music when going to work). I start to analyze what everyone is wearing: "Nice boots, I'd wear those!" and "Terrible shirt" and "Is that a man? or a woman?" Yet, as each person passes me and goes on their way, there is a short moment of eye contact, and then we both look away.
Ahhh... There is it: Eye contact! The only way to not have that walk become a triviality and mind-numbing parade of faceless humans. But, watching all these people watch me made me feel like I was suddenly held together by a bunch of blocks of wood. What am I wearing? I feel so stupid in these pants, I feel like everyone behind me is getting a good look at my butt and everyone passing me can see the shape of my boobs and I feel like I could scream! I took deep calming breathes. I even made up a poem in my head.
It's times like these when I really need to stand in a field of wide openness and just let the wind pull back my hair and the sun burn my arms and the grass tickle my feet.
"Gutta Cavat Lapidem:" A water drop hollows a stone.
Who is getting hollowed? Me? Or the City?
I need another nap.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
F*ck It All
While imagining the demise of all I hold near and dear as the uncertain anxiety-filled future looms over my head like an ever falling pendulum, ready to strike me in half at any minute, I came to the conclusion that the universe is telling me to: "Fuck it all, save some money, travel more, and then fuck it all harder." I think that's the message I was getting as I listened to my Dad reading a book called 10 1/2 Things No Commencement Speaker Has Ever Said by Charles Wheelan in my parent's living room in New Jersey before bed time.
It was a night of time spent with my post-modern family. We had homemade chicken soup (courtesy of Mom #2) huge helpings of spaghetti (gluten free) and sauce, and wrapped everything up with a game of scrabble in the den before my multi-racial twin step-brothers got up to do their homework and my dad whipped out the book and began to read aloud as I sat in my head cold-induced stupor of post-scrabble gaming and dinner digestion.
I was really struck when hearing the words of another writer's position get translated through my father's mouth, which was: The world will go in the direction the world will go in and the only thing you can control is the time given to you, and that can be a whole lot of time. As we get older days can go super slow and years can go super fast! (I'm 25!? When the hell did that happen!?)
I sneezed into my napkin a couple more times to let my brain rattle in my snot-filled head and then felt contemplative. My councilor said a few days ago that, if we allow ourselves, we can all live in a world of 360 degree views. It's the "I could go any direction" view. That's a terribly wonderfully scary beauty to our lives, is it not? And my Father's voice floated back to my brain with another nugget of wisdom from the book he was reading from: "We are not in a race, life is not about who gets to the finish line first! We are here to learn and enjoy the journey."
I wish the anxiety over feeling like I have to spend every waking minute thinking about my all but non-existant career in film would get the hint, because just as much as I tell myself that one day I'll lose the 10 pounds I need to lose, I also dream about saving up some dough and pissing off to Australia and China and the South Pacific to just fart around and read a lot. Probably write a lot, too.
Just the thought of pissing off and leaving my world of structure and stability behind is enough to make me want to curl up into a ball and sleep so as not to deal with that HUGE thought, but I feel like I am on some kind of awakening wave and it's cresting. 360 degree view? So, that means I don't have to wait for that phone call to tell me I'm an actor, I can just write my brains out onto a page and could make a lot of money telling people what I think from the comfort of my non-size 00 jeans. In fact, I could gather a ton of information abroad and write about being a traveler there.
Who's right, anyway? Who can have the authority to know that the direction you're heading in is correct, or even that the speed you are traveling is at the right speed? Oh, god I sound like an aging hippy. "Whatever, Man, just do what feels good and life will do the rest. Am I right, Amigo?" Well, Mr. Hippy: I don't know. Although I'll leave this post with a quote from the book that really got the cogs moving in the ol' cranium yesterday:
It was a night of time spent with my post-modern family. We had homemade chicken soup (courtesy of Mom #2) huge helpings of spaghetti (gluten free) and sauce, and wrapped everything up with a game of scrabble in the den before my multi-racial twin step-brothers got up to do their homework and my dad whipped out the book and began to read aloud as I sat in my head cold-induced stupor of post-scrabble gaming and dinner digestion.
I was really struck when hearing the words of another writer's position get translated through my father's mouth, which was: The world will go in the direction the world will go in and the only thing you can control is the time given to you, and that can be a whole lot of time. As we get older days can go super slow and years can go super fast! (I'm 25!? When the hell did that happen!?)
I sneezed into my napkin a couple more times to let my brain rattle in my snot-filled head and then felt contemplative. My councilor said a few days ago that, if we allow ourselves, we can all live in a world of 360 degree views. It's the "I could go any direction" view. That's a terribly wonderfully scary beauty to our lives, is it not? And my Father's voice floated back to my brain with another nugget of wisdom from the book he was reading from: "We are not in a race, life is not about who gets to the finish line first! We are here to learn and enjoy the journey."
I wish the anxiety over feeling like I have to spend every waking minute thinking about my all but non-existant career in film would get the hint, because just as much as I tell myself that one day I'll lose the 10 pounds I need to lose, I also dream about saving up some dough and pissing off to Australia and China and the South Pacific to just fart around and read a lot. Probably write a lot, too.
Just the thought of pissing off and leaving my world of structure and stability behind is enough to make me want to curl up into a ball and sleep so as not to deal with that HUGE thought, but I feel like I am on some kind of awakening wave and it's cresting. 360 degree view? So, that means I don't have to wait for that phone call to tell me I'm an actor, I can just write my brains out onto a page and could make a lot of money telling people what I think from the comfort of my non-size 00 jeans. In fact, I could gather a ton of information abroad and write about being a traveler there.
Who's right, anyway? Who can have the authority to know that the direction you're heading in is correct, or even that the speed you are traveling is at the right speed? Oh, god I sound like an aging hippy. "Whatever, Man, just do what feels good and life will do the rest. Am I right, Amigo?" Well, Mr. Hippy: I don't know. Although I'll leave this post with a quote from the book that really got the cogs moving in the ol' cranium yesterday:
"... we know that success is not about simply running faster than everyone else in some predetermined direction. It is about finding a passion, taking risks, running in new directions, and dealing with failure.
If you think of life as a race, then every setback means that you have fallen behind. Every risk has a potential failure lurking nearby.
But if you think of life as a journey, then every setback helps direct you to a place where you will be more likely to succeed. Every risk has a potential adventure behind it, or at least a learning experience. You are not necessarily in competition with everyone around you."
-Charles Wheelan 10 1/2 Things No Commencement Speaker Has Ever Said
Amen.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
Not Feeling It
When one has to convince themselves that the person they are on a date with is really wonderful and attractive, one needs to take a step back from the situation and assess the real meaning of "I'm convincing myself that this is true!" ...when actually, it really isn't.
In improv, a big lesson I've learned is that sarcasm is not translatable to an audience member and sometimes a scene partner as well, therefore it can be a killer to a scene. Say what you feel, and mean it, rather than making the other actor on stage do some guess work as to what your character really means when they are using certain inflections in their voice. So In Improv: So In Life. Look at the situation, and take what the real meaning of the inflections are, and go with that; dancing around a subject only makes the mystery of that subject bigger than anything you could possibly hope to name later on. *The Name the Noun blog post I wrote a while back really addressed this with more clarity*
I went on my second date with the Camera Man (Hot European guy posed with a camera in his Facebook photo) today and felt as if I was laughing a little too loud, talking a little too much, feeling a little too tired out around him. Then, the real kicker: sitting in probably one of the most romantically secluded parks in the city (literally 2 couples came in and made out while we were sitting there) and wanting to pull out my iPhone to play scrabble instead of sit next to him and tempt his lips toward mine.
*Cue the sound of a buzzer*
"...and will someone show our contestant off the stage? Stay tuned for a brief commercial break as we pull on another volunteer from the audience, folks!"
Roll the credits, thank the producers of this wonderful two-part date-a-thon, and... move on.
I walked back home after watching some more improv as a way to get my mind off of the flat-lining heart alarm that seemed to be whining in my brain. It seems I really can be super picky about the types I wind up falling for... or am I? I drew up a list of qualities I am looking for and on closer inspection I really don't think I am asking for too much! Right?
Wanted:
- Straight Male
- Blue, grey, green or hazel eyes a MUST
- Tall
- Nerdy
- In decent shape physically
- Practices good hygiene
- Passionate
- Must love their family
- Can't be ignorant about basic social functions (i.e. talking really loud in a public place, like a deli or something, when no one is laughing nor even paying attention to the idiocy coming out of your mouth... that's SO embarrassing to be the girl on the arm of that guy.)
- Must have a strong friend group
- Must have a steady job and living situation
- A decent wardrobe (meaning: seeing you in the same t-shirt every time I see you is cute at first, and then I wonder what the hell you're wearing when you wash that. Or do you wash that? Ew.)
In improv, a big lesson I've learned is that sarcasm is not translatable to an audience member and sometimes a scene partner as well, therefore it can be a killer to a scene. Say what you feel, and mean it, rather than making the other actor on stage do some guess work as to what your character really means when they are using certain inflections in their voice. So In Improv: So In Life. Look at the situation, and take what the real meaning of the inflections are, and go with that; dancing around a subject only makes the mystery of that subject bigger than anything you could possibly hope to name later on. *The Name the Noun blog post I wrote a while back really addressed this with more clarity*
I went on my second date with the Camera Man (Hot European guy posed with a camera in his Facebook photo) today and felt as if I was laughing a little too loud, talking a little too much, feeling a little too tired out around him. Then, the real kicker: sitting in probably one of the most romantically secluded parks in the city (literally 2 couples came in and made out while we were sitting there) and wanting to pull out my iPhone to play scrabble instead of sit next to him and tempt his lips toward mine.
*Cue the sound of a buzzer*
"...and will someone show our contestant off the stage? Stay tuned for a brief commercial break as we pull on another volunteer from the audience, folks!"
Roll the credits, thank the producers of this wonderful two-part date-a-thon, and... move on.
I walked back home after watching some more improv as a way to get my mind off of the flat-lining heart alarm that seemed to be whining in my brain. It seems I really can be super picky about the types I wind up falling for... or am I? I drew up a list of qualities I am looking for and on closer inspection I really don't think I am asking for too much! Right?
Wanted:
- Straight Male
- Blue, grey, green or hazel eyes a MUST
- Tall
- Nerdy
- In decent shape physically
- Practices good hygiene
- Passionate
- Must love their family
- Can't be ignorant about basic social functions (i.e. talking really loud in a public place, like a deli or something, when no one is laughing nor even paying attention to the idiocy coming out of your mouth... that's SO embarrassing to be the girl on the arm of that guy.)
- Must have a strong friend group
- Must have a steady job and living situation
- A decent wardrobe (meaning: seeing you in the same t-shirt every time I see you is cute at first, and then I wonder what the hell you're wearing when you wash that. Or do you wash that? Ew.)
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
What's it Like to Grow Up Here?
How does one even begin to answer the question: "So what was it like to grow up, you?" It's a pretty general question that says: "I'm fascinated by your upbringing, please tell me some really juicy detail about getting pregnant behind the school bleachers or about how you worked for the volunteer fire-fighters and saved little old ladies and kittens from burning houses!" How can any one sum up their childhood in a way that won't leave the curious person who asked in a 15 year lurch as you start from day one and go through the painful and intricate details of your upbringing? It is therefore a wonder to me when I get asked "So, what was it like growing up in New York City?" by people who have come here later in life. I always ponder the answer I want to give. Or, the answer they might want to hear, which I imagine would be along the lines of: "When I got gang raped for the third time, I decided I had the right to get an abortion. I didn't abort the last two babies, they are in foster care now. I can't see them because of the Heroin addiction I picked up when I went to public school."
I have a lot of memories from my childhood that were feelings of curiosity and joy at the thought of leaving New York and seeing green, open spaces with no one else in them, and not waiting in line for anything and actually saying "Hello" to a stranger on the street. Every few weekends, my parents would bundle my sister and I up and take us out to the suburbs to see my grandparents in Long Island. I remember the joy at being in a car that wasn't a taxi and the person driving the car wasn't a guy named Kebab who got really angry when you told them they had driven past your apartment entrance. There was delight in seeing the prices of watching a movie at the theatre drop (for no reason?! WOW! It's so cheap out here! Why doesn't everybody just move here!?) And the wonder at walking into a Walmart so big the engineers who built the structure must have had to create formulas for the foundation of the building to fit the curvature of the earth.
I guess what I'm getting at is that growing up in the City was no different than what the experiences of growing up in the suburbs or rural areas would be, but I guess what sets my experiences apart were whenever I left the city and encountered drastically different ways of life that suddenly made my lifestyle glaringly different. Also, the growing pains of becoming an adult are all shared experiences, except they would happen in landmark buildings that are world famous (but that didn't affect the unrequited love I had on a boy in my class: that was still there, it just happened to be at the Museum of Natural History where we attended our classes.)
I'm astounded at the bravery it takes to decide to move from whatever comfortable (or deeply uncomfortable) 'burb one grew up in and come to New York for the first time to live here! That's a bravery that I can't imagine. I lived here my whole life and a lot of this city is very predictable for me. But putting myself in the shoes of the pioneers who come here and move into a really crappy neighborhood in the middle of Brooklyn, get paid crap money for a job that they are highly over qualified for, learn the horribly cramped lifestyle of being one-in-a-million-and-not-in-a-good-way that this city can make anyone feel, all for the sake of: __________ that only this city can offer is: Awe-inspiring.
So, what's it like growing up in New York City? You seem to be right smack in the middle of it and I think you have a better idea of what that is like than I do. I just grew up here! You're becoming your adult self in a scary and beautiful place that is foreign in so many ways it is not for me. Wow! Can you elaborate on that for me?
I have a lot of memories from my childhood that were feelings of curiosity and joy at the thought of leaving New York and seeing green, open spaces with no one else in them, and not waiting in line for anything and actually saying "Hello" to a stranger on the street. Every few weekends, my parents would bundle my sister and I up and take us out to the suburbs to see my grandparents in Long Island. I remember the joy at being in a car that wasn't a taxi and the person driving the car wasn't a guy named Kebab who got really angry when you told them they had driven past your apartment entrance. There was delight in seeing the prices of watching a movie at the theatre drop (for no reason?! WOW! It's so cheap out here! Why doesn't everybody just move here!?) And the wonder at walking into a Walmart so big the engineers who built the structure must have had to create formulas for the foundation of the building to fit the curvature of the earth.
I guess what I'm getting at is that growing up in the City was no different than what the experiences of growing up in the suburbs or rural areas would be, but I guess what sets my experiences apart were whenever I left the city and encountered drastically different ways of life that suddenly made my lifestyle glaringly different. Also, the growing pains of becoming an adult are all shared experiences, except they would happen in landmark buildings that are world famous (but that didn't affect the unrequited love I had on a boy in my class: that was still there, it just happened to be at the Museum of Natural History where we attended our classes.)
I'm astounded at the bravery it takes to decide to move from whatever comfortable (or deeply uncomfortable) 'burb one grew up in and come to New York for the first time to live here! That's a bravery that I can't imagine. I lived here my whole life and a lot of this city is very predictable for me. But putting myself in the shoes of the pioneers who come here and move into a really crappy neighborhood in the middle of Brooklyn, get paid crap money for a job that they are highly over qualified for, learn the horribly cramped lifestyle of being one-in-a-million-and-not-in-a-good-way that this city can make anyone feel, all for the sake of: __________ that only this city can offer is: Awe-inspiring.
So, what's it like growing up in New York City? You seem to be right smack in the middle of it and I think you have a better idea of what that is like than I do. I just grew up here! You're becoming your adult self in a scary and beautiful place that is foreign in so many ways it is not for me. Wow! Can you elaborate on that for me?
Monday, September 24, 2012
Pink Eye (Almost)
Me. 6:30am. 3 hours of sleep.
Sitting bolt upright in bed: "Oh my god. I have Pink eye!!" (To no one in the room because sister is sleeping over at a friend's.)
Throwing blankets off of me, I run down the stairs to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I look in the mirror at an exhausted and frantic looking girl. Oh my god. What will I do?! Both eyes are pink!!
I run back up to my room, throw open my laptop and begin to search for doctors in my area who would have an appointment open for me on a Sunday Morning last-minute-notice-and-all. I come up with a full battle plan involving my entire family and going to a hospital in Central New Jersey. I have to text my Work-Husband and let him know I can't work today. I reach for the phone, knowing full well (because he's my work-Husband a.k.a Co-worker Extrordinare) that he's awake.
Text, text, text. Freak, freak, freak. I'mNotComingInToWorkTodayOMG. Co-worker says: Just let me know if in a few hours you still feel this way... (subtext: Go to sleep you silly, sleep deprived human.)
I lie back in bed and think about my life choices. No, I was not sticking poop-covered fingers in my eyes, c'mon, gross. My manager came in with pink eye a few days ago and, being the anxious Hypochondriac I can be, I assumed I had gotten it somehow.
I fall asleep and wake up feeling groggy and incredibly embarrassed. Did I just dream that whole thing, or was I really convinced that I had pink eye? I haven't had pink eye since I was a little kid!
I imagine all these scenarios in which the Pink Eye would eat me alive socially. I'd have to wear sunglasses for a week straight! I'd have to put all these eye drops in my eyes (I HATE eye drops!!). I then see all my friends shunning me like they would a diseased and flea infested mongrel. Then, the real kicker: I imagine all the guys I have ever kissed, ever, and what their faces would look like, if for whatever reason, they were making out with me and I suddenly developed the nastiest, crustiest conjunctivitis the world has ever seen. EWW!! Oh my god how mortifying! "No! Please, ________, don't leave! It's just allergies, I swear! Where are you going!? Nooooo!!" and then, in slow motion, I am turned into a Monty-Python cartoon of myself and thrown off a cliff with a little talk bubble trailing me with "No!" written on it.
Run-a-way imagination, much?
Try living in my head for a few hours. Yeesh. So much racket I can't even get a full night's sleep these days.
Sitting bolt upright in bed: "Oh my god. I have Pink eye!!" (To no one in the room because sister is sleeping over at a friend's.)
Throwing blankets off of me, I run down the stairs to the bathroom and splash water on my face. I look in the mirror at an exhausted and frantic looking girl. Oh my god. What will I do?! Both eyes are pink!!
I run back up to my room, throw open my laptop and begin to search for doctors in my area who would have an appointment open for me on a Sunday Morning last-minute-notice-and-all. I come up with a full battle plan involving my entire family and going to a hospital in Central New Jersey. I have to text my Work-Husband and let him know I can't work today. I reach for the phone, knowing full well (because he's my work-Husband a.k.a Co-worker Extrordinare) that he's awake.
Text, text, text. Freak, freak, freak. I'mNotComingInToWorkTodayOMG. Co-worker says: Just let me know if in a few hours you still feel this way... (subtext: Go to sleep you silly, sleep deprived human.)
I lie back in bed and think about my life choices. No, I was not sticking poop-covered fingers in my eyes, c'mon, gross. My manager came in with pink eye a few days ago and, being the anxious Hypochondriac I can be, I assumed I had gotten it somehow.
I fall asleep and wake up feeling groggy and incredibly embarrassed. Did I just dream that whole thing, or was I really convinced that I had pink eye? I haven't had pink eye since I was a little kid!
I imagine all these scenarios in which the Pink Eye would eat me alive socially. I'd have to wear sunglasses for a week straight! I'd have to put all these eye drops in my eyes (I HATE eye drops!!). I then see all my friends shunning me like they would a diseased and flea infested mongrel. Then, the real kicker: I imagine all the guys I have ever kissed, ever, and what their faces would look like, if for whatever reason, they were making out with me and I suddenly developed the nastiest, crustiest conjunctivitis the world has ever seen. EWW!! Oh my god how mortifying! "No! Please, ________, don't leave! It's just allergies, I swear! Where are you going!? Nooooo!!" and then, in slow motion, I am turned into a Monty-Python cartoon of myself and thrown off a cliff with a little talk bubble trailing me with "No!" written on it.
Run-a-way imagination, much?
Try living in my head for a few hours. Yeesh. So much racket I can't even get a full night's sleep these days.
Sunday, September 23, 2012
I Love Him/ I Love Him Not
My Interpretation of a Thought Gone Free...
(Disclaimer: This is not a particular thought about anyone at the moment, just more of a compilation of thoughts I, and the women close to me in my life, have had in the past!)
I love him.
I love him not.
I Think I love him!!!
i love him not.
I LOVE HIM!
Mmmm... Nope.
But, really I like him so much when he does ____.
But, we can't.
Oh. This might work...
I should say something.
No. I should just kiss him.
Ew. Having sex with him!?!
Mmmm, having sex with him.
Ugh. I won't do anything. I'll just wait.
Maybe I'm just overreacting.
I don't know anymore.
I don’t know what to do with anything, as a matter of fact.
Facts are hard work. I have a strong dislike of factual stuff, actually.
But, really: I’m just over reacting. I do that a lot.
I’m a PASSIONATE person!!!!
I am so passionate, I am already imagining what my wedding dress will look like once I admit my love!
Oh, ew. I would never marry him.
Why is that fly buzzing around my head? There is plenty of dirty laundry in that corner. Am I really that gross?
He’d never want to have sex if he saw what I look liked right now. Haha!
I’ll coerce him into doing the dirty deed with a dirty deed-doing human, like me!
Speaking of deeds... I should take a shower and start my day.
I wonder when he’ll call.
He’s not in to me.
He just wants to be friends. Gross. I don’t want another stupid friend.
Yeah, he just wants to hang with me and flirt a lot.
He also forgets all sorts of important information about me.
WHY hasn't he called yet!?!
He's NOT THAT BUSY!
I get so annoyed! I HATE him!
I hate men!
He's all, like, into his career and stuff.
He’s so driven, he has no time to be in to me.
God, I love when guys aren’t in to me... it shows a certain level of passion.
I have a lot of passion, as I have thought before.
We have so much in common!
I love passion.
I love him.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
Guilt Hangovers
I woke up this morning with what I call the "Guilt Hangover" I get it every time I have a couple drinks the night before, but didn't get drunk. What happens is: I lie in bed staring at the beautiful crisp sunlight filtering in from my window and wonder why the hell I am not still asleep, then think about all the calories I ingested the night before and wish I was being pestered to hurry up and get on a movie set so I can blow all my energy performing and not feeling sorry for myself. On Saturday mornings, I generally have a whole lot of nothing I need to do. I mean, I have stuff to do, but nothing pressing enough to get me out of bed before 10:30am.
I feel as though the fantastic week I just had has somehow faded into memory and I am right back to where I was before all the events of the week unfolded, just: sitting in my room wishing I had my own apartment and wondering what I'm going to do to make my life worth waking up for today. Guilt Hangovers are really no fun, and are generally the reason I don't drink a whole lot.
As for my amazing week: a week filled with sleep-overs in Brooklyn (mwahahaha!!), a conversationally charged first date with an incredibly gorgeous, world-travlling, 6-language-speaking, European male Adonis (omigawd omigawd omigawd!! By the way...), great notes in class, several nights filled with improv shows and a poetry reading (where I actually got up and read for the first time!!) Is it truly over? Do I need to start a new week over again and begin a new set of really cool things I did the past 7 days? Ugh. Makes me want to lie in bed and stare at the sunlight until my eyes hurt and I close them and sleep for another few hours.
Oh, but Guilt Hangovers don't let one sleep. Wake the hell up, Nat, get out to the world and maybe get your nails done, or something. Maybe you'll meet a Mr. Awesome on the way to the salon, right?
I feel as though the fantastic week I just had has somehow faded into memory and I am right back to where I was before all the events of the week unfolded, just: sitting in my room wishing I had my own apartment and wondering what I'm going to do to make my life worth waking up for today. Guilt Hangovers are really no fun, and are generally the reason I don't drink a whole lot.
As for my amazing week: a week filled with sleep-overs in Brooklyn (mwahahaha!!), a conversationally charged first date with an incredibly gorgeous, world-travlling, 6-language-speaking, European male Adonis (omigawd omigawd omigawd!! By the way...), great notes in class, several nights filled with improv shows and a poetry reading (where I actually got up and read for the first time!!) Is it truly over? Do I need to start a new week over again and begin a new set of really cool things I did the past 7 days? Ugh. Makes me want to lie in bed and stare at the sunlight until my eyes hurt and I close them and sleep for another few hours.
Oh, but Guilt Hangovers don't let one sleep. Wake the hell up, Nat, get out to the world and maybe get your nails done, or something. Maybe you'll meet a Mr. Awesome on the way to the salon, right?
Wednesday, September 19, 2012
Hook-up Culture
I've never really understood the hook-up culture of New York, but now that I am a player in it I realize there is nothing to really understand, per se. I find that I was a pretty timid player in that game of monstrous proportions: "What? You want me to come back to your place? Um... I don't know. I'm a good girl, I don't normally do this! I had a boyfriend once for 4 years!"And here I am... still anxiety driven, but confronted with very simple reality that is before me which consists of hundreds of thousands of incredibly talented, good looking, single, art-oriented driven 20-somethings all operating and existing in one city! It's an unfathomable amount of people when I think about it, and then I realize I am right smack in the middle of them all (well, not quite, seeing as about 3/4 of them all live in and around Brooklyn and I'm in Queens.)
I had my first roll of the dice a couple weeks ago with the make-out in the bar and that turned into another evening this week with the Cutie and I in Brooklyn and ended with me taking the subway back to Queens the next morning with the rush-hour crowd, still wearing make-up, undies and clothes from the night before...
So, I'm still trying to put my thoughts in order about what it means to casually hook-up with someone. The Romantic side of my brain is screaming at me to make a move and call Cutie and ask if we should meet again and the practical side of my brain is saying "Mmm. That scratched an itch, and that was that. If he calls, he calls, but otherwise: let's see what else is out there, I like this game!"I'm letting the practical side win this argument for the time being. Although I feel my fingers itch to write a ridiculously happy blog post about waking up next to someone I am crazy about and describing what their hand feels like in mine, etc, etc etc... I already have another date lined up for tomorrow morning with a ridiculously hot looking guy who's European with a healthy dash of middle-eastern and looks like he packs a huge, um, camera in his facebook photo.
Jeesh, 25 is rip-roaring and I've only just started! September isn't even over yet! I remember last year when I was writing about how pretty the fluffy white clouds looked and Mr. Hazel shooting me a look in the cafe. Now, I've got Camera Man for brunch tomorrow and I'm still busy finishing up drooling over the Cutie I met in Williamsburg. Single is fun if in the right mind-set, right?
I had my first roll of the dice a couple weeks ago with the make-out in the bar and that turned into another evening this week with the Cutie and I in Brooklyn and ended with me taking the subway back to Queens the next morning with the rush-hour crowd, still wearing make-up, undies and clothes from the night before...
So, I'm still trying to put my thoughts in order about what it means to casually hook-up with someone. The Romantic side of my brain is screaming at me to make a move and call Cutie and ask if we should meet again and the practical side of my brain is saying "Mmm. That scratched an itch, and that was that. If he calls, he calls, but otherwise: let's see what else is out there, I like this game!"I'm letting the practical side win this argument for the time being. Although I feel my fingers itch to write a ridiculously happy blog post about waking up next to someone I am crazy about and describing what their hand feels like in mine, etc, etc etc... I already have another date lined up for tomorrow morning with a ridiculously hot looking guy who's European with a healthy dash of middle-eastern and looks like he packs a huge, um, camera in his facebook photo.
Jeesh, 25 is rip-roaring and I've only just started! September isn't even over yet! I remember last year when I was writing about how pretty the fluffy white clouds looked and Mr. Hazel shooting me a look in the cafe. Now, I've got Camera Man for brunch tomorrow and I'm still busy finishing up drooling over the Cutie I met in Williamsburg. Single is fun if in the right mind-set, right?
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
Recording Everything
For 4 months I kept a bar graph in the back of my journal and at the end of every day I would record how many times I had had sex with my boyfriend. I've kept a very detailed account of everything I spent money on, everyday, for the past 4 years, with a break of a couple months when I moved back to New York from Louisville, KY and felt like my life was going to shit anyway, so why bother?
I love itemizing my life. I love recording dumb, over looked details that a normal person would not have the discipline to keep track of, or would otherwise feel was a waste of time (after all, who likes to rush home and write down the number of times you farted that day??) I get a thrill from looking at pie charts I've drawn or trends I can see in myself as time goes on (like, how much money did I make at work last September? or the September before that?).
Going back through old journals one can see a very detailed look at how I felt. I would draw pie charts and indicate to the precise percentage that I felt accurate for what my mood for the day was. "I feel 27% happy and 5% confused and 38% sad..." etc. Fascinating, because now I can clearly see how those percentages have changed as I've gotten older. Although, I don't keep pie charts anymore, I like to measure a certain amount of happiness in how little I can spend money in a day, and how much money I funnel into doing things I love.
Occasionally I will meet other nit-picky anal outliers who also record all the details of when they took a poop that week. There is a special bond there, an unfathomable understanding that I think the layman could never hope to understand. A bond that says "Hey: I know what it means to get a high from keeping track of these things, and I see you for who you are and not the weirdo your girlfriend thinks you may be when you picked up your phone to record another piece of important information that only you will ever see."
Especially when I am feeling down in the dumps, I like to turn to my records and re-record everything. "Oh, this is how much money I spent over 6 months and I can clearly see the ratio of spending to saving as indicated here, here, and here!" Another coping activity I used to do as a kid was do math problems in my journal. I loved to watch as the numbers grew to impossible lengths as I kept adding them up. I never did anything that involved a lot of thinking, just that I would add 1 and 1, then 2 and 2 then 4 and 4, until I would wind up with numbers that would stretch from one edge of my page to the other. After doing those math problems for what felt like hours to my young brain, I would look at all of the digits and admire the simple beauty of having recorded and created so many figures on my journal page.
I think, honestly, the reason I have kept a journal pretty consistently my entire life is because I love to record my day for the sake of knowing I recorded the day. Now, as I read another witty memoir about a famously interesting comedic women; I see that I am not alone in my eccentricities. Lovely. I feel enriched and encouraged. I can't wait to collect all this data and write a best-selling memoir about my life. I talk about it all the time, and I think at this point it's just a matter of figuring out the style in which I want to tell these stories. All in good time... Until that day comes when I can stare at my first draft, I'll continue to record my life in this blog and my journal, because facts about me are totally fascinating to me.
I love itemizing my life. I love recording dumb, over looked details that a normal person would not have the discipline to keep track of, or would otherwise feel was a waste of time (after all, who likes to rush home and write down the number of times you farted that day??) I get a thrill from looking at pie charts I've drawn or trends I can see in myself as time goes on (like, how much money did I make at work last September? or the September before that?).
Going back through old journals one can see a very detailed look at how I felt. I would draw pie charts and indicate to the precise percentage that I felt accurate for what my mood for the day was. "I feel 27% happy and 5% confused and 38% sad..." etc. Fascinating, because now I can clearly see how those percentages have changed as I've gotten older. Although, I don't keep pie charts anymore, I like to measure a certain amount of happiness in how little I can spend money in a day, and how much money I funnel into doing things I love.
Occasionally I will meet other nit-picky anal outliers who also record all the details of when they took a poop that week. There is a special bond there, an unfathomable understanding that I think the layman could never hope to understand. A bond that says "Hey: I know what it means to get a high from keeping track of these things, and I see you for who you are and not the weirdo your girlfriend thinks you may be when you picked up your phone to record another piece of important information that only you will ever see."
Especially when I am feeling down in the dumps, I like to turn to my records and re-record everything. "Oh, this is how much money I spent over 6 months and I can clearly see the ratio of spending to saving as indicated here, here, and here!" Another coping activity I used to do as a kid was do math problems in my journal. I loved to watch as the numbers grew to impossible lengths as I kept adding them up. I never did anything that involved a lot of thinking, just that I would add 1 and 1, then 2 and 2 then 4 and 4, until I would wind up with numbers that would stretch from one edge of my page to the other. After doing those math problems for what felt like hours to my young brain, I would look at all of the digits and admire the simple beauty of having recorded and created so many figures on my journal page.
I think, honestly, the reason I have kept a journal pretty consistently my entire life is because I love to record my day for the sake of knowing I recorded the day. Now, as I read another witty memoir about a famously interesting comedic women; I see that I am not alone in my eccentricities. Lovely. I feel enriched and encouraged. I can't wait to collect all this data and write a best-selling memoir about my life. I talk about it all the time, and I think at this point it's just a matter of figuring out the style in which I want to tell these stories. All in good time... Until that day comes when I can stare at my first draft, I'll continue to record my life in this blog and my journal, because facts about me are totally fascinating to me.
Monday, September 17, 2012
A Big Fight
I was standing in the kitchen getting told to really lay into him. We were going to fight like the world was coming to an end. I felt myself get tense, like a hammer was about to come down. I reflected on any real-life scenarios in which I really had to raise my voice and yell and scream and couldn't recall any occasion when I got so mad I did.
I was asked to be the wife of a really lazy, slovenly guy in a short movie project a friend who is going to NYU was doing. It was a last minute, impromptu project but seeing as I had no plans for my Monday morning, I took the offer.
The premise is that my husband does nothing, even to the point of refusing to help me set up a nursery for our expected baby. The entire short was improvised by the two of us acting for the camera with directions given by my friend. I forgot how much fun it is to yell! The only time I've really allowed myself to let go and scream at someone has been for a piece of theatre or film. Generally, in my real life, when I get really pissed at someone I monologue: "I feel this way right now and I don't know what we can do to make this better, but I am upset. I've been upset about this for a while now and I didn't know how to really express that it was frustrating me, but I am at the point where I HAVE to say something, otherwise I'll just want to curl up into a ball and scream into a pillow!" Or, I get into a heated debate where I state my point again and again and demand that the person I am fighting with come up with a good rebuttal, otherwise I think they're an idiot (even if I love them to bits).
The kitchen scene today involved me pounding on a counter top, jabbing my finger in his face, screaming, and then finally: an egg thrown on the floor. Epic. I chuckled after we were done. Goddamn that feels good. Maybe I should turn into one of those crazy bitches that yell in fury at their bastard boyfriends... Eh, maybe not. It takes so much energy to be that mad, and I naturally internalize a lot of my anger so as to not become that out of control, which isn't a good way of dealing with those emotions either. However, cleaning up that egg made me want to gag. Anger can be so messy!
I was asked to be the wife of a really lazy, slovenly guy in a short movie project a friend who is going to NYU was doing. It was a last minute, impromptu project but seeing as I had no plans for my Monday morning, I took the offer.
The premise is that my husband does nothing, even to the point of refusing to help me set up a nursery for our expected baby. The entire short was improvised by the two of us acting for the camera with directions given by my friend. I forgot how much fun it is to yell! The only time I've really allowed myself to let go and scream at someone has been for a piece of theatre or film. Generally, in my real life, when I get really pissed at someone I monologue: "I feel this way right now and I don't know what we can do to make this better, but I am upset. I've been upset about this for a while now and I didn't know how to really express that it was frustrating me, but I am at the point where I HAVE to say something, otherwise I'll just want to curl up into a ball and scream into a pillow!" Or, I get into a heated debate where I state my point again and again and demand that the person I am fighting with come up with a good rebuttal, otherwise I think they're an idiot (even if I love them to bits).
The kitchen scene today involved me pounding on a counter top, jabbing my finger in his face, screaming, and then finally: an egg thrown on the floor. Epic. I chuckled after we were done. Goddamn that feels good. Maybe I should turn into one of those crazy bitches that yell in fury at their bastard boyfriends... Eh, maybe not. It takes so much energy to be that mad, and I naturally internalize a lot of my anger so as to not become that out of control, which isn't a good way of dealing with those emotions either. However, cleaning up that egg made me want to gag. Anger can be so messy!
Saturday, September 15, 2012
Courage
Courage in myself is verb: an action I take (or don't).
How do I confront someone about things that happened in the past? How do I broach a subject that makes me nervous? How do I admit that I was wrong, or they were wrong or we were wrong or right or stupid or hurtful or life-saving? I find that the amount of courage one has can define a person. I don't argue that someone who is loud is necessarily brave and worth praise or that someone who always blurts out their thoughts is the hero. I think that courage is when someone who might be normally very shy about their feelings, finally steps up to the batter's box and hits a ball out of the park by saying that they're uncomfortable or sad or angry. Courage is knowing when a situation may be very uncomfortable, but for the sake of one's well-being, something must be done to create a better harmony for everyone involved.
I think I struggle with the courage to admit that I need to slow down. I find my brain moving a thousand words an hour and there are no stop signs or speed limits, so I'll just speed up until my motor overheats and I find myself exhausted. Lately, I've been grappling with the idea of what strength is required to say and do the right things for myself when I am around another person. Most times, I find I blow past uncomfortable feelings for the sake of making everyone "feel better" when actually, I don't feel good. I am trying to practice more with having the courage to say what I feel by finding the vocabulary to even describe that feeling. It's a hard road to hoe, and as I practice, I notice others doing the same thing. Maybe that's the defining factor of an adult? Toddlers certainly know how to express their voice, then they lose that ability, and spend their entire adult life re-learning it.
As I think about what it means to be in an interaction with someone else, be it friend, lover, or family member, I really strive to make sense of what it means for me to communicate meaningfully with that person, rather than try and avoid the potential friction. Why is that so hard?! I feel like I am very slowly learning a language and trying very hard to speak it.
As I move forward with upcoming relationships (and there will be a whole lot of that) I find I am the speed cop on that highway were thoughts are moving a thousand words an hour. I have to police these speeding objects and investigate what's going on and slow them down in the hopes that no one goes to fast for their own good. Maybe then, courage and the vocabulary to say and express what I need from someone will feel safe enough to cross the street.
How do I confront someone about things that happened in the past? How do I broach a subject that makes me nervous? How do I admit that I was wrong, or they were wrong or we were wrong or right or stupid or hurtful or life-saving? I find that the amount of courage one has can define a person. I don't argue that someone who is loud is necessarily brave and worth praise or that someone who always blurts out their thoughts is the hero. I think that courage is when someone who might be normally very shy about their feelings, finally steps up to the batter's box and hits a ball out of the park by saying that they're uncomfortable or sad or angry. Courage is knowing when a situation may be very uncomfortable, but for the sake of one's well-being, something must be done to create a better harmony for everyone involved.
I think I struggle with the courage to admit that I need to slow down. I find my brain moving a thousand words an hour and there are no stop signs or speed limits, so I'll just speed up until my motor overheats and I find myself exhausted. Lately, I've been grappling with the idea of what strength is required to say and do the right things for myself when I am around another person. Most times, I find I blow past uncomfortable feelings for the sake of making everyone "feel better" when actually, I don't feel good. I am trying to practice more with having the courage to say what I feel by finding the vocabulary to even describe that feeling. It's a hard road to hoe, and as I practice, I notice others doing the same thing. Maybe that's the defining factor of an adult? Toddlers certainly know how to express their voice, then they lose that ability, and spend their entire adult life re-learning it.
As I think about what it means to be in an interaction with someone else, be it friend, lover, or family member, I really strive to make sense of what it means for me to communicate meaningfully with that person, rather than try and avoid the potential friction. Why is that so hard?! I feel like I am very slowly learning a language and trying very hard to speak it.
As I move forward with upcoming relationships (and there will be a whole lot of that) I find I am the speed cop on that highway were thoughts are moving a thousand words an hour. I have to police these speeding objects and investigate what's going on and slow them down in the hopes that no one goes to fast for their own good. Maybe then, courage and the vocabulary to say and express what I need from someone will feel safe enough to cross the street.
Thursday, September 13, 2012
The Text
Me. Cutie. Bar. Drinks. Talking. Music. Laughing. Touching. Flirting. Kissing.
Then: nothing.
I think: Meh, Whatever. Plenty 'O fish in the sea.
Two weeks go by...
Me. Apple picking. Hanging with friends. Laughing. Bike riding. Improvising. "I don't care, la la la... Boys are stupid, la la la..."
...Wait a minute. I just got a text, hold on.
Cut to a clip of a mushroom cloud exploding over a license plate that says "Boyz R dumb" The entire screen falls to ash!
I pick up my phone. Who is tha-- oh. Oh wait a minute! OH MY GOD! It's HIM! It's the Cutie! It's HIM! AHHH! Waddoidoo!?!
Cutie: Wanna meet me for a [booty call] drink? Dinner?
Ummm... Yeah, maybe, uh sure, I dunno, uh. I guess that place sounds good. I'm trying not to sound impressed or excited or interested. Ok. 7 sounds good. Ok. Bye.
ohmigawd! Cutie and I are going on a date. Hmmm... I feel like I can remember the inside of his mouth better than what he looked like....
I'll look him up on Facebook, like you can look up a recipe for chicken soup. Oh, waiiit. It's coming back now. He's not on Facebook. Yet another unique and courageous soul who has managed to keep away from the demeaning and over saturated content that I feed myself consisting of the nasty fast-food of local pop-culture, photos of cats and stupid updates about going to the gym from friends of friends I met once at a party in college.
Oh, I love going "Old School" on this and waiting to see and learn something about this guy when I meet him in the flesh again. No preconceived notions about the photos of him doing jagar bomb shots on a bar in Colorado with a bunch of hot chicks I don't know. Instead, I can get to know him in real time.
Bring it!
Saturday, September 8, 2012
The Pee Puddle
I was standing behind the door of the locker room in the darkness, waiting with short shaky breaths to see if I'd be caught. I could see through the small crack between the open door and the door-frame as a means of getting a bit of a head's up before the "monster" came into the room. My friends were all holed up in the lockers, tucking their small bodies one by one into the small spaces to avoid being seen. I was too claustrophobic to cram myself into those tiny boxes, so, last minute, I opted for hiding behind the door.
"Monster" was the best game we played in after school. Brian, the councilor who was in charge of the gym, would organize all of the 3rd and 4th graders into the center of the massive play space and explain the afternoon's activities. Every time he would announce that we'd be playing "Monster" a massive cheer would erupt from the 30 grade schoolers as schemes and strategies were discussed excitedly before Brian would shut us up and carefully dictate the rules.
"Kids! So here's the deal. I'll be giving each of you a sock. If you throw the sock and miss, no points. If I see you, you go to jail, which is over here and you lose 5 points. If you hit me with the sock, then the round is over and you win 10 points. If you throw the sock and it bounces before hitting me, no dice. If by the end of the round you still have your sock, you win 5 points. You'll all get 20 seconds to hide. I'll count out loud and then, once the time is up, I'll turn off the lights and I'll come looking for you. You better hope to not get seen by me! Off to jail! You lose! Find a good hiding place! When the lights come on, then you'll know the round is over and I want all of you back here in the center of the gym and we'll do a roll-call. Got it? Now come get your sock."
Then, as if by some Santa magic, Brian would hoist a massive canvas bag out of a closet. The bag must have weighed a ton because it was full to the brim with sock balls. These balls were about 6 or 7 socks crammed together into one and sewn shut. The perfect thing to throw at a monster. We'd all squabble over the best sock, which felt good in the hand, which one would get the best distance. Then, Brian would announce in a booming voice, that the count was going to begin.
I remember running for the Locker Room with my friends. We had agreed to hide there this round, as the other kids peeled off and scurried for holes and cravases behind mats, ropes, and equipment that ringed the walls of the gym. We were laughing and panting, as each of us rushed to find the best hiding places. I felt a panic once everyone had shut their locker doors and squeezed behind gym equipment. I stood in the center of the room trying to decide where to go, and then the lights went out. Jumping behind the Locker Room door I tried to calm my breathing so as to not give away my location.
Now, Brian was a big guy to all of us 8 year-olds. He looked like a tamer version of a Harley-Riding Devil's Angels biker dude, just minus the tattoos and the mullet. He'd walk around the gym and laugh with a booming, shiver-inducing laugh that would scare the pants out of whoever was close enough to really hear it. He really was The Monster. He had eyes that could spot a kid all the way across the gym, in the dark, crouched behind a pile of mats. He could hear a kid from 20 feet away just from their ragged breath. He'd call out in a loud, horribly embarrassing voice "KYLE! I see you! Go to JAIL! Mwahahahahah!!!" Then, the poor victim would crawl out of their hiding place and slump off to the loser-bin to wait for the lights to turn back on. No one wanted to get caught. Generally, the kids in the jail were the girly-girls, the over zealous A.D.D. kids and the snot-nosed social outcasts. Getting caught was the coup de gras of your social life for the day.
So, there I was, hiding behind the door to the Locker Room, sweating bullets, as I fearfully looked through the crack into the hallway for any sign of movement from the "Monster."
Then, I had to pee.
Ohhhh I had to pee really, really bad. Like, in the worst way possible. More than I had ever had to pee in my young life. Ever, ever! Oh, Oh my god. I had to go. I started to do a pee dance, wishing that the lights would come on and I could just run to the bathroom. The seconds ticked on like hours and I waited, wishing beyond hope to somehow transport the urine from my system. I got so distracted by the fact that I had to pee that when I heard Brian's Booming "MWAHAHA!" right at the doorway to the Locker Room, practically right in my ear, I peed. I wet myself. I felt the hot water run down my leg, pool in my shoes and creep out along the floor. Screw Brian! Screw Jail! If anyone found out that I had just wet myself I'd be ruined! I'd be in the "Jail" of the social arena of my Life! I stood still, relieved that I had emptied my bladder, and then completely anxiety ridden. My Pants are probably soaked. I thought, assessing the situation. By that point, Brian had caught a small group of kids and was calling their names as they marched off to jail. I had a little bit of time. No one had shot the Monster yet. I stepped out of my pee-puddle and silently crammed myself into a locker. There were no witnesses.
What seemed like 10 minutes later, the lights went on. "EVERYONE COME OUT!" Brian bellowed. I made sure to wait a couple seconds so my friends could see me emerge from the lockers. "You hid in there after all, Natty?" My friend Michael asked as I climbed out. "Yeah." I replied, as nonchalantly as I could. "Seemed smart."
The kids gathered in the center again. I glanced down at my legs and saw the darker stains. I sat on the edge of the group, knees to my chest, and prayed no one would notice.
"Someone peed in the locker room!!!!" Screeched a female voice, as Erica, a co-counceller and "scout" went looking for any last stragglers. The room groaned. "Ewwwwww!!" I joined in, even chiming in with "That's so gross." Hoping my comments would leave me unnoticed.
"Guys." Brain said, switching to an irritated tone. "We're big kids here. Can we all just use the toilets, please? In fact, why don't we all make a trip to the bathroom, so Erica can clean that up. Pee break!"
I was mortified. Absolutely unabashedly ashamed of myself. I had wet my pants. I had let the game catch me off guard and lost control. I just prayed no one would notice my damp pants.
A life lesson I learned the hard way: Don't let the game catch you off guard. Keep focused. Keep strong. Despite the distractions, hold steady. No one likes a pee-covered kid. And also, don't be the one who has to clean that puddle, because I think Erica was the real loser from that scenario...
"Monster" was the best game we played in after school. Brian, the councilor who was in charge of the gym, would organize all of the 3rd and 4th graders into the center of the massive play space and explain the afternoon's activities. Every time he would announce that we'd be playing "Monster" a massive cheer would erupt from the 30 grade schoolers as schemes and strategies were discussed excitedly before Brian would shut us up and carefully dictate the rules.
"Kids! So here's the deal. I'll be giving each of you a sock. If you throw the sock and miss, no points. If I see you, you go to jail, which is over here and you lose 5 points. If you hit me with the sock, then the round is over and you win 10 points. If you throw the sock and it bounces before hitting me, no dice. If by the end of the round you still have your sock, you win 5 points. You'll all get 20 seconds to hide. I'll count out loud and then, once the time is up, I'll turn off the lights and I'll come looking for you. You better hope to not get seen by me! Off to jail! You lose! Find a good hiding place! When the lights come on, then you'll know the round is over and I want all of you back here in the center of the gym and we'll do a roll-call. Got it? Now come get your sock."
Then, as if by some Santa magic, Brian would hoist a massive canvas bag out of a closet. The bag must have weighed a ton because it was full to the brim with sock balls. These balls were about 6 or 7 socks crammed together into one and sewn shut. The perfect thing to throw at a monster. We'd all squabble over the best sock, which felt good in the hand, which one would get the best distance. Then, Brian would announce in a booming voice, that the count was going to begin.
I remember running for the Locker Room with my friends. We had agreed to hide there this round, as the other kids peeled off and scurried for holes and cravases behind mats, ropes, and equipment that ringed the walls of the gym. We were laughing and panting, as each of us rushed to find the best hiding places. I felt a panic once everyone had shut their locker doors and squeezed behind gym equipment. I stood in the center of the room trying to decide where to go, and then the lights went out. Jumping behind the Locker Room door I tried to calm my breathing so as to not give away my location.
Now, Brian was a big guy to all of us 8 year-olds. He looked like a tamer version of a Harley-Riding Devil's Angels biker dude, just minus the tattoos and the mullet. He'd walk around the gym and laugh with a booming, shiver-inducing laugh that would scare the pants out of whoever was close enough to really hear it. He really was The Monster. He had eyes that could spot a kid all the way across the gym, in the dark, crouched behind a pile of mats. He could hear a kid from 20 feet away just from their ragged breath. He'd call out in a loud, horribly embarrassing voice "KYLE! I see you! Go to JAIL! Mwahahahahah!!!" Then, the poor victim would crawl out of their hiding place and slump off to the loser-bin to wait for the lights to turn back on. No one wanted to get caught. Generally, the kids in the jail were the girly-girls, the over zealous A.D.D. kids and the snot-nosed social outcasts. Getting caught was the coup de gras of your social life for the day.
So, there I was, hiding behind the door to the Locker Room, sweating bullets, as I fearfully looked through the crack into the hallway for any sign of movement from the "Monster."
Then, I had to pee.
Ohhhh I had to pee really, really bad. Like, in the worst way possible. More than I had ever had to pee in my young life. Ever, ever! Oh, Oh my god. I had to go. I started to do a pee dance, wishing that the lights would come on and I could just run to the bathroom. The seconds ticked on like hours and I waited, wishing beyond hope to somehow transport the urine from my system. I got so distracted by the fact that I had to pee that when I heard Brian's Booming "MWAHAHA!" right at the doorway to the Locker Room, practically right in my ear, I peed. I wet myself. I felt the hot water run down my leg, pool in my shoes and creep out along the floor. Screw Brian! Screw Jail! If anyone found out that I had just wet myself I'd be ruined! I'd be in the "Jail" of the social arena of my Life! I stood still, relieved that I had emptied my bladder, and then completely anxiety ridden. My Pants are probably soaked. I thought, assessing the situation. By that point, Brian had caught a small group of kids and was calling their names as they marched off to jail. I had a little bit of time. No one had shot the Monster yet. I stepped out of my pee-puddle and silently crammed myself into a locker. There were no witnesses.
What seemed like 10 minutes later, the lights went on. "EVERYONE COME OUT!" Brian bellowed. I made sure to wait a couple seconds so my friends could see me emerge from the lockers. "You hid in there after all, Natty?" My friend Michael asked as I climbed out. "Yeah." I replied, as nonchalantly as I could. "Seemed smart."
The kids gathered in the center again. I glanced down at my legs and saw the darker stains. I sat on the edge of the group, knees to my chest, and prayed no one would notice.
"Someone peed in the locker room!!!!" Screeched a female voice, as Erica, a co-counceller and "scout" went looking for any last stragglers. The room groaned. "Ewwwwww!!" I joined in, even chiming in with "That's so gross." Hoping my comments would leave me unnoticed.
"Guys." Brain said, switching to an irritated tone. "We're big kids here. Can we all just use the toilets, please? In fact, why don't we all make a trip to the bathroom, so Erica can clean that up. Pee break!"
I was mortified. Absolutely unabashedly ashamed of myself. I had wet my pants. I had let the game catch me off guard and lost control. I just prayed no one would notice my damp pants.
A life lesson I learned the hard way: Don't let the game catch you off guard. Keep focused. Keep strong. Despite the distractions, hold steady. No one likes a pee-covered kid. And also, don't be the one who has to clean that puddle, because I think Erica was the real loser from that scenario...
Thursday, September 6, 2012
Crying
I was talking with my close friends the other day about crying. Really crying. Allowing the tears to come, and the wails to erupt, and the sobs to rack the body, and the emotional traumas to bellow out of the soul in the form of hiccups and snot.
The last time I really cried like a crazy person I was behind the wheels of my car. I blasted the loudest version of "Fuck Her Gently" by Tenacious D, parked the car in the darkest corner of a suburban parking lot and I cried with every fiber of my being.
Crying behind a steering wheel is just about the best place, in my opinion. I've heard of others going to the last stall of the top floor's bathroom and crying there. Or, maybe disappearing into an alleyway behind a building you work in and crying over lunch break.
We all laughed as we shared stories of false alarms "I thought I would cry, and I tried, but didn't!" and laughed as we reenacted some of the emotional physicality of crying. My friend did a great impression of trying to hide the tears by shaking his shoulders up and down and flinching like he had a tick. I felt the tears well in my eyes from the mirth shared over something that seems so sad and personal, yet was the source of such epic comic material.
I've had times when I've cried so hard I laughed. There are moments when, God Help Me, I Will Not Cry Right Now as salty tears roll down my cheeks. And moments where I've looked into the eyes of a loved one and loved that person so damn much that the only way to express that feeling further is to well-up. I've cried while walking home, in the rain, with no umbrella, with no one on the street and only my short staccato breaths to keep me company. And, hell, I've cried right into a mirror just for the sake of seeing what I look like when I turn on the water works.
I find the best cries are when I'm about to sleep. Just, let it all out like I'm wringing out a rag cloth full of water and then letting it dry. Ahhh, that feels so much better, and lighter.
Crying is beautiful. It's a purely personal and incredibly relatable experience we can all say we've participated in. We come into the world crying, heaving large breaths of cold stinging air into our very new lungs.
I don't consider myself someone who cries often. I know a couple people in my life that can cry pretty easily and frequently and I have never ranked myself with that crowd. So, whenever I do cry I consider it an occasion, a time to really reflect and experience the feelings of whatever it is that has pushed me to that limit where I need to physicalize how I feel. I imagine almost a burning wreckage of an emotional blob bursting and then, like lava cooling after an eruption, fertile ground is made and a whole tropical forest can begin to grow.
That's how I'm going to imagine this new year of being 25, the actual birth-day was the lava eruption. Now: I'm fertilizing a new Hawaii.
The last time I really cried like a crazy person I was behind the wheels of my car. I blasted the loudest version of "Fuck Her Gently" by Tenacious D, parked the car in the darkest corner of a suburban parking lot and I cried with every fiber of my being.
Crying behind a steering wheel is just about the best place, in my opinion. I've heard of others going to the last stall of the top floor's bathroom and crying there. Or, maybe disappearing into an alleyway behind a building you work in and crying over lunch break.
We all laughed as we shared stories of false alarms "I thought I would cry, and I tried, but didn't!" and laughed as we reenacted some of the emotional physicality of crying. My friend did a great impression of trying to hide the tears by shaking his shoulders up and down and flinching like he had a tick. I felt the tears well in my eyes from the mirth shared over something that seems so sad and personal, yet was the source of such epic comic material.
I've had times when I've cried so hard I laughed. There are moments when, God Help Me, I Will Not Cry Right Now as salty tears roll down my cheeks. And moments where I've looked into the eyes of a loved one and loved that person so damn much that the only way to express that feeling further is to well-up. I've cried while walking home, in the rain, with no umbrella, with no one on the street and only my short staccato breaths to keep me company. And, hell, I've cried right into a mirror just for the sake of seeing what I look like when I turn on the water works.
I find the best cries are when I'm about to sleep. Just, let it all out like I'm wringing out a rag cloth full of water and then letting it dry. Ahhh, that feels so much better, and lighter.
Crying is beautiful. It's a purely personal and incredibly relatable experience we can all say we've participated in. We come into the world crying, heaving large breaths of cold stinging air into our very new lungs.
I don't consider myself someone who cries often. I know a couple people in my life that can cry pretty easily and frequently and I have never ranked myself with that crowd. So, whenever I do cry I consider it an occasion, a time to really reflect and experience the feelings of whatever it is that has pushed me to that limit where I need to physicalize how I feel. I imagine almost a burning wreckage of an emotional blob bursting and then, like lava cooling after an eruption, fertile ground is made and a whole tropical forest can begin to grow.
That's how I'm going to imagine this new year of being 25, the actual birth-day was the lava eruption. Now: I'm fertilizing a new Hawaii.
Monday, September 3, 2012
Birthday
It's the last day of being 24.
Most frequently asked question: "What'll you do for your 25th birthday?"
If I could do anything, I'd go to London and spend two weeks partying over there. I'd make a trip to Paris and spend a couple days there as well.
European flights of fancy are not in the cards at the moment.
The 25th year of my life has consisted of many great and wonderfully memorable events, and I'm not sorry about any of them. I'm really stoked about what the 26th year will bring. Hopefully some really big leaps in my career, more travel, some awesome dudes...
I've decided to spend the last day being 24 by going shopping for some fall clothes and trying not to think about organizing something like a party to celebrate. Isn't it funny how 25 seems like such a bigger number than 26? I feel like it's more of a momentous number. A real landmark in age. I'm solidly in my 20's and solidly trying to figure the solids of life out.
I think I'll concentrate on how a new pair of jeans will fit, instead.
Most frequently asked question: "What'll you do for your 25th birthday?"
If I could do anything, I'd go to London and spend two weeks partying over there. I'd make a trip to Paris and spend a couple days there as well.
European flights of fancy are not in the cards at the moment.
The 25th year of my life has consisted of many great and wonderfully memorable events, and I'm not sorry about any of them. I'm really stoked about what the 26th year will bring. Hopefully some really big leaps in my career, more travel, some awesome dudes...
I've decided to spend the last day being 24 by going shopping for some fall clothes and trying not to think about organizing something like a party to celebrate. Isn't it funny how 25 seems like such a bigger number than 26? I feel like it's more of a momentous number. A real landmark in age. I'm solidly in my 20's and solidly trying to figure the solids of life out.
I think I'll concentrate on how a new pair of jeans will fit, instead.
Sunday, September 2, 2012
The Make-Out
I found myself staring at my cellphone and wondering what the hell to say back to his statement. How does one respond to a statement? I wished you well with what you had planned for the day, and you responded, a few hours later, with a statement. So... Ball's in my court and I feel like it didn't even get the power needed for that ball to bounce up and let me hit it back to you. *Cue sound of a tire going flat as the budding seeds of a could-be hook-up crinkle and waste away* pffffrrrrttt!!
Oh well. I was pretty drunk when we wound up sucking face at the bar in Williamsburg and then drunkenly swapped numbers.
More than anything, getting the affirmation that I could look at a guy, chat with him for an hour in a crowded, hopping, jazz-playing, trendy bar full of other good looking 20-somethings and then wind up making-out with him, feels pretty good. My friends gave me a big high five and I eagerly goggled at my phone the entirety of the next day in anticipation of a fulfillment of an inebriated promise to text me. "Hey, I just met you. And this is crazy. But, here's my number... Call me, maybe?"
My roommates are both currently in very new, committed relationships and I am in full swing of singledom and not feeling sorry for myself one bit. I feel like I have come a long way from the 23 year old self who would have looked at the happy couples and wanted to bury my head in the sand. The only irritation is not having a private bedroom for entertainment (sharing a room with my sister) Womp Womp. But, even with that road-block, I feel exuberant. I've been working out like crazy and New York seems to have noticed. I can't walk down the street to get a coffee without a comment. "Um, Ew, thanks, but, no thanks."
I'll be 25 in a couple days and I feel very excited about what the next "Year of Natalie" will have in store. What I really want: more fun-filled socializing and autumnal explorations of the 20-something males who seem, just as suddenly as the 10,000 babies, to be cropping up like spring daisies.
And, Oh, Boy do they smell super sweet....
Oh well. I was pretty drunk when we wound up sucking face at the bar in Williamsburg and then drunkenly swapped numbers.
More than anything, getting the affirmation that I could look at a guy, chat with him for an hour in a crowded, hopping, jazz-playing, trendy bar full of other good looking 20-somethings and then wind up making-out with him, feels pretty good. My friends gave me a big high five and I eagerly goggled at my phone the entirety of the next day in anticipation of a fulfillment of an inebriated promise to text me. "Hey, I just met you. And this is crazy. But, here's my number... Call me, maybe?"
My roommates are both currently in very new, committed relationships and I am in full swing of singledom and not feeling sorry for myself one bit. I feel like I have come a long way from the 23 year old self who would have looked at the happy couples and wanted to bury my head in the sand. The only irritation is not having a private bedroom for entertainment (sharing a room with my sister) Womp Womp. But, even with that road-block, I feel exuberant. I've been working out like crazy and New York seems to have noticed. I can't walk down the street to get a coffee without a comment. "Um, Ew, thanks, but, no thanks."
I'll be 25 in a couple days and I feel very excited about what the next "Year of Natalie" will have in store. What I really want: more fun-filled socializing and autumnal explorations of the 20-something males who seem, just as suddenly as the 10,000 babies, to be cropping up like spring daisies.
And, Oh, Boy do they smell super sweet....
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