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!
Monday, September 17, 2012
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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