What's on your shirt?

A couple weeks ago (well a few more, but I’ve been lazy and not in a write-y type of mood) I was hit on at the gym.  I was so taken back by the experience that honestly, I wasn’t even sure it was happening until it was over. 

I have never been one of those people who go to the gym to meet people.  I am a head down, sweat it out and leave type of person.  I am also one of the sweatiest humans ever made, so I was really chucked into that category before I even knew it existed.  I have also never been one of those people who understand what it would be like to be one of those people who go to the gym to be seen rather than to work out.

When I lived in Florida, there was a girl at my gym, who I just called “Eye Shadow”. She would show up to Zumba class in head to toe matching work-out ensembles – with the brightest eye shadow I have ever seen – which obviously matched her clothes perfectly.  She barely moved her body at all, but always pushed into one of the coveted spots up front.  I never once understood the point.  I was paying an exorbitant fee to be a part of that gym, and I’ll be damned if I didn’t sweat enough to make every penny worth while.  And now living in New York City, paying New York City prices for everything, that feeling has grown exponentially.

Anyway, it was a Sunday morning and I was nearing the end of my work-out, and a man, not a guy or a boy, a man – easily in his mid-late forties, came up and asked me about my shirt.  Drenched in booze-oozy sweat, and red faced, I looked up from my book (and yes, I am one of those people who can read on the elliptical), pulled out my ear bud and answered his question as efficiently as possible – totally expecting that he’d walk away.  He did not.  He kept standing there, in front of my machine, making awkward conversation.  I kept trying to put my ear buds back in – but to no avail.  It was exactly four minutes of his standing there that I realized what was happening.  Much too late to push in a ficticious husband or talk about the convent, and he after seven minutes, asked if I wanted “to grab brunch sometime?”  My normal reaction to these things is to shut-down and flee.  However, on that day I was feeling especially lonely, and said to myself “self, this guy may be bald and old and weigh less than 100 pounds, but maybe he’s super interesting or best friends with the man of your dreams?”  So, while I declined his offer for brunch, I found a scrap piece of paper and gave Tom my phone number.   Five days later, he had not called and I gave up him completely.  He called that night, (but five days is too long to wait old man… step up your game), and I let it go to voicemail and did not call him back. 

I’ve seen him twice since this happened, and the first time was so stressful I panicked, looked at the floor my entire work-out and ran home.  The second time I was less awkward, but only slightly. 

So this is what I don’t understand – why would you ever want to meet someone at the gym?  The inevitability that it doesn’t work out is so high that when you see each other again, the feeling of peace and satisfaction you get from working out is overwhelmed by awkward. 

While I give Tom credit for being ballsy enough to ask me out in the gym, I think he’s an idiot for waiting so long to actually call.  But I’m also grateful that he did.  Because I might have gone to dinner or a walk or whatever, and that would be two hours of my time lost forever. 

Moral of this story?  If you don’t want people to talk to you at the gym – don’t wear branded clothing.   

Seats on the train.

A friend of mine just posted on facebook about a photo she took being displayed on the Tumblr page: http://mentakingup2muchspaceonthetrain.tumblr.com, and it made me laugh, and then it made me think.

As a commuter in New York City, I am constantly and consciously trying to be as small as possible.   I am aware that there are hundreds of other people trying to cram themselves into the same small car as me, and that if I have my purse and my audition bag  - then I am taking up more than my fair share of space.  So I try to condense.  I put my bags down on the pee-covered floor, or I’ll tuck my purse into my knees and stand in a “sure to pass out soon” locked position. All for the sake of the strangers stuffing in around me.

Men Taking Up 2 Much Space On The Train makes me question – as women are we taught to be small; to cram ourselves into tiny spaces and not question it?  Whereas our male counterparts are taught that it’s acceptable to take up as much space as possible?

  

Or, is this simply a case of people being jerks, and they just happen to (more often than not) be male?  Are men taught that it’s okay to pretend like you’re the king of the N Train?  That no one else needs to sit because clearly you crappy briefcase takes precedence?   Why is it that when a pregnant woman or an elderly person gets on the train, it is almost exclusively women who stand to offer their seat?*

Once I stood to give a man my seat who was at least 75, walked with a cane and was carrying groceries.  Said man then spent the next 6 minutes (and yes I was counting the seconds until my stop came and I could flee) berating me because he wasn’t “a fucking cripple” and “he didn’t ask for my seat”.  Is that why no one ever stands up anymore? Because they’re afraid of getting yelled at by an angry Mr. Frederickson? 

Regardless, people – and yes I’m talking mostly to the men here – you need to start paying attention to the fact that you are not alone on this earth.  That in a city as crammed and busy and as occupied as New York, you don’t get to take up more than your fair share of space on the train.  If you want to spread out and lounge – take a taxi.  And for the love of God – if a pregnant women gets on the train – give her your damned seat.

*based on my experiences of course –this is not a universal truth 100% of the time for 100% of MTA cars

MTA

There are very few things worse than a non-air conditioned subway car.   I cannot even fathom how dreadful and horrible riding the trains must have been before all of the cars had a/c, because every time I get into a car with stagnate warm horrible air I want to immediately flee.

There are always those moments, when you’re waiting on the train platform and the car that stops in front of you actually has, (gasp) open seats.  You smile to yourself thinking how lucky you are, step in, sit down and at the exact moment the doors “bing” and start to close, you breathe in and realize why this car is so empty.  It smells of pee, or vomit or is 100 million degrees.  These moments are the only moments when I miss having a car.   

I love public transportation.  I love never having to drive myself.  I love the luxury of being able to read or text or play Candy Crush for my entire commute.  I love the fact that I can pop in my ear buds, blast my show tunes and zone out.   I also love that if I get stuck underground on a slow or malfunctioning train – everyone who has ever relied on the MTA will understand my tardiness.  It is a shared frustration and something we can bond over.

Twice – not once, but TWICE I sat down only to realize a second to late that I was sitting in a puddle of what I can only hope is water – clean bottled water that some very hygienic tourist accidentally spilled – the actuality is too gruesome to consider.  Even at those moments, I love public transportation.   

When there’s urine on the floor, or barf on a seat – I don’t begrudge the MTA.  Someone just really had to go and couldn’t wait another second.  But when the a/c isn’t working, or just not on?  I want to kill everyone.  There’s no need to shove 8 million people into tiny metal tubes and make us sweatier than we already are.  For the love of everything holy, please, please, please, please, keep the air on.

Oh, and on an unrelated note; I found my first gray hair yesterday.  Awesome. 

Santa's hat.

This morning I saw a guy who looked exactly like Santa Claus riding a motor scooter and wearing a fedora.  It was one of the most delightful sights I’ve seen in a long time.  

I’d love to imagine that

a) Santa is real 

b) that he lives in Queens

c)keeps fit in the off season by riding a scooter. 

Wouldn’t that be amazing? And of course he’d be trendy enough to wear a fedora – and rock it.  

Good for you Kris Kringle… good for you. 

Being patient...

This weekend I was talking about my single status, and had a girl tell me to “be patient” and that “the right guy comes along when you aren’t looking for it”.  Now, I realize that she was trying to be kind, that she meant well, but before I go on, there are a few things I’d like to illustrate for you about said girl so you can get a better mental picture of it all. 

• This girl is gorgeous.  I mean, stop-and-stare stunning.  I’m no slouch, mind you, but this is the kind of girl that makes the rest of us feel a little less lovely.  Oh, and we were tubing down a river in PA, so we were wearing our swimsuits.  You know how most women are comfortable in their bathing clothes so long as they can wear shorts or a sarong?  Yeah, this girl was just wearing her bikini.  And rocking it. 
• This girl is 23. 
• This girl has been with her boyfriend “on and off” for ten years.  Which means that this girl met her boyfriend when they were freshmen in high school – and they are still together. 
• This girl is also not the brightest bulb in the box.  She is nice.  Super super nice.  (But please read/say that with a tinge of valley girl in your voice and you’ll get the idea.)   

Every time I think I’ve come to terms with the fact that I’m an awesome single person – that the fact I haven’t dated anyone seriously in 2 and a half years doesn’t bother me anymore, I realize that I am a big fat liar.  It does bother me.  Of course it does.  And I swear to God that if one more person tells me that “it’ll happen when I stop looking for it” I might punch them in the face.  I don’t know how anyone who wants to find a partner to share their lives with and hasn’t yet found said match could not be looking for it.  Maybe it’s because I’ve watched too many rom-coms, but I want to find more than just a “you’ll do”.  You know what I mean, the guy you keep around because he makes you feel less lonely, more attractive/interesting/fun/pretty/whatever… 

Now, could I have kept dating my boyfriend from high school into adulthood?  Probably – he was really into me.  Well one of them was, the guy I dated as a senior dumped me for a freshman – that was a mess in itself... also not the point here.  But if I was still with a guy from 10 years ago, I’m certain that we’d both be miserable.   And even if I’m so lonely that it hurts, and even if my dog will be my only love for the next 13-16 years, I would rather be awesomely single and happy whenever possible than miserably paired up with the wrong guy.

Natural Selection

I will never understand how some people are still alive.  The days of natural selection are long gone and sometimes (nay – all the time) I think we’d be better off if it still played a role in who survived into adulthood. 

There are people I work with who would not survive even 15 seconds of the Hunger Games.  Or the Oregon Trail.  Or life in general with the internet, moving walk-ways or a cell phone.   They would be shivved, or starved or die of dysentery. These people are incapable of opening a bag of pretzels so that it can be closed again with a chip clip.  I mean, it obviously makes the most sense to open the bag open like you have talons and make sure it’s open on both ends of the bag.  It makes the most sense to ask me if the lunch meat in the fridge is still good instead of looking at the expiration dates posted on the outside of the packaging.  It makes so much sense to see an email I send out to everyone – read the subject line, NOT the body of the email, and then come ask me questions about it.  All of which, by the way, were answered in the first two sentences of the email.

I don’t want you to think I’m unreasonable – people have off days.  Days where they forget how to spell, or forget where their glasses are (on the top of their head) or days where even the simplest tasks seem impossible.  These days usually follow a night of drinking, or a night with a screaming inconsolable baby, or a night working too hard – and on these days I try to be more understanding. More patient.

There are however, a couple people at my job with whom my patience is always at ZERO.  I don’t care if they just got out of the hospital where they suffered from kidney failure and had a miraculous recovery – if they open the supply closet and don’t close it? I want to rip their face off.   I don’t care if they just had their heart broken and their dog ran away and a stranger shaved part of their head on the subway in a razor rampage – if they pour themselves a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and open a new milk when there are already TWO open milks in the fridge, I want to push them down the stairs. 

I just don’t get it.  Be a grown up. Pay attention.  Clean up your own damned mess and stop assuming that you are the only person in the world with needs.  You are not.  And I’m not your f-ing cleaning lady.

Dog-vision

About a month ago I adopted a dog.  A perfect little mutt who looks nothing like the dog I always imagined I’d bring into my life.  Her legs are 3 inches long and her body is the length of a truck.  She’s shy and weird and brave and snuggly.  

 There is an unreasonable selection of dog toys, goods and accessories available online.  There is such a thing as a Thunder-Coat.  Someone is probably retiring now, because they invented the idea of a Thunder Coat.  It’s a blanket you wrap tightly around the dog’s body during a storm, and it’s supposed to calm their nervous system or something.   You want a collar that will keep them from barking without shocking their neck?  You can buy one that shoots out citronella instead.  I bought my dog puppy stairs - to make her climb onto my bed easier.   If there was ever any hope of my love life looking less depressing, it has since gone out the window - I now share my bed with a furry loveable pile of kisses and sneezes.   All thanks to the puppy stairs.

 Having a dog changes the way I look at everything.  If people don’t smile when they see my dog – they are ass holes.  If other dogs aren’t friendly enough to sniff at her – their owners are ass holes.  If people, like the man who sat next to me on my flight back to NYC last weekend, are scared of her – they are idiots.  I no longer feel bad about being a judgmental person – I do it in the name of my dog.  The vet tech tried to take blood twice and couldn’t find a vein and my poor little pup stayed quiet and scared.  I stepped in after her third try failed, grabbed her off the table, and forbid him from jabbing at her one more time.  I demanded that the vet do it himself.   I don’t feel bad about being a bitch to him because she doesn’t have a voice and cannot fight for herself.

You know, people (mainly my roommate) may judge me for buying her puppy stairs.  People may judge me for talking to my dog in public like she were a person – an adorable little person.  People may judge me for carrying her when she gets too tired to walk up the stairs to my apartment.  And people may judge me for letting her sleep with her head on my pillow.  But the only thing I’ll judge myself for is purchasing a Thunder Coat on Amazon.  It will be delivered on Friday.

Rainy Monday

This morning I had a 9 o'clock appointment with my doctor.  

I arrived at 8:45am and after stepping off the elevator, waited for nearly a full minute for either of the front desk gals to acknowledge me.  When they finally did, it was gruff and unfriendly - no eye contact at all or a smile.  Now, I work in guest relations, I understand today is rainy and a Monday morning, but honestly, being friendly is your g-damn job.  

I told them my name and that I had a 9 o'clock appointment, and was asked "do you have an appointment?"  I said I did, at 9 o'clock.  She asked me my name again.  I told her.  She took my license and insurance card and was putting paperwork together for me.  She then handed me the forms to fill out.  

I sat down in the waiting area to review all the paperwork and realized after a minute or two that she'd given me someone else's paperwork.  Now, I am not a doctor or a lawyer, but I am 100% positive that this was in violation of at least two or three regulations. I took them back up to the desk, and the woman didn’t even look up when she said “yeah?”  I told her that the forms she’d given me were someone else’s.  She snatched them from my hand and said "what's your name again?"  I told her my name (for those of you counting) for the fourth time.   The other front desk women stepped in at this point and said she'd put my paperwork together.  When I was given my forms I filled out the first page and brought the clip-board back.  She asked "you're finished already?"  I didn't fill out the background sheets - because none of my information has changed.  I was told to fill them out anyway.  I made a comment about how it's a waste of time because everything is the same as last year, and that they already have all of that information on file, to which she replied "yeah, well, I didn't make the policy."

I’d like to stop here to say again, that if you work at a front desk, IT IS YOUR JOB TO BE FRIENDLY.  It is your job to be patient and as helpful as possible.  And it is your f-ing job to be hospitable. If you have no interest in customer satisfaction, then don’t work as a receptionist at a busy doctor’s office in New York City.

I’d also like to say at this point that during my “visit” and 46 minute wait in the lobby, these two women working were complaining about having to work the week of the fourth of July, complaining about the rain, complaining about their weekends and one of them (the one who gave me the wrong paperwork) was complaining child-care for her daughter.  It did not surprise me that this woman who is not married, (and maybe 20 years old - maybe), has a child with no father-figure to speak of.  I shouldn’t judge, but I do.

I’m not a big complainer.  I start crying immediately when I even think about confrontation.  My mother never had that issue, and would complain about everything.  Once, my family was at a Dairy Queen, and my mom saw something unsanitary.  She looked at my sister and I and said “I’m going to say something” – we both immediately walked outside and sat in the car.  I wish I had the skill to do that on my own behalf.  I can compose angry emails, but when it comes time to saying something to someone’s face? Forget it.  I’ll crumple like paper. 

So here I am world, in a totally unhelpful and useless way; I am stepping up and saying that my morning was unacceptable.  I wish I could say that I won’t ever go back to that office.  That I’ll find a new doctor who has front desk staff that aren’t horrible bitches.  But frankly, finding a new doctor is exhausting and I’m too tired for that noise.

Stress

I find that living in NYC makes my anxiety level rise exponentially. Everything here just seems so dire.

Oh my God – I have to get up this escalator right now – I can’t believe you’re standing still on the left side of it! Can’t you see we’re all trying to get around you!?!

OhmahGod I have to get on this very full bus immediately, I can’t believe you don’t already have your MTA card out and in hand! 

What do you mean you only take cash?! 

It’s raining, and my umbrella isn’t golf sized!?!?    

It’s three o’clock in the afternoon on a Sunday,  I’m trying to take a nap and my neighbor is playing loud music?!?!   

Wtf?! The deli ran out of plastic forks?! 

Woe is me.

I’m going to be moving this summer, and while on its own, moving is incredibly stressful – moving in New York City?

World-ending-stressful.  

Two of my dearest friends in the city live near me but both of them are leaving NYC this summer.  One to LA and the other to Chicago; I don’t blame them, but I hate that they’re leaving me.   Because they won’t be nearby anymore, I’ll be changing neighborhoods, so I can live near other friends who welcome the chance to lay on the floor watching trashy tv and eating too much.   I have been planning to move into my own apartment, but sadly, now that I look at my budget, that seems less and less wise.   Additionally I’ll be travelling a lot this summer and worry about the actual schedule of moving. 

Being realistic is also incredibly stressful.  Why can’t I live in idiots-ville and just find an apartment that I like and assume that I’ll be able to find the money I need when it comes time to pay rent? 

Sigh.

If there was ever a time when I wished someone else would make decisions for me – it would be moving season.  Pick my perfect new apartment that fits inside my budget AND doesn’t require a broker fee.  Just get her done.

Mother's Day

The older I get, the more often I realize that my Mother is usually right.  

Now, I’m not talking about my hair-style (which she thinks is too long), or where I live (she’d rather I settle down in no-where’s-ville America – or in the basement at home), or what I do for a living (she cannot understand why I don’t want to be a teacher).  I am talking about the seemingly trivial life-bits that help you figure out how to behave like a decent human being.

One of the first things she said that I remember remembering was “girls who start early, end early.”  Now, this could mean a million things – and in the age of Teen Mom I, II and III – it seems even more poignant.  I meet people now who talk about their high school years as the best in their life, and I feel sorry for them.  Like most of America, high school kind of sucked for me.  And I was well liked.  But the start-early end-early concept (which I will admit I use as a joke more often than not) has its point. 

So, now that I’m 32, with some of my mother’s advice peppered in, here is what I know:

• There are kitchen gadgets in Bed, Bath and Beyond that are sold solely to make people feel inept when they aren’t used or understood.  It is okay not to buy them and own only one pan. 
• Katherine McFee is one of the most beautiful women in Hollywood, but also the most lifeless, boring and uninteresting.
• There are women on this earth who are naturally skinny and there are women on this earth who are not.  Figuring out which one you, and not beating yourself up over it will make life a lot easier.
• Eating cereal for dinner is sometimes the better option to cooking a full out meal.  Especially if you’re eating alone.
• The hair-dresser who took it upon herself to wax my eyebrows without my consent when I was 16 changed my life.
• Everyone should attend sleep away camp.
• Making your bed in the morning brings peace into your life in unexpected ways.
• Friends who will eat an entire pint of ice cream or several tubes of Pringles with you without judgment are the best kinds of friends to have.
• There is no such thing as too much face cream.
• Holding a grudge is equal parts satisfying and harmful.
• Not getting enough sleep makes everything harder and more irritating.
• Seeing a dead turtle in the road is one of the saddest things in the world.
• If a guy writes on his dating profile that “he only dates petite girls”, “is fanatical about manicured eyebrows” or has more than one photo of himself making the pouty face – run.
• No one enjoys doing the dishes, cleaning the toilet or taking out trash – they still have to get done.
• Eventually we all start coughing, sneezing and farting like our parents.  Try not to be surprised. 
• Eating grapes before a big work-out is a bad idea.
• Always RSVP, send thank you notes, show up on time and carry a granola bar in your purse.

Happy Mother’s Day. 

Late Lent

For the month of April I had, what my friends were calling “a late Lent”.  I took the month off from alcohol and online dating. 

I have had a profile on OK Cupid for almost a year, and found myself getting really frustrated with the quality – or lack thereof – of men that were reaching out to me.  So instead of being that surly spiteful hag to the few who might not have been the worst version of man, I decided to disable my profile for 36 days and reevaluate.  So I did.

So, on my second day of being 32 years old, I reactivated my account.

I realize that I’m probably in the minority here, but I try to be as truthful as possible on my profile.  I don’t have any pictures of myself posted that are more than 2 years old.  My main picture was taken at my birthday party, and I selected “average to athletic” as my body type.  I am honest about how tall I am, and I purposefully chose a lot of nerdy references and silly faced-photos to reflect my sense of humor and grandma-ness.  I suppose this is why I haven’t been overwhelmed with handsome eligible messages, but I’d rather wait it out for the guy who will match my style. 

Of course, I say that now, but how long is a realistic wait time? My very last non-New York single friend is getting married next weekend, and while I’m so happy for her – this will mark the 19^th wedding I’ve attended minus a plus one, in the past five years.  Going with my parents does not count as a date – let me just be clear on that.

I refuse to lower my standards solely out of loneliness.  Last night I got a message from a guy and all it said was “graet smile”.  I went to his profile and he has not posted one single photo of himself. 

Seriously dude? F that.

I deleted his message and continued my perusal of other possible man-friends.  Within minutes of visiting his page I get a SECOND message from him saying he meant what he said in his first message and that he apologizes for his lack of pictures “it’s my work” – whatever the hell that means.

In the three plus years and various sites and various accounts of online dating, I have only rarely heard back from guys that I reached out to first.  I don’t know if this is because I have an unrealistic view of myself, or if the guys online who say they’re looking for someone their own age are liars, but the men who engage with me online usually fall into one of the following categories:

1. CRAZY
2. Over the age of 45
3. Married with children but looking for something on the side
4. Really dumb

*Disclaimer – I have met some reasonable and smart and mostly attractive men, great guys really, just not a good fit with me. 

I have to believe that there is someone out there who is normal and funny and smart and who is (at least most of the time) employed somewhere.  My friends in other cities all say that I’m still single because I live in New York and this place is so hard for single women – I’m not disagreeing with them at all – but I was single before I moved here too.  And before that.  And before that.

So here I am universe, asking that you head my plea, and lead me in the direction of finding someone to play scrabble with. 

I am just going to adopt a dog.  It will make things a lot easier.

Smile - you jerk.

This morning on my walk to work a woman stepped out into the road to cross the street against the light.  A man waiting to cross, stopped her from stepping in front of a taxi, and instead of saying thank you, this woman was irritated.   I’m sorry lady, but this guy, no matter how strange looking just saved you from getting hit by a car that was not, under any circumstance, going to stop to let you cross.  This woman then spent a very awkward 10-12 seconds trying to ignore this man and pretend he wasn’t staring right at her.  Now, I will admit, that this man seemed to be missing a few elements of social awareness and might not be someone that I’d willingly sit down to lunch with, but he did, keep you from getting hit by a car.  That alone, I think, at the very least deserves a smile.  It doesn’t even have to be a big one – don’t show your teeth – but at least acknowledge what just happened.

That’s what I don’t get.  Granted, it’s a Monday and probably only 1% of people actually want to be going where they’re going – but there’s no need to be a bitch to a stranger who potentially just saved your life – or at least saved you from a $500 ambulance ride.    Even if you’re in the worst mood of all time, don’t be a jerk to someone who just kept you alive.  

Boston.

While running the Chicago marathon for the second time in 2007, I saw a t-shirt that said "A marathon" on the front and "just long enough to experience every emotion..." on the back.

100% accurate.

The strength and courage and stamina and endurance and confidence it takes to train and run a marathon is nothing short of miraculous.  My heart is breaking today as I look at these photos and videos from what happened this afternoon in Boston. 

These people should be celebrating.  They should be limping around from exhaustion and pride and hugging the people they care about.  They should be doing so with joy and gratitude.  Instead, they're doing so in fear, despair and sorrow. 

I don't pray very often, but I am praying today.

I am praying that these people find strength and resolve and courage to heal and trust again.  I am praying for the families of those who were hurt or killed today.  I am praying that our nation continues to educate our children - to teach them to value cultural differences, to find pride in being strong, fearless, smart and different.  In education and appreciation we will find peace.  I pray that this kind of senseless terror never happens again. 

I read somewhere years ago that we should be hugged 11 times a day.  What if that was required? What kind of world would we be living in?  Instead of 1 or 0 hugs, we would get 11 a day.  Every day.  Would we be nicer to each other? More open? More communicative?  Would we feel more valued?

Tomorrow I will hug 11 people. Whether they need it or not.

May God bless everyone in Boston right now.  May God bless everyone - everywhere - help us all find peace.

Eating like a fat kid.

I gained 52 pounds my freshman year of college.  When I went home for Christmas my dad asked me if I'd shrunk my clothes in the wash.  And sadly, I didn't even notice until I developed the pictures from spring break and saw what I looked like in my bikini. 

Growing up I was always really active - soccer, basketball, theatre, marching band, track - and living in a house where there wasn't much junk food, I never really over-ate it.  

Then I went to away to college. 

I have no idea what happened in my brain, but one day I woke up and I started eating like a hoarder.  Ice cream at every meal - cheese on everything, a case of Dr. Thunder (the Walmart version of Dr. Pepper - a whopping 290 calories a can and probably 6 pounds of sugar) a week and tube after tube of Pringles in between. A typical breakfast (and yes, I got up for breakfast every single day) would be a donut, bagel with cream cheese, whatever egg food they were serving that day, bacon, sausage links, a stack of pancakes, a bowl of cereal and of course, a banana.  EVERY day.  For lunch I'd make my own cheese fries by piling my plate high with french fries and then getting a stack of the American cheese slices.  A few fries wrapped in a cheese blanket and then popped right into my food hole.   

If I'm being totally honest, I also did that at dinner.

Oh, and I started drinking alcohol.  Some kids start in high school at parties, but because I never went to any of those, I didn't start drinking until college.  And worked hard to make up for lost time. 

My cousin came to visit toward the end of my first year and we were sitting at lunch having our second serving of ice cream (they had a soft serve machine AND an ice cream cooler - so obviously we needed both), and he looks at me while noshing on his strawberry shortcake cone and says "man, no wonder you got so fat - this is really good".  

That should have been a turning point for me, but sadly, it was not. 

In addition to eating my life away I also stopped exercising.  It wasn't a deliberate choice, but it happened.  The schedule of college life was overwhelming and all my habitual sports were replaced with other things.  Soccer conflicted with Marching Band.  Basketball conflicted with the theatre department.  Track lost to the Radio station and if I'm being honest, I wasn't ever fast enough to matter anywhere on the field.  But day by day, pound by pound I became the fat kid.  

Because I'm so tall, it spread out evenly.  So when I look back at photos of myself back then, I can see that I was over 200 pounds, but people who didn't know me then, just think I was a little chubster. It's taken me ten years to figure out a way to win out over my constant desire to stuff my face - to find a work-out routine that I can stick to.  

But yesterday, it all went to shit.  Yesterday I ate like that oblivious fat kid I thought I'd left behind so long ago. I felt like some starving orphan took over my body.  I do not, however, have the metabolism of said orphan and will be working off the ice cream and buttery pasta and cookies and double helping of french fries and cereal and donut holes for the next several weeks.  I woke up feeling hung-over even though I only had one glass of wine.  My body needs a detox from all that crap I shoved into yesterday - and of course, today is my day off from the gym. 

Just in time for my 10 year college reunion I suppose - heaven forbid I not be the fat version of myself when I walk back on campus.  

Over it.

I’m having one of those days where I just want to quit everything.  Just quit being a responsible adult.  Why doesn’t life ever seem to get any easier?  Every time I feel like I’ve got a leg up on the things that need to happen – I get knocked back down a peg. Or the whole f-ing ladder.

Every time I find myself at home with an hour to spare, I can’t take a nap because the girl who lives below me is practicing (badly, I might add) her jazz vocal exercises.  Every time I wake up early to go to the gym, their power is out and they’re not open at all that.  And every time I change out of my work clothes to get more comfortable for rehearsal, the socks that I chose to put on are so tight and warm and uncomfortable that I have to take them off in the cab on my way home.  Do not wear your warmest winter socks when you know you’ll be working inside a too warm rehearsal studio moving around a lot. 

I quit life.  I want to lie around in my pjs, wrapped in a blanket watching Law and Order: SVU all day.   

The building I work in is building out the floor beneath me and it has been excruciating.  There has been endless drilling and banging and hammering and sawing on the 14^th floor ceiling, and even though I know that it can’t possibly be true, it feels like 100% of the work being done is being done directly beneath my desk.  And even though I sent out an email to my entire team to let them know there’s nothing that can be done about the intrusive noise and excessive rumbling, that we just have to wait it out, I get complaints at least a dozen times a day.  I suppose that being the office manager means I am the sounding board for every unhappy thought and human to walk thru our doors.  I suppose that’s what I signed up for.  I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised and should be stoic enough to smile and agree and say “gee wiz, I wish that ruckus would stop too” but what I really want to say is slightly more aggressive.  Today the only person I saw that I didn’t want to punch in the face was our UPS delivery man.  He calls me Kelsey.  That is not my name.

Manners

I just read an article about a guy in Arkansas who hired his friend to “attack” him with a knife – all to impress his date.

REALLY?!  Really?  What happened to just being nice?  Or actually listening when you ask a question?  Or holding the door open and letting her enter or exit a room before you do?  Or holding up your end of a conversation?  Or paying attention to her when you’re together instead of getting distracted by your phone? 

Sigh.  I don’t get it.

Is there no one left out there teaching chivalry and kindness?  Do we really believe the only way to impress a girl, is to have a friend to come pretend to stab you so you can show off how brave and manly you are as you fight them  off?  (Poorly, I might add as he still got cut a few times.)  

Getting on and off the subway is a perfect example.  If I am waiting on the platform to get on the train, and stand back to let the passengers get off the train before I try to board – which, assholes, is what you’re supposed to do – people will shove me out of the way to get on the train.  Really?  Is it really that important that you get that seat?  Or the times people will look right at a pregnant woman or elderly person standing, and not offer them their seat.  Why must we all be so selfish?

Though, there was one time last summer when I was in a seat by the door and a man who looked to be in his seventies got on the train with his bags and cane.  I got up and said, “sir, would you like to sit down?” and he immediately started to verbally attack me for assuming he was a cripple.  “Do I look like a fucking cripple to you?!”  “Did I ask you to stand up?!” “Fuck you.”  30 seconds into his rant, I said, still standing and slack-jawed “so…  you don’t want to sit?”, and sat back down.   He stood over me yelling for the rest of my trip.  I hate confrontation. HATE. It.  So with this old man yelling at me, I started to cry.  Which I hated even more. 

So, to this man who got stabbed to impress a girl, (who I just read was unsurprisingly NOT impressed by his antics) I offer you some advice.  Get a grip and learn some manners.  Ladies don’t like getting blood on their clothes.

Vampire in Times Square

You know that kid from the Sixth Sense movie, who sees people that no one else can see?  Sometimes, walking around New York City, I feel like I’m that kid.   I don’t know why it happens, or when, but living in this city somehow dulls our senses to notice anything out of the ordinary, or at least acknowledge that anything special is happening right in front of us.  When I flew back to the city after Christmas, Katie Holmes and Suri Cruise were on my plane.  Now, I understand they’re just people, and don’t want to be pestered, but not one other person on the entire flight seemed to care or notice.  And I’m not even a fan of Katie Holmes, but seriously??  I couldn’t even find one person to make eye contact with about it.  Suri was just eating her animal crackers in the front row of first class, and staring people down as we lowly economy seated people boarded – daring us to acknowledge her.  And every single passenger lost that staring contest.  Lost to a six year old. 

This morning I was walking in Times Square and this guy – who was well over six feet tall seemed to glide right past me – dodging the hundreds of pedestrians and cars and moving like butter through the streets.  He was wearing a full-length black canvas trench coat with silver studs, had long dyed hair with blonde roots and tall Doc Martin style boots.  He had questionable facial hair – someday soon I assume he wants it to be a goatee, but today – not so much. Oh, and dark eye liner – lots of it.   What was fascinating to me about this guy – not that he was dressed like that at 6:45am on a Wednesday, or that he wasn’t obviously coming home from the club or a bar – but that no one else seemed to even notice him.  I think that’s amazing.  We are so focused on our own shit that these incredibly interesting people can swim right around us in a sea of ordinary, and in New York City we condition ourselves to not even notice. 

Maybe it’s my mid-western roots.  Maybe I grew up sheltered and boring.  And, there’s no maybe about the fact that I couldn’t be whiter.  But, in my 2013 quest to find reasons to like living in this cesspool of anger and frustration and noise, I think that its people like this vampire man that make this place unique.  Rushing to get somewhere – perhaps out of the sun to lie in a windowless room – perhaps he’s heading back into or out of the matrix, or perhaps he’s going to work at Toys R Us – but this guy made me smile and no one else even noticed him seamlessly bobbing and weaving through the ordinary dregs walking to work. 

Embarrassed

I'm embarrassed to admit it, but I watch The Bachelor.  I don't know why - these people seem so vapid and empty, and yet, part of me is jealous of them.  Why can't I be so idiotic to believe that you can in fact fall in love - like the forever and ever love - in a month.  Oh yeah, also with cameras in your face the whole time, all the while competing for said love with two dozen other people.... I mean, that is totally reasonable, right?

Tonight is the finale - and there's a "live" studio audience watching it in LA - and I'm judging them.  I am sitting on the floor of my living room in my pajamas (and by pajamas I mean yoga pants and an old t-shirt - keep in mind I have never done yoga in my entire life) and I am judging them.  Those women who got all gussied up and are sitting in that studio with Chris Whateverhislastnameis and watching this last episode - I am judging them.  How is that fair?  I'm doing the exact same thing.  The only difference is that I am lying about my bizarre fascination with this trash.  I always want to believe that I'd be the kind of person to own whatever lifestyle choices I make - but this one?  I keep hidden.

Oh my god - now they're doing a "check-in" with the audience.... are you f-ing kidding me?  And now someone just made a comment about how Catherine is "26, and has been waiting for this her whole life.... she's totally ready for this".  wtf?  Why am I angry at these people for thinking 26 is on the path to Old-Maiden-Ship?  Sigh... 26 is not old you ass holes.

Almost birthday.

Two days ago was my "two months away from turning 32" day.  For the record, as a typo I typed 21, instead of 32 and it made me want to cry a little bit.  Not that I'd got back and be 21 again - Jesus, what a mess that would be, but still.  I'm nearly 32 and I feel like I have nothing to show for myself. 

To be fair I have a great life, I know this.   I live and work in New York City (though, my apartment is in Queens - not Manhattan, so don't go getting any fancy ideas about my lifestyle), I have a day job that pays me enough that I'm able to pay all my bills and put approximately 25 cents a month into my savings account, I'm healthy, have an amazing family and a wonderful group of friends - but somehow, it still feels like something is missing. 

I used to have a gold fish.  Her name was Darlene, she lived for 4 years and three months.  When I moved to Orlando from Chicago I bought a fish travel case (yes, those actually exist) and she made the drive down with me and died two months later.  She clearly hated living in Florida.  

I have a house-plant that's nearly eleven years old.  One of my best friend's mother's gave it to me as a graduation present from college, and while I've nearly killed it several times, it's still hanging in there.  Green thumb I do not have, but this plant (whose name is Will by the way - don't ask why) just won't die.  

I am the proud owner of two full sets of bagpipes.  It's on my to-do list for 2013 to start practicing both again.  The issues there are obvious - where does one practice the bagpipes?  Even if you're incredibly gifted, it isn't really an instrument people run toward - more like flee from as quickly as possible... isn't that a joke somewhere?  A guy is in prison and his mother comes to visit and asks how he's doing, what his cell-mate is like.... and he says "well, he's fine I suppose except for the fact he's always bashing his head against the wall" and the mother asks how he deals with that and the man says "oh, it's fine, I just keep playing my bagpipes"... Well, imagine that terror and then take any talent of skill out of the sound and then you'd have me. 

I also have a trombone.  I'm not sure what I hoped to gain as a 9 year old by selecting that as my instrument of choice but man, it is useless to me now.  Plus, I'm not very good at it.  But at least there are studios in Manhattan that you can rent out for practicing - which is a step in the right direction. 

Even with all of this - all my worldly nearly useless possessions, something is still amiss.