I’ve spent most of my life bouncing around from place to place and have always had an easy time absorbing the culture. I know everyone does this. I, however, do it instantly and with no ability to control myself.
Initially, it had been an asset. By the time I was eight, I’d lived in 4 different countries and had found that people don’t generally like foreigners. The faster you can become one of “them” the better. We were too insulated from the Italians to learn their culture, but I had a relatively easy time becoming a “Soviet Georgian”, then “an American”, later “a Texan”. So far so good. Then things got a little strange.
I became a trombone player and as a teen found myself surrounded by guys. Naturally I started “to become”. I went into my parents closet and emerged as my step dad borrowing his pants and t-shirts. My parents thought it was all cute until they found I was still dressing and acting like a boy well into college.
At some point, I recall them grabbing and shaking me screaming “Stop it! We had a daughter!” Ok maybe it didn’t quite go like that. In reality, they sat me down and tried to explain that people don’t know how to categorize me, that I’m “neither this nor that“, and people don’t generally like those they don’t understand. I shrugged. I didn’t really understand most people either and decided the world at large and I had a perfectly reciprocal relationship.
A while later, my mom sat me down again and explained that if I continue to dress and act in a masculine way, I would attract feminine men. She had concocted this theory about how each relationship seeks a balance between the feminine and the masculine counterparts and that women who trended toward the masculine would attract weak effeminate men to keep a sort of gender role balance within the relationship. “Of course that’s totally fine,” she added, “if you’re into that sort of thing”. Ewwwwww. I immediately went into my parents closet and reemerged as my mother. I’m still not sure if she is right, but I couldn’t take any chances!Since then, I’ve been happily and somewhat awkwardly bouncing through life as my mother until my life in Chelsea began.
One of the many distinctive characteristics of Chelsea is it’s disproportionate population of young gay men. After a week of watching very trendy, good looking gay boys sashaying past me down 7th and 8th avenue, and following a long conversation with my fabulous gay neighbor, Britt, about his plans for renovations of our bathroom, I suddenly found myself morphing into.....thats right, a gay man. I’ve actually caught myself striking a pose calling everything I liked “fabulous” and everyone I liked “sweet”. I’ve become completely obsessed with accessorizing my apartment which has suddenly become immaculate. The other morning I actually caught myself saying to someone, “I’ll need a nice suit for the big supervisors meeting. Oh darn! An excuse to go shopping!” Dear god! I’ve always hated shopping! What’s happening?!
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Shoebox apartment in all its glory
The shoebox in all its glory.
The kitch-bath. Its actually pretty nice. The down side is that its a very powerful gas stove and makes the apartment extemely hot when I cook.
The loft. Where this photo ends, the cieling begins. I can sit up in bed if I cock my head to the side.
View from the loft.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
I Dont Wanna Go Potty
…..this entry is not for the squeamish or anyone in the middle of their lunch……
I just had several harrowing days trying to deal with the communal bathroom. I'm not a picky person when it comes to that sort of thing. You give me a hole and a target sign and I'm good to go. I've lived with all kinds of shared bathrooms: college dorms, hostels, camp sites, bushes, litter boxes, etc... No big deal....until now.
I didnt think it would bother me (that faint constant urine odor in the hallway). But eventually it started driving me nuts. Not to mention every time I would open the bathroom door, I would get hit in the face with a cloud of organically generated ammonia and mental images of how a bathroom could be driven to smell THAT bad within hours of being cleaned.
I used the good smelling bathrooms on the 4th and 1st floor and figured walking a couple of flights was an acceptable trade off.
Then on Friday night I heard a woman screaming about something in the hallway. When I awoke on Saturday morning, my two clean potty alternatives were locked! Oh the horror!
I decided I wasn’t going to let the potty win! I began with chlorine tablets which freshened up the hallway, but left the bathroom still largely gross. I was undeterred. I bought handy wipes and would just do whatever necessary. Then horror of horrors! I went in with my little handy wipes and began wiping down the seat when some dark streaks on the back of the toilet seat started coming off. Through what contortion magic can you possibly leave thin poopy streaks on the back of the toilet?!
KO. It was official. The potty had finally won.
I decided that on Monday I would call the super and tell him to either get me a key to the first floor bathroom or I was calling the health department.
On Sunday morning as I made the long and painful 6 foot journey from my apartment to the stinky bathroom, my fabulously gay neighbor stopped me and asked if I want to use “our” bathroom. What?! What?! What?! Our bathroom?! “Yes, but you have to keep it clean and locked”. I was so overjoyed, I had to restrain myself from humping his leg. He then opened the door to what I thought had been a storage closet leading the way to a wondrous and odorless potty world with fashion magazines, a decorative vase and a little mirrored cabinet. This must be what Alice in Wonderland must have felt like.
I just had several harrowing days trying to deal with the communal bathroom. I'm not a picky person when it comes to that sort of thing. You give me a hole and a target sign and I'm good to go. I've lived with all kinds of shared bathrooms: college dorms, hostels, camp sites, bushes, litter boxes, etc... No big deal....until now.
I didnt think it would bother me (that faint constant urine odor in the hallway). But eventually it started driving me nuts. Not to mention every time I would open the bathroom door, I would get hit in the face with a cloud of organically generated ammonia and mental images of how a bathroom could be driven to smell THAT bad within hours of being cleaned.
I used the good smelling bathrooms on the 4th and 1st floor and figured walking a couple of flights was an acceptable trade off.
Then on Friday night I heard a woman screaming about something in the hallway. When I awoke on Saturday morning, my two clean potty alternatives were locked! Oh the horror!
I decided I wasn’t going to let the potty win! I began with chlorine tablets which freshened up the hallway, but left the bathroom still largely gross. I was undeterred. I bought handy wipes and would just do whatever necessary. Then horror of horrors! I went in with my little handy wipes and began wiping down the seat when some dark streaks on the back of the toilet seat started coming off. Through what contortion magic can you possibly leave thin poopy streaks on the back of the toilet?!
KO. It was official. The potty had finally won.
I decided that on Monday I would call the super and tell him to either get me a key to the first floor bathroom or I was calling the health department.
On Sunday morning as I made the long and painful 6 foot journey from my apartment to the stinky bathroom, my fabulously gay neighbor stopped me and asked if I want to use “our” bathroom. What?! What?! What?! Our bathroom?! “Yes, but you have to keep it clean and locked”. I was so overjoyed, I had to restrain myself from humping his leg. He then opened the door to what I thought had been a storage closet leading the way to a wondrous and odorless potty world with fashion magazines, a decorative vase and a little mirrored cabinet. This must be what Alice in Wonderland must have felt like.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Home Sweet Home
I have mixed emotions about my new building. Its surprisingly residential for virtually kissing the train station. Its a 300 sq ft loft apartment with one toilet and shower per floor to be shared with the other lovely tenants.
To me it was all about location because I refuse to get up a second earlier then I have to and this place basically allows me to roll out of bed and onto a long island rail road train seat. The rest I chose to ignore.
This is the generic first time viewing experience: As you approach the building you think, this street is quiet and cute with its brownstones. I cant believe we are steps away from one of the most chaotic neighborhoods in Manhattan! As you enter the building you think, whats that
smell? Ah yes! Third world half way house. The doors are packed together so closely, initially you are convinced they are storage units. No, no, someone has managed to squeeze into every single unit and through some advanced contortion techniques, close the door and lock
themselves inside. In the hallway, theres even a little toilet closet and a little shower closet. No sink. That would be found inside the unit in the form of the kitch-bath sink....which is actually kind of a handy way to find out which friends wash after using the toilet. Its really not too bad unless the bathroom door is open. It literally smells like a wino stepped inside and peed all over himself. How do you make a bathroom smell that bad in one day?! The odd thing about it is that its just my floor and the floor below that reek of wino. The ground floor and 4th floor smell fine-ish. Lord, you scream, why me?! Why does it always have to be me?! No wait, sorry,
that was me screaming, you would be screaming, what the hell am I doing in Julie's apartment?! This is so bizarre!......but then you would notice that for the tininess of the unit, its actually really quite nice.....and then everything would be ok.
Inside the unit theres the "loft", a lovely built in bunk bed of sorts (not intended for use with claustraphobics).Theres the kitch-bath sink for maximum efficiency for those on the go multitaskers! Why waste time just brushing your teeth when you can rinse a head of lettuce at the same time?! Yeah, I stole that from a Seinfeld episode.
On my way from the a shower in the hall way, I tried to set down my toiletries near the kitch-bath sink and managed to hook my bra strap in one of the stove prongs. How many people do you know who can say THAT?!
The shower has one and only one amenity. Hot water. Its probably 2.5 x 5 feet with a little curtain separating the changing area (2 feet) from the shower area (2 feet). A great chance to rough it a bit and really get the new york experience. There's no hooks, no where to put your soap or toiletries which just gives you a chance to get creative! The towel can be placed on top of the broom handle while you hang your cloths from the door knob. What about soap and shampoo and such.....well, you just hold them in your hand while you shower because bending down is a bit tricky in such a small space. Thank God for the 24 hour fitness down the road! I must have taken about a 30 minute shower in there last night.
Overall I'm actually really happy with it, and I'll be even happier if I learn not to pee.
....pictures to follow.....
To me it was all about location because I refuse to get up a second earlier then I have to and this place basically allows me to roll out of bed and onto a long island rail road train seat. The rest I chose to ignore.
This is the generic first time viewing experience: As you approach the building you think, this street is quiet and cute with its brownstones. I cant believe we are steps away from one of the most chaotic neighborhoods in Manhattan! As you enter the building you think, whats that
smell? Ah yes! Third world half way house. The doors are packed together so closely, initially you are convinced they are storage units. No, no, someone has managed to squeeze into every single unit and through some advanced contortion techniques, close the door and lock
themselves inside. In the hallway, theres even a little toilet closet and a little shower closet. No sink. That would be found inside the unit in the form of the kitch-bath sink....which is actually kind of a handy way to find out which friends wash after using the toilet. Its really not too bad unless the bathroom door is open. It literally smells like a wino stepped inside and peed all over himself. How do you make a bathroom smell that bad in one day?! The odd thing about it is that its just my floor and the floor below that reek of wino. The ground floor and 4th floor smell fine-ish. Lord, you scream, why me?! Why does it always have to be me?! No wait, sorry,
that was me screaming, you would be screaming, what the hell am I doing in Julie's apartment?! This is so bizarre!......but then you would notice that for the tininess of the unit, its actually really quite nice.....and then everything would be ok.
Inside the unit theres the "loft", a lovely built in bunk bed of sorts (not intended for use with claustraphobics).Theres the kitch-bath sink for maximum efficiency for those on the go multitaskers! Why waste time just brushing your teeth when you can rinse a head of lettuce at the same time?! Yeah, I stole that from a Seinfeld episode.
On my way from the a shower in the hall way, I tried to set down my toiletries near the kitch-bath sink and managed to hook my bra strap in one of the stove prongs. How many people do you know who can say THAT?!
The shower has one and only one amenity. Hot water. Its probably 2.5 x 5 feet with a little curtain separating the changing area (2 feet) from the shower area (2 feet). A great chance to rough it a bit and really get the new york experience. There's no hooks, no where to put your soap or toiletries which just gives you a chance to get creative! The towel can be placed on top of the broom handle while you hang your cloths from the door knob. What about soap and shampoo and such.....well, you just hold them in your hand while you shower because bending down is a bit tricky in such a small space. Thank God for the 24 hour fitness down the road! I must have taken about a 30 minute shower in there last night.
Overall I'm actually really happy with it, and I'll be even happier if I learn not to pee.
....pictures to follow.....
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
All the Comforts of Home
So I thought I was "roughing it" when I stayed at the Motel 6 in Santa Ana for $52 a night because the computer station was primitive and the walls smelled smokey. Baha! Then I came to long island and tried to live the cheapo business relocator traveler life.
Thanks to some awful golf tournament, the price of all of the local hotels doubled and tripled. Last night I found myself paying $109+tax for a grand total of $122 for a room at the Days Inn. Pulling up, I thought it was a dumpy ethnic neighborhood, but whatever, I grew up in a dumpy ethnic neighborhood and it was actually kinda nice seeing all of the black and Hispanic families enjoying their weekend shopping with the kids. I shrugged off my reservations and just went with the flow.
At midnight, jet lagged, still awake and starving to death, I decided to investigate the snack machine inventory. I slipped my sockless feet into my sneakers and (too lazy to lace up) I clip clopped over to the vending machine. But there was no vending machine. Just an ice machine. I glanced across the street and the empty lot beyond it at a Gulp gas station 50 yards away. I got that queasy "gosh its dark and spooky" knot in my stomach I'm convinced men know nothing about. But then I thought, 50 yards, hungry, 50 yards, hungry....
I got there and the apparently bored attendant started trying to reel me into a conversation which quickly turned weird. He asked, "How much are the rooms at the Days Inn". I explained that I went through travelocity and gave him the rate. He asked, "is that for 12 or 24 hours"? Huh? Who rents by the half day? He tried to keep me there talking, but I cut it short. I was too tired to be patient with this guy.
As I walked around the chain linked fence separating the gas station from the spooky parking lot on my way back to the hotel, a truck pulled around on the other side of the fence and asked, "How are you doing?" It suddenly dawned on me that I cant even run in my unlaced shoes! "Good" I barked and shuffled toward my hotel as quickly as my sneakers turned flip flops would take me. My God, this guy could kill me, eat my liver, dress up in a suite made from my skin, and be gone hours before anyone would even notice the stench. After 20 yards, I looked back, but he was gone. I should have known. Serial killers clearly prefer affluent neighborhoods. Nope. It was a John. Mom would've been so proud!
When I returned to my room, I read reviews from a Days Inn patron who claimed to have been stuck next door to a hooker. How would he know it was a hooker?!
At around 1:30am I heard weird sex. I've been next door to newly weds before and this was nothing like that. There was grunting and moaning followed by pleading then more grunting. My sleep was awful that night! Every time I heard a noise I'd sit up and listen closely to hear if the sounds were indicative of the guy next door trying to hide the hookers body.
At 3:30am, awake again I searched for a hotel for the next night. The price for a room at the Days Inn had gone up to $148+tax.
Thanks to some awful golf tournament, the price of all of the local hotels doubled and tripled. Last night I found myself paying $109+tax for a grand total of $122 for a room at the Days Inn. Pulling up, I thought it was a dumpy ethnic neighborhood, but whatever, I grew up in a dumpy ethnic neighborhood and it was actually kinda nice seeing all of the black and Hispanic families enjoying their weekend shopping with the kids. I shrugged off my reservations and just went with the flow.
At midnight, jet lagged, still awake and starving to death, I decided to investigate the snack machine inventory. I slipped my sockless feet into my sneakers and (too lazy to lace up) I clip clopped over to the vending machine. But there was no vending machine. Just an ice machine. I glanced across the street and the empty lot beyond it at a Gulp gas station 50 yards away. I got that queasy "gosh its dark and spooky" knot in my stomach I'm convinced men know nothing about. But then I thought, 50 yards, hungry, 50 yards, hungry....
I got there and the apparently bored attendant started trying to reel me into a conversation which quickly turned weird. He asked, "How much are the rooms at the Days Inn". I explained that I went through travelocity and gave him the rate. He asked, "is that for 12 or 24 hours"? Huh? Who rents by the half day? He tried to keep me there talking, but I cut it short. I was too tired to be patient with this guy.
As I walked around the chain linked fence separating the gas station from the spooky parking lot on my way back to the hotel, a truck pulled around on the other side of the fence and asked, "How are you doing?" It suddenly dawned on me that I cant even run in my unlaced shoes! "Good" I barked and shuffled toward my hotel as quickly as my sneakers turned flip flops would take me. My God, this guy could kill me, eat my liver, dress up in a suite made from my skin, and be gone hours before anyone would even notice the stench. After 20 yards, I looked back, but he was gone. I should have known. Serial killers clearly prefer affluent neighborhoods. Nope. It was a John. Mom would've been so proud!
When I returned to my room, I read reviews from a Days Inn patron who claimed to have been stuck next door to a hooker. How would he know it was a hooker?!
At around 1:30am I heard weird sex. I've been next door to newly weds before and this was nothing like that. There was grunting and moaning followed by pleading then more grunting. My sleep was awful that night! Every time I heard a noise I'd sit up and listen closely to hear if the sounds were indicative of the guy next door trying to hide the hookers body.
At 3:30am, awake again I searched for a hotel for the next night. The price for a room at the Days Inn had gone up to $148+tax.
Friday, June 12, 2009
Terror at Cruising Altitude
I honestly have no idea why I'm more afraid of being killed flying then driving. We all know the odds. You are less likely to die in a plain crash then drowning in a bucket. Yet the site of an air plain just automatically triggers the thought, "hey, there goes a flying tomb". I'm not kidding. Somehow in the last 7 or so years, my mind inexplicably and without provocation decided that airplane = death.
It started with me hearing somewhere that the take off and the landing were the most dangerous part of the flight and culminated with me trembling for all 45 minutes of a flight from Vegas to Burbank as I felt the plain descending violently......for all 45 minutes......even while we were ascending. It was awful. Literally, 45 non-stop minutes of the little voice inside my head thinking "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I don't know how I got to be so nuts.
Tomorrow I fly again. Six hours. I was planning on driving the 3000 miles to new york largely to avoid flying until more then one person pointed out that the drive was far more dangerous. I actually considered doing multiple lay-overs and in a sense hop scotching my way across America, but I couldn't decide what was more horrible, 3 take offs that stretched the trip into a 15 hour ordeal or one 6-hour long miserable stretch of non-stop terror.
The new plan: ship the car and fly direct while completely stoned on herbal supplements. That's right, too chicken to use illegal drugs, too lazy to get a prescription for real drugs so I'll be popping Valerian root like there's no tomorrow.
The one time I've attempted taking Valerian Root to calm myself on a flight, I accidentally overdosed. That's right, I overdosed on herbal supplements and it was fantastic! The high itself wasn't actually enjoyable. No. It was basically the out of it feeling you get when you take strong cold medication that leaves you very sleepy and too fuzzy headed to understand anything. The enjoyable part in that experience was in thinking, "right now, I don't care if we do crash" followed by mirth and giggling (hopefully to myself and not out loud). I plan to recreate the experience with alcohol as my backup plan.
My step dad wanted to know how I would find the emergency exit if I'm drunk.
Damn him!
It started with me hearing somewhere that the take off and the landing were the most dangerous part of the flight and culminated with me trembling for all 45 minutes of a flight from Vegas to Burbank as I felt the plain descending violently......for all 45 minutes......even while we were ascending. It was awful. Literally, 45 non-stop minutes of the little voice inside my head thinking "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I don't know how I got to be so nuts.
Tomorrow I fly again. Six hours. I was planning on driving the 3000 miles to new york largely to avoid flying until more then one person pointed out that the drive was far more dangerous. I actually considered doing multiple lay-overs and in a sense hop scotching my way across America, but I couldn't decide what was more horrible, 3 take offs that stretched the trip into a 15 hour ordeal or one 6-hour long miserable stretch of non-stop terror.
The new plan: ship the car and fly direct while completely stoned on herbal supplements. That's right, too chicken to use illegal drugs, too lazy to get a prescription for real drugs so I'll be popping Valerian root like there's no tomorrow.
The one time I've attempted taking Valerian Root to calm myself on a flight, I accidentally overdosed. That's right, I overdosed on herbal supplements and it was fantastic! The high itself wasn't actually enjoyable. No. It was basically the out of it feeling you get when you take strong cold medication that leaves you very sleepy and too fuzzy headed to understand anything. The enjoyable part in that experience was in thinking, "right now, I don't care if we do crash" followed by mirth and giggling (hopefully to myself and not out loud). I plan to recreate the experience with alcohol as my backup plan.
My step dad wanted to know how I would find the emergency exit if I'm drunk.
Damn him!
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Gossip junkey
I parked at a 24 hour fitness and was finishing up my call to my grandma when an incoming call went to voice mail. It was a singing voice mail from a buddy I met 8 years ago while on a horrible tour of The Music Man.
Julie Kalu,
I miss you.
Call me back
You fucking bitch.
What girl can resist poetry?! I called him back right away.
A little background about me and my road buddy: We were on quite possibly the worst tour. Most of the company was very inexperienced, very young, not particularly good, and going nuts. To make things worse, the not so young members of the tour were 40-something year olds who never made it in the industry.......and for good reasons. It was the sort of experience that sent almost every member of the company looking for some way to drown their misery. Unlike most of our coworkers, neither my buddy nor I were into partying. As a result, we were the only two members of the 50-60 member company who would be up early, wandering the streets of America looking for a decent cup of coffee. That's when we discovered each other and our drugs of choice: coffee and gossip.
We had plenty of material to work with. We were on tour with beauty obsessed actors and dancers whose need for attention and positive affirmation was nearly unquenchable, thus they hooked up with everyone. There were troll like musicians who showed up to work drunk or stoned releasing beer and pizza death farts in the pit, then venturing out to bars every night until 3am trying to hook up with everyone. And of course, there was the crew, largely arrogant recluses who stopped acknowledging me as soon as they realized I wasn't going to hook up with them. You notice a common theme here? Yeah, we did as well and it kept us busy enough for 7 months to keep from slitting our wrists. It was Jerry Springer meets Melrose Place at a frat party kind of stuff where a love triangle wasn't interesting enough to be worth mentioning unless it was a married mother of an 8 year-old actor hooking up with one of the adult actors who had been gay for all 42 years of his life.
I work in a completely different environment now. Since we don't live with our coworkers, the gossip is mostly conjecture and office squabbling. I had forgotten how intoxicating it all had been until he called.
After some chit chat about gigs and such, I warned him that my phone battery was running low. He promised to hurry.
"You know I've been with my girl for three years now."
"Yeah." This might be good, I thought as I smelled the mild, sweet aroma of ripening gossip.
"Well, in all of that time, I haven't even wanted to look at another girl."
"Yeah?!" More! Feed the monster!
"Yeah." Beep. Phone shutting down.
"No!" I screamed, "No! No! No!" I thought about trying to power up my phone again. I'd just need about ten seconds. Just a quick, "Is it good or is it bad? Hurry!" The battery had been threatening me for a while and I knew there just wasn't any juice left. But I need the gossip! I need it bad! It was already 10 o'clock at night. Where could I score a gossip fix at such a late hour?!
*Sigh* Maybe its just as well. That was a dark period in my life. Maybe its better to go without.
Julie Kalu,
I miss you.
Call me back
You fucking bitch.
What girl can resist poetry?! I called him back right away.
A little background about me and my road buddy: We were on quite possibly the worst tour. Most of the company was very inexperienced, very young, not particularly good, and going nuts. To make things worse, the not so young members of the tour were 40-something year olds who never made it in the industry.......and for good reasons. It was the sort of experience that sent almost every member of the company looking for some way to drown their misery. Unlike most of our coworkers, neither my buddy nor I were into partying. As a result, we were the only two members of the 50-60 member company who would be up early, wandering the streets of America looking for a decent cup of coffee. That's when we discovered each other and our drugs of choice: coffee and gossip.
We had plenty of material to work with. We were on tour with beauty obsessed actors and dancers whose need for attention and positive affirmation was nearly unquenchable, thus they hooked up with everyone. There were troll like musicians who showed up to work drunk or stoned releasing beer and pizza death farts in the pit, then venturing out to bars every night until 3am trying to hook up with everyone. And of course, there was the crew, largely arrogant recluses who stopped acknowledging me as soon as they realized I wasn't going to hook up with them. You notice a common theme here? Yeah, we did as well and it kept us busy enough for 7 months to keep from slitting our wrists. It was Jerry Springer meets Melrose Place at a frat party kind of stuff where a love triangle wasn't interesting enough to be worth mentioning unless it was a married mother of an 8 year-old actor hooking up with one of the adult actors who had been gay for all 42 years of his life.
I work in a completely different environment now. Since we don't live with our coworkers, the gossip is mostly conjecture and office squabbling. I had forgotten how intoxicating it all had been until he called.
After some chit chat about gigs and such, I warned him that my phone battery was running low. He promised to hurry.
"You know I've been with my girl for three years now."
"Yeah." This might be good, I thought as I smelled the mild, sweet aroma of ripening gossip.
"Well, in all of that time, I haven't even wanted to look at another girl."
"Yeah?!" More! Feed the monster!
"Yeah." Beep. Phone shutting down.
"No!" I screamed, "No! No! No!" I thought about trying to power up my phone again. I'd just need about ten seconds. Just a quick, "Is it good or is it bad? Hurry!" The battery had been threatening me for a while and I knew there just wasn't any juice left. But I need the gossip! I need it bad! It was already 10 o'clock at night. Where could I score a gossip fix at such a late hour?!
*Sigh* Maybe its just as well. That was a dark period in my life. Maybe its better to go without.
Friday, June 5, 2009
The dreaded B-word
It was my birthday today. I had almost forgotten until I was forced to offer the elliptical machine an answer about my metrics before being allowed to commence with 1.5 hours of gasping and sweating. Stupid nosy elliptical machine! It was supposed to be "ok" to get older this year because I was planning on celebrating my last day at my current job today, but they pulled the rug out from under me by "separating" from me 2 days early so instead I celebrated by going on a bike ride and having my chain literally snap in half 2 miles from the midway point. Man! I need to stop lifting weights! Either that or I need to stop buying 20 year old bicycles and deluding myself into thinking that grinding and clanking are a natural part of an uphill bike ride.
I remember my buddy Brenda leaving me a message on my 22nd birthday asking, "how does it feel to be 22? Pretty lousy, right?! Because after your 21st birthday, nothing fun happens, you just get older". She always had quite the unique perspective on things. I hope she never tries to volunteer at a suicide hot line.
She's right though. I think 34 is quite old enough. I'm done with the whole business of aging. Stop the clock! I want to get off this ride while everything still works and I can get by without botox.
I guess the upside of turning 34 is that I've had plenty of time to get used to moping about yet another birthday.
Well, that was a satisfying pitty party I just threw for myself. Please come back same time next year as the pitty party promises to be even grander!
I remember my buddy Brenda leaving me a message on my 22nd birthday asking, "how does it feel to be 22? Pretty lousy, right?! Because after your 21st birthday, nothing fun happens, you just get older". She always had quite the unique perspective on things. I hope she never tries to volunteer at a suicide hot line.
She's right though. I think 34 is quite old enough. I'm done with the whole business of aging. Stop the clock! I want to get off this ride while everything still works and I can get by without botox.
I guess the upside of turning 34 is that I've had plenty of time to get used to moping about yet another birthday.
Well, that was a satisfying pitty party I just threw for myself. Please come back same time next year as the pitty party promises to be even grander!
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