Pressed for Juice

In my opinion, humanity can be divided into 2 parts: those who drink Juice Press and those who don't.  The former of course being the woman who has a private yoga instruction in her Soho loft every morning after the nanny takes the newborn offspring to the park to learn Mandarin.  And the latter being anyone I have an ounce of desire to know.

And then something cursed happened.  I was given a Juice Press gift card from one of my male coworkers during a Secret Santa exchange. It was a seemingly harmless gift - the kind of gift that an overworked, single, 20 something year old male gives after recuperating from shell shock having been burdened with picking out a $25 Christmas surprise for a chick he barely knows in his office.  He wasn't even present for the gift exchange, so when a girl in my department handed me the little plastic card, she explained to me Joaquin's* nervous debate over whether giving me a yoga mat would imply I need to elongate my limbs and drop a few - or if gifting body lotion insinuated some perverse fantasy involving him rubbing it on me.  And so he settled on juice.  Because what lady do you know DOESN'T love to starve herself silly on liquid?  I mean, chicks man, amirite?  For the record, a Clay Aiken's Greatest Hits compact disk box set would have been a blessing compared to the havoc that damn gift card released on my life.

*Name has been changed to protect the poor dude's privacy, while maintaining historical accuracy surrounding the lofty and oft-times unpronounceable names of people in my work environment.  For no apparent reason I've yet to ascertain.  And still here I am - a sore thumb Caitlin in a sea of Guinevere's.

I innocently stepped foot in Juice Press for the first time in early January and pretended to look for my usual kale mixture of choice among the intimidating selection of options stocked in the fridge.  I was tempted to rattle off a list of maladies to the chick at the counter to ensure I chose wisely - I have super dry elbows, my dog doesn't listen to me, and I really like rom coms...which of these $17 bottles of liquid vegetables will make me a princess? 

Instead I opted for something a little more my speed - a smoothie mainly comprised of cold press coffee.  As I'm already an over-caffeinated wreck, I briefly wondered if I was abusing the point of the health store, but took a little pride that I wasn't the stick thin dude in front of me spending $170 on various snot-green concoctions that he'd most likely live off for 2 weeks.  I also took pride that I wasn't dating him, although he and I exchanged glances as he was leaving. In this moment a wave of mutual understanding washed over us: he was much cooler than I in that environmentally aware, wood carving, clean colon way that my preservative-riddled, styrofoam cup using self could never understand. Regardless, I spent the next hour and a half sipping on my smoothie - very much aware that every gulp costed me roughly $1.17; making me hell bent on expanding the elapsed time-to-sip ratio in order to get my money's worth. 

Since then my gift card has run out of money, and I'm still sneaking off to Juice Press more times than I'd care to share.  I sit at my desk wondering why the plastic cup containing my Yoga Karma Relax Detox Rejuvenating Vital Raw Coconut Life Force Smoothie isn't plated in solid gold for what I shelled out for it.  I look at my bank account and wonder if I have enough to pay my rent this month.  I close my eyes and see Skinny Green Juice Cleanse Man glaring at me. And yet, I can't stop.  The whisper of a woman behind the counter this morning even said "hello" to me - a nicety she usually reserves only for those carrying yoga mats in the store.  

But you know what?  As I washed down the organic drink with a few dozen french fries and a mayonnaise soaked turkey burger this afternoon, I swear I heard my colon whisper, "you're a princess".

Aunt Skelly had a Date

I went on a date tonight.  Your Aunt Skelly went on a real live date with a breathing man who asked her.  I laughed at the right moments, I answered questions in a witty yet still self-depricatingly human way....and all in all if I were to be given a grade by the dean of dates, I sure as hell would have made his list and passed with flying colors.  And ya know what??? It was freakin exhausting- and by the way...it's only 11:22 PM.  I am 25 years old and I should feel young and carefree. I should probably be dancing on a bar somewhere or exiting a cab with my beaver hanging out for all of the Meatpacking District to accidentally glimpse.  I shouldn't have to even answer to a dean of dates...I should BE the dean of dates.  But I can't.

It's kinda how I feel on New Years Eve - making it the worst night of the year.  I'm not here to ramble about the usual complaints like the clusterfuck in any given city or the debacle over who you are gonna press your mouth against at midnight because you're single and everyone at the party is taken or gay.  I don't like New Years Eve for the same reasons I don't like Friday and Saturday nights.  I'd rather be in my bed with a Manbooker Prize-winning novel and a bag of M&Ms.  I'd rather be watching an ironic cartoon in my flannel pajamas, but yet I feel pressure.  I don't want to be a sex kitten at a club competing for the guidos' attention.  I can't stand first dates with men who picked me up at an underground hipster bar named "Home Sweet Home" ...a place that looks more like the den of the guy from Silence of the Lambs than a place to get buzzed with over-privileged 20-somethings.  And YET. Sometimes...most times...I feel totally alone in my anti - young-fun-time sentiments.  I just want to be 79 years old so I can watch Boy Meets World re-runs in peace and not feel guilty for wasting my perky breasts and small wrists on a gallon of ice cream and Ben Savage in all his 11 year-old prime.  I AM A SQUARE. Maybe next time I'm tempted to accept an invitation to an overpriced bar with a man I met while ironically dancing to the hits of the 80s like they are our jam...like we can actually remember rocking out to them while pooping our diapers and teething...maybe I'll be more inclined to be myself and tell him no.  Tell him that I like my retainer too much and I have to take my fish oil pills by 11 -- that I'm halfway through Season 2 of Bob's Burgers and even though I watched season 3 first, I'm still super invested and super busy.

btw...if you're reading this and any of the above sounds remotely attractive to you...hit me up.  I have a fantastic list on goodreads.com we can chat about and a Hulu Plus membership I mooch from my homosexual ex-boyfriend.