She sti

I breathe in

The first moments of falling happened on your father's porch. You told me how special it felt to have someone to bounce your travels off of like a radar at home base...and I'd never thought of myself as someone's home before.  And I faintly recognized the humming in my ears and the surging fullness as signs that I was now irreparably changed by you, come what may. Everyone thought I was crazy as I floated through the city high on you and the prospect of our future.  And maybe a part of me believed them and knew that we hadn't yet earned this kind of reckless abandon to love and move and make the big decisions.  We thought we were fooling fate; that we were more than, better than, different than.  But we weren't.  We were human.

The holes in us revealed themselves as they're wont to do with any two strangers discovering each other in life for the first time.  But instead of embracing our unknowns and unraveling our uncertainties, we each built our walls and committed our crimes. 

And now this flood flows from a ride with your album.  Dark winding roads are lining up with your dark winding lyrics and they fuel my hatred and my desire to forgive and my deep sadness from this loss. Have you lived through this specific destruction before, or am I just willing the instruments and the pain in your voice to sound like us?  I'm choosing to remember this same car ride with you on this very road at this very hour just 5 weeks ago as happy, but my memory is a liar lately.  Our fray had already begun.

I've since woken up morning after morning and braced myself for the waiting.  The waiting for someone to falter so we can once again pinpoint the wrongness that validates our own decisions; each of us clinging to our martyred identities to assuage ourselves or to use as incriminating evidence in telling friends and family of our failure.  Will we speak today and battle through our weighted pauses, or will I fling an accusation at you just to see how it feels when it leaves my tongue - a tasty victory until the emptiness behind it hits.  Will we remain silent, I in my determination to forget, while you move slowly through the streets, sitting in your bed sparingly to avoid the corner of your room where the wifi is shitty, writing... or thinking of writing and finding nothing there.  Or maybe you find too much. Maybe your head is heavy with the Next step, unsure of what shape Next will take, who Next will be, where Next will exist; selfishly indulgent in your well-being, but not knowing it's face.  

I'm struggling to remember you and forget you at the same time.  Like the quiet sadness in a layer of your being veiled by your eyes...the same place where I imagine your music is born ...that little untouchable part of you that was always just out of reach to me.  Maybe I was selfish to want all of you - to leave no stone unturned.  Because maybe there are things humans are incapable of sharing, and we have to just trust and love the things we can.

 The tearing of myself from limb to limb in the process to process has made me realize that it's not about wanting all of you, it's about a truth in wanting all FOR you. Because even if I can't be the one to remind you up close every day of the beauty you offer the world, I still believe in it.  And I'll continue to send love to you from wherever I stand.

New York, BRB

Three years ago I arrived in New York City with $250 to my name.  I've just left with $39.86 in my checking account.  And although I’ve evidently lost from my gamble on such an unforgiving town, I’ve come away with a few other counted items.

I’ve gone through roughly 26 debit cards over the course of my existence there.  

Wont to lose them at every graceful taxi exit, late night bar visit, or in every deep-pocketed tote bag, I’ve come to be on good terms with the employees at the Union Square Citibank branch, and have batted my eyes and begged MTA employees shamelessly to allow me through the turnstiles while  waiting for my latest temp card, aptly leaving me temp dead broke.  As time wore on, rather than face my identity as a raging imbecile who can’t hold onto a piece of plastic, I blamed the city.  It was unpredictable and malicious, and that indisputable fact made it the perfect villain on which to place all my own shortcomings.

I’ve had 6 places of residence; 5 of which I called home within 3 months of each other.  

I lost my hair from the stress of moving from a friend's couch, to my cousin's couch, to a stranger's studio to the bed bug-ridden place with the 2 guys from Craigslist to finally my true New York home.  And then my hair continued to fall out from walking 15 miles a day since the amazing deal I found in my apartment was not so much a steal due to it's 20 minute hike to the subway...and also most likely from mercury poisoning thanks to my sushi addiction.  I moved everything I accumulated for 3 years into a new apartment in the heart of the trendiest trendster hood - spoiling myself with a deli, a laundromat, AND a real live bar within steps from my door.  I lived there for a total of one month before leaving - and leaving behind most of what I owned.

I’ve had 5 jobs during my status as New Yorker. 

There was the glorified internship “assistant” position where I first learned how to discreetly cry at work over my first failed attempt at relationships in the city of on-to-the-next-best-thing.  I thought I loved Elliot – ginger-haired and carrying a little extra around his middle that I proudly admired in bed like a Girl Scout badge for mastering sexual attraction to the less than sexually attractive.  (In badge form, this logo would be a man with a campfire on his head.) I pointedly ignored his arrogance and his hesitation to be seen with me in public, and barreled on until I learned of his OkCupid indiscretions, indiscreetly revealed to me via text . During this first job I learned that sexual harassment in the workplace was a tightrope that all women are forced to walk and should be navigated with care, and I was introduced to my best friend on the face of the Earth.  

There was the corporate advertising job where I met the humans that showed me the meaning of New York nights and nurtured my youth (read: fed me alcohol in all corners of the city at all hours on all days of the week).  I went to an album release party for a supposedly popular country singer whose name I can’t remember, but whom I offended by confronting him on his lyrics insinuating women are glorified hood ornaments on his 4x4.  I cried at a Bon Jovi concert.  I sang a lot of karaoke.  I was happy, I was bored, I was underpaid. 

There was the “dream job” that I obtained through perseverance and flat out stalking.  I lasted exactly a year amongst the misogynistic litany of the cult that was my workplace.  I wore all black paired with red lips – the obligatory uniform of "chicks" in the office – I threw $3 million parties and jet-setted to Puerto Rico on business to drink and swim on a private island with Kendrick Lamar and Ellie Goulding for 4 days. I spoke fluent hipster.  I was cooler than you. And you and you.  I was less happy, I was overworked, I was underpaid.

Which leads to the underlying job that held my life together: the restaurant job. 

There’s a minute or two every day toward sunset on Union Square West when the light reflects off the opposing buildings on Union Square East and could blind a man.  I stood at my post as Hostess at an Asian Fusion restaurant (for white people who want to attempt watered-down culture and overpay for it) for 3 years of my life and waited for this fleeting moment every shift.  It was sometimes the only sure thing I saw in a week.  Despite all the pulsing and turbulence, the sun would set and that reflection remained a constant; through broke or broker, single or pining, driven or driven into, it was there.  Sometimes during a shift I even ordered a Pad Thai and immediately regretted it for a week.  But that restaurant was my family.  And when we lost a member too soon to a ravaging illness, I never felt so broken, but so wholly part of something truly transcendent; capable of healing powers.   The day I could finally leave the hostess stand and still feed myself didn’t feel like goodbye.  In general I now smiled less on impulse thanks to the droves of demanding mouths belonging to tourists and locals alike craving gluten-free noodles, but there was a hardened strength gained and living in me. 

And lastly, the agency position that gave me a tribe and brought back the Kiki.

I've had countless dates; good and bad and weird and forgettable.  All with good and bad and weird and forgettable men.  There was that time I got out of a cab crying from my long time crush rejecting me, and I was stopped by a woman on the street who told me to never forget that my "pussy is prime time".  She yelled this to me from across 14th street, and I vowed make sure it's included on my headstone someday.  I remember slow-dancing by the Hudson River with ginger Elliot before Brooklyn became the Brooklyn that made you want to take up chain smoking and basic bitch shaming as recreational sports.  That time I cried the ugly cry in the middle of dinner on a first date after he asked where I was from - because I still wasn't over ginger Elliot and all of our romantic dances by bodies of water.  I went on a few fun dates with a semi-famous dog trainer (he's HUGE in Korea...I think.  He's obviously very effective...have you met my dog, Kujo?  ...I mean Leo?).  When I dated the lawyer of my company and he drunkenly yelled to me at a corporate event that he was the pretty one in our relationship.  I met the love of my life on a stage at Williamsburg Music Hall...and kissed him the next night off-stage at the Bowery Ballroom.  I've truly hated dating in New York (and that's an article for another time entitled, "You Look Nothing Like Any of Your 13 Tinder Photos" or "Oh, You're an Investment Banker? My, Look at the Time." or "Your Nose is Whiter Than Whiskeytown on a Friday Night"), but I wouldn't trade these horror stories for anything normal.

There have been many nights I couldn’t hear my own thoughts for the rush of the streets, the constant run or be run over mindset causing my whole body to hum with expectancy - expectant for what, who knows, but one must always be ready nonetheless.  It was that same mindset that buried me in debt and pushed me to my emotional limits. I stepped over homeless people as if litter while I was running late to work - the humanity slowly draining from me in the haste to survive.  I drank wine for dinner.  I bought candles instead of doing laundry.  I let myself be taken over by the impossibility of the possibility that only New York can give.  

But if New York has taught me one thing (other than mastering the most convincing resting bitch face) it’s that nothing is guaranteed, but anything is possible.   Rain and tax may be the only sure things in life, but the souls who guide you through the storm and belatedly face H&R Block with you on April 14th are what makes it all worthwhile.  And I've been honored to have had such driven, soulful, oddball, loving humans in my New York world whom have altered me in the most beautiful ways.  And though relentless in her pursuit to rid you from her streets, New York will always reward you with the perfect piece of magic just when you feel like quitting her.  Whether it comes in the form of the human-glue of a man who brings people together and has created a family in the name of fitness, and without knowing it truly saved me, or just a stranger with a smile and a compliment.  It makes her hard to leave.

I’ve just taken part in my final running of the bulls in Penn Station to my appointed train track that will lead me back to my hometown and eventually back West.  And as I now watch the city fade from view, I’m watching the life I’ve built for myself – the only adult life I’ve ever known – leave with it.  It’s scary to start over.  Especially because New York is a part of my identity.  It's ingrained in the fabric of my being for better or worse - and anyone who's lived and fought and loved and mourned in this wild and limitless place will know what I mean. 

I married Joe...ish

Last night I dreamt I married my friend Joe*. Joe's a good guy.  Joe's a dependable sort who cracks one-liners that dangerously border dad-joke territory in the most attractive way.  Suddenly the prospect of yelling at the Volvo's recalculating GPS on the way to Sea World with this man and your 3 whiny imaginary triplets (Quinoa, Mason and Adelaide) in the backseat unconsciously nudges your ovaries toward him like some sort of 21st century mating call.  He's worked at all the hot start-up-turned-mega-cool-tech-grassroots-grass-fed-free-range-chicken-skinny-jeans companies, but you're not sure exactly what he does. His job has something to do with Excel?  There might be emails involved?  All that matters is that he wears glasses while he does it.  He lives perched on a San Francisco hill, and you call him to announce that you're flying in from New York the next day and that you'll be staying with him for an unidentified amount of time.  He asks no questions and platonically splits his bed with you for what turns out to be only one night before you run off to San Jose with the dude in the band that you think might be The One.  He wasn't The One.  Pending one police report and this realization, you hole yourself up on a diet of cream cheese, Keith Urban's greatest heartbreak hits, and Bravo ...and as you spiral into the 5th stage of grief: text-shaming your recent ex - Joe's existence inspires your mother to plaintively beg, "Why aren't you with someone like JOE??" 

So it was only natural that last night my dream featured Joe as my husband.  The UNNATURAL aspect of it all was the picture my subconscious painted of marriage.  I'm going to interpret this dream as the recipe for a lasting relationship...cuz like, we seemed pretty happy and everything - and obviously I have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to the care and cultivation of love.

The key to a successful nuptial as outlined by my dream:

1. There were SO MANY piggyback rides.  Everywhere we went.  There I was. Riding around like baby koala.  We went for a hike with friends.  Piggyback.  We were at the grocery store where I could reach the super high shelves. A bar crawl turned into a bar haul.  It was magical.

2.  We made meatballs.  Self explanatory. 

3.   We hung out with his super amazing parents!  I've never actually met Joe's parents and know nothing about them at all.

4.  I met the Pope.  I'm not Catholic. 

5.  We adopted a caterpillar.  Compact, quiet, requires little to no walking and very affordable vet bills.  

In reality, Joe and I will continue our friendship marked by me texting him every 3 months to tell him various pieces of useless information and dropping in unexpectedly wherever he may currently reside. 

*Name has not been changed. At all. His name is Joe. Hi, Joe!  AND! In real life he is not my spouse and is in fact SINGLE! Ladies, get at it.

The Book of Life

Last night in a fit of insomnia, I created chapters that would populate the book written on mine and my friends' lives right now.  Full novel to come.*

*but probably not.


Chapter 1: On texting beautiful men
 
Chapter 2: Range Rover etiquette; or, the how-tos and just the tips to car hook ups
 
Chapter 3: Best friends are for kissing
 
Chapter 4: If Ohio is for lovers, New York is for cat hoarders
 
Chapter 5: Fresh coat of single, Fresh coat of alcoholism
 
Chapter 6: The only person to contact me while my phone was off during the movie was my mother
 
Chapter 7: Tugboats, Gingers and Homosexuals: a guide to dating all the Right Ones
 
Chapter 8: Tell me where we're going 6-12 hours in advance
 
Chapter 9: What's that and where do I put it?
 
Chapter 10: My dog's an insta-whore
 
Chapter 11: Where'd all the wine go and why is my mouth so purple?
 
Chapter 12: Basic Bitch litmus pop quiz
 
Chapter 13: That cabbie has my iPhone and I'm not mad

Chapter 14: I don't always fall in love, but when I do it's on the subway 

Chapter 15: Your girl she so thirsty. But really, do you have bottled water? I'm parched.

beach night

Sitting on the couch after everyone’s gone to bed.  Locusts and waves the only sound – the week behind living in you.  Your skin’s new shade the only outward proof.  Your favorite book has been on a shelf here all along, and as you pick it up and reacquaint yourself with the old friend, the stillness sets in.  The wholeness, the culmination of it all.  This is what you break your heart for.  What you lay awake for. What you put on a face and go to battle every day for.

It’s all worth it for this moment right now – sitting next to coolers full of leftover food waiting to be crammed back into cars traveling north.  Next to trash bags full of bottles and cardboard awaiting the curb.  The signs of having lived a week with the most important humans in the world.  The luck of it all.  It’s the calm before the storm – but also the ending really.  Because nothing will ever be this way again.  And even more than the melancholy that brings, there’s a beauty in it.   A unique truth to it; that next year won’t and can’t be the same.  Nothing ever will.  This moment in time is all its own.

Someday you’ll look back at pictures and something will spark in your being.  And maybe you won’t remember the exact words spoken, but you’ll remember the feeling.  You’ll remember the fears.  What you wanted.  WHO you wanted – and you’ll take comfort that you were.  That you are.  That the two versions are existing simultaneously right now, and by all means will continue.

We require such landmarks in life.  To bring us back.  Away from subways and spreadsheets and bars of strangers.  To ground us with the large smallness of nature and familial love.  But also to serve as a stake in the ground when we’ve lost our identities in the noise and motion.  Our minds scanning backwards…skipping over the anonymous moments, we land on this quiet little pocket when we really were.

2015 is a babe

Every Jan. 1 we're all guilted into taking a long hard look at our lives over the past 365 days.  It's as if we've collectively decided that the year is a package deal and all events within its time frame are very neatly related and easily quantified and can be evaluated accordingly.  Although this idea is a complete pipe dream, we all need a sense of beginning and ending to provide the sanity-stabilizing guise that we're in control and our lives can be gauged.  And so we're issued a new number.  We buy a fresh calendar and start at page one, and we write vows to ourselves to make the most of the twelve months ahead of us.  

 I don't want to make a change in my life just for the sake of a date seemingly unlike any other, but I have taken a closer look at my happiest moments and biggest regrets of the past year and have compiled a small list of REMINDERS to myself to check back on every once in awhile. 15 for 2015...preeeeetty smooth, eh?

1. "The first time someone shows you who they are, believe them." — Maya Angelou

2. Avoid vodka.  But drink wine by the box-loads.

3. If it looks delicious, eat it.

4. If you feel awful, take a shower.  If you still feel awful, consume the contents of your fridge. If you STILL feel awful and now your stomach is angry, go to sleep.  Everything makes more sense after 8 hours of unconsciousness.

5. Go home and visit your parents and remember where you came from and remember who you are.

6. writewritewrite!

7. Nothing good happens after 2AM. Except 2:30AM $1 pizza.

8. Nothing is black and white.  Get comfy with the gray.  THRIVE amongst the gray! (*Also, maybe go see 50 Shades of Gray in the theater by yourself and deny til you die if questioned on it).

9. Don't wait around for someone to fall in love with you.   

10. Moisturize.

11. Stick with your gut...other than the final resting place for your beer, it has a helpful purpose.
12.  Take a zillion pictures and don't delete any of them.  Someday when our faces are unrecognizably wrinkly and we're covered in spider veins, we'll consider that photo from 2015 with the accidental double chin something to show off to the great grandkids.
13.  Kanye is a terrible person.  But adopt Kanye's I'm-the-shit attitude. Dial it back to a strong 3, and you'll for sure make a decent rap album without pissing off everyone you know.
14.  Speak up.  If you're unhappy, say something. If you have a great idea at work, tell someone.  If you're in line at CVS behind Justin Timberlake, scream. 
15.  The universe is unfolding as it should.

basic bro.

In a world where I have to be constantly aware of my basic bitch litmus results, I think it's unfair that women are the only ones under such harsh scrutiny.


I recently went out with a man who chose our first date to tell me about the Asian chick he once dated who got off on giving him a colonic.  I don't consider myself a prude, but I would categorize myself a prudent woman - a woman who would probably see this story as a red flag.  But he had bought me guacamole on this date, so I was a little distracted.  

And just like that, with the exotic thrill of experiencing avocados in Brooklyn, our 2 month courtship began.  He seemed like a level-headed human.  He seemed like someone who could fix your radiator given a few tools; or at least someone who has enough money in the bank and good sense to call a heating professional to look at it.  He probably does his own taxes instead of schlepping to H&R Block because, unlike you, the thought of facing government forms on his own doesn't make him queasy.  He was charming in that highly curated Instagram way; where everything out of his mouth on further inspection was the perfectly quippy caption for an ironic photo. He was thoughtful; like I said the man had enough foresight to feed me guacamole on our first date and not argue when I slapped his hand away the moment it approached the bowl.  It had been so long since I had felt a connection with anyone that I didn't know how to handle being swept off my feet by his cable tv and comfortable sectional. But being in a pseudo relationship with this man had me questioning everything: I have to shave my legs FOUR times a week now? Am I drunk enough for this? and Is he sober enough for...anything? ever?

His antics compounded with the pop culture spike in calling every girl you know on IG and IRL a basic bitch, I realized I was dating the basic bitch of the male species: the bro.

The bro can sneak up on you.  You may try and rationalize that his amazing apartment in a prime location and his highly respected job disqualify him from bro status, but you would be a fool, dear girl.  Below I've compiled the top 5 key ways you know you're dating a bro based on my personal experience.

1. The Bro cares about his social following above all else.  Above his own mother?  Well no, not if she's the 11th liker on a photo - the catalyst in making the names disappear and taking away the need for him to do it himself or deleting the photo for being an absolute failure of a captured moment.  Social Media is realer than real life.  It's also more important.  

2. The Bro will create is his own hashtag.  Oftentimes this is most efficiently achieved by mashing together his own name and the current season - which he will assign to his own photos and claim he's trending.  This also allows him to peruse old pictures at his leisure and admire how flattering the Lo-Fi filter was on his complexion in the springtime light.  He will also verbally declare this hashtag during actual moments in life as they're happening despite the fact that only those around him were actual witness.

3. A Bro will likely attempt to distance himself from any Bro tendencies by drinking rose instead of beer or Jameson.  But don't worry, he'll get just as wasted on pink wine as he would hard liquor.  You'll still get to carry him out of the bar and stuff him in a cab as he makes racists comments to your driver while simultaneously professing his undying love for you after 3 weeks of knowing each other's last names.  It's a win-win-win.

4.  The Bro loves a tank.  In fact, The Bro cares very much about fashion; albeit misguided fashion.  He takes pride in his wardrobe; safely storing his weed patterned hi-tops in the original box after returning from a rave.

5.  The Bro will always know he's the best looking one in the relationship.  Whether or not he drunkenly yells this at you at a crowded party, he'll always believe it as deeply as his shallow soul allows.

I think it's important for every woman to date at least one Bro in her lifetime.  It provides some much needed perspective on what you ACTUALLY want from a partner in life.  It also makes you feel like a true winner for things as complex as your sobriety, your grasp on reality in general, and your ability to feel feelings such as compassion for other breathing organisms.

Jobless in New York

Two weeks ago I lost my job.  This is a chronical of the events proceeding.

As a woman of protocols, rules and regulations, I was shocked to find myself without a how-to-survive-losing-your-job guide tailored just for me; featuring a cover with the most flattering photo of my face on record (filtered in Valencia because who has time to look good in reality) and a fold out map with a "Skells, You Are Here" indicator and corresponding detailed turn-by-turn directions to blissful success given by the voice of a young Mel Gibson.

But even while employed, my life was anything but pulled together.  Sure, I had a steady, dependable, 9am-5pm turned 8am-10pm turned Wait, People LEAVE Their Jobs? job.  But I also had a pile of laundry that slowly had become one giant patchwork area rug, a stack of ConEd bills so high it's amazing I had running water, and the tendency to break out in hives at the thought of finding time to buy toilet paper en masse.  A break from the rat race gave me a sense of calm and an opportunity to "figure it out" - a phrase that has since become some sort of sick mantra.  I've mumbled it to myself while scouring new locations to live and new employment opportunities - like I'm Madonna reinventing myself for the next album.  I've screamed it at my mother on the phone during her daily cross examination of my "plan" - meant to be helpful, while really just stress-eating inducing.  I've confidently declared it to friends at dinner over pitying looks after which they offer to foot the bill.  I've said it so many times that it's taken on a life of it's own. It's become it's own entity.  Figuring It Out.  It's a mythological creature I've invented.  It's a weird theatrical play that I'm starring in with no memory of my lines. Figuring it out has translated to mean to me anything but what I imagine it's intended to mean.  Figuring it out is what has happened below:

My first reaction upon losing my job was to turn to Google.  I Googled variations on: "WWJD...if he were a 25 year old unemployed Brooklynite with a dog and an addiction to eating to support?" and "If I run away to South Carolina, will Ryan Gosling build me a house and grow an obnoxiously long hipster beard and take me on canoe rides?" and "No but seriously, Google. I need answers."  After wiping my search history I threw myself into performing rigorous maintenance and upkeep of my apartment to take my mind off it all. Since I'm anything but a homemaker and would store my sweaters in the oven if my roommates didn't have a weird habit of baking, most specifically "maintenance" and "upkeep" consisted of Swiffering some surfaces chosen at random while wearing a sweatshirt as a dress with a glass of wine in hand at 3pm on a Tuesday. The worst part of the outside world is the necessity for pants. And being consistently sober.  So I capitalized on the fact that neither of these applied during my first day of unemployment. Catching myself in the reflection of my wine bottle, I wondered if this officially made me an alcoholic - only to realize if it DID make me an alcoholic, that would at least be a full time position in life; something I currently lacked.  

After surviving my first day with no purpose, I decided to take a look at the state of my finances. The harsh metaphor of my bank account as a rapidly depleting well with no source of replenishment and no rain clouds in sight sparked in me the inverse of a normal, responsible person's reaction.  I went on a spending spree, buying items so unrelated and out of character that I can only blame the 5 stages of grief:  Denial, Desperation, Boredom, Day-Drinking, Soul Cycle.  I bought a giant soy candle that makes my Brooklyn apartment smell like an expensive lumberjack in a Ralph Lauren commercial.  I paid $45 to go into a dark room and mount a stationary bike in the middle of the freakin day just to pedal to Taylor Swift songs on beat alongside women with rocks on their fingers the size of my eyeball.  I ate $12 granola outside at a cafe while I paged through my new coffee table book about panthers.   Did I mention I don't own a coffee table?  Or a couch?  And lastly, I started to fall in love.

They say love arrives at your doorstep when you least expect it.  I say love arrives at your doorstep in complicated packaging after a strange man in an ugly brown uniform knocks on your door scaring the shit out of your SWF self in the middle of the day.  You break a nail trying to open the damn thing only to find out it was supposed to go to your neighbors' house. 

But it was dropped to me nonetheless, and it was the happiest thing to happen to me in a very long time.  Here was this beautiful man who served as a beautiful distraction from all the confusion I was weeding through. He gave me confidence and unbiased clarity.  He believed in me when I was inwardly weary. I was so accustomed to knowing it all - to putting trust into my career and myself, and here I was without a career and slowly investing trust into someone else.  And it scared me.  They'll tell you that love will come when you're not looking for it, but they won't tell you what to do with it when it's there.  They won't tell you the messy, complicated bits when there are more questions than answers and more fantasy than reality.  There's noway of knowing if the risk will be worth it.  And even though this particular package wasn't mine, and even though maybe it wasn't Love with a capital "L", or really love at all, I'm so lucky it was mine for awhile.

So I'm still figuring it out - in my own way.  So far I HAVE figured out that you're going to get derailed sometimes and it's okay to have no idea what's next - it's actually damn liberating.  And if you're lucky enough, you'll meet someone at the right time who believes it when you don't.  

I've also figured out that if you keep registering for Netflix under different email addresses, you can get quite a few months of free trials, peanut butter and jelly is a perfectly acceptable meal, and everything is going to be just fine.

The Best Thing To Ever Happen to You

A psychic recently told me I wouldn't meet my soulmate for another 2 years.  That's another 365 days x2 of drinking IPAs out of cans at bars alone like I am currently.  I'm not great at math, but I know that's a lot of complex carbs.

So in this waiting period - while I'm in between an actual-person-relationship and whatever I'm doing right now (being a disorganized mess, a broke lush, a dog lady, etc.) I've decided that I should embrace my one actual defining quality.  Single.  In light of this, below you'll find the top 5-ish reasons why being single is The Best Thing To Ever Happen to You.

1. You don't have this whole other friend group that belongs to your boyfriend that you have to pretend to like.

     What's worse than being on the outside of inside jokes?  Of talk of football stats (if you've REALLY got the wrong dude), or of the frat days (if you should give up on your taste altogether and pick up a pamphlet at the closest nunnery).  Being single means getting to create your OWN inside jokes with people like Liz Lemon and Tom Haverford.

2. You can chick out hard any time you want.  Endless Bravo.  So much Alanis. Boxed wine and 80's movies.  Googling Ryan Gosling gifs BECAUSE YOU CAN.

3. You don't have some huge human taking up all your sleeping space.

         I love my pillows and my leg room and having fitful dreams just for the hell of it.  I also cannot sleep when someone is breathing next to me.  It has nothing to do with the fear of sleep flatulants. Or snoring.  (I'm a lady, therefore I know as fact neither of these is applicable for me).  Maybe it's the excess CO2 being blown in my face? Maybe it's their dreams watching mine?  I don't yet know, but I do know that I can't deal with having bags under my eyes just because some dude wants to be the little spoon.

3.5. You can keep really useful shit in your bed. Like a jar of peanut butter, your iHome, hair care supplies, your dog, assorted beverages (see #2), pepper spray, a Chia pet.

        Selectively ignore the fact that in your singledom no one is petting your "Chia".

4. If you want to get fat you're totally allowed.  There's no boyfriend to question your new nooks and crannies.

      Eat your feelings.  Drink your weekly calories in one night and then consume your weight in Van Leewan's ice cream.  Good things exist for indulging and I'm not about to sacrifice any of it.

5. Lastly, and more importantly, you can taste test as many men in this all you can eat buffet city as you want.  Dig in, ladies.

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.

Woof.

I felt a little stuck a few months ago.  So I adopted a dog like any normal, level-headed broke chick living on the ghetto side of Greenpoint, Brooklyn would do.  What would my oversized frames and fixie bike be without a French Bulldog?  Except I wear oversized glasses because I have chronic dry eye - a super sexy disease that always seems to come up on first dates between my glass of What's Your Cheapest White Wine and the local fried organic artisan grass-fed jalapeno appetizer (welcome to Williamsburg).  I also don't own a bike, but I'll sometimes pretend like I do while I shoot the shit with the chain smoking hipsters outside my office - commiserating about how awful the weather is for riding conditions.  I'm actually terrified of getting hit by a car or tipping over at a stop light or eating shit in front of real cyclists - and you know that matching elbow and knee pads would ruin my street cred. The closest I've been to a bike in the city is my ex's.  He would wear his fancy lock around his waist while he walked it around like a prized fucking poodle.  He neglected to tell me it got stolen 6 months post-purchase, and when one night I suggested he cruise over on his 2-wheeled companion - unaware it was under Amber Alert - he called me an asshole.  After I offered to put up signs with a reward he decidedly didn't speak to me for 3 days.  This is the same man who posted a photo on Instagram of the rare designer label in his $1,500 sweater using a Lo-Fi filter with the caption, "gotta stay warm somehow".  Don't worry, projectile vomiting is a normal side effect.

When this terrible excuse for a human left my life, I turned to a dog.  I've always had a connection with dogs.  I've talked to more dogs on the streets of this city than humans, and I can say with eloquent conviction that dogs are my spirit animal, our celestial stars align and like they just get me, man.

I met a pup on the euthanasia list at Animal Control, took it under the pretense of fostering, realized I was delusional to think I'd be able to give away a face and tail like that, and officially adopted him.  I'm impetuous and impatient and I crave instant gratification.  I blame my millennial affliction.  And Snapchat.  But it brought me to Leo.  And Leo is great.  Sure he's left his dainty poops on my kitchen floor more times than Jason Derulo starts his songs by singing his own name, he's broken dishes, and he sneaks gum out of my purse like a crazed minty fresh junkie (I just need my chews, bro) - but in the midst of insanity he keeps me sane.  He keeps my mind off the shit-soaked city that's lurking beyond my third floor walk up, waiting to rob me blind of my money and my happiness.  He's a little ray of sunshine in my life of a-poor-excuse-for-a-hipster-that-doesn't-actually-want-to-be-a-hipster-on-second-thought.

And I'm WAY less hungover now that I have a living, breathing [pooping] thing relying on me.  So here's to my dog in the city.  You should come hang out with him sometime and talk him out of getting his own Instagram despite my raging disapproval.  Which reminds me that you should also come hang out because it's been a solid 2 weeks since I've had interaction with anyone other than a dog.

Sh*t, M*llennials

The term "millennials" has become an expletive used to describe a person roughly 18 to 28 years old.  "Millennials" instantly connotes a crowd of unemployed hooligans who spend their days laying on piles of daddy's money making cat memes with iPhones surgically attached to their bodies.  We're entitled little shits with an inflated sense of self who refuse to accept anything less than designer despite our $28K-per-year-before-taxes income.  Oh, and our personal lives are fucked.

If you haven't read the NY Times in the past week, then you might not know about a little app that's having a major moment.  Lulu.  As a woman, it connects with your Facebook and displays all of your male friends accompanied by a rating that was submitted by women who've dated them.  If you know me, you know that I'm often found hanging WANTED fliers on telephone poles looking for the elusive Chivalry or on a soapbox spouting about the modern man's misogynistic deals with the devil.  Young women have somehow lost the power that accompanies the dating game- despite having the curves and the hair and the hole - we are often still the ones waiting around for our phone to light up with name we're "dating".  And often times we really are just dating a name on a screen - our relationship defined, yes by our time together, but also largely by the thread of characters that allows us to stay connected wherever, whenever.

According to a recent article on Forbes covering the advent of Lulu, such an app means that we must have more shallow relationships and apparently we're also lonelier.  Maybe this is true - the popularity of other relationship-based apps like OkCupid and Tindr perpetuates the on-to-the-next-best-thing mentality.  With these dating apps, I've personally witnessed and experienced a vast difference in the reasoning behind use between men and women.  Women crave an emotional connection; men crave a physical one - and because of this, women will always lose.  Maybe older generations have a hard time wrapping their minds around the concept of relationships in 2013, but whether it's "acceptable" or not, it is what it is - which is why Lulu is the outlet women have been waiting for.  

It's not, as Forbes describes it, a revenge mechanism - it's simply a balance of power.  Let men abuse dating apps and let them sext multiple women at once - but we're not sitting silent anymore.  Men claim to feel violated, but it's actually just an attempt to justify their fear of being found out.  

Sorry we're not sorry about your 6.2 rating.  Play nice, sweetheart!  We're all watching.

Dirty Laundry

Monday night I was walking home in my neighborhood, fresh from a gym sesh when I saw my ex-fling’s best friend/roommate/potential life partner coming out of our laundry mat.  I haven’t seen my ex-whatever in a while and haven’t spoken to him in just as long, but when you live in the same neighborhood as one of these blasts from the past, you tend to be subconsciously on alert for any sign of them.  For example, I thought I saw the fling himself today on the subway platform and my body immediately prepared itself to kick the doppelganger in the calves and take off running for the exit.  I had no idea my innate response would include both fight AND flight.  You can be emotionally healed from a relationship and happy and moved on and dating a Ryan Gosling look-alike…hell you could be dating Ryan Gosling himself, but you still don’t know how you might react at the first sighting of a man who did done you wrong. 

Seeing the best friend of my ex-guy didn’t provide a kick in the gut or a wave of depression.  Oh no.  I immediately yelled his name before I could stop myself and was running over to him before he even looked up to recognize where the ambush was coming from.  My very first instinct upon approaching was to hug him.  I started walking toward him with my arms out while my brain screamed “STOPPPPP”.  I kept advancing.  I honestly don’t even know if this guy knows my full name.   I know his last name sounds like a wet sneeze, but that’s all I got.  I couldn’t even add him on Facebook if I wanted to, but I still felt it necessary in some corner of my being to gift him with an intimate hug.  Did I mention I was at this point in time drowning in my own sweat from my work out and the humid July night?  His hesitation only perpetuated my hug, and I wondered if at heart I am a truly perverse individual.  After partaking in the grossest, and quite possibly most intrusive, embrace of this dude’s 25 years on Earth, my mind went blank.  Not even another peep from my misguided intuition – even that would have been better than pulling away from a near stranger you just had in your sweaty death grip with absolutely nothing to say. 

I apologized for sweating.  He returned the sentiment.  He asked me how I was doing and I said, “sweaty” – a topic we most certainly covered .5 seconds prior.  In retrospect, when the best friend of your former fling asks how you’re doing you should probably tell him of all the amazingness you’re accomplishing.  Even if you’re often found in deep discussions with your roommate's cat, Rosie – tell him you’ve just been scouted for America’s Next Top Model from Tyra herself while brunching at PerSay.  Tell him you’re planning a trip to Peru for a month with your investment banker with a heart of gold boyfriend.  I don’t care!  Just use this opportunity to appear pulled together and every bit the amazing woman you are.   Instead I was wearing a field hockey t-shirt from high school with neon running shorts I bought for $3 at Walmart and the largest glasses I own which I had to constantly adjust from the aforementioned (and mentioned and mentioned) sweat pouring down my face.

After covering all topics relating to sweat - including a brief discussion on the inappropriateness of sweating in the dead of winter - he finally mounted his bike to put us both out of our misery.  As he rode away, we exchanged a long series of assorted versions of “bye” and I vowed to erase this encounter from my memory.  When I got home I gave myself a good look in the mirror to assess what the friend might report back to the ex. I saw my frizzy hair, drenched shirt, stubbly legs, and melting mascara... and I thought - "Damn.  My teeth are WHITE."  Suck on that, Elliot.  This chick has still got it.

a dysfunctional love letter

You tell me about a new favorite song and I cringe as you hit play -  Not because I don’t want it hear it - but because I don’t need another reminder of you floating about the world. I watch as a silent spectator while the music consumes you and I listen as you explain with eyes closed why the track is worthy of your passion...and I'm jealous of a song.  And you’re giddy and uncharacteristically open and I can sense your usual, carefully crafted façade fading. This is your version of intimacy, isn't it?  All I can do is watch as you unravel to a beat; stoic in my observation of this rare occasion. And it makes me wonder- do you ever feel like I do? Like you might explode at any moment for lack of expression or too much expression or just being inside your own brain?  Can I tell you those parts of myself?  I keep my cards just as hidden as you do and the result is two people who don't know enough, who take too much, who pretend to see. Who will never be together because of their quiet pride, but who will stay intertwined in their mutual addiction to a physical bond.

There are days I swear I’ll never speak to you again…caffeine ridden days that I wander and write and create and feel okay without telling you my every thought for the sole reason that my voice sounds better when echoing off you.  And then come the alcohol reigning nights when I drift back to the right side of your bed with your body next to me taking up so much more space in the world than mine. And your bigness in life overwhelms me and hushes me and seduces me.  I adore you next to me.  I crave you. Greedily you’ve dived into me…giving yourself but taking more; hastily grasping at pleasure or closeness or amour propre at eliciting the dig of my fingernails a little deeper into your freckled back.  I let you because I want that for you, I want anything for you that you want for yourself.  I want to give to you.  I want all if this despite the fact that I will fall asleep next to your snoring shell -the only way i know you. When it all comes down, whether awake or asleep, you are the same unreachably mystical person that I’ll never have.

And it’s sad to only be acquainted with a man while he’s lying to you or lying on top of you.

diary of a masochist

Have you ever had a heartbreak that just wouldn't seem to go away?  Mine has taken up permanent residence with me like an oozing boil growing more infected every day, but instead of getting the proper medical attention to curb the infection I endure it. 

Heartbreak occurs more quickly than you ever thought possible and often with fewer gentle words than you feel you deserve given the pain that follows.  I find I'm constantly astonished at how clean and concise the parting of ways manifests on the surface - how casually someone can exit your life after having entered like a welcome whirlwind that came with its own soundtrack, rumpled your well-made bed, and branded your favorite Brooklyn hideaways.  A brief exchange can end the prospect of what you assumed was a promised future despite such a memorable past; leaving behind a labrynth of doubt to face.

Like a true masochist, my way of facing this doubt is clinging to it - because if you think about it, isn't being heartbroken such a beautifully somber occasion?  Think of all the Celine Dion sing alongs in your shower!!  Think of wine and chips in bed! I look kind of cute after I tear up!  I'm by no means taking selfies with heavy black eyeliner and I haven't listened to Dashboard Confessional in 6 years...but there's something so poignant in my missing him that I must admit I enjoy.  I feel a sting as I walk past the restaurant in Soho where we had our first date and I'm slapped in the face everytime Chvrches is shuffled on my Spotify - and buried in the hurt there's a chill of happiness in each moment of remembering us. 

When confronted with this man today, I consciously know why we're not together and recognize that he and I are like an attempt at a high-five that only grazes the fingertips.  And yet. Maybe feeling a loss for an extended amount of time isn't as self-destructive as it sounds.  It's made me wonder if our heartbreak isn't just in fact a reminder of our ability to love -  a phenomenon we don't need to tirelessly try to "heal" from, but something we should remember fondly and often.

Reply hazy; try again

I’m constantly seeking out answers to life’s questions.  -- As soon as you read that sentence you may be inclined to believe that I’m some sort of scholarly individual – curious in all the right ways and actively pursuing knowledge to elevate humanity and better myself…like a swami or a rabbi or some other robe-wearing, deep-thinker.  I do love a robe on a Sunday morning as much as the next priest, but if I led you to a conclusion that suggests I have any morally redeemable reasons for my search, I apologize.  My pursuit is much less noble.  In fact, it’s downright selfish. 

I’ve convinced myself that there has to be a justified answer to every conundrum thrown my way, and I'm determined to find it.   However- my methods haven't proven all too results driven. Why am I on a first name basis with ChaCha, yet she writes back a terse, “I’m not sure” when I ask what the hunky Aussie I’ve been seeing means exactly when he says he has to cancel our date for personal reasons?  Google isn’t much better at decoding the psychological tendencies of other friends and family.

For a "what's next??" approach, my horoscope is at times useful; today it says that someone will come into my life looking for an honest opinion and I should express it constructively.  I’ve obviously interpreted this to mean a wealthy stock broker with a soft spot for good literature and a swimmer’s body will come into my life and I should express my interested opinion by jumping him…constructively.

 In times of real turmoil I’ve even turned to tea leaves.  This requires consuming as few leaves as possible while holding the cup in your non-dominant hand as you quiet your mind and focus on the question you’d like clarity on.  Since I have self-diagnosed ADD and a left hand as useful as an amputee’s, I usually bend those rules, cut open the tea bag, and suck down a grande Starbucks China Green as usual while listening to a Justin Timberlake song and pondering what shade of black to wear to happy hour – hoping that I see an angel or a duck at the bottom of my cup before I give up trying to find “blob” in the tea readers’ dictionary. 

My HopStop app tells me where to go, why can’t there be a similar invention that unveils the areas of my life that get me just as lost as the subways do?  I even refuse to believe that the saying “when lightning strikes” is only used metaphorically, and I wouldn’t put it past myself in a moment of desperation to stand outside in an electrical storm with a rod.  I believe in signs, I believe in vibes, I’ve apparently been frying under the California sun for 4 years too many.  Some may find my need-to-know attitude somewhat desperate…but ya know, sometimes you’re just too hurt or too busy or too ashamed to figure things out on your own, and you need a smack from the universe…or a search engine…to hit you with the facts. 

Damsel in Yogurtland

There's an old saying "you don't choose who you love" that I used to find so romantic and whimsical.  Like the second you meet someone you're sucked into an inescapable pink vortex of cuddles and overwhelming emotion; like it's meant to be. But if I've learned one thing in roughly a decade of mistake-ridden romances (starting with my butterflies at the sight of Brendan Brody in the sax section at band rehearsals in middle school and extending to my half-year on again/off again series of romantic misdemeanors with a certain hipster ginger) it's that you can choose.  In fact you should.

Telling yourself you didn't choose this love many times means accepting him for all his wrong-doings.  Lord knows I forgave my beloved Brendan when he made fun of my braces and frizzy hair because I was convinced that my heart had closed the final chapter and there was no rewrite to my middle school melodrama.  And although my mouth is no longer full of metal and I like to think of myself as a savvy woman, I still decide to forgive the men in my life who have used my heart as a soccer ball.  But guess what?  We're not Rapunzel or Sleeping Beauty or Snow White.  We're women who wish our hair looked half as good as those damsels, but we're also women who save ourselves.  We're women who pack 3 suitcases for a long weekend because we need outfit options, who layer 7 toppings on our fat-free fro-yo, and who go through every filter on Instagram before posting.  We can't survive without choices!  So why is love any different?

There are too many options in this world to settle for a relationship that's sub-par or flat or downright disrespectful.  I choose to be happy.  And if love comes along as a perk?  Well then I'll consider giving him a bite of my 8 ounces of self-serve frozen yogurt.

like a lady. a ravenous lady.

Last night I decided to be a grown up and attend an exhibition opening at MoMA.  I was trying, I really was - I even did all the necessary grown up prep-work.  I washed my face in the bathroom sink at work –blotting it dry with paper towels like any normal self-respecting employee, put on my LBD in a stall, applied my red lipstick painstakingly in a Starbucks sugar dispenser, and arrived fashionably late after a rather graphic transition from flats to heels on the subway.  Did I mention I had a date meeting me?  I told the lady at the door my name and she checked me off on her iPad guest list like I was somebody.  I mean...she didn't have to know my dress was from American Eagle clearance rack and I paid for my hair pins in change 15 minutes earlier at the drugstore...I was now among an elite modern art crowd and I was determined to soak it all in.

After teetering into the center of the cavernous lobby on my 5 inch heels, I hit the open bar to wait for my date.  I snacked on bacon strips ravenously....like a lady.  A ravenous lady.  I was hit on by an older Frenchman in real estate while I briefly imagined our life together in a Soho loft with a walk-in closet of bought love.  I quickly realized as I did the math on our age difference that as much as I’d love to be a gold-digger, I don’t have the stomach to take care of my bedpan-clad husband when I’m rounding my 34^th birthday – even if I’m doing it Louboutins.  I cursed morals.  I almost spilled my wine.  I gnawed on another 3 strips of bacon.

The exhibition itself included various portrayals of hamburgers, one in bean bag chair form, and I left the gallery starved for beef and with a deep-seeded desire to fall asleep on a LoveSac. Burgers.  That reminded me! I missed Bob’s Burgers this past Sunday.  I checked Hulu on my phone to see if there was a new episode. I think I sent a snap chat.  I verbally expressed each free floating thought (I blame the smell of modern art in the air) -- and yet my date stuck it out.  I even changed out of my sexy pumps into my grandma flats in the middle of the street…And he still agreed to follow me to a random gastropub in the middle of the worst part of Midtown where I proceeded to order my craved sliders and talk incessantly about nothing at all. 

Living in a city may nudge you closer to cultural experiences, but it’s other pastime is to ensure emotional isolation.  You’ve never felt more alone than when you are smushed against 8.2 million strangers on your way to life. In the meantime you get very up close and personal with yourself.  I’ve embraced this with a vigor, apparently, and I’m slowly morphing into a blatant carnivore as well as the little old lady who hits people with her cane in grocery stores (except I’m not nearly as endearing; I think the identifier for it at my age is “menace to society” or “psycho bitch”).  To top it all off I left one black Calvin Klein pump at the bar a la a very brunette, tipsier Cinderella - for the record it fell out my bag, but in New York it’s not at all uncommon to find yourself en route home on the G train at 3 AM wondering why your barefoot is wet before realizing you lost your sandal 5 blocks and one transfer ago.

Dating is exhausting. Living in the city is absolutely depleting.  Put them together and it’s amazing I can stand.  I’ve come to the conclusion that in all instances, being inexcusably yourself is the only way to avoid going absolutely insane or collapsing from sensory overload.  So I’m going to eat an inappropriate amount of bacon in an art gallery because I’m hungry.  And I really love bacon.  And I’ll sure as hell wear whichever shoes don’t make my toes want to fall off on a date despite the fact they make my legs look like stumps.  And these are things that the 8.2 million people around me are just going to have to deal with.