Friday, October 30, 2009


Tonight I took my newish friend Amanda to the airport and on the way we caught up. We caught up about boys.

Before she even got in the car I knew this is what we were going to discuss. I think sometimes when women are in the early stages of getting to know one another they can’t help but gravitate to this universally understood topic.

Amanda shared her current complaints about the opposite sex and I mine. Then she said, “I just get so tired of having fun things to do and then not being able to go because I have no one to take me.”

“So go.” I said. “You have to just go. Don’t wait to have someone. Go enjoy life. That is how you meet people anyway.”

“I know…” she said the way a smoker would when being told for the thousandth time that she was bound to get cancer. She should quit but it is just so damn hard.

“It is hard,” I concurred with her silent objection. “Particularly, here-“

“Where I should be married already,” she interjected.

“Where you should be married and have already popped out a few babies.”

This is the reality of the Midwest and Amanda has a completely valid concern, here in the land of coupledom. But concern isn’t reason enough.

I know it isn’t easy, putting yourself out there, going it alone but sometimes you just have to do it. Sometimes you just have to learn to stand on your own two feet despite what you fear others might think.

The first few times are always awkward but before you know it, that independence becomes an intoxicating, necessary part of life – but maybe that is just me.

Amanda is a cool girl and I am sure she will find a great guy with whom to share her experiences but between now and then, I hope she doesn’t miss out.

Thursday, October 29, 2009

Deaf Andy

Mr. Sweet Thang’s dog is basically the canine manifestation of him. He is cute and funny and annoying as hell. He has beguiling ice blue eyes and you can’t help but want to hug him, even as he attempts to hump you.

As much as you hate yourself for liking him, you do.

Tonight, I spent a PG-13 evening out in BFE.

Miles past Johnson County strip malls and industrial parks, I abandoned civilization for an evening of board games, Pan’s Labyrinth and cuddling.

And Deaf Andy.

Deaf Andy has no boundaries, much like Mr. Sweet Thang but for two dogs with excessive slobber, they sure know how to show a girl a good time.

When I finally drove back toward the comfort of city lights at an hour that was far too respectable, I couldn’t help but smile. I think Mr. Sweet Thang thought I was trying to prove a point but really, it was just too lovely to stay any longer.

I can’t remember the last time I enjoyed an evening so sweet and innocent – hard to imagine with someone I call Mr. Sweet Thang, but it was.

Our generations seems to race past this phase and for a moment it felt nice to linger and remember the nervous sensation that accompanied the first sweet kisses of something new.

The rest of it will find its way, perhaps sooner than it should but for one night it was nice to just be nice.

Wednesday, October 28, 2009

A Matter of Time

My mother sent me a text message asking if I was alive. My friend sent me one telling me I was voted off the island. One of my girls texted that she was going to call me and I had better answer the phone for a change.

I have said it before and I will say it again – I suck and I am sorry. I have become that person with the annoying personal defect that her friends and family can’t stand but tolerate because they love her. Like being late or never picking up a tab. 

I am Miss Incommunicado.

I figured it out this morning when I wasn’t responding to my emails or acknowledging the missed call light on my phone.

I suck at math so forgive me if this is wrong but there are:

168 hours in a week, and on an easy week I spend

54 of those at work. I spend maybe

49 of those sleeping,

10 at the gym (when I am being good),

14 on routine maintenance, a little more if I feel like shaving on a regular basis,

7 eating,

10 on the pursuit of coffee,

4 staring at the ceiling stressing about something, most likely work or boy related,

and 10 writing.

That leaves 10 hours a week to have a social life and that is never enough.

I spend all day staring at my computer, constantly communicating and when I finally make my way to the quiet of my loft, the last thing I want to do is talk or respond to requests for my attention.

I know that that is shitty, that people I care about are requesting just a small fraction of my time but sometimes that small fraction is more than I can muster.

Clearly, I am in no position to be a parent and this kind of selfish isolationist attitude makes me wonder if I ever will.

Tuesday, October 27, 2009

Lunch Break Rebuttal

So Tony's Kansas City wrote a post about my blog:

I don't have much time but here are my thoughts.

Tony, Tony, Tony.

I think you missed my point.

While I appreciate that you not only wrote about my blog, but that you used the word “great” – and let’s face it, there isn’t a woman or man out there that doesn’t enjoy a little flattery - I am not sure what to think of your sardonic summation.

Maybe, what I take issue with is that fact that you said that extremely hot broads are “mostly” unsure of themselves – (although again, I’ve got to admit, I dig the “extremely hot” part. Shameless, I know.)

I think the thing that we all need to come to terms with is that we are ALL a little unsure of ourselves. It is not just a chick thing, not an issue of attractiveness or socio-economic hierarchy. It is just reality.

We all have the parts of ourselves that make us a little uneasy, particularly when it comes to the opposite sex. Things that jiggle, things that sag, things that may be smaller or larger than preferred. Not to mention the wide array of possible personality defects.

And I am not going to get into a big PC thing about the societal pressures and whatnot – it has been covered. (Except to say that I went to buy my three year-old god-daughter a Barbie recently, and dear god, Barbie is a slut.)

Maybe we have all just gotten a little detached from reality and what real beauty truly is. So we try too hard or self-deprecate more than we probably should.

The most machismo, Ed Hardy wearing, pseudo-stud is probably an ex-band geek with an over-bite.

I am not judging. I LOVE me an ex-band geek.

But just because we have moments when we are scared, are a little more insecure than we would ever admit outside the safety of our best friends’ living rooms, we aren’t weak. Our self-esteem hasn't been shot to hell.

We aren’t somehow less than. We are human. And that is awesome.

I am pretty tough on the men in my life and even harder on myself but maybe what this whole thing should teach us is to just ease up. Let's enjoy the fact that chances are the cute guy across the bar is on some level just as freaked out as you are.

And the blogger on the other side of the city might be excited to learn that even “extremely hot” ladies are looking for a nice guy who see them the way the sometimes struggle to see themselves - and they will do the same for him.

Saturday, October 24, 2009

I am mad - I warn you this is a long one

I've been lucky. I have had the good fortune to make some incredible friends in my short time in Kansas City. Some phenomenal women, who have inspired and supported me as I navigated the rocky pathways in and out of romance.

I sometimes worry they don't see just how incredible they are.

Tonight I had the opportunity to catch up with some of my girls and I was once again reminded how complex our young hearts can be.

See several weeks ago, I mentioned to one of my girls that there I met a guy she might like. When I sent her his picture via facebook she claimed he was too hot for her.

In response I sent her this email:

"I am very mad at you Short Stack.

I had a lot of time to think today as I was driving around suburban hell today by myself, screaming at small children to get the hell out of my way and getting stuck in the friggin' Shawnee Mission East High School Parade, and I decided that #1 I am mad at you and #2 I am suspending all future set-ups.

Why all these cruel words, you ask?

Well, I will tell you.

Listening to an incredible, funny, smart, hot, talented, did I mention hot, as in nice ass, great rack, hilarious, fiesty, generous woman say that she is not HOT enough for a boy is ridiculous.

You are so freaking amazing I kind of want to smack you in the forehead with the palm of my hand, like DUH.

Why you think that you (and by you I don't just mean you but all little ladies and not so littles everywhere) don't deserve a man with the face and body of Brad Pitt and the heart of Ghandi I am not so sure but you are sssoooooooooooooooooooo wrong.

You are so great that even I wanted you on sight and I don't even like vaginas. You are so great that I felt way more sad when I thought you rejected my facebook friendship than I ever did getting defriended by a boy.

All my girls are so great and I feel so lucky to have met such incredible women. A year ago I barely had any friends here and now I have bunches and not just the ok, get you through kind of girls, but the kind of women who support each other, and care for each other and yell at each other when they are too dense to see how freaking fabulous they really are.

So young woman of my heart, I will set you up with boy-wonder but only if you can admit that if anyone is out of his league it would be him, not you.

The end of my rant. KISSES!"

To this she sent me the follow:

"Dearest Lyndsey,

While I adore your rave about my intelligence, looks, wit, and charm, I should probably clarify my statement from last night. I fully agree with your superbly accurate description of my fanstasticness; I too think I am a foxy lady and know that any many would be extraordinarily lucky to have the pleasure of my company. What I meant by my statement was that this particular man was not only annoyingly hot, but seemed to have a thing for brainless, fake, anorexic sorostitutes. I am far superior to said bimbos, but I do not their supermodel looks.

WAIT, stop freaking out...I'm not saying that I'm ugly or anything ludacris like that, just that my looks are average and not what this guy seems to chase after. However, my stunning personality makes me dang near the hottest young lady in the KC metro, I'm just unsure if this new suitor has the capability to think with the big head in order to experience all my glory.

I am hoping that I'm being judgmental about this lad and that he is not as superficial as he appears to be at first glance. Make no mistake, I am well aware that I'm am ridiculously qualified to be this red-striped mustang driver's lady.

So if my explanation meets your requirements, please proceed with the setup so I can lick this hottie's {insert large word referring to muscle near the groin that Meagan is looking up} sometime in the near future.

In conclusion, all of our ladies are just as hot as City-Girl has described and I feel delightfully lucky to have lady friends as lovely as yourselves. Have a fantastic night and we'll meet again soon.


I am never going to agree that she is anything remotely close to average but tonight as I sat in Short Stack's living room, listening to the ladies I adore discuss the pitfalls of love, I couldn't help but remember these emails and feel pride as they glowed with the strength and beauty of finding their own definition outside the scope of men.

Sure we like boys and we all might want a couple for amusement's sake - okay, maybe for even a little more than amusement - but theses ladies, they rock. Any man would be lucky to share their company.

And when I hear them talk about finishing a Ironman or conquering a new job, I hope that they realize this too.

KC may be voted the worst city for being single but it is not because of a shortfall of great women and these ladies prove it.

Friday, October 23, 2009

My Boss

I fear my boss knows me too well. I said I wanted to have a laid back weekend & not spend any money. She said if I had my wine and coffee creamer I would have no reason to leave the house.

My uncle asked what the coffee creamer was for.

Why to nurse the wine induced hang-over of course!

Tuesday, October 20, 2009


So what are we supposed to do when the ugly is gone?

Chick flicks, evening TV and the music of pretty much every genre has long-since been dedicated to exploring the vengeance of the brokenhearted.

But what are we supposed to do when it's gone, when the thought of running into an ex lover no longer induces waves of nausea and you are just fine?

I went for a run tonight - okay a mild jog but let's not judge - and my ipod shuffle regaled me with the tunes of pissed off females and males alike, complaining about those who weren't that into them or those great loves that got away.

So I am asking - and that is not a hypothetical, I really want to know - what are we supposed to do when all that crap is gone and we are okay?

I guess I want to know because I have never known anyone who felt like this. For as long as I can remember it was always about looking for the next great love and if you weren't than it wasn't because you were happy on your own but because you were somehow emotionally stinted.

Where in the history of TV has there ever been a show about someone who was content just as they are? As humans we are always hungry, searching for the next great thing.

And I am not sure if this is generational or American or female or what.

I just want to know, where are the images of contentment and how do I hold onto it just a little bit longer?

Monday, October 19, 2009

Daddy's little girl?

So my dad and I were riding along on our way to shoot off fire arms when he says to me, "So I was reading your blog..."

Immediately my mind started scanning. Oh dear god what did I write? And what uncomfortable conversation is it about to provoke?

"So I was reading your blog and was about to print it out for your grandmother...Then I read the whole thing and thought that might not go over so well."

Oops, I probably should have given the old man the heads up...

See, for as long as I can remember there has been one topic of conversation that has been off limits for my father and me.

I am pretty sure that that is relatively normal in the standard father-daughter relationship although I wonder how many dads would conveniently leave for a bathroom break during every PG-13 scene in a movie watched during their child's adolescence or keep a newspaper at arm's reach to block their view of the TV if things really got steamy.

(Sorry Dad)

My dad and I talk about pretty much everything but still, I like to think that I am still his little girl and sometimes when I write this blog I have to think, "How terrified will my father be if he reads this?"

The man wasn't born yesterday but I've got to figure that there are somethings he would just rather not think about.

One day we were talking on the phone and he told me to give him the heads up if there was something he shouldn't read. But then I would have to have that conversation. And there is nothing like an uncomfortable conversation to send both of us running.

So for now I am just going to live in a state of denial and hope that my father does the same.

Friday, October 16, 2009

Interactions with a short man

So I am waiting to board a plane to St. Louis and I am the very last person in line because I am trying to finish up a business call about the book I have written.

I am engrossed in my conversation and more than a little exhausted after a hellish week and less than three hours of sleep.

That is when I notice the man in front of me mocking me to his buddy, ten ahead inline, to the amusement/chagrin of all the passengers in between.

There might have been a time when I would have been embarrassed or when I would have been silently irate for days.

Today is just said, “Excuse me but I am going to have to call you back. There is an asshole making fun of me.”

The said asshole was seventy percent amused, thirty percent embarrassed and just a whole lot of cocky.

“You know,” he snickered “You don’t have to get louder just because it is harder to hear.” And then as if he was attempting to retain some chivalry he added, “My wife has the same problem.”

“Thank you sooo much!” I swooned. “How would I ever learn the error of my ways if someone like you hadn’t pointed them out to me? My life will never be the same because you were clever enough to belittle me in public. I am forever changed. Really! Thank you so much.”

I may have gone on a little further but this was the basic gist. Funny, how easy it was for him to talk down to a dumb little girl and how quickly he shut up when he realized she had his number.

He huffed and turned around and silently marched eyes forward till he found his seat. His buddy sat two rows behind me and laughed as I approached. “You must be real proud,” I grinned and batted my eye lashes. He just giggled. He head was too far up his own ass to feel like a shmuck.

We can all be assholes and I am not going to pretend like I have never said anything shitty. But when you get called out for acting this way the only decent thing to do is admit it and move on.

This guy will in no way be the last to try to make me feel small but he didn’t succeed and hope it will be a good reminder for all that it is not that fun on the other side.

Tuesday, October 13, 2009

Just a spoon full of...

Growing up, Grandma always let us have one spoonful of ice cream before dinner. Now, between you, me and Grandma, the spoon was a ladle. We weren't exactly a family of moderation.

When it comes to men, I tend to be a lot like Grandma and her ladle. I say I am going to cheat on my fast just a little, an innocent spoonful and before you know it I am getting texts from presumptuous young men that say, "Let's make the sex."

I have to say, there is never a time in a relationship when that is okay. Maybe, when you are 90 and time isn't on your side but even then it is most definitely not okay to follow it up with, "I am busy. No time to beat around the bush. Pun intended."

Because when you go that far, you don't stop to think that statements like, "No? Fine. Your loss is my waste basket's gain" might make the woman you are pursuing feel as cheap as the single ply kleenex that will most likely be your only date for some time.

See dating is fine. Even misbehaving is good for the soul - in small spoon-like doses. But I am not whippin' out the ladle anytime soon and I sure as hell am not a one stop ice cream shop.

The Moment Before

A couple months ago I found out that I was awarded a residency in Seaside, Florida to complete the final edit on the book that I wrote over a year ago about my time spent in Russia. The book, a sort of humorous self-deprecating look at the forces that drive us to run away and the strength of self that lets us find our own definition of home is entitled, "90 Days in Moscow; Looking for Life with More Theatre and Less Drama."

I wrote the book in a little over a month while tucked away at the cabin my grandparents built before they passed away. During that time I did a lot of sitting in front of the fire and tried my best not to burn down the house. I made the five mile hike out and back on the solitary gravel road leading to the cabin just in time to catch each evening's rusty winter sunset. And I drank copious amounts of red wine.

It was one of the best things I ever did, almost as rewarding as the trip to Russia itself. But in the days after my return from exile, I set the book aside and got to the business of life. Finding a place to live - and not just a place but a city and state, getting a job and acclimating myself to a new life, one that didn't involve palm trees.

It took a while and so for a while the book sat, in the nifty secret drawer under the black leather chair my mother bought my for my birthday.

I would play with it now and then, pick apart passages. I would work and rework sections until I could no longer tell what was trite and what if anything was inspired.

The parts I liked the best were the parts that felt the most honest. Those were also the parts that were clearly the most self-involved, more like cathartic journaling than actual narrative, and so they would get squashed.

Then last summer, I was accepted into the Artist Inc. program through the Metropolitan Arts Council and I became surrounded by all of these people, as motivated and confused as I was, only they had backgrounds in fields I could never dream to attempt; painters and sculptors and photographers and musicians. They were all so generous and kind and at the same time I found them, I found myself letting go of the past and feeling free to challenge the future.

I decided to apply for this residency, almost on a lark. I never actually thought I would get it but I thought it might be fun to apply. But I got it.

And so, in four months I will be traveling to Florida to do nothing but write and finish the book I started all those months ago in the quiet of Missouri winter and I have to say, I am terrified.

I have this thing, this beast of 90,000 words and it looks like a book and it reads like a book, but I have no one around to say, "Yep, that is a book." And when I have polished and shined and buffed this sucker to every edge of my literary capabilities, I have this feeling that I am going to look at it and just scratch my head and say yet again, "Is this a book?"

I am not sure why I felt the need to write about this today, but if this blog is good for anything it is for airing all of that neurotic narcissistic insecurity that makes me obnoxious, that makes me me, and that I think, makes you and me pretty much the same.

So for the sake of putting it out there to the universe, here is the intro. Let me just say, and it irritates me so to admit that every advisor I have ever had has been correct, but the intro was/is a bitch. Writing about getting screamed at by Prima Ballerinas, being broken up with in the shower, finding dead bodies in the metro and discovering the joy of doing the splits for the first time in my late twenties, these things are easy. Writing about the hell that was leaving LA, a little bit more exhausting.


“Prepare to depart the moving walkway.” The electric hum of pulsating rubber tickled my toes and for a moment I remembered why I loved this place. It was the smell of stale coffee mixed with the sweat of overworked, overtired businessmen, family men and people on the run. There was - and it is acceptable to say this because it was, in fact, LA - a kind of Hollywood magic in this place.

Oh sure, I would grumble in hushed tones about the endless security lines or the TSA officials riffling through the underwear in my carry-on, but secretly I was fantasizing about all those people and stories buzzing about the hallways and airport corridors. I could float above the disgruntled crowds on the tangible feeling of anticipation that hung in the rafters and the joy that came in the anonymity of strangers, the sounds of families reuniting or lovers saying goodbye.

I even loved the fact that every time I made it through security, I would inevitably be running forty-five minutes late and making a movie-style break for it in whatever entirely inappropriate footwear I had chosen for that departure.

Today was different. The screaming jet engines felt far too loud and my claustrophobia was raging at an irrepressible level. The personal bubble I used to protect myself when the heat and toxicity of the outside world became too much seemed to be defective and every shrieking child made the bony part of my skull, right behind my earlobe, feel like it was going to crack in two.

This time when I went through security, I eyed the guard and wondered how many world-weary travelers he saw in a day. It was difficult to judge. He caught people at the good part, when even in the midst of anxiety and agitation there was excitement, faces staring off into the unknown, waiting for life to take flight.

Still, I am sure he had seen his fair share over the years, and from the way he stared at me as I dejectedly attempted to yank off the hiking boots I had idiotically double knotted, I may have ranked amongst some of the worst.

I had spent a lot of time in airports since the day I left for college. It was never as simple as a winter holiday or summer vacation because I always seemed to be running, either away or back home, from some sort of drama, left behind in whichever city or relationship had just reached its expiration date. Every time I let my passions get the better of me, there would be an opportunity to take off, if only for a few days and then there would be an airport, a gateway for renewal.

I hoisted my heavy duffel back onto my shoulder and prepared to follow the automated voice’s instructions. My legs did not want to move but modern technology would no longer accommodate my exhaustion. I caught a stranger’s eye as he was ushered past me in the opposite direction. It wasn't hard to register the look of pity he exchanged with his wife.

Clearly the airport was no match for the kind of storm I was leaving behind.

I felt the hot tears streaming down my cheeks and I desperately wanted to close my eyes and count.

Sometimes, if I breathe slowly enough and I count, and if no one interrupts me and I ignore the flush of my cheeks and sweat of my palms, I can pull myself out of an attack. But now when I closed my eyes all I could see was the moments and sound bites from a year or more of bad choices, swirling and darting behind my eyelids like those fire flies I was so fond of chasing as a child on my grandfather’s farm. At once I saw it all and I saw nothing, pieces of moments that individually were humiliating and heartbreaking but combined drained me of all will and strength to move.

The low drone of the crowd was too much and I dove further and further inside of myself, away from the reality of the busy terminal. The backs of my knees were aware that I was standing, planted in the middle of the corridor. My shoulders understood the weight of the heavy duffle and the sharp edges of its red leather strap. My body knew that it was pointed in faux attention to the row of TV monitors listing arriving and departing flights.

But my mind was too busy chasing fire flies.

The speckled glow in my mind grew before me into a blinding neon yellow. It was one of those tacky light-up bar sign, the kind sports bars mount all over the place to give you a point of reference when the room starts to spin from one too many pitchers of beer. And tequila shots. And tumblers of whisky.

Below the light was a mirror and for a fraction of a second I could see my face; the sallow complexion, mascara stained cheeks, and bloodshot eyes of someone who was on a mission to burn her world to the ground. My eyes met hers and I could feel the heat of drunken rage. That’s when the chair went flying.

There was a heavy thud and the stabbing pain of my toe brought me back to life. I looked down and around quick enough to see that a burly man with a luggage cart had barely knocked into me but it had sent my bag crashing onto my foot. With that I started to cry, hard.

I am sure there were plenty of people starring at me as I began to pant and hyperventilate but I just couldn't care. I wanted to collapse right there in the middle of it all, to hell with my dignity, it had been shot for quite some time. But then I looked up and I saw it.

Gate 21 departing to Saint Louis. It wasn’t much but it would do for now.

I would go on to Chicago and London and then finally to Moscow but for now this was all I needed - an escape from another mess, another chance to start over.

I just had to get out of LA.

Cause sometimes you've just got to Chicken

I'm Gonna Fly

I am super proud of my friend Trish today and everyday. But especially today. She is an inspiration and an amazing friend. Check out her story here.

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Winter makes me Antsy

I can’t remember much about the day, which is unlike me and annoying.

I remember I got up early and took the subway to Times Square. I stood in line to buy tickets for a Broadway show that ironically was in from Steppenwolf in Chicago.

I should have bought tickets to Spring Awakening.

I chatted with the woman behind me in line about the rebirth of New York City and how it became a politer place to live in the wake of September 11th. She said it was a kinder city than LA. I agreed.

Later we would sit next to each other in the sold out playhouse, smelling of salt and and grit from the subway, and I would wish we had never been introduced. The polite chit chat was interrupting my revery and more than anything I just wanted to disappear into the sea of spectators and silently, solitarily enjoy my sojourn into an imaginary world.

I remember I took myself on a special date to Chelsea Market and rekindled my love affair with the cupcake. And I left my favorite ring in the bathroom.

I don’t remember where I went next, where stayed that night. It may have been Brooklyn. It may have been Queens.

I don’t remember enough about that day but I remember that it felt monumental. A tipping point. Feeling a deep love of being alone in a great big world. Anonymous. Free.

That adventure seems like a lifetime ago and now I find myself in a life built on planting roots and somedays I wake up and I am just so confused.

In KC winter is upon us. I forgot the way the Midwest launches it on it's unsuspecting citizens before they can even catch a second glimpse of fall.

It makes me miss Russia. It makes me miss New York. It makes me antsy for change.

Although most things make me antsy as of late.

My colleague asked me if I felt more settled here. And I said yes.

But on days like today when the brisk winter air, which descended upon me far too quickly, whips around my uncovered ears, transporting me to New England in February, I can't help but wonder what is next.

Sitting still is difficult on days like today, when my massive student loan debt is about the only thing keeping me from cashing it all in, grabbing my passport and a good pair of boots and hitting the road.

It might pass, this yearning for a get away but I highly doubt it will be gone for good. Before long, snow will begin to fall and I will half remember Gorky Park and 80's dancing in San Francisco and before I can help myself I will be googling far off destinations and plotting my future exploits.

Wednesday, October 7, 2009

Part 4

He went to take a nap. I booked a flight. And by the time he woke up I was gone.

The night we had, or re-met, I had found him in a crowded subway station. It was far colder there than it had been in New York and my thin leather jacket and stiletto boots left me ill prepared to traipse across Boston in the snow.

I had not seen him in years, and he looked different from what I could remember, which wasn’t much, and yet, he seemed familiar. He took my hand and led me out of the station down a maze of cobble stone roads. I was so delighted to be in his company, I barely noticed that we were obviously lost. He started to get agitated and all I could do was laugh. His dark hair was covered in snowflakes the size of silver dollars. The dead-end street we found ourselves on was dressed in perfect white, just like a movie set. And we were together. It just fit.

Within 48 hours, plans were being made for transatlantic relocation. It wasn’t real. Or maybe it was. It is hard to recall. Whatever it was, it was heightened. A heightened sense of reality emanating from the sensation of snowfall and moonlight, whiskey and morning pancakes.

It all moved too quickly and I think that for those few weeks I may have forgotten how to breathe. Then somewhere between Chelsea Market and witnessing Kenny G make an unlikely appearance at a Border’s Dean and Deluca, I exhaled. And reality set in. And part of me - paused.

I would take the Feng Woi bus back to Boston and I would hope it would be the same.

It wasn’t.

And after a few days, it became clear that it was a beautiful moment locked in time.

It was a real life snow globe. And I would have to go.

I wish it had been that simple. I wish it had been as easy as taking a train to a bus to a plane and walking away. But it wasn’t.

Loving never is. Even when it is short-lived.

Tuesday, October 6, 2009

B*$ch is Crazy

The morning after my Junior Prom, my parents locked me in the basement. They told me I would iron my clothes and read "How to Make Friends and Influence People." They told me I would be happy.

In their defense, I had spent the weeks prior to this monumental event, sulking in my room playing a mixed tape of music I had put together for such a self-indulgent undertaking as mourning the inability to find a date for the prom, when the only person I really wanted to go with was my black boyfriend/best-friend who was too freaked out to go to my all white suburban high school dance. That and I was locked in the basement for this 'intervention' because above us our carpets were being cleaned.

They were worried, as any good parents would be, and freaked out that their only child was such an angst-filled mess and not just because of prom.

What they didn't know at the time was that they had a lot of rough years ahead of them. Life throw out a series of unexpected and incomprehensible events. Mixed tapes were the least of their worries.

Almost a year ago, I woke up and realized I wasn't dealing with anything. For the first time in over five years, I wasn't addressing, dealing, coping or recovering from anything. I was just living and I was just fine.

It was at that time that I decided to try anti-depressants. It seems like the majority of my family has dealt and/or struggled with some form of depression and for years I rebelled against their advice persuading me to try something, anything to help me deal with the common heaviness we share.

I was always adamant against medication, partly out of youth, partly because I didn't want to take something in lieu of dealing with the crap hand life kept giving me.

And then one day I was fine. Just fine. And yet the weight that I had always carried, the lead blanket, it was still there. So I decided to give meds a whirl.

I didn't tell anyone and I just did it. And I felt good but I was never really sure if it was the meds or the fact that my life had suddenly gotten a lot less complicated.

A couple of weeks ago I stopped taking my medication - not because I didn't think I needed it but sadly, because I ran out and I was too busy and distracted to go get my prescription refilled.

Yep. I am a smart girl.

At first, I didn't even notice. I had been so happy, I barely paid attention to the correlation with my medication. But after a couple of weeks I started to get that sludgy feeling again. I figure at that point the meds were working their way out of my system. That and there was an office wide case of mega-pms.

I eventually made time to get a prescription refill but not before waiting so long that I could once again experience life without medication and realize that the shitty feeling that started to overtake me was the exact feeling I had struggled with my whole life - and the exact feeling I hadn't experienced in a year.

And in that time, I was still me. I was just me without the extra pounds of emotional weight.

My dad and I joked on the phone about my realization that I will probably be on this for the rest of my life and that as much as I hate it, it is really no different than a diabetic needing insulin to live.

"So how much is it?" my dad asked.

"Four bucks a month."

"FOUR BUCK! You are telling me that all those years your mother and I spent listening to you cry and sob on the phone, we could have avoided all that for four dollars a month?!?"

"Yep." I joked. He and I know both know it would never have been that easy but the laughter makes it easier to acknowledge. This is who I am. This is the road I have gone down. And I have help for the future. Not a free pass but help.

I can live with one pill a day. It is a hell of a lot easier than the alternative.