Me, myself

The firm I work for does not recognize Mental Health Days. Nor would calling in “don’t feel like it” fly. But lord, was I tempted to give it a shot this morning.

Heather: Yeah, I’m not going to be in today.
Director of Ops: Oh? Why not?
Heather: Don’t feel like it.
DOO: …

I imagine that after that silence, there’d be some hemming, hawing, shuffling of papers and then ultimately something involving a cardboard box and me updating my resume.

There really ought to be some Don’t Feel Like It days built into the standard work calendar every year. Ten vacation days, three personal days, five sick days and eleven Don’t Feel Like It days. You know, specifically designated for mornings like this one, when the sound of my alarm clock nearly had me in tears. With nothing to look forward to, nothing to compel me out of that triplicate layer of down comforters, there was no reason, so far as I could see, to get out of bed and shove my feet in shoes that pinch my toes. I pounded the snooze button with ferocity and after 54 minutes of denial, reluctantly gave in.

It could be lack of sleep, or this heavy, depressing feeling that winter is never going to end, but beyond basic life functions, I’m not up to doing much. I just don’t feel like it. Unless that “it” is frozen and comes with chocolate fudge and whipped cream. Cause, I’d be all over that.

& iPod

This morning, as is her kooky habit, Gracie forwarded me our horoscope. Let it be known, I put no stock in those things. I usually glance through them, pick out the parts I like (“I KNEW it was true love!”) and discard the rest as wacky, stargazing hogwash. Today, it was hogwash as usual (blah blah finances blah), particularly, the final two lines:

One note of caution: be careful about talking yourself into buying something extravagant that you’ve been considering. You may regret a big purchase now.

As if I needed further proof that these things are complete bullshit. Nobody, but nobody talks about my iPod that way.

This is true love.

My job can be pretty mundane.

Crazy talk, I know. But sometimes, being a corporate monkey can be really, really ridiculously dull. How I manage to stay extremely busy and simultaneously bored beyond all reason is one of the many intriguing secrets of corporate monkeyhood and is best left unexplored.

To keep my brain alive (as well as sharpen my already keen multitasking skills), I have found loads of pleasant ways to distract myself from the monotony of my copy-paste, shuffle-step-ball-change routine.

For instance, obsessively checking the FedEx tracking site for the location of my eagerly awaited iPod. My heart gave a little flutter when, just now, I read: On FedEx vehicle for delivery. After Shanghai (am I the only one who thought these things came from California?), Anchorage, Memphis and finally an unbearable seven minutes just sitting “at local FedEx facility,” it’s so close I can almost hear it!

Imagine how tired you are of hearing about the iPod of dreams; waiting for it is even more obnoxious!

So now that it’s on a truck and there’s nothing left to do (short of running out to the street in search of that FedEx vehicle), I’m back to my previously instituted methods of distraction: reading blogs, emailing the PWSWM and planning Sarah B’s future wedding. I get to be the flower girl. And wear moon boots. To date, no groom has been selected, but we’re all squared away on the color scheme. Come to think of it, there may not be many more details to iron out. You know, besides the groom thing.

I am so going to kiss the FedEx guy when he gets here.

*Gasp!*

The finalists have just been announced for the 2005 Bloggies.

This Fish is up for Weblog of the Year!

Now, it would be useless to even try to be coy about this — I’m giddy as can be! So all I’m gonna say is: Catch the giddy. Go vote!

(And Stephanie is up for ‘Best Writing’. I’m just sayin’.)

When I came into my apartment just now, shaking packed snow out of the cuffs of my too-long jeans, I wished that, despite the cold, my errands had kept me out a little longer.

From his cozy spot on my plush, camel-colored sofa, Sir Hal yawned and squinted at me with an unmistakable, “Do not disturb.” I chose to ignore him. I kissed the top of his tuxedo-black head with my cold, mocha-flavored lips and then abandoned him in favor of swapping icy jeans for the yoga pants hanging on the back of the bathroom door. From the bathroom skylight, afternoon sun was pouring in through the rounded portals that had melted through the several-inch thick snow. I was glad to see the sun; it was reason I’d wanted to invent more errands or prolong the distance between mine this afternoon.

I’d woken up with this morning with two very distinct cravings. Strangely enough (and very much out of character) I wasn’t hungry. My appetite, instead, called for rich coffee and really good fiction. The Barnes & Noble gift card on the desk in my living room would satisfy both, and so I slid out of bed feeling decidedly less poor than my $20.07 bank balance would have suggested. Oh, the price one pays for iPod celebrations.

It was after 11:00 when I finally stepped into the shower. I stood for a long time in the stream of water, looking up at the pyramid-shaped recess in my ceiling, watching steam melt circles into the ice outside. By the time I was washed up, dried off and wiping the moisture off the mirror with the sleeve of my robe, the bathroom was lit up by midday sun.

Sunlight. It’s what I have been missing most on these frigid winter mornings. There’s something so very unmotivating about getting ready for work when the world is still dark.

When I first moved into this apartment, the idea of a skylight in the bathroom made me uncomfortable (a fear of voyeurism only compounded when a lover announced he’d like to watch me shower from above). I went to the roof that very afternoon to see for myself if this was possible. It was not. And from then on, I was very much in love with Peeping-Tom-Proof bathroom skylight.

In the summer, I took my time getting ready in the warm, natural light, a small but necessary pick-me-up to start my work day. But what with daylight hours drastically shortened — hardly existent at all, it seems — I stare up at the skylight in the morning, see nothing but night, and dread the idea of being awake. I’d almost forgotten how much I appreciated — and missed — my exotic bathroom feature at all until this morning, when through the crystal snow, cold, bright light streamed in, bouncing off white ceramic fixtures, and seducing me into an afternoon excursion.

Now that I’m back home, watching the sun fade from my living room windows and the bathroom glow recede down the hall, it’s even more seductive. I’m going to put on a dry pair of jeans, forget my really good fiction, and take in the last remaining minutes of afternoon sun. I’ll create a new errand or simply buy another cup of coffee and go watch the ice on the East River. Because tomorrow, when my alarm propels me to wake, and I’m getting ready for work under the darkness of my winter skylight, I’ll be sorry to have wasted today.

Yesterday was Thursday — the day I had penciled on my calendar as Getting Over It Day.

I figured that while initially it had been a flippant comment made in an angry post, it wasn’t such a bad idea to put a statute of limitations on my moping. Mope with real intent and then just stop. A week should be sufficient. The relationship didn’t last very long, nor was it overly involved. We didn’t say, have a song or anything. (Though, we did agree we’d always have Team America — which speaks to the relative sentimentality of the whole affair, I think.) Still, it had been a good thing and it was going to be missed.

So, I spent the week missing it. I watched pouty movies, I read chick lit and I overindulged in my favorite comfort foods. Godiva ice cream, anything with melty cheese, noodles. Chocolate.

Come Thursday, I felt disgusting. I knew I’d succeeded in Getting Over It when I didn’t want to eat any of those things anymore. I wanted a Gala apple, my yoga mat and never to see another caramel-filled Hershey’s kiss as long as I lived. My favorite jeans are the ones I can put on without unzipping. And at the rate I’ve been going, I was either going to have to promote a larger pair to “favorite” or I’d have to start using the zipper. Unthinkable.

Come Thursday, I was healed. And it wasn’t just that the urges to binge-eat had subsided, so had the heavy discontent that was driving those urges. It may sound silly, but after a steady history of bad relationship behavior, this last week of dedicated moping was a step into the light. It was the absolute best thing I could have done for myself.

In one of our many daily emails, I told Biscuit that my week was up and that I was, strangely enough, very over it.

“Congratulations!” He replied. “Have you done anything to celebrate?”

I had not. And when I thought about it, what better way to end a pity party once and for all, than by celebrating? So, I did. It arrives sometime next week.

“I’ve hit a milestone,“ she said. “And I don’t know whether to celebrate or cry.”

My mother had, after long last, found herself in possession of one very empty nest. We decided on celebrating. Actually, we decided on cele-shopping and cele-dining, in honor of The Finally Empty Nest and my 26.5. Yesterday was my half birthday, which, although never noted in the past, had suddenly become a reason to buy things.

We tromped around Bloomingdale’s sniffing perfumes until our noses went numb and then headed straight up the escalators to buy me a pink coat. Okay, maybe that wasn’t our actual destination, but as soon as the pink tweedy goodness was tucked safely inside the Big Brown Bag, it seemed like a fair enough raison d’etre, never mind an excellent raison du shopping.

I think my mother bought something, too, but the gloriousness that was my new, rosy pink outerwear rendered me unaware. All consuming. Not unlike my love for Topher Grace.

My mother’s every-other-month business trips are her chance to see that, for at least one meal, I am well fed. And when cele-dining, really well fed. We slid our way on icy sidwalks from Bloomingdale’s down 58th Street to Felida, where I was temporarily separated from The Pink Coat and ushered upstairs to dinner. We celebrated empty nests and half birthdays with things like pear ravioli and veal tenderloin. Mom had the veal. It makes me feel like I’m eating a pet. Several courses and fifteen hours later, and I’m still stuffed to the gills. Hee. Gills. Get it? Anyway…

I’m hoping we get to celebrate 26.75 in the same manner. You know, just in time for spring shoes.

I drink 10 glasses of water every day. I know for certain, because I keep a little tally on a post-it note by my keyboard. I count servings of fruits and vegetables in the same manner. This makes me feel good about myself — like I’ve achieved some small, yet ultimately important success. Flail and fail with other challenges as I may, I will be properly hydrated, and that’s worth something!

I know it doesn’t sound like much, and if I’m ever biographied, adherence to the Food Guide Pyramid is certainly not going to be cataloged with any of my lifetime successes. But since lifetime success are so few and far between, I’m going to be happy with the “tada!” feeling I get when I finish my broccoli.

We all know it’s all about the little things anyway, right? Funny how it seems sorta pathetic in print, though.

For an afternoon outing with Biscuit, we had decided to meet at Union Square’s Virgin Records. I arrived a few minutes early. Waiting led to browsing, and browsing led to buying, and I left the store with my very own copy of Down with Love. I know very well that my $10 movie selection fits right in there on the List of Things to do When Feeling Broken Hearted along side binge-eating and impulsive make-over decisions. After a weekend filled with the consolation of good friends and carbohydrate therapy, one can only sigh and say, “How appropriate.”

I am, coincidentally, looking for a good colorist in Manhattan. Personal recommendations would be greatly appreciated.

While still firmly entrenched in the anger stage, I’m hoping to schedule in some acceptance in the not-too-distant future. Sure, I was self-contained and comfortable — with no expectations of meeting, becoming involved and then summarily uninvolved with anyone, but that is what happened nonetheless. And as absolutely infuriating as it all is, I’m simply going to have to move past it and onto (or rather, back to) self-contained and comfortable. I’ll pencil it for Thursday.

As a matter of insult and injury, his Christmas gift is still sitting here on my computer desk (though he knows about the gift, a series of rather…distracting events kept it from actually exchanging hands). It’s of no use to me, too expensive to simply throw away and too individualized to give to someone else. What to do, what to do. Perhaps on Thursday (Get Over It Day), I’ll pack it up and send it off to its rightful owner. It’s the appropriate thing to do, I suppose, and one fewer memento to dust.

I am never quite sure of the order in one is supposed to run the emotional gamut, as it pertains to dealing with loss. I’m pretty sure there’s a “denial” in there (not really my style) and ultimately despair (which I’m begging that we skip altogether), but as I’ve spent the last day being angered — nay, enraged — at the Universe for my latest loss, I’m hoping it’s a sign that I’m almost finished with the whole process.

I woke up this morning with the theme song to Degrassi Junior High weighing my head down against my new, maybe too expensive sheets (See, I bought them in that typical New Man, New Bed spree that mystically makes a girl need — I mean, really need — 600 thread count sheets). Anyway, the opening line from the Degrassi theme was playing in my head

Wake up in the morning, feelin’ sad and lonely…

and suddenly, on top of sad and lonely, I was feeling mad — fiercely angry at the Universe (not at Joe, mind you) — that I even had to be feeling sad and lonely. Why? What purpose does this serve? Being taunted with bits of bliss, only to be let down seems cruel. Seems? It is cruel and it makes me mad. Why can’t I just be left contented, unmoved and unburdened by the loss that comes with failed expectations (even in usually large doses, boredom can surely be no worse than the cruelty that is disappointment) and skip a situation that the result of which would cause a girl to need to know the stupid stages of loss?

I’m angry. I know I said that. But I want to make it clear that I find this whole thing unnecessary and maddening.

I was doing fine. And short of the fulfillment of the cop-in-uniform fantasy, what did I get for my troubles? Sheets I can’t afford and an $85 bottle of wine we never got around to drinking. I’d go ahead and pour myself a glass or two now, you know, to dull the pain. But I make a really shoddy angry drunk. Something about the wobbly chin is unconvincing.

It was really quite painless. We ripped off the band-aid over the phone. He was busy and unable (unwilling?) to give time to a relationship and ultimately I, in true Little Mermaid fashion, wanted more. So, we called it off. It was the smart thing to do. We laughed and made overtures to hang out again sometime and when I hung up the phone, I felt rather okay about the whole thing. Fun while it lasted. Better now than later. That sort of thing.

Well, perhaps I am not as okay as I thought. Just now, a client called to express his displeasure at some mundane, not-my-responsibility minutia. I hung up the phone, went into the bathroom and cried. There’s a knobby lump in my throat and I want a hug, warm blankets, and a box of tissues. And maybe some Godiva vanilla ice cream with chocolate caramel hearts.

I didn’t expect such a comparatively minor romantic disappointment to be this… well, disappointing. Sarah pointed out that at least I now know there are ‘nice, honest, straightforward men out there. Maybe the next one will be ready.’

Maybe. Too bad I really liked this one.

Right now, I am so frustrated I can barely blink. I am hanging on to my sanity by the thin thread that is my weekend plans. I’m telling you right now that if the Universe (or any of its inhabitants) fucks with the following in any way, there will be untold suffering. Yes, I will cut you.

On Saturday evening, all of our old pals from Boston will be coming to celebrate C’s birthday. This is very much needed. Not only do I miss them all terribly, but I’m in great need of that thing that happens inside you the moment you walk into a bar and get Normed. You know, like in Cheers. Norm! (Only, in my case, it’ll probably be Heather!) All I know is I need some of that familiarity and ease, and a couple of lemon drop shots.

On Sunday afternoon, Biscuit and I are going to indulge in rich hot chocolate with homemade marshmallows and wander around the Frick being in love with Fragonard and El Greco and Bellini. This is also very much needed — the chocolate, the art, and some quality time with my platonic husband.

And on Monday afternoon, Sarah and I are going to do things we will not blog about.

Until then, I will continue staring at my computer screen, not blinking, and begging the Universe to please, for fuck’s sake, refrain from interfering with my happiness. At least for the weekend.

It used to be that each time I passed Loud Larry’s office, I would learn something new about the world. One day it was a lesson on tolerance as Loud Larry screamed, ‘He’s homosexual. And there’s nothing wrong with that!” into his cell phone. Another time it was, “Even rich people get cancer.” Damn. There goes my prevent-an-early-death investment plan.

Sometimes, I think Loud Larry must be God himself. Oh, the things he knows!

These days, because of an office shuffle, I sit very, very close to Larry. I don’t have to take sporadic trips to the fax machine to garner wisdom (and snag a peak at a really bad hairpiece) anymore; all I gotta do is show up to work. Although, lately, Larry’s got fewer sage sayings and much, much more complaining to do.

“I couldn’t sit! I was in agony!”

And that was the beginning of Loud Larry’s tale of penile discomfort. One botched surgery and Larry was an unhappy fellow. I’ll omit the details.

One afternoon as Kate and I were sitting in Central Park, nursing scalding hot chocolate, a handful of people took the bench next to us. They began talking. VERY loudly. Reminded of Loud Larry, I started to tell Kate about the office Wiseman. I spoke in low tones, telling her about his phone rants and ridiculous sayings, and was soon overpowered by our new neighbors.

“Well, Larry said…”

I stopped talking and stared at Kate as the voice continued. It spoke of Larry, providing details about his girlfriend (who I hear about all the time. Did you guys know she works on BROADWAY? Oh yes. She’s very important) and Larry’s Rabbi (who is often the object of Larry’s rants on penile troubles).

Kate and I eventually gathered our wits and wandered off wondering if the louds just flock together. I can’t imagine what their cocktail parities are like. They’re probably held in soundproof vaults –

This just in! Loud Larry says, “Who will ever know the truth?”

A wiser man there has never been.

I sat in the sound booth at NPR last night, staring past a serious-looking microphone, with equally serious-looking headphones cupped to my ears and an almost familiar voice on the other end said,

“Well, I’m not sure she’s the right person. She doesn’t sound at all like a 13 year old boy.”

Oh the relief!

From Washington D.C. came the questions, and in my booth in New York, I supplied what I hoped were sufficient answers. Overall, I thought it had gone well. You know, minus the nervous giggling and the having to re-read because of a strange new inability to pronounce syllables separately from one another.

I read excerpts from This Fish and answered questions about my relationship with Ben – how we first came in contact, when we met. Connecticut. It was a bit surreal.

Ben and I are worlds away from the kind of relationship we had a year, even six months ago. That we dated, that we were… involved isn’t so far removed that it’s unbelievable; it’s simply in the past. Left behind. And I can most honestly say I would not have it any other way. I don’t mourn the passing of our old iteration. Because there were a lot of not good times. But even now, there are also very few days (maybe three in a month) that we aren’t in contact of some sort. That anything good came of us is a brilliant miracle and a testament to friendship. And to change. And never was this all more clear to me than last night, sitting in the sound booth, reviewing my past.

Leaving the studio, I stepped onto the street, prayed for heavy editing (had I said too much?) and lifted my ringing cell phone.

“Heeeeey! How did it go?”
“I was so nervous, Joe.”
“Nah, I bet it was awesome. I can’t wait to hear it.”
“I’m just ducking into the subway…”
“Alright, sweetie. I’ll try to call you later from work.”

I paused at the ‘sweetie,” a bit surprised at him for saying it — and at myself for liking the sound of it.

Times, they are a-changin’.

The other evening, as I was going about my vitamin-floss-brush routine, I happened to glance at the back of my bathroom door. Hanging on either of the two shiny silver hooks were my white terrycloth bathrobe and my oversized bath towel. Despite the fact that they always hang there, I was suddenly struck with the thought, “Hey, that’s mine.”

I looked around the bathroom, mentally cataloguing. Hand lotion. Mine. Toothbrush. Mine. Then I followed this notion throughout the rest of the apartment. Tea kettle. Mine. Floor lamp. Mine. Computer, comforters, cat. Mine, mine, mine.

While I’ve never been unhappy living alone (the privacy and freedom it affords me are immeasurable comforts), I’d never quite taken a moment out to appreciate that it means I am one hundred percent uncompromised in the ownership of my space. It’s a very grown-up, powerful sort of feeling that I can’t help bask in. At the same time, I’m not sure it doesn’t have its downsides.

Remember that thing called sharing? A while back, Joe disappeared into the bathroom for a shower. I pushed misplaced furniture back into its spots, up-righted a fallen vase of flowers, and when I heard the shower stop, I grabbed a fresh towel from the linen closet.

“Here,” I said through the bathroom door. “A fresh towel.”
“Ah, that’s okay. I just grabbed one off the rack.”
“Um… “
“Is that wrong? I haven’t used it yet… I can put it back.”

I had to laugh at myself.

“No, Joe. It really doesn’t matter.”

I threw the towel back in the closet and replayed the scene, hoping my voice didn’t belie the Obsessive Compulsive, Might Not Share Well with Others undertone.

I’ve gotten very comfortable being the master of my own universe. Everything in its place – the place I have assigned it. I’ve gotten too comfortable, happily married to my bachelor(ette)hood. And while I’m still far – VERY VERY FAR — from having any discussions about making room in closets (a single toothbrush resides in the medicine cabinet as the only evidence of his presence), I’m secretly wondering if I’m going to have a hard time sharing that color-coded, arranged-by-sleeve-length den of organization.

Yeah, I probably will. But whether it’s for the current romantic interest, or someone in the future, hard time or not, it’ll probably be worth makin’ space. You know, for something else that’s mine.

And one last thing. I hope you got a delivery yesterday. I didn’t sign the card but I got to thinking that maybe once you found out who sent them, you’d be disappointed, so I’m fessing up.

Mom

Being loved really rocks my face off.

Someone sent me flowers. No name on the card.

I fucking HATE secrets. But I really love flowers, so I guess it’s okay.

“Hmmm, I think I might want one of these.”

“You could get a fake one.”

“Fake, schmake. I want someone to suffer for it.”

I hate the sound of my own voice.

It’s foreign and irritating and… oh-so-very awkward. Don’t play me back the voicemail I left you – it’s going make me cringe and twitch and I won’t hear a damn thing except that I sound like a thirteen year old boy. I absolutely cannot bear the thought that people have to listen to that thirty second ‘Hi, It’s Heather. I’m not near my phone right now, please leave a message.”

Why are you people still friends with me after you hear that?!

But because life is just one Get Over Yourself experience after the next (that’s the sole reason bikini swimsuits were invented after all), I’ve been asked to be part of an international public radio documentary.

That’s right. My voice. On the radio.

Tomorrow evening, I’m going to go into a recording studio, giggle nervously (thank the baby jesus you won’t be able to see me biting my lower lip and peeling frantically at my fingernail polish) as I stumble all over my not-fit-for-the-airwaves voice and talk about… dating. Another thing I’m just awesome at.

I have no doubt it will be nothing but wonderful. And if not? Well, the good thing with radio is, there are no hotlinks. Which cuts way down on the hate mail.

I decided to take advantage of last night’s unseasonably mild weather and walk home. I should do that more often. My brain has been zoo lately. Maybe not a zoo. Maybe a mall parking lot at Christmas. Or the post office on tax day. Whatever. You get the idea: mass confusion.

And not that my forty-four block walk improved my state of mind any, but the air felt nice and the sky was purple. It was pleasant. Yoga was also pleasant. I made it a whole forty-eight minutes before I got completely ADD, tumbled out of side plank position and decided to spend the rest of the evening sitting around in my underwear eating cheese. If I owned a television, I’d have sat around in my underwear, eating cheese and watching reruns of The Patty Duke Show. Those wacky identical cousins!

I haven’t been feeling much like myself lately. I miss my friends, but groups of people over say, five or six make me uncharacteristically anxious and so instead I spend far too much time laying on my bed listening to last year’s depressing albums and thinking thoughts like, “Man, I really don’t feel like myself.”

(Funny how much that feels like girls’ camp.)

I turn my phone on silent so I won’t have to answer. I think my mother assumes this is special to her calls and thus I am plagued with mopey-sounding messages about how she just wants to hear my cheery voice and, am I avoiding her? How much do those voicemails make me want to call her back? It’s like American Express calling with a special offer. Oh God, don’t care. At least American Express tries to entice you by being peppy.

Speaking of peppy, maybe I should resolve to drink more coffee. I mean, if that doesn’t work, I’m seriously thinking of taking a year off to go in search of my identical cousin. There’s oodles of pep in having one of those.

I punched Goldner in the nose.

I didn’t mean to, but I did and the absurdity of it carried me, giggling, up the stairs and into my apartment where I said to Sir Hal, “I just punched Goldner in the nose. Man, that was funny.” His Excellency yawned, stretched and purred (I find this is his way of saying, “Yes, you do have the most mad cap adventures.”) and then went back to sleep. I’m pretty sure that if Hal were ever to discover his voice, he’d sound a great deal like Stewie Griffin, snooty, ambiguously gay and unexplainably British.

For every sprinkle I find, I shall kill you.

Aside from the movie date that ended in violence, I did my utmost to spend the weekend as Little Mary Shut-In. Though, I did eventually make it out on New Year’s Eve to meet up with an old friend from Boston and ring in 2005 in relative anonymity at an over-crowded Hell’s Kitchen asylum. At midnight I kissed Billy, and by 2:00 AM was home in bed with a book. There’s a good story in there about a fight breaking out at the bar and yours truly catching an elbow to the head, but it loses something in the retelling. As New Year’s Eve partying goes, out at 11, home by 2 may not sound exciting, but it was drama-free and completely lacking in failed expectations. And everything I needed it to be.

I’ve refrained from making resolutions this new year – something I felt just great about. And reading this morning’s AM New York, my lack of desire to make any sort of sweeping change was validated with the sentence, “More than 130 million Americans will go on a diet this year, but nearly 80% of them are expected to fail.” Look at that! I’ve just avoided failure by not making a goal.

I am so wise.

I’ve just finished a yoga class and I’m sitting here playing with a container of strawberry yogurt (playing in the way your mother instructed you not to do with food), feeling a little bit weepy and not at all at one with anything, much less the universe.

I began 2004 draining vodka tonics in a Hell’s Kitchen lounge with two girlfriends, the man I was sleeping with, and the woman he was dating. Now, if that’s not the way to kick off a year a girl can be proud of, I don’t know what is. I’m just glad I never made any claims of moral superiority. I mean, wouldn’t that be embarrassing?

Everyone goes through this, I know. Periods of self-flagellation, feeling disgust for their own weaknesses and wearing regret like an ill-fitting, itchy turtleneck sweater. I’m just glad I chose to do it on New Year’s Eve. Because, you know, nothing says party! like a permanent scowl and an upset stomach.

The bright side is: I know the discomfort is temporary and that it can only lead to change — which is ultimately what a new year is good for. It’s out with the old, my friends.

To a smarter, saner new year. And may old acquaintance really be forgot.

It started on a downtown 4 Express a little before 8:30 AM. The train was not overly crowded, but due to signal malfunctions, it was moving much more slowly than I’d have liked, lagging and jerking to abrupt stops every minute or so. Annoying. But that wasn’t enough to do it.

The briefcase steadily bumping against my leg did it. And the tall, barrel-chested man who insisted on stepping back into me did it. And the sniffly woman who kept sliding her rough mitten onto the top of my bare hand did it. My brain began screaming.

Stop touching me!

My skin was burning, crawling in irritation and my jaw clenched tight and by the time I came head-on with the baggy-pantsed, pseudo gangster began coming down the wrong side of the stairs at Grand Central, I was fully infused with it. Refusing to budge, I hauled right on up the stairs and when he mumbled “move, bitch,” I narrowed my eyes and growled.

“YOU move.”

There it was: evidence that, despite all my best efforts, I had caught The Rage.

Ordinarily, I’m slow to anger. Even way too slow, sometimes. But yesterday, it seemed to have all caught up to me – all those years of unused wrath just pushed its way to the surface and exploded out of my pale, freckled skin. I wanted to run people down on the sidewalk. To stab an irritating sales clerk with my nail file. To tell the world,

Get the fuck out of my way and stay out of my way because good fucking god you’re all making me fucking crazy!

I tried explaining this to my brother, when on the subway yesterday evening I asked him, very calmly (but through gritted teeth) to stop brushing against my arm with his leather jacket. He looked amused, and stepped aside.

“I’m sorry,” I said, raking my fingers through my ponytail. “I don’t understand it. I’m just so… irritated today.”
“I noticed. What’s up?”
“Just… my skin hurts and there are way too many people. Why are there so many people?”

I would love to pass it off as PMS. Love to. But it’s not. Whatever this is… this frustration, anger, and sometimes totally unwarranted and unmitigated despair… is going on twenty-four hours of unexplained residence in my normally even-tempered soul.

It is very clear that I’ll be much better served going to a yoga class tonight than risking further angst by traveling out to middle-o-nowhere Queens to have dinner with Joe and Gracie. Best not to present a new someone with displays unbridled anger within the first month as it tends to alienate them.

I’d like to save that for month three.

I’m listening to the Dixie Chicks and doing a crossword puzzle. That’s how busy it is in the office this week.

While I’m certainly not complaining about the absurd amount of downtime afforded by the holiday limbo, it is a bit bizarre and uncomfortable to just sit here. I’m actually looking forward to getting some new deadlines – which is even more bizarre.

The best thing about my lull in responsibility is that I get to sit by and watch as the rest of the office continues running at a sleep-deprived, coffee-fueled, breakneck pace. They’re quite literally running. I just saw a rolling stick file fly by while behind me someone screeched something about a ‘reflected ceiling plan,’ in a tone that suggested architectural plans just may rank up there in critical importance with organ harvesting. Who knew?

The frenzy has yielded some high drama, which I’ve also watched with intrigue and slight confusion. The ten-minute yelling/crying episode went completely unnoticed by the majority of the office, but it had my attention from beginning to snotty-tissued end. It was way more exciting than the paperclip organization task I’d been working on at the time. I say ‘confusion,’ not because the shit-fit wasn’t totally predictable (two women have never hated each other more) but because, for some reason, I thought you had to be an actual grown-up to hold down a full time job. I was wrong. And it was awesome when the two went to their separate corners – both with handfuls of Hershey Kisses from the office pantry.

Sometimes, I think they should lace the water here with tranquilizers. Or Midol. I’m just sayin.

In other news, I finally saw Dodgeball the other night, and now have this shameful, yet undeniable curiosity as to what it would be like if someone started throwing wrenches around here. Probably less funny in real life, but lord, I could use some stimulation.

I scroll through my cell phone and jot down the number on a yellow Post-It note. Cradling the receiver between my cheek and my shoulder, I punch in my access code and dial 9 – 1 – 7. Then I hang up. I do this twice. The third time being the charm, I dial, will the butterflies to stop their nauseating dance, and tap my fingers nervously on the desktop as the call connects and then rings.

I go through this
every
single
time I call him.

What if I have to leave a message? Well, then I wait for the beep, mumble something far, far less amusing than what I’d worked out in my interior monologue, hang up and in Chris Griffin-esque shame, hang my head and cry, “I’m so awkward!”

Then I wait, which is the most excruciating part of the whole experience. Time goes by – fifteen minutes, an hour. TWO ungodly hours, and no return phone call. Never mind the two-hour wait; after roughly nine and a half minutes, I’m nervous, pacing, clawing at the insides of my brain. Why doesn’t he call?

He’s changed his mind.
This is a clear signal of disinterest.
And, abhorrently – He’s just not that into me. (I’m throwing up in my mouth as I type that.)

It’s like all of my insecurities got naked and went streaking.

So when the phone rings sometime after ten o’clock (a good seven hours after that tragic, short-bus-special voicemail), I flip open the phone and brace myself for an ‘I need my space,” or a “maybe we should take things slower.”

“Hey! Sorry I missed your call earlier. My caller ID said, ‘Grace Work’ and I was working a double so I didn’t pick up.”

“Oh, that’s okay.”

We chat, he says he’ll call me when he gets up the next afternoon; I flip the phone closed and sigh.

“Told you.”
“Shut up.”
“Somebody sure did his best to ruin you for normal guys, huh?”
“I’m responsible for my own crazy.”

My brother and I chat about dating and calling. We arrive at the oh-so obvious conclusion that girls need to relax and guys need to call. Busy, schmusy. “Just call the girl. How hard is that?” We talk some more, and I get ready for bed. He climbs onto the couch. “I guess I should call Shannon… I’ll do that in the morning.”

Um, yeah.

(Editor’s Note: Please refrain from the tired, obvious comments that I am neurotic. We already know this. We also know the word ‘HYPERBOLE.’ And if you do not, you may look it up here. Or you may take our word that it means, ‘Exaggeration for effect.’)

I’m pretty sure Christmas used to be more exciting. Or, at the very least, that it used to mean more.

And I’m not talking about all the baby jesus stuff, because let’s face it, trying to derive deep religious significance from all the tinsel and wrapping paper and hordes of hairy-lipped, crabby housewives brawling for the last Cuddle Me Super Grover is about as fruitful as say, loading up on Echinacea to combat the flu.

Point-less.

My brother did a lovely job with our holiday dinner (rosemary roasted chicken and vegetables) and the teeth-chattering walk up Fifth Avenue was nice and festive. But somewhere between the crush around Rockefeller tree and the animated Disney Store window, we decided that, unless you’ve got kids, Christmas Day is really all kind of a “been there, done that” experience. Which is a fine enough reason for me to look into getting knocked up, tout suite; I really do miss all the hoopla.

My own Christmas hoopla consisted of extreme bouts of laziness punctuated by eating spells and trips to Blockbuster for more DVDs. It was exactly what I needed, but of course now I’m forced to attempt the Post Christmas Detox of 2004. It’s time to trade in rides in my antiquated little elevator for the stairs, ice-cream for ginger-carrot-apple-celery juice (probably the second most disappointing trade ever made. The most disappointing being the ill-fated time I traded my blankie for pantyhose in the fourth grade. What was I thinking?), and massive efforts at re-hydration. It’ll probably only last a week, but I give myself six gold stars just for good intentions. I haven’t decided exactly at how many stars I’m allowed to reward myself. But I’m thinkin’ ten is a good, round number. And an iPod is a fair prize.

The Self-Reward System: Just another reason being a grown-up is fucking awesome.