It’s probably because I’m coming up on my one-year mark in this apartment (and, jesus, the final three months of the year) but I’ve been thinking about loose ends that need to be tied up even though I haven’t even gotten other things off the ground. I’m not genuinely concerned, but I still don’t have my non-cookbooks, and there’s a lot of them. I should probably get them, though. I last asked about them in maybe May, which seems like last month..
I used to make up reasons to continue contact with the ex boyfriend, and would get all wound up over my texts being responded to slowly, and now I no longer care, to the point where I don’t even feel like dealing with those books (and a blender and winter coat with lavender fur lapels that I haven’t worn in over a decade but wouldn’t mind seeing) It only took two years to stop caring…wow.
I started writing a relationship-related essay last December and was only able to get it into what I thought was a polished state this summer because I had the distance and finally pitched it to an ideal column (I’d already been rejected from once) while I was in LA as if that was a magical place and just being there would make everything that hasn’t gelled to my liking this year (professionally, creatively, romantically) finally manifest. That was not the case because it never is. With writing, I wonder if it’s a lack of skills and the not knowing what you don’t know or that I’m not actually connecting with my emotions, experiencing epiphanies (ok, that’s a little bold) and articulating experiences in a way that’s human and relatable and not self-indulgent the way I would want from others. Often when I read my writing (not here–actual attempts at legit personal essays, which rarely see the light of day) I think I would be annoyed with the tone of the narrator if it wasn’t myself. I come across fussy, stilted, judgmental and privileged when in real-life I’m very down-to-earth, kinder and open-minded. I tell and don’t show. I can’t write dialogue. No matter how much I read, my knowledge doesn’t translate when it’s my turn to string words into compelling sentences.
Anyway, I never heard back on the essay and it’s been a month, so that’s a “no.” I’m also a little afraid I’m being ghosted by someone, though I don’t know if ghosting is possible if you’re not in physical proximity. That would be a phantom relationship from the get go. (Not related to any of this, but I really can’t stand when writers use “haunted” to describe anything related to food.) The non-nos are starting to make me feel a little heartbroken, though, which is kind of ridiculous and non-resilient and when I’m speaking aloud they don’t seem like big deals. I’m not thrilled with myself for letting little rejections build up and affect my day to day.
But if I’m being honest–and I’m only stating this here because maybe sharing will stop the ruminating–it’s that kind of literal heartbreak where your chest is heavy, like weighing down your whole being deep into the couch cushions, and hurts (gah, maybe that’s actually heart disease). I’ve never understood all that feeling your feelings, sitting with your feelings, whatever, business. I do have feelings, I know why I’m having them, and I feel them (not always–sometimes I turn to distractions, yes, that’s where the monthly pack of cigarettes comes from. On the other extreme, I’ve been trying to run more to exhaust my brain and that doesn’t help either) but they don’t go away and I can’t focus on important, productive things like reworking that essay or others and expanding my social circle.
Just as how the more work I have to do (me, right now) the more I don’t do it, when I’m supposed to be frugal I buy things. I don’t need a new purse and already have a small green-accented Marc Jacobs one but haven’t bought any new bags in at least four years and this Rebecca Minkoff bag is tiny and was not crazy expensive on sale. It gave me feelings when I saw it online, so…
I also bought two midi skirts, frump central, at Ann Taylor, no less (they have some nice stuff, I’ve recently discovered) and am looking at a third on Old Navy even though I already have two plum colored in a similar length. I was feeling excited about fall and imagining blouse and boot combinations. Please stop me.
If I never went back to work again, I wonder how long it would take for someone to notice. I already missed a minor deadline today and the tiny irresponsible (like 2%) defeated (ok, that’s 80%) part of me would love to see how a snowball effect would play out. Or if it even would.
The toenail on my right fourth toe split half-way between the base and top and I had to pull it off because it kept getting caught on things and I had a half-naked toe for a few weeks. I assumed it was an anomaly but just noticed the same thing is happening on my left fourth toe. WTF fourth toes? Is it the way I’m wearing my shoes or have I started growing deformed nails on specific digits? I would not put a photo of my toes on Facebook because feet are disgusting. Here? Who cares. The crack is not obviously visible in this photo (where the white is showing and the polish has come off) but I wanted to show my ode to autumn (two days away finally!) colors because it’s all I’ve got right now.
And as to the impending change of season, I think it’s actually nice out now (oh, 66? Really? dream weather) but my apartment still feels like it’s 85 degrees even with all the windows open and fans blowing. This makes no logistical sense.
I just realized I haven’t had a vision loss migraine in weeks and I suspect it has to do with the hormones in my birth control pills that I’m not supposed be taking. My primary care physician freaked last week when she found out I was on them because apparently it raises your stroke risk if you have migraines with aura (news to me). Now, if she only knew I smoked an entire pack of cigarettes last week. As I’ve said before, I am in no way afraid of getting pregnant, not going to happen, but I have some half-baked, possibly never-to-be-realized hopes about the next two months that I’m not going to articulate and menstruation manipulation (that sounds like a fetish) could be beneficial. That I refuse to give up is as much as I’ll say.
Oh, ungrateful. That’s the word I would use to describe me if I weren’t me and reading the presented version of me. I can be. One doesn’t always have to be humble and apologetic and overly thankful. That doesn’t work in New York one bit. I’m thinking about it, though. Feeling it, totally.