The Spinster’s Dilemma
The timing couldn’t have been worse. “Uncle G, I really don’t want to have this conversation right now. I feel sick.”
“Sick” may have been a gross understatement. It was a hangover that set in around 11:30am, 4 hours after I woke up, leaving me to believe I was still drunk until then. The Cultural Contributor came to Philly for her first visit since I moved. We were determined to take the down by storm, and I dare say we succeeded. Seven bars and three stiff drinks (we walked into and out of 4 of them) into our bar tour, we jumped in a cab and headed across town to a bar I had been to once before on a not-date two weeks earlier. I remembered the bartenders and they remembered me. I don’t know when or how it happened, but our one glass of wine (the 4th of the night) turned into the 5th, 6th, and 7th. Add an unknown bourbon cocktail and the night was a blur. The waiters began to swarm ad CC and I entertained the barstaff as the night waned. With so many of them the same uniform, names weren’t an option. I decided to number them. At the end of the night, Number 5 invited us out and slipped me his actual number, apparently after I gave him mine. Lo and behold, the little shit called.
The first text I received. I even responded. The second I received, and then I woke up. The next morning, I woke up feeling good. My tummy was a bit wobbly, but I was impressed at how well I could rally at my age. I waited until 10 or so before writing him back. I wanted to meet up with him before CC went home, but after a number of texts back and forth, it was not going to work out. I tried. It was a nice thought.
So 11:30 comes around and CC and I feel death-by-hangover approaching. She has a 3 hour drive ahead of her and decides it’s best to just hit the road. My plan is to faceplant on the couch and wait for death to pass. My uncle had other plans in mind.
With my Aunt at work, there was ample time for he and I to catch up on life. Specifically my life. Specifically my love life. “If you mom was smarter she could change your dad. All women have that power. They just have to be smart enough to use it.” My head was spinning, my stomach in lockstep. “Uncle G, I really don’t want to have this conversation right now. I feel sick.”
“Perfect,” he responded, launching into a conversation that lasted just over an hour.
It meandered through my life from my parents to my childhood, and over to romance. No subject was off limits. “I don’t date.” I told him. “Why would a pretty, smart girl like you not be able to get a date? You should be out dating all sorts of people. You should be having fun.” He was right. Maybe.
“Because I want to date someone Jewish.” It was true. Maybe.
“Really. That’s important to you.” They were statements, not questions. Statements of disbelief. “That doesn’t mean you can’t date non-Jews, though.”
“But what if I fall in love?” It seemed reasonable enough, but coming out of my mouth, I could feel it wasn’t right.
“Did you hear yourself?” (I did.) “What’s going to happen when you’re 40 years old and alone and wonder, ‘What if I missed the love of my life because he wasn’t Jewish?’” The conversation moved on from there, but that point resonated.
A while later, Number 5 (the little shit) actually called. He wanted to get together. He actually had a plan. He called when he said he’d call. He texted me back when I texted. And we had a date. And I went into it with an open heart.
He’s short. He’s Catholic. And he’s nice to me. He may not be the love of my life, but I won’t know what love feels like if I don’t give it a try sometime.
I guess I don’t know, though. Am I compromising? This is the spinster’s dilemma.
Shoop: Why Weddings and Birthdays and Live Bands and Alcohol Do Not Mix
The Rabbi got married to The Lawyer on my birthday. Rather, they got married the day before my birthday but were kind enough to have a party with an open bar than extended into my birthday by half an hour, giving me the chance to celebrate with the ones I love. And humiliate myself.
I came down from Philly for all of the pre-wedding festivities and none disappointed. The Rabbi is a dear old friend of mine who, shockingly, asked me to be her bridesmaid. I was thrilled if not completely blindsided. In the speech I delivered at the rehearsal dinner, I mentioned my surprise but avoided some of the less family-friendly reasons I wasn’t expecting the invitation. Namely, 1) I hate love, 2) I suck at romance and romantic things, 3) I have particular experiences with JDate that may constitute a conflict of interest at a JDate wedding. There’s a 4) and 5) but really, 1-3 kind of cover it. That being said, I took my job very seriously, planning a bachelor and bachelorette dinner things and post-party, giving a speech, and buttoning buttons on The Dress before go-time. She chose me. The other 3 bridesmaids were related, and then there was me. The tall one. The angry one. The one with the birthday.
You have to understand, The Rabbi is kinder and more considerate than I think I could ever be. She truly made the weekend special for me, knowing how uncomfortable it had the potential to be. So after the shoeless pictures, and shoeless cocktail hour… and after the shoeless dinner and shoeless dancing… before I knew it, midnight had come around and in the middle of a song I can’t remember, my name was called and I was wished Happy Birthday before the crowd of well wishers. There was applause and cheers and more dancing. I was giddy. And perhaps mildly intoxicated. Chicken, meet egg.
The song ended and I heard my name called again. This time I was invited on stage. This time to sing Happy Birthday. After the song ended, things get blurry. I turned to the band leader, that much I know. I think the conversation went something like this:
Me: Thank you! That was awesome. Hey, we could do a song!
Band Leader: Oh yeah? What do you know?
Me: Um – haha – um – haha – um – haha
BL: *blink blink*
Me: I know Shoop! Do you know Shoop? We could do Shoop!
BL: Shoop? Seriously? He turns to the band.
And before I know it the band is in full swing, Salt n’ Pepa’s infamous jam ringing out through the synagogue’s social hall in front of 100 of my closest strangers. And there I was, in full makeup, bridesmaid gown, (no shoes), and perfectly coiffed hair. On stage… rapping. I knew the words… most of them. Although looking back I can’t for my life get past the 3rd verse. And I certainly don’t know their order. I think alcohol induced memory loss is a blessing. It’s a perfectly honed defense mechanism that allows us to get up and face the world after a disaster like this.
In the morning, I am pretty sure the first thing I said to the bride and groom was, “I’m sorry.” And I meant it. It wasn’t my day. It was their day. And sure, it was funny, and very much something I would do, but I shouldn’t have done it. If there had been one single (as in unattached) guy there, I would have been too busy trying to keep up my drunken wedding hookup streak to bother making a fool of myself on this much larger scale. But the one prospect was perfectly wonderful and nearly 2′ tall. Tiny and so nice and an amazing dancer. And… completely uninterested. *sigh*
There are weddings that stand out to me of the many, many, many that I have attended. They are the ones that truly embody the bride and groom. This was one. It was their wedding. It was made for them. It was a labor of love and a celebration of love. And it was perfect.
So perfect, as a matter of fact, that it made me want to Shoop. And I did. And I am still very, very sorry.
Childish
I left a lot of things in DC when I moved to Philly, one of them being a cadre of men who had, in one way or another, patently rejected me.
The many, many ways by which I have been blown off reads like “he’s just not that into you.” Never in my life, though, did I expect to look quite as good after being rejected as I did Halloween night…
It ended with a phone call.
Me: “Hey. It was a lot of fun seeing you last night. Thanks for all the drinks. It didn’t end well.“
Him: “Glad you had fun.”
Me: “You said to give you a call to hang out today. So, I just wanted to see how your day was going…”
Him: “Um. I just got home from work and I’m exhausted so… …. … I think I’m just going to stay in.”
Me: “Right. Well, hey – how about this. You just give me a call if you ever want to hang out. Otherwise…”
Him: “Yeah. OK. Talk to you later.”
*click*
I shall call this, the Royal Blowoff. Which probably actually happened the last few times he didn’t call me back, but that’s neither here nor there. He was a very promising prospect — one I truly believed had potential due to various statements and advances on his part, and positive responses on mine. Regardless, it ended with an open sense of finality. He left the door open. I knew it was final.
And with that finality, I went through my typical routine: Delete. Delete. Delete. Included in this cleansing ritual was phone, buddy lists, and Facebook. Why? Because we weren’t friends before we started “dating” and by virtue of the conversation during which he blew me off… our future wasn’t very bright.
Or so I thought.
Until Halloween night, I hadn’t heard a peep from him, and believe you me, I wasn’t losing sleep over it. But when we returned to his bar, my second favorite spot in DC, he was there and it was awkward. Determined to have a good time, I was pleasant and gracious and drank whatever was put in front of me like a good girl. All was well and good until this:
“So, I heard you de-friended Cookie Man on Facebook,” my good friend and his coworker commented.
I was stunned. Since when did boys gossip like little school girls, and why on earth would he care? It bothered me all night until finally I decided to sidle up to his bar for a change of scenery. And out of nowhere, “So, what’s with you defriending me?”
“We weren’t friends! You made that incredibly clear,” I said with confidence.
“But why did you defriend me?” he responded.
“Because were weren’t friends before we went out and we are friends now?”
“But you didn’t have to defriend me.”
“YOU! You defriended me IN REAL LIFE! How am I the bad guy?”
“It was just a little childish is all.”
Childish. Me. The one who made every adult attempt to enter into some sort of more-than-platonic relationship and then backed away and without tears when it became clear the feelings weren’t mutual. I was the adult. I was the one behaving. He was the child with the bruised ego. The “de-friending” — an entirely new version of the Facebook DTR — had not been done maliciously. I figured it was a favor. Take me off his plate. Eliminate any chance I’d have of contacting him, since clearly I was not something he wanted. Not something he cared about. And certainly not a friend.
But I could see how he would be hurt. Not that I care, but I can understand. So, I re-friended him with a note appended:
“I didn’t think my defriending you would bother you so much. I am sorry if you were hurt, it wasn’t my intention. I had a great time last night at the bar. Thanks.”
The next day, he accepted my friend request, an act that 2 months earlier would have shot me to the moon. This time, it was another email to delete. A note on my wall followed shortly after: “But this still doesn’t mean we’re “friends,” right…? 
“ And my response to him: “Nope and I’d never assume otherwise.”
I am quite sure that is the last I’ll hear from him. And I assure you, I couldn’t care less.
My advice is worth what you pay for it
I am the black widow of relationships.
So far, I have recommended that not one, but two of my colleagues break up with their girlfriends, and so far both have taken my advice. Or taken very similar advice to that which I had provided in very close proximity my giving of the same advice.
Someone should have warned these boys to never take my advice.
My aunt came home from a lovely weekend away with a cousin of mine whose husband passed away about two years ago. She is now dating his roommate from college who apparently has been in love with her since back in the day. My aunt says she is happy. I say she doesn’t know how to be alone.
And so it goes down the list. If it were up to me, I guarantee I’d break up relationship I ever came across. It’s a sweet little habit, really — one that reeks of loneliness and grinchiness. Green suits me. What can I say?
It’s truly not that I don’t want people happy. I just don’t want people un-happy. Or with someone un-happy. Or bringing the un-happy down on me. Or in my direction. Or in my vicinity. Or slightly-larger-than-vicinity.
I just like to show people that they don’t have to be in relationships that don’t work, or ones that they have to work far too hard for diminishing returns. I usually get to play this game with my girlfriends (and God help me, please give me strength not to do this to my boss) but for whatever reason, I seem to have far more gentle-man-friends up here in Philly which means I get to play homewrecker with a whole new demographic.
*takes a deep breath* I can smell the comments coming now… Go on. Let ‘er rip. You’re all probably right.
[Edit]
Rather than explain my life to a new coworker, in a moment on intense weakness and overwork-ed-ness, I told him about my blog. (Hey there!) And he read it. (Hope you enjoyed!)
It didn’t take him much longer than 45 minutes to read what I assume to be most of it, and offer up a summary analysis of me and my issues with men with such an astonishing accuracy that I could only attribute it to my incredible ability to express myself with words.
That, or the fact that “daddy issues” are a pretty common reason women suck.
I made him e-pinky swear to not share the link with my coworkers, and he assured me I’d get a real pinky swear when I see him in the office next. But I started questioning why I keep this blog anonymous anymore. I guess it’s so my parents don’t Google or Bing or Ask Jeeves about themselves and find out about the stellar advice they’ve given me, along with the sordid tales of my sex life. Or lack of sex life as the case may be. I still think that’s a reasonable reason to keep myself on the down low. I get to choose who knows about this place I call home. And I chose this dude at work.
So what are the repercussions to this divulgance?
- Guy at work, I can’t date you. I’m sure that this is not of interest to you after actually reading the annals of my life, but alas… you know too much.
- Oh, and you can’t meet any dude I ever date. Ever. I have had the misfortune of exes reading this blog, or finding it before we started dating which was awkward. Or it may have been that we started dating after I confessed to maybe wanting to date someone he figured out was him. I think he still reads, too. Hi?
- I cannot openly discuss all the super hot guys I works with. Which I really want to do. So we’ll see if I don’t just do it anyway because you blog reading ladies just deserve to know.
- I may have to start lying about my sex life just to keep some cred. I have an imagination.
Work is still awesome, and with a few new choice clothing pieces in my closet after the weekend, it’s going to be a super cute week at work.
I’m wearing my fun pants today. What are you wearing?
I am a Phillies Fan (and other lessons from my new home town)
It’s been a while since I’ve adopted a new hometown. There was my first move to Miami, my semester in England, a year in Seattle, but none of them were “home.” When I moved back to the DC Metro area, it was like putting on an old shoe. I stepped in a lot of shit, but ultimately it was comfortable and familiar and… home.
Relocating to Philadelphia has been the first relocation that feels permanent, like this may end up being “home” afterall.
One thing I forgot about relocating is that there is a HUGE learning curve. There are things about the town and things about work. Funky roads and new malls. Here are just some of the lessons I’ve learned in the first few weeks.
- I am a Phillies Fan. Apparently, no matter where you are from or who you support, it’s safer to just say you’re a Phillies/Eagles/Flyers fan than have to endure the wrath of the locals who, apparently, have never heard of “friendly” competition.
- Do not put things on top of the tampon machine in the bathroom. There is a little auto-scent-poofer that goes off every so often that apparently leaks vanilla scented oiliness right onto the top of the tampon machine. I learned this when I picked up my notebook and lost a page of notes.
- Roads make no sense to anyone in any town anywhere. Just when I mastered the convoluted mess of interconnected, one-way-the-wrong-way streets in DC, I come to a town with an even worse system. Mr. L’Enfant did a damn good job if you ask me.
- I am not city mouse. Granted, I’ve only been here 2 weeks, but I think I finally have to admit I have no interest in living downtown. Or “Center City” or whatever they call that 2 square mile mess of roads and cars and attractive co-eds. I want to have a parking space. I love my car. And “mostly safe” doesn’t cut it for me. So suck it.
- The “City” Philadelphia extends clear into New Jersey and more than likely Ohio or whatever is left of Pennsylvania. No. Seriously. I tried to find a “suburb” to live in to avoid paying the ridiculous city wage tax, and it is NOT that easy! The city is a county or the other way around and it is just HUGE! There are parts of Philly that look like the quietest suburban neighborhood ever, but I’m warned, “You just be careful. This is the city you know.” And they mean it! It’s like crime goes by zipcode rather than quality of neighborhood.
- Work can be awesome. And it is.
I miss MD and VA and all of my people therein, but I am having a blast. More to come!
The Good, The Bad, and Danny Bonaduce
Today marks a week since I was wheels up in DC en route to Philadelphia. The week has been a rollercoaster of emotion and confusion, filling my days with activity and excitement but turning my restful nights restless. Naturally, mama’s got stories to tell.
The Good: My job is fucking amazing. Fuck-ing. Amaz-ing. Day 1 was training included an introduction from the super hot CEO, catered lunch, and happy hour featuring Rock Band: Beatles. I got my laptop and my BlackBerry is coming. I wish I could say they were just fun toys, but apparently I am going to be really really really busy. Thankfully I get to be that busy in jeans and a t-shirt… flip flops or slippers if I like. Picking my work outfit is finally fun since it involves absolutely anything I fucking want. Bitches. I am going to buy a BOSU Ball to sit on which may help my back. Things are good, but work is just starting. You people should be jealous you don’t work there. You might, though. We’ll never know…
The Bad: I cannot for my life find a fucking apartment. Yes, my standards are too high, going from living in new construction in da burbs to trying to move Center City, near the train, and the highway, and the market. And bars. OK OK OK I get it. It’s unrealistic. I know the neighborhoods I want to move to, but holy HELL car insurance is expensive and I am going to be paying 2 rents for 5 months since mama can’t get rid of her apartment in VA. Long. Story. So for now I am staying with my Aunt and Uncle in what looks like the burbs but is actually The City, a feature of this town that drives me nuts. That means they rape you with taxes and insurance up to half an hour outside of anything awesome and city-like. Aunt and Uncle are desperately in love and make me want to do a combination of vomit and run out and get married. Awkward situation, but I think it’ll do. They say I can stay here as long as I need to, and with a hot meal waiting for me when I get home from work every night, I think I could get used to this. Except for the cats.
Danny Bonaduce: AKA “The Ugly.” Apparently Mr. Bonaduce is back on the radio up here in Philly. I stumbled upon his morning show last week, and thus far have caught segments focusing on “Sex in the Workplace a la David Letterman” and “Behind the Scenes at a Gentleman’s Club.” The only problem is, all I hear is “wah wah Me, wah Me Me Me, wah wah wah Me.” The entire show is a shrine to Danny Bonaduce and his admitted sex addiction, acrimonious marriage and divorce, and his girlfriend who apparently keeps him, with good reason, on a very short leash. And then more about him. Again. It’s going to take some significant getting used to. One thing I can say is outside of this morning show, the radio situation in Philly is better. Way better. 100% better. In that there is a radio situation. They have 3 rock stations, and an indie station that plays a collection of everything awesome. Right now they are playing the 885 Desert Island Songs during their pledge drive. “Top 885″ of anything = Awesome.
So here I am on Day 3 of work, Day 7 in Philly. I’ missing DC and missing a “home” but loving every minute of it.
My Last 24 Hours in DC
Well, DC… It’s been real. You made it hard to leave, but it was time to go. My last day in the “DMV” were amazing.
The Middlenameless Wonder who, incidentally, gave me a card that made me cry, took me out on the town Saturday night and then sprung this badboy on me…
Bono and the boys say goodbye from "the claw"
Yup! U2 and Muse at FedEx Field. It was really nice of her to get Bono and the boys to play a going away concert for me. And then, Bono pulled in a favor and got MUSE to open for them! Me and my 80,000+ friends were thrilled the spaceship was available for the show. The seats were amazing. The company was even better. And the show… well, it was out of this world.
The next morning, I woke up early for PT before hitting the road for my final send off. This guy is pretty busy, so it was great he could squeeze me in:
The President took time out of his busy life to say goodbye to me!
On Monday, I was invited to come see President Obama speak at NIH. After seeing him speak at the University of Maryland, I assumed it would be a large crowd and I would be in the back with the riff raff, which clearly… I was not. From the second row, I listening to him speak about how the National Institutes of Health have shaped modern medicine in many ways, and how they are just getting started. In the middle of his speech, I noticed something. There was a little line in his hair… like a part, but not a part. And then I looked at his cheek. And his ear. I looked at the shadow of his freshly shaven beard. I had to focus on the things that proved it was all real. That he wasn’t on TV. He wasn’t talking to a camera in the Oval Office. He was talking to me and a few hundred people in a small room in Bethesda. As he left the stage, I knew he would walk the line. And he did. I leaned in and hoped… really hoped… that he’d shake my hand. But he walked by me… but just barely. He lingered, talking to the man in front of me who had worked on his campaign, and then turned his gaze back. Back to me. And looked me in the eye. And shook my hand. His hands are soft but strong, but I had heard that before. Never in my life did I think I’d ever be able to corroborate the story. I could only think of one thing to say to him as he shook my hand: “Thank you so much.”
He wasn’t there for me, and neither was Bono, but don’t tell me that. It was the perfect way to say goodbye, although it made leaving that much harder. I have some amazing friends that I’m leaving behind, but I’m only a few hours away and Philly is a rad town.
For all of you that found me through DC Blogs, I hope you’ll stick around. I’m still a DC girl at heart, and will bring my Capitol perspective to the City of Brotherly Love. What an amazing and loving community… but I’m not going anywhere. So stick around!
So many new wonderful antics to come…
Atonement: Making Peace with Me
“Now, that… that’s what you might want to see a therapist about.”
I felt duped. The chicken was coated in corn flakes and baked, not fried, to golden perfection. But furtive eyes made me believe they were hiding something. Indeed, they were.
“Have you heard of Ina Garten?” he asked with hesitation.
“Butter. There’s butter in this, isn’t there.” I knew it. It was too good to be true. “This isn’t as healthy as it looks, is it?”
“No. Not at all. But divided by nine…” he admitted.
“There’s enough butter in this that it has to be divided by NINE to make it seem reasonable?!” I snapped. He had been so kind — opening up his home to me for our “last supper” before Yom Kippur fast. The company was lovely, the wine was delicious, the table was set to perfection. But the whole thing was ruined for me when I realized I had just eaten an unhealthy… very unhealthy… meal. I apologized a million times to this host for freaking out. How do you explain to someone that you have “issues” with food? How do you convincingly thank him for his hospitality while perseverating on calorie counts and impending stomach aches?
After services, conversation was sparse. I was embarrassed and he was confused. “Are you ok?” he asked? “Yup,” I replied as I walked 3 paces ahead of him, arms crossed, head down. I wasn’t mad at him. I was mad at me. And the words just didn’t come.
During Yom Kippur services this morning, we talk about starting anew: forgiving those who have sinned against us, and asking for forgiveness from those whom we have sinned against. I thought about my friends, my family, my coworkers, all people who we transgress against all the time. I promised that I would do better and be better in the year ahead. But then I realized that the person I transgress against most is me.
I am unreasonable with myself. I am harsh. I am disrespectful. I don’t cut myself any slack. And I deserve better. As I began to recognize these transgressions I started to cry. As I apologized to myself, I cried harder. He leaned over to ask if I was ok. I nodded. It’s also a strange question, though. I’m not ok or else I wouldn’t be crying. But what can anyone do?
I babysat last week for a lovely family in Arlington. Two successful parents with two adorable kids. The four year old was a handful, but a big help with the little guy. The little guy, though, is who I connected with the most. He was built like Thomas the Tank Engine (possibly an osmotic result of watching him so often), small but powerful. With Kung-Fu Panda-like skills, he could climb his way to any cookie in the house. He knew what he wanted out of life: Park, “Appahjoose”, and “Sooby Doo”. Sometimes he wanted “EyeSeeeem” and other times “Ehmo”. He barely cried and was easily consoled. And he loved me. He barely knew me, but he loved me. He trusted me. He needed me. He had more faith in me than I had in myself.
I would leave every day feeling exhausted but accomplished. I felt confident in the decisions I made during the day. I felt like I had impacted a life. I didn’t think about me all day. I didn’t worry. I didn’t perseverate. I just played and fed and changed diapers and picked up toys and put in videos and went on walks and fed and changed diapers again. Two year olds are so confident. They know everything — just ask them. They don’t worry about things, and that may be the lesson I learned from watching him smile so brightly for so long, appeased by a crayon or a pretzel or “Sooby Doo.”
I made some promises to myself today: Be nice. Be strong. Get better. “Better” is up to my discretion, of course. I think I’ll start with getting better at having faith in myself. I’ll get better at trusting people. I’ll get better at having respect for myself and my body. I’ll get better at not worrying about things I cannot change, and yes, I’ll invest in a therapist to get that done.
Oh – and I’ll get better at writing funny posts again. This time of year always gets me down, but trust me – there are stories to be told and you’re gonna love em.
Happy New Year.
Hope and Change: Pillars that Transcend Politics
“I never said change was going to be easy!”
President Obama echoed these familiar words as he stood before 17,999 supporters and 1 protestor at the University of Maryland yesterday. I had never heard a President speak in person, let alone a President I felt so connected to as a young person and as a Democrat. There was nothing he said that I hadn’t heard before. But on this day, these words rang true.
Forget health care for a moment. Not a long moment, but long enough.
Today marks the start of the Jewish New Year and I am about to start a new life. After the year that I’ve had, 5768 on the Jewish calendar, everything is about to change giving me hope for good things to come. But it hasn’t been easy. It won’t be easy. And I am scared to death.
Change. I am moving to Philadelphia to accept a job with what seems like an amazing, creative company where I’ll get to spread my wings and grow professionally. Moving to a new city will be a challenge in and of itself, but moving, starting a new job, making all new friends, finding an apartment, deciding if I could possible survive as “city mouse,” getting a new license, registering my car… Change. No one ever said it was easy. I have been changing every day for almost as long as I can remember. I try to be better and do better. I lost weight. I was in therapy. I fight my demons. I try to relax. My apartments have been debacle after debacle, one bad choice on top of another. I want so badly to just… be. To stop and enjoy all the changes I’ve made. To learn not to worry about so much and to live my life in the moment instead of imagining the outcomes of my decisions days, years down the line. I wish I could accomplish all those things. I have hope…
Hope. Having hope is hard. I’m learning that “hope” and “trust” are the same, really. In both, one gives up control. Hope is the trust that things could get better, and hope and trust are things I don’t do. I get let down too easily. As a depressed teenager, I found myself never getting my hopes up about anything, really. Why bother when surely the other shoe would drop, crushing me? Maintaining a flat-line of emotion kept me safe in my cocoon of sullen-girl-anger. But now, as an adult, I need to have hope. I need to feel as though I can trust things can get better and will get better. I have hope that this change, a move for a job that was a year in the making, will bring peace to my life. I will meet new people and find a new home. I will spend more time at Shoprite with my grandmother and eat many more decadent dinners at my aunt’s house. I will be a better me. I hope to. I have to.
I had been working the event on my feet since 5:45 that morning. The chill in my bones from the cool morning rain had finally thawed from the electricity of the crowd. My hunger pangs had been mitigated by the best diet pepsi I’ve ever consumed. My team rallied in preparation for a speech I would never forget.
He was talking about health care reform, one of the many challenges facing our generation. But I heard the message of change and hope that I’ve heard for 3 years now. This time, though, it transcended politics.
Wish me luck.
