Stanford 2029


This post was going to be about how I’m going to start taking care of myself.  I managed to get to yoga yesterday, in a last minute attempt to use my gym membership before I cancel it.  Training for the half marathon has been pushed aside.  But I’m trying to get strong again – I happened to lose 15 pounds this year due to stress alone, and my mom revealed that I am a “bag of skin and bones.”  And I am.  In a lot of ways, I’m a shadow of my former self.  If only Kate Moss would bring heroin-chic back.  But maybe if I strengthen my abdomen, my back, and broaden my lung capacity, they will support the weight of my heart.

In an effort to gain weight, I’ve evidently made a pact with myself to drink all the alcohol in the apartment before I move.  At 4pm, my dear boss agreed to my early dismissal based solely on the redness of my eyes, and I’m on my second Yuengling at 5:30.   I don’t even like Yuengling.  Or I thought I didn’t – at this point, I’m ready to bathe in it.

It has not been a good day.  There has been a lot of extremely difficult tasks at hand this past week – finding an apt, awaiting the lease and keys, and informing my present dear landlords downstairs (whose response was not about my lease, but “I can’t bear it.  Please tell me it’s not certain.”)  Today was calling the moving company and Time Warner Cable.  I used Flatrate again (amazing – don’t go anywhere else), the same company that we used when we moved downtown 4 months ago.  I asked for Joe and, upon hearing his voice, I heard myself say “Joe, remember that apartment you moved me into?  Well now you have to move me out of it.”  And then I started crying.  And Joe, who I imagine to be short, broad, with the ability to hug like no other, kept saying to me, “It’s Ok.  It’s going to be ok.”

I’m alone in the apartment tonight, skipping class, and not about to feel guilty for it.  When I look back on this time in my life, I won’t be remembering the German history class I’m missing. I’m going to remember sitting on the Green Machine, drinking Yuengling, watching HBO, and throwing my clothes in garbage bags.

Giving up swearing for Lent was not a good idea.  I promised that I would put aside $1 for every swear word I use during these 40 days, and donate to my niece’s college fund.   At this point, she is going to Stanford, courtesy of her aunt.

Today, I had a brief run-in with a man selling standup comedy tickets in Times Square:

Man: Hey you, in the cool outfit. Do you like comedy?  (Sidenote:  I was wearing a white T and jeans, by definition, not a cool outfit).

Me: No thanks.

Man: Are you mad at me?

Me: No, I’m mad at the world.

That got about a dozen laughs from innocent tourists, who have no idea that this city isn’t the one that they see in their Jennifer Aniston romantic comedies.  It feels like a giant AA meeting, where I’m standing up and saying:  “Hi.  My name is Eileen, and I keep telling everyone I’m fine.  I am not fine.”

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