The Eighth Day…


Today I used a birthday present that was being kept for a rare weekend home.  This was the weekend.  A gift certificate for a day at Great Jones Spa – pure, indescribable bliss, where I joined ladies and gentlemen of leisure on our quest for rejuvenation and tranquility.  It did not disappoint.  My package called for lavender oils to be massaged into the knots in my shoulders, and a lavender foot scrub, and a lavender facial.  Proof that on the Eighth Day, God created the Great Jones Spa.

After I sat by their waterfalled pool, sipped an anti-oxidant smoothie, and made a date with a handsome stranger for this week, my work there was done.

Feeling calm, collected, and buffed within an inch of my life, I set out on the town.  It was a lovely afternoon, as all you New Yorkers know, and I was going to meander through the city on my stay-cation.  I haven’t been in NYC for Memorial Day weekend in years, and had already spent most of it with the greatest girl who ensured I was not without my first glass of rosé for the summer season.  And that I didn’t spend this big weekend, so often away on vacation, alone.

I had no destination in mind.  I walked and walked, and the roads became familiar.  I decided to test my own will.  The roads meandered until they became my old zipcode.  Was I really doing this?  Why?  Because I’m a masochist, that’s why.

But I soon found that I genuinely enjoyed being in my old neighborhood.  I got coffee at my old coffee shop, walked by my laundromat, smiled at the outdoor revelers at the White Horse.

Surreal is the best way to describe it.  An out-of-body experience, plain and simple.  I was myself, but I wasn’t.  I was living my life, but it wasn’t mine anymore.  I was following the roads I had taken many times before, but it wasn’t the same path.  And there I found myself, outside the electric blue painted door.  It was like when a horse gets lost miles away, but always finds its way back home to its stable.  I stood on the steps, and saw my name crossed out on the buzzer.  And I left.

I walked the High Line, and through Chelsea.  And now here I sit on my couch, making my first dates with men who’d like to get to know me better.  Yes, two in three days.  Who knows if I’m ready?  All I know is that, because of this blog, my inner thoughts rarely go unexpressed.  But there are no words to express how it feels to see your name crossed out on the place you used to call home.


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