[Draft Series] I need an assistant.

Original draft: August 21, 2014

One of my favorite jokes is to compare uncomfortable milestones and/or brief moments of responsibility to adulthood. Examples: “I just turned down a happy hour with coworkers because I didn’t do yoga this morning. IS THIS BEING AN ADULT!?” or “Can we plan our twin weekend around the free Spartan workout in Boston? Yes instead of drinking. I KNOW, IS THIS BEING AN ADULT?!” I’ve even joked about it here before, after the infamous two-glasses-of-wine hangover (ref.). I think growing up, there are these adult stereotypes you create, like you have nothing but free time once you’re out of school, and you can do whatever you want on the weekends. I’m starting to realize, however, that is not even close to the case. In fact,  I feel like my new philosophical life question boils down to a simple thought: how does time seriously fill up so quickly?

Back in May, I knew it was going to be a busy summer. I had two major things happening for work in June, traveling throughout July, another two major things for work towards the end of August and then September was a final work announcement, my birthday and my friend’s wedding. In my naive state, I really thought the first few weekends in August would be blissfully uneventful, then a busy two weeks, and then cruising into fall, finally past the major milestones at work and all of the insanity that was the rest of my summer.

Last night, my lovely friend M and I were bumming around her apartment in sweatpants, drinking wine and awaiting Thai takeout, when we started discussing what we want to do this fall. There’s a group trip planned in mid-October for the full Nickname Posse, but we wanted to look into the other weekends for fun activities: Jets/Giants games, Oktoberfest at Bear Mountain, apple/pumpkin picking, an early or late Friendsgiving. We cycled through a few weekends, trading “oh I think R is out of town then” and “No, I have to be back in CT,” and eventually we realized we’re all already booked for the next few months.


[Draft Series] Middleperson

Original draft: December 11, 2014

email story (include unsubscribe?).

It’s not the first time in recent days that I’ve found myself straddling the line of an almost-argument between friends, trying to play devil’s advocate while not offending anyone with my own opinion. Maybe it’s because I have two X chromosomes, maybe it’s because I’m the youngest child (ok only by 14 minutes but STILL COUNTS), or maybe it’s just my personality type, but I have a really hard time thinking someone feels left out or confused by a situation, and consistently feel obligated to explain it, fix it or both.

[Draft Series] Dear you.

Original draft: July 17, 2014

I love the idea of a handwritten letter. I think it’s something so personal that’s truly been lost with email and social media. You can tell so much about a person’s mood by their handwriting: cramped and rushed; smooth, slow lines awash with care; loopy script of the daydreamer or the harsh, angry words that tear a page in frustration.

I have a journal that I write in from time to time, holding musings and ideas that I can’t even put on here. Sometimes it’s just a train of thought, sometimes it’s poems, and sometimes I doodle, chasing inspiration across the page like a cat after a mouse (or a fly, if it’s little miss). At times I write letters to people, things I can’t or won’t say out loud, but things I wish I could say if given the chance. There’s one that I wrote a while ago, but am only now

I understand. 

I’ve been angry, and hurt, and depressed, and everything in between. I’ve tried to pretend you don’t exist and I’ve looked for you every single morning, even though I know we won’t run into each other again, not like we used to. 

At the end of the day, it was the right time for me to meet you, but it wasn’t the right time for you to meet me. And that’s okay, really. But I’m not going to wait around for you to change your mind or send my things back. I’m just going to move on and if you come back, that’s great. And if you just send my stuff back, that’s great too. 

I meant everything I said, whether you did or not. I really, really hope things are better. You deserve that. You deserve everything. But then again, so do I.


[Draft Series] 3, 2, 1

Original draft: September 7, 2015

As we sat and watched the lights, the simple, silly things I’ve seen so many times before, I felt a huge bubble start to form in my stomach. I sat with it for a minute, singing along to the not-at-all shocking soundtrack of Katy Perry, and eventually as I watched the fireworks bursting, one, another, another, I wiped a tear away from my cheek.

[Draft Series] Hopelessly

Original draft: August 18, 2014

A few weeks back, my team at work attended a writing seminar, a full-day of learning new writing tips and techniques, and obviously competing with each other to win a grammar quiz (I think I came in 4th). We took most of the advice seriously, but as a team full of snarky individuals, we let a few jokes run away with us. In particular, the woman leading the workshop chastised us a little for the colloquial use of the adverb form of “hope.” E.g., at one point, I mentioned “Hopefully they bring lunch soon, I’m about to eat my notebook” and her response was “They are not going to bring us lunch in a hopeful manner.” We let that be the joke of the day, calling each out for saying both “hopefully” and “hopelessly” in any context, like “you are not eating the last Reese’s in a manner devoid of hope” and “that document is not, itself, full of hope.” As the joke has died down in the weeks after the workshop, I’ve continued to notice how often I use both hopefully, as well as hopelessly, in context that I’m sure would get me chastised by that instructor all over again.

I am the product of high school sweethearts who still love each other almost as much as I love Sun Chips, and the byproduct of a generation raised on Disney princesses and rom coms. My extended family is rambunctious and loud and we all adore each other, relishing our “small family get-togethers” that practically require a banquet hall. I’ve watched two friends stay in love over so many years, despite ups and downs, and I’ve watch two friends meet and fall desperately, quickly and completely in love. I have been so fortunate to be surrounded by all of this amazing love throughout my life. The unfortunate side effect of this is that I have a tendency to let my imagination run wild with the possible notion of a love story of my own. I am, what some would classify, hopelessly romantic.

It’s an interesting way to describe someone, qualifying romance with something that inherently means “causing despair.” In that sense I think it’s a good term though.

The funny thing is, I’ve had all the makings for these amazing wonderful stories, college love, the boy on the subway. And I suppose for a time they were, in their own way. But as the aforementioned byproduct of the princess and happy endings generation, I never accepted that the stories continued long after the characters find each other against all obstacles and fade to black with true love’s kiss.