Eat the Damn Cake

This is a guest post from Fraylie. I love the way she writes, which is why I have her on here so often.

Last week, my roommate, Jessica, and I sat in a Union Square coffee shop while donning two newly purchased felted wool hats. Jessica’s was a demure dusty rose with an elegant grosgrain hatband in “whiskey.” Mine looked like Indiana Jones had stumbled onto a Vogue cover shoot, unsuccessfully trying to appear brooding and coquettish. We were sipping hot chocolate (because that’s what damsels in hats drink) while waiting for a screening of The Hunger Games and my inevitable need to feel awkwardly attracted to the baby faced Peeta Mellark.

Forever alone, I joked. I exaggerated the sigh preceding my habitual quip with Jessica when we talk about our prolonged illness called singledom.

Two thirty-something women sat beside us. I heard one of them say to the other well why don’t you just try OkCupid? Jessica and I bit our lips and looked at each other sympathetically. We had both forayed into that online cornucopia of lovelorn couch surfers with poor results. Before I had time to put my foot in my mouth, I leaned over in their direction.

“Don’t do it,” I chirped, pulling at the brim of my hat. Half expecting my comment to go unnoticed, I was surprised by their enthusiasm during what became an hour-long conversation about finding love in New York City.

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I used to wonder what women meant when they talked about needing beauty sleep and described looking worn and tired in the morning and the evening and while traveling and before putting on makeup and after having children and just in general. I used to look the same when I woke up as when I went to sleep. Sure, my face would be a little puffy, in a cute way, but I looked like myself.

I’d like to lie and say I’m definitely still in the bloom of my youth, but I’m a bad liar. The ONE TIME I tried to sneak out to see a boy, my mom caught me. Oh, and then the other time. OK! There were two times! See? I just told you. I can’t tell a lie.

The truth is, I can see where this is headed. I’m smart. Let’s not pretend. My neck is going to sag one day. Not yet. But one day. It’s preparing. I can feel where it’s soft and pliant, at the point where the base of my jaw meets with my neck. I don’t know anatomical words. Clearly.

And when I am tired, I look tired. I look worn. I sometimes look like I just crossed through a war zone, where I saw things that no one should live to see, and I am taking those things to the grave. Which is where I’m headed at the moment. My hair looks limp, my eyes are hollow, and there are shadowed dips in my face, trenches alongside my mouth, up to either side of my nose, where patches of dark have fallen asleep and won’t budge. There is no flattering angle I can turn towards the camera. There can be no cameras.

(this is the only part of my face you’re allowed to see)

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This is not how it’s supposed to go. I am supposed to be having a fabulous time. I am supposed to be hiking very close to, if not in, the majestic Alps. But the Alps weren’t interested. They pulled the mist and rain and clouds down around themselves like an invisibility cloak. They vanished.

And my body did everything wrong.

The night before our flight, I was so excited that I couldn’t sleep. I rolled over a hundred times, I got a glass of water, I had to pee, I pulled the covers up, I petted the cat, I peed, I read a book, I read the newspaper, I pulled the covers down, I tried to think soothing thoughts. I finally fell asleep at 6:00 am, just before Bear got up to go to work. By then, there was no time to sleep.

And so, because of my excitement, I was exhausted on the plane, which probably contributed to the sad turn of events. The sad turn of events that I’m about to relate in riveting detail.

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I was late to yoga, and when I walked in, carrying too many things, everyone was already on their mats.

Yoga is still really new for me. It still feels awkward and difficult, and I’m still at the point where I feel really proud of myself for going. Look at you, being all healthy! I think, of myself, as I enter the building. I nod a modest “your welcome” to my dysfunctional spine. I am here for you, I think. Because I love you. 

So even after arriving late, I was feeling pretty good about everything.

Ten minutes in, though, I noticed, while in some twisted, intimate pose, that there were holes in my pants. Exactly where you don’t want holes. Especially when you’re doing yoga, and the person behind you will see parts of your body that not even your kinkiest boyfriend wanted you to display like that.  Oh no. This is bad.

The pants were black. My underwear was white. My only white pair, I think.

I craned my neck. There were three holes…no, five. In a row along the inner seam. Perfect. There’s my vagina.

But actually, there wasn’t anyone behind me, just a wall. So maybe I’d get through the class without having to scandalize any of the other innocent yoga goers.

Nope.

Definitely not.

“Pick a partner,” the teacher said, halfway through the class. “I’m seeing some really creative versions of the sun salutation around here, and I think it’s time to work things out. Remember, there’s no such thing as doing it wrong in yoga, but we can always learn from one another.”

(source)

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I have a history of being jealous. It’s not the sort of thing that’s cool to admit. Because jealousy is really petty and everyone knows it. Also, everyone knows it means you’re insecure. People who are secure do not feel jealous. They feel supportive and happy. Their neighbor wins the $389,000,000 lottery? Good for them! We’re planting a new garden!

That was based on my mom. She is the least jealous person ever, and she loves to garden.

(source)

Clearly, I am not very secure. I mean, clearly.

I’m working on it.

For a while, whenever I went to my writing group, I got jealous. We’d all show up, being fabulous and wearing interesting shoes, preening a little. And we’d report on our two weeks apart. Who was pitching where, getting accepted where, who had this amazing new opportunity, who had gotten this crazy gig. Quick, I thought frantically, think of something impressive you’ve done! I was deathly afraid that nothing would come to mind.

And sometimes I am so jealous I feel my smile get stuck on my face and I can hear my own voice, surprisingly squeaky, as though from a great distance, saying, “That’s great! That’s really great!” and in a second I think I might laugh like the laugh track on a bad sitcom. “Oh my god! I’m so happy for you! That’s really great! Oops! I tripped over my feet!” *laughter*

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I read this piece about time. It was by a girl who has cancer.

She writes about her new relationship with time, since her diagnoses, and as she waits for the bone marrow transplant that will either begin her life again or begin the process of her death.

There is a lot of attention reserved for children with cancer, and adults with cancer have documented their experiences extensively, but there isn’t too much about twenty-somethings with cancer; people who are already at a crossroads in their lives, and are now faced with a much larger one. People who are supposed to make something of themselves, and find a job and keep a job, and find a career, and date until they know what they want in a partner, and go to dive bars deep in Brooklyn, and try to piece together who they are and what they want from life. People who get cancer at much lower rates. People who are supposed to have so much time. 

I have a shaky relationship with time. We’ve never really sat down and talked, I guess, but I get the feeling we wouldn’t get along. I’m too pushy and vulnerable, and time—time is relentless.

When I was a kid, I climbed everything that would take me high up, even when the branches got thin and bendy. I wanted to see the distance. I thought I had forever. When I got married, suddenly, everything felt shorter, and more dangerous. My own mortality was brought into sharper focus by this sickeningly strong love for another person made out of fragile skin and just the right amount of blood, and millions of cells that were all trying to do the right thing. His cells were not all doing the right thing. Some of them were broken. And he carried his life around in a little black kit, with a vial of clear liquid that needed to be constantly injected, otherwise the balance tipped, and he would plummet.

(source)

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I am twenty-six and living in New York City. From everything I’ve heard and read, this means that I should have already acquired some of the closest friends of my life. There are plenty of other things that might be going wrong. I might be living in a roach infested five-story walkup with a creepy landlord who possibly roots through my underwear drawer when I go out. I might be struggling to find a “real” job, or always almost failing to make rent. I might be taking tons of auditions while waitressing, or I might be dating men in flashy suits who aren’t really interested in who I am, as a person. Eventually, I might have a big break that involves fashion week in some way.

There are a lot of stories about what NYC is like for young people, and the thing that usually makes it all worthwhile in these stories, aside from the incredible falafel at Mamoun’s, is friendship.

I have never, ever dated a man in a flashy suit. I actually don’t know what a flashy suit would look like. But I did skip other steps, too. I got married young. And while I lived in some seriously gross apartments, with some scary landlords, they always had elevators.

And I’m worried about friends.

I’m worried about friends in a way that makes me uncomfortable. It makes me feel uncool. It makes me feel vulnerable and helpless.

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