I am never alone
We are all alone with our pain.
A wave of sadness hits me and slowly overtakes me as my mind races to find a conclusion… to the burning question. I’m sitting here in my apartment on a hot and humid summer night. Alone. Only when I am alone am I faced with my own thoughts. I am rarely left to myself. I have roommates, coworkers, friends, boyfriends, people on the train, and people milling around me at the fruit stand. Friends tell me they love being alone. They can do whatever they want. Read a book, see a movie or catch up on the news. I, on the other hand, do not particularly enjoy my alone time. These days I can’t seem to sit still, clear my mind and veg like the rest of them. I need to ponder these burning questions within me, constantly twisting them around in search of an answer. An answer is never anywhere to be found.
This pain, always hiding behind my blue eyes, is constant. I think it can’t be detected but sometimes I let it loose, if only briefly. If there is someone watching, they might pick it up. It happens randomly. It reveals itself during a voice lesson in college when I’m most vulnerable. “I can see it in your eyes” she says during a brief pause, “you always have that sadness beneath the surface” and I burst into tears. Tears that have been dammed up expertly but since I’ve been caught there’s no point in holding back.
I have this pain within me for a reason but I think that everyone around me has there own version of pain. I can’t truly share my pain because it is unique. I am completely alone with it. I am not, however, alone.
Dusk is upon us as a marigold goes down.
Dusk is upon us. I’m on the creakiest bike that ever raced the streets of East Aurora. My beloved East Aurora, where as a child I had raced many bikes with my little brother tagging along or with my friends making our way to the playground in Hamlin Park. But this cycling adventure is occurring when I’m considered a grown woman, visiting my family for an old fashioned Independence Day weekend.
“Wait up mom, my bike is working against me!” I scream as she’s racing towards her marigolds in the traffic circle. Being ever the good daughter, I had given her the fancy mountain bike which happens to be in perfect working condition, and I opt for the second choice, the old grandma’s style bright blue bike which looks as if it hasn’t seen the streets of EA since the Reagan Administration. She laughs and I join in as she speeds away and I’m left to cycle my heart out to catch up. It’s mostly dark as we’re reaching the traffic circle, and we see the soaked marigolds as we cross the street. Mom shuts off the water and yells “marigold down, we have to post that one soon!” as it droops to the ground. She and my step-dad Ken played the “marigold down” game every time we wind around the circle that weekend.
We look at each other and know we’re going to have to bike even harder to make the fireworks display in time. We had left a perfectly good party on the edge of the park so that the traffic circle didn’t get over-watered. Having a few glasses of wine in us and seeing the heavy “fireworks traffic” in town, mom came up with a master plan: we forage in the party host’s garage for a pair of bikes to borrow for an emergency traffic circle operation. In no time, we were off on our adventure. We had to have broken some record in our cross town race in the dark. We were swiveling our bikes around kids, moms pulling wagons filled with children, and teenagers winding around the streets in gangs.
We’re a few blocks away when we hear it… A loud Ka-boom, Ka-boom as the first round of fireworks is set off! We both squeal with terror as we realize we’re missing it. We zoom into the driveway, throw the bikes back where we found them and run to our spots in the yard. Even with the chardonnay in our bellies, we had thought ahead and placed our chairs in perfect viewing position in the garden before we left on our mission. We plop down next to Ken and watch the fireworks display from only about 100 feet from where they were being set off. The party crowd oohs and ahhs for the next half hour and I look at my parents faces lit up with smiles and the brightness from our home town pyrotechnics display. I can’t help thinking that there’s no other place in this big world I would rather be at the moment.
Freedom at last!
Alright, I’ve always said that I love gay men. They’re great dancers and when they’re my friends it doesn’t mean they just want to sleep with me. Some of the greatest times I’ve had in NYC were at a dance club in the midst of a sea of shirtless gyrating gay men. And it’s not that I’m staring at their muscular half naked Adonis-like bodies. A girl can dance like no one’s looking and at the same time have amazing partners in this endeavor. That said, I find the actions of some gay men to be very amusing.
I was out to dinner last night celebrating my dear roommate April’s Birthday and a bunch of people from the restaurant both of my roomies work at came out for the occasion. So, I sat down next to one of their coworkers, we’ll call him Stanley. Stan decided that the two of us should share an order of pizza and shells and, seeing the determined look in his eye, I offered no objection. I let Stan order for us, solidifying our relationship at this dinner table. We had an amazing time and the combination of my roommates and Stanley meant there was never a break in conversation.
After 2 bottles of wine and much pasta the stories became increasingly tawdry. Another coworker let it slip that Stan had an interesting experience the week before. We were all very curious to hear what had happened to poor Stan. I’m not going to go into the gruesome details of how “it” got there, but it involves a metal cock ring. After some complications, then came many methods and all forms of lubricants to disengage it (i.e. vegetable oil, olive oil, butter, margarine, ky jelly, vaseline, lotion, etc.). I break in with “a bucket of ice water should’ve done the trick!” (I’m 2.5 glasses of wine into the night mind you). But apparently nothing would get this thing off from our Stan. He tried to sleep it off, but alas it would not budge. What’s next for our leading man you say? A trip to the ER is the next logical step! So he makes his way, I’m assuming with great difficulty, to the hospital in his Murray Hill neighborhood to take care of this overwhelming penile pressure. In his thick Boston, Mass. accent, he tells the attending nurse his problem. It’s New York City of course, so she laughs and rushes him past the kids with broken arms and mothers holding their crying babies, and into a room to see the Doctor.
Pretty soon, there is a crowd of people in the room to see the predicament Stanley has gotten himself into. So far nothing can be done to dislodge the ring. At this point in the story, we’re all aghast. “Stan, weren’t you humiliated and mortified” we say. “Eh, I didn’t care. The doctor gave me his home number at the end of the night, so obviously he was ok with it.” he said with a chuckling sneer. The next step was to call the fire department. In walks New York City’s finest: our muscle strapped firemen. Out comes a small rotary saw. “Ok pal don’t you worry. You’ll be better in no time.” And this is while one fireman is pulling down on his appendage to separate it from the ring which his partner has made scalding hot from the friction of the saw on metal. Stan screams in his most girlish voice with arms flailing “Ow, it’s hot, it’s hot!!” The brawny firemen yell “hang in there buddy, it’s almost over. We’re gonna get you outta this” as they start to pour water on it. Eventually our dearest Stan is released from the prison of his own making. He’s so proud as he states “they had to cut that sucker in 2 different places.” “Only rubber and silicone for me from now on” he adds.
I still love gay men.
After hearing Stan’s account of this harrowing tale, I have a new found love for our brave New York City firefighters. Apparently they have to deal with much more than burning buildings.
Chinatown Facial: Priceless
Ice: my arch nemesis.
She stares me down with her icy gaze
And I can only shudder.
Our simple relationship,
She the sadist and I the masochist.
She inflicts agony with the flick of her wrist
And yet I keep coming back for more.
Ice: my arch nemesis.
Although I can’t speak Chinese,
I can sense our love/hate relationship in her touch.
I have a new love for facials in Chinatown. New York winters do a number on my fair skin, so this winter I broke down and sought out a good facialist. I considered all the options. Most legit facial salons in Manhattan I’m sure do a fine job, but they charge $100 a pop. Ouch. I almost went that route, but my coworker Silvia pointed me to a salon in Chinatown. She said that her girlfriend swore by it, and so I decided to give it a try. I was a bit weary after scheduling the appointment that took ten minutes because we couldn’t understand each other. The girl at the salon speaking mostly Chinese (Mandarin I think, although damn if I can tell the difference) and I only speaking English (stupid American). I wandered my way through the streets of Little Italy and Chinatown to the salon on a snowy evening in the dead of winter and into a rather sketchy little salon with a few young girls no older than me. Their smiling faces did not foretell the agony that would ensue. Most people have the image of a facial being like a massage, very relaxing.
Hell no.
There are a few brief moments of relaxation, but much of a facial is taken up with extreme pain. I think I can handle the pain with grace, until Ice quietly whispers “are you ok?” as she wipes the tears from my eyes. I can’t seem to hold my tears back when experiencing pain. When I’m getting my brows threaded, I’m sure Reshma (the best for brows in the city) thinks I’m a cry baby.
So back to the facial. I never have so much product on at one time! They put some kind of lotion on, then they steam you for a few minutes to open your pores. They make you think it’s going to all cozy by massaging you while the steam is going. After you’ve been sufficiently steamed, they poke pretty much every pore and squeeze really hard with this scary metal tool. She’ll be doing this for like half an hour. Imagine someone poking you with a needle and pinching you continuously for that long. So then they fire up some sort of wand thing that buzzes and sounds like it’s going to zap you. They roll this all over while you pray it doesn’t malfunction and electrocute you. Then they put this thick gooey freezing cold mask over your face. At this point, you feel a little claustrophobic because it covers your eyes as well. The mask stays on for another half hour, while you’re forced to listen to Chinese music with cheesy American melodies. After you’re chilled to the bone, but also a bit relieved from the pain of the extraction part of the facial, they take the mask off and you’re free to go.
I leave the salon with new skin feeling refreshed and quickly forget the pain I had to endure to get there.
clearing my mind of negative thoughts
I’ve come to the conclusion that I over-analyze absolutely everything. How wonderful would it be if I could simply enjoy things in life as they come. Instead of taking full advantage of a great situation and being swept away in the moment, I’m likely to have a constant dialogue running through my mind. An example could be “what is he really thinking, what are his true motives, why am I here, am I really feeling this way or am I confused, maybe I need to get out of here before I let myself get hurt…” I'm feeling insane lately. I need a vacation to a far far away land. Must go to bed before my mind gets the best of me.
ps- Went to Chelsea Piers to bowl with coworkers. Fun! I don't think I'll go pro anytime soon though... Chelsea Piers is massive, I'll have to go back in the summer.
sickly girl
I wish I wasn't still sick...
and sitting all alone in my apartment on a Friday night...
and that everyone and their cousin didn't call me to go out to party...
So it wasn't strep, my second self diagnosis is mono. I've never had it, so why not now? I'll have to go get a mono test on Monday if the sore throat persists. What's the point if there's no treatment for mono, though? I feel like such a loser right now. Everyone's like, "it's just a sore throat, come out!" But no, I'm being miss responsible and getting rest and relaxation. I hate being miss responsible, she's boring!
Ok, I'm going to bed... early... on a Friday night... party night...
I'm done whining for now, goodnight to you.
Ranting
Ok, I need comments on this because I’m trying to solve one of life’s mysteries; the behavior of men.
I’m going to shed some enlightening light on the world of relationships and dating. Men: women are never ok with an open relationship!! And if they say they’re ok with it, they’re either lying to you or to themselves. I can’t figure guys out. If someone can help me with this, it would be much appreciated.
A friend of mine is dating several girls at the same time, and it infuriates me. He tells me that all the women know that he’s dating other people and they all say they’re fine with it. What? Why are these women letting him take advantage of them? I try explaining to him my frustration with his behavior, but I just end up telling him he’s a disrespectful idiot. He’s such an intelligent guy, but when it comes to relationships I’m wondering if his little man can rationalize any gross disregard for his partner’s emotions.
Am I just becoming a man-hater? Is this how all men are or do I only hang around with these guys as some cruel masochistic thing? Do I stop hanging out with him because he’s an a-hole or do I recognize his faults and forgive him?
This entry is horrid because I can’t formulate anything that makes sense…
