MY NEW YORK//the green and red and golden glow of the holidays

You, instead

For you,

This used to be easier, didn't it? I think it used to be easier. I'm pretty sure it was once-upon-a-time a little less hard.

I'm tired. I'm tired in that way that settles around the eyes and reveals just a little too much, a little too soon. Tired in that way that lacks imagination--that can't imagine anything changing, ever.

I've grown into my adult face. At some point between the majority of twenty-six and the last few months I got my adult face. I almost didn't notice, it's a really subtle change. My cheeks are so full (and yes,  I'm sure as I age I'll be ever-more-grateful for just how big they are) but they are ever-so-slightly-less-big, ever-so-slightly-less-full. The outline of my face is a little bit leaner, a little bit harder.

I went out with some girlfriends recently and we had one of those New York nights that's governed by nothing more than the overriding principle of what-the-hell. And so when two Croatian "aesthetic" surgeons (specializing in rhinoplasty) sat down next to us, we let them. And when they toppled a single glass of wine with little left, we allowed them to buy three more. And when they guessed our ages (accurately) I then demanded to know just how it was they knew I was two years older. And the one said, The lines on either side of your mouth are deeper.

He might have used more clinical, professional (accurate) terms, but I knew what he meant.

It became one of the jokes of the weekend--me and my deepening smile lines.

It did used to be easier.

I've run out of things to say. Or maybe just the courage to say them. Yes, maybe that's it. Maybe it's that I've forgotten what it felt like to do this--to write, to imagine, to leap into a future without small and unkind people saying small and unkind things--not the doctor, but the people who come and read these words and think me so terrible because of them.

I know this feeling will pass. And I know I'll get my courage back. And I know I'll figure out how to care a little less about the small cruelties of others. But today I do. And today it's hard.

The thing is, I like my deepening smile lines. I like my older, now adult face. And so maybe it does get harder, and maybe am I little more tired, but maybe those things are just products of reaching in the direction of the life I want.

Of which you are a part.

So forget the small and unkind and cruel naysayers, I'll take you instead.

Yours

WHAT I'M EATING// shaved brussels sprouts

There's a small French gastroteque in New York's West Village that I absolutely love. When two of my lovely, but non-residing-New-York-friends came to visit last week it was the first place I suggested. And it was again the local of choice this weekend when my dear friend Ashlea returned to the city after two months away on the Cape. (The food is delicious, the decor is endlessly inviting, and the attractive men behind the bar don't hurt).

They serve, among other things, a pesto dish that I am convinced tastes like a doughnut (a doughnut being the highest level of food perfection, in my book). But what I left thinking about this last time was their shaved brussels sprouts dish--mostly because I thought, you know, I bet I could make something like this (and I bet it would be quite healthy and inexpensive). 

Trader Joe's sells a bag of prepackaged shaved brussels sprouts that I cut up just a wee bit more. I then added parmesan cheese, toasted (always, always toasted--it brings out the flavor) pine nuts, and a bit of olive oil and sea salt.

That's it! Five ingredients.

(Note: pine nuts are as expensive as liquid gold so I suggest buying them in bulk at Costco, Sam's Club, or Trader Joe's. Buvette's dish uses walnuts as their nut of choice, so that's always an option). 

...

There is no shame in being hungry for another person. There is no shame in wanting very much to share your life with somebody. | Augusten Burroughs

THE BEST SORT OF QUESTION

 

Sitting in Tom's office yesterday, I ran out of things to say. I had caught him up on the two weeks before. Had filled him in on this guy and that, this work debacle and that--all the many things I can't control, but worry about nonetheless. Small fries, all of it. Mostly small fries.

And so we sat for a moment. Both of us quiet. 

And then Tom took a breath and asked me what I was most proud of—in terms of the last few years, what was the best thing I’d done.

And I smiled. And he smiled. 

Because it was the best sort of a question. 

A question having to do with successes that only he and I really know about.

A question as an acknowledgment of what we'd accomplished. The crossing from one impossible shore to another. A nod to the end of the thing. Which has not yet ended, but which we both now know will. Which we always knew, but now know knowin that way that makes it easier to talk about.

It's important to identify what it is you're proud of because it helps establish identity. And if the eating disorder steals identity, which it does, we must then fill it back in.

And so I shared what I thought. And Tom shared what he though. 

And we sat in silence a little while longer.

You know, I'm sad today, I said, my words carving a gentle river in the quiet. On my way here I was feeling angry and then I got on the subway and I took a big breath and I thought, oh, huh, sadness. It’s a sweet sort of sadness—one without a why--one that will pass. I’m proud of that--I’m proud that I know it’ll pass.

And I’m proud of the wreath on my apartment door. Because that wreath hanging there, says something. It speaks to who I am and what I value. It speaks to the very notion of home.

Identity.

I’m proud of this quiet little neighborhood. Proud that the corner nursery turns into a Christmas tree lot the day before Thanksgiving. I’m proud of these things that I have no control over, that have nothing to do with me, but have everything to do with what I want and what I value.

I’m pretty sure life has very much to do with things beyond our control. And very much to do with things not beyond our control. And it has everything to do with the balance we strike between the two. The constant leap after constant leap of faith that we must make. And the bridge we build in the wake of those small and consistent flights.

I’m proud of the things I’ve quietly let go of.  The loves and false notions and truths that became less true over time.

Identity.

I’m proud that who I am now is not who I was before. That I’m not really who anyone--myself least of all--thought I’d turn out to be.

I think pride has much to do with actions aligning with desire. Small actions and small gestures that plant flags in territories we wish to claim.

I’m proud that Tom asked the question. Proud that I had an answer.

Now on to make my morning coffee and begin the day...