when i was nineteen years old and home on christmas break i awoke from a dream, and upon doing so, scribbled down the following words:
"because sometimes i like being friends with you so much--i can't breathe"
it remains the truest thing i've ever written.
ironic because friends was entirely the wrong word.
i still have that slip of paper, despite having long since moved on from the man.
but not the notion, i certainly hope i'll never move on from the notion.
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Today is my father's last day of work.
31 years at the same company.
Today he "retires"...whatever that means, which I'm not sure any of us know beyond him not going into work every day.
It's a big deal.
My dad's a big deal.
And I'm really proud of him.
Because I think, he thinks, we don't get just how hard he worked and just how much he sacrificed and how much it cost so that each person in our family could do and be anything.
And you know, I'll probably never fully get it.
But the reason I want--with every bone in my body--to one day make my father as absolutely proud as I can, is because he worked tirelessly so that the word possibility might always have and "endless" before it.
And I can't think of a more meaningful gift for a parent to give his child.
I really did intend for yesterday to be better.
The best of intentions...
Wedding-day-dress-shopping-day-two. No need to dress quite so fancy. I'd wear flats, loafers. I'd don makeup and a pair of pedal-pushers (Remember that term? Let's bring it back, shall we?), but I'd be comfortable. Myself.
I wouldn't overreach.
And so there was to be no incident.
I got on the F train. Decided not to transfer to the 6. I'd ride it as far as I could in Manhattan and then just walk a bit.
But I was a little late.
And the train ride was so long. And there was a little anxiety--I started to have a little anxiety. About everything and nothing. And all I could think was, I'm gonna need a good cry today.
And some months it's hormones, you know? Some months even I'm floored that as the hormones surge, emotions go amok.
I got off at 63rd and Lex.
Let it be known that I hate the Upper East Side. I just do. And the station there at 63rd is like four full flights of (long) stairs underground--by the time I made it to the street I was more than a little out of breath.
So I decided to hail a cab--I thrust my arm into the air and took off to the corner. At which point I collided with a woman who was walking forward as she looked behind her. It was both of our faults. But because of the physics of how we were moving and something, she remained upright, while I went absolutely flying. I mean...even I was shocked by the force with which I hit the ground. She helped me up at which point she made some comment about that's what happens when two people aren't looking--making sure to include herself, but...I was already on the mat. Actually and metaphorically and I didn't need a lecture.
I climbed into the cab. A little bit humilited and a little bit shaken--a tear in my pedal pushers. And that's when I had a panic attack. Trying not to cry, and trying desperately to get some air to my lungs, and the cab driver...bless him, was just. out of his. depth.
Don't cry, don't cry, you make me cry. I crawled out of the cab at the bridal salon and into the arms of my friend Joy. She couldn't tell if I was crying or laughing--and to her credit, both were happening: messily and all at once.
Some weeks you just can't win.
Spilt coffee, cut knees. A whole lotta mess.
Some weeks New York is just too hard.
