Love at 9am

I fell in love with the guy behind the counter at Joe Jr. today. All I expected was an egg white omelette and some weak coffee, but what I got instead was a great conversation with the kind of guy I'd like to marry.

As I moved to put sugar in my coffee with my left hand, the guy behind the counter asked, "what happened to your hand?" I really didn't feel much like explaining my weirdo problem to some kid at a New York diner with about a thousand breakfasts to serve, so I attempted to blow off the question with a short response, "not sure really, some kinda sports injury, I guess" and continued to fix my coffee. But he kept asking me questions, until finally he said, with a thick New York accent "Sounds like De Quervain's." I had to replay the sound of what he'd said in my head--he was totally right but who the hell knows that?? So I looked up and he's a cute guy in a baseball cap, probably Greek or Italian, maybe around 26 years old. "How they hell did you know that?" I asked aloud. "I'm a physical therapist," he said. "Then what are you doing working here?" I wanted to know. "My dad owns the place."

So the distinguished looking, grey-haired man who'd been sitting on the customer side of the counter when I'd come in and had sort of nodded to him to give me a menu WAS the owner, as well as his dad.

I didn't want to hassle him, but between customers he made some recommendations about my injury, and every so often another customer would ask him a question about one of theirs. I told him he should charge them a consulting fee, and together we came up with a scheme where the diner became an occupational therapy center as well as a diner. I could run the place, and he could help people regain use of their limbs by engaging in basic diner activities such as getting in and out of booths, and lifting their coffee to their lips. This kid had a quick wit, I liked him.

The following characteristics are what pushed me over the edge from casual conversation to love, but not in any particular order.

1. From Astoria
2. The accent
2. Good to his father
3. Helps people and feeds people for a living
4. Cute enough
5. Eyebrow piercing (not sure why even)
6. Humble
7. Funny
8. Thinks I seem really smart
9. Thinks I am important at my job, ha!
10.Argued with me about the importance of getting along with my family (I said I'd spent years trying but now I don't think I should have to if I don't want to) but he continued to stress the importance. Though I doth protest much about families, I agree in most cases, and would love to have a family to get along with, just not the one I was born to.

And last but not least:

11. He has a girlfriend (I asked) and by his response I could tell he would never even think cheating on her (not that I wanted him, but certain men read so obviously that they would, given the right opportunity.) This, of course, made me love him more.

Ah well. This is New York, where there will always be other diners, and there will always other boys.

Pleasure Principle

I need to begin to channel all of this pain into some sort of pleasure.

How do I begin?

Obamanation

Why can't I just trust this whole election to be a great thing? Somewhere underneath all of the excitement and enthusiasm and hope, I have this profound feeling of mistrust towards all of the cheering white faces.

I almost feel like all these people get to forgive themselves for years of self-imposed or accepted segregation and can pat themselves on the back because, now--they too have a black friend! Who just happens to be President.

Grand Central Station--Tuesday, 6:37pm

Tonight while sitting amidst fat tourists and and bedraggled old homeless men, I had a torrid affair with a married professor from Westchester or perhaps Connecticut.

Well, in my head anyway.

Awash in Mediocrity

Two nights ago, I pretty much resigned myself to a destiny of mediocrity. I wonder if others of my kind ever come to this discovery as I feel I have, or just are. Mediocre.

For as long as I remember, I wanted to be someone that others considered special. I felt that life really had no meaning unless others paid attention to, appreciated, adored me. I don't deny that some of this may have been due to the emotional neglect I experienced growing up and/or my innate? narcissistic impulses. But now, after over 32 years, I've come to realize I will likely never be any of those things. I'm not being humble or even self-depricating. I've just finally begun to accept that I am not going to be anything special.

I'm not a bad person. I'm not a great person. I'm not dumb. I'm not brilliant. I'm not gorgeous, I'm not ugly. I have no particular talents or skills even. All I do with my spare time is read and watch movies. My life directly impacts about three other people. Sure, I say I want to write, but I rarely do. I'm never going to be an actor, so writing was all I thought I had, and even that, I'm too lazy or uninspired to do. It's not like anyone is going to sit me down and force me to write something. And the way things are going, I don't think I'm ever going to have any children, so I cannot even do that. Some people consider that to be the most important thing they've done in life.

I say all of this with a sense of regret, and I do regret. But perhaps I should stop beating myself up about it. Is just existing so wrong? It is just life, after all.

Man-fucking-hattan

The fact that certain people are priced out of living in Manhattan is New York's way of saying: "You know, what you do just isn't important enough to merit convenience or a great social life!"

Today

This morning, I was awakened by my clock-radio broadcasting the New York
City commemoration of the tragedy that occurred here 6 years
ago at that exact moment. It felt weird to come to work on such a solemn
day, when just a week ago we had Monday off for Labor Day, a holiday
which very few of us can even explain, but rather spend at the beach
and/or barbecuing.

Perhaps in thirty years or so, we will have a day off to reflect. In
the meantime, here is a poem I like that sort of captures some essence:


Riding the Elevator Into the Sky
By Anne Sexton (1975)


As the fireman said:
Don't book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won't shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you're climbing out of yourself.
If you're going to smash into the sky.


Many times I've gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once
have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor:
small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand:
the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something -
some useful door -
up there.
somewhere -
up there.

I Love Him. I Hate Him.

Sometimes I feel like he never really wanted me, that he was always waiting for someone better to come along, keeping me on the backburner so he'd never feel unwanted or alone.

So then why did he ever tell me that you loved me? I should have known. And when she came along, he kept her a secret, midleading me, not even allowing a healthy transition, and *suddenly*--he's engaged?

Sometimes, I feel like he took all the best parts of me, of us, and gave them to her, this girl, alas, 7 years younger than I.

I tell myself that he's the weak one, but then, why does he seem so happy, and I am the one left hurting and alone?