The Weeklies: June 9 - 30
June 9 - 15
When I returned from Paris I knew two things: I would be thrown into two weeks of social activity (June is typically filled with birthdays and occasions) and that I had changed. All the action in the last three weeks existed in secret, and inside I alternated between happiness and sadness. At all the seams, I was coming undone.
On Wednesday night I left work and went north to Central Park to meet my newest friend and her colleagues to hear the NY Phil. She was attending through an expat group who provided wine and a spread of food and snacks. The news anchor, Hoda Kotb was seated a few blankets behind us, poised elegantly on a lawn chair. I had a glass of rosé.
They were playing Rachmaninoff's symphony number two at the end of the program, I warned everyone that it was super romantic, sugary, one of those pieces I listened to twice a week in college. All the couples seated around us caressed each other as the music swelled. I let my eyes go up past the stage to the beautiful blue sky. The buildings that frame the park seem to bend toward you as you sit on the grass. At dusk, they lit up slowly and magically. After the concert there were fireworks.
Thursday night I was due to meet Philippa for a 7 pm dinner. My phone buzzed at 5:30.
"Any chance you're free? I can try to get into a speakeasy?" I was indeed free.
I took the F train from work to East Village and sped-walked to Attaboy. Philippa told me to look for a steel door. I passed the place twice, then pulled the doorknob of what I thought was the place. Nothing. I was about to walk away when the door swung open and a man looked me up and down, asked for ID, then ushered me through a pitch dark bar to a booth.
Irene joined us a few minutes later and both of them graciously listened to all my life issues. I told them I was going to see a shrink, even if I couldn't afford to.
We left the bar and went to one of those hole-in-the-wall spots with amazing food, then we walked to a rooftop bar right before a storm hit. I had a great time.
My sister was going away for her birthday and having an early celebration on Friday night. After work I stopped in Smythson for a gift, went back home to change, and met her at Le Fond in Greenpoint for a group dinner. We migrated to The Lot Radio -- a parking lot turned into a bar. We ended up talking to an actress who'd been in a TV show Alistair loved.
On Saturday night a coworker was throwing a rooftop party at her place. I was exhausted, hungover, and wishing to write. We spent a few hours seated on a blanket watching the skyline. There was a DJ set up, loads of snacks and booze. The cops showed up before 8 pm just to turn down the sound and exit without fanfare. If someone hadn't of pointed it out, we wouldn't have noticed.
June 16 - 22
The next week: more parties, more outings. That Friday I went to my first therapy session just a few blocks from my office. I expressed a few of my current issues.
"This is a textbook rebellion," he said. I felt like I had been slapped in the face.
"I thought that happened when you were a teenager, and you know, you got a piercing and a tattoo and broke curfew? I'm too old! It's impossible."
"There is such a thing as a delayed teenage rebellion. How much of your life do you feel is repressed?"
"75% perhaps?" I said. He laughed.
Well, there you go.
I left and went to the subway with my mind spinning. I thought I had successfully made it to adulthood without having a rebellion. I watched (and cleaned up after) my friends own rebellions: they'd secretly gotten their belly buttons pierced and smoked cigarettes, or got so drunk they threw up everywhere, but that was in their teens and twenties.
I got on a train home and for the first time felt terrified of my self and the chaos I was creating through negligence. My future looks like destruction.
I didn't want to go to the parties I was invited to, but that's the problem of June. A friend was throwing a launch party for his app. He put a lit stage on his roof and after sunset a band played with the New York city skyline behind them. I agonized over what to wear that night, all the guests were a certain type of Brooklyn cool. I was introduced to a man who told me he wore shorts because "everyone here is so fucking intimidating." It was nice to know I wasn't the only one who felt that way.
The next day we had a barbecue/housewarming to attend. One of Alistair's friends bought a townhouse. We toured the rooms then sat in the backyard enjoying the sun.
A week of routine not worth a post. Work, home, work, home. Saturday I took to the stoop in 90 degree weather and later in the afternoon went for a walk with Alistair. We tried to get a walk-in table at Maison Yaki, but we were told there was an hour wait. We walked to Weather Up to pass the time. The backyard was open and I felt quite exposed sitting there. I wondered: why I couldn't be like everyone else? The constant question of my life. Why must everything come late?