I worry that…
- I will forget to make myself undiscoverable on Tinder.
- Someone will hit me in the nose during a well-intentioned hug.
- I won’t get enough Old Forge-style pizza or naps.
- Mom will suggest seeing the movie, Carol. I do not want to see Carol with you, Mom.
- I will cry every day I am back home, missing Dad. He loved Thanksgiving.
- I will lose my mind telling family friends all of the reasons that they need to stop thinking that Trump is actually vote-worthy. I’d direct them to Sarah Silverman’s tweet but I don’t want to foist them on Twitter.
- Someone will ask me why I don’t have a boyfriend.
- No one will ask me why I don’t have a boyfriend because they assume I’m a lost cause.
Hopefully your Thanksgiving holiday is lighthearted and fun – at least compared to mine!
I took last Thursday off to attend a funeral.
It was the first funeral I attended since my sweet Dad’s in spite of this being, I think, the sixth friend or acquaintance to lose her dad just since June. I warned the women I traveled to Connecticut with:
I will be a mess. Don’t be alarmed.
And I was a mess. But a manageable mess. I don’t think anyone noticed.
Attending the funeral was worth the tears. The friend (this one) has been dear to me for many years and was someone I leaned on across the miles when this year was at its hardest.
It has been three months and two weeks since we lost my Dad. If there’s a part of my life that hasn’t been affected by grief, well, I couldn’t identify it for you.
Physically, I just don’t feel right and that’s something I never expected. It’s rare I go a day without a headache. Continue reading
After a birthday-driven, cocktail-infused couple of days, my plan for the weekend was clear: LAY LOW.
Bo-ring, right? In my defense, I had social plans six days out of the previous eight.My liver isn’t 23 years old anymore. Neither is the rest of me.
First there was a gluttonous, delicious birthday dinner at Javelina – yes, the site of that hilarious NYT review. If you get there, make sure to get at least one kind of queso. I was too hungry to take pics of ours so here’s one from Instagram.
When I was eight or nine years old, I learned a lesson. It came via ballet class, like so many of my early life lessons.
I started taking ballet when I was four, added jazz at five and tap at six. From the start, there were milestones we were taught to look forward to: first tutu, first recital, first performance in The Nutcracker, going en pointe, etc. Continue reading
This will be my first birthday without you. You always sent me a sweet card in the mail and called to sing me the birthday song first thing in the morning. How I will miss that.
When I think about you that way, my heart aches. It’s better if I try to think about all of the wonderful birthdays you, Mom and I spent together. I am going to need every last one of those happy memories to get me through.
As the day approaches, I keep remembering your version of the story of my arrival. You used to tell anyone who would listen what it was like for you the day I was born, and it never failed to make me smile. Continue reading
First read this.
A couple of days ago, I made the trek uptown to see the new tumor doctor for the read on my MRI.
The hospital, Mount Sinai, feels like a haul every time I go there. It isn’t close to the subway and that part of Manhattan is hilly. Choose the wrong street and suddenly you’re walking uphill way more than your chosen shoes will tolerate.
I’m usually nervous as I approach the hospital. Each time, I have wondered to myself if this might be the time I’m told “the tumor grew and you need to have it removed.”
There have been times when I have cried in nervous anticipation on my way to the appointment, and others when I have cried upon leaving, feeling relief.
This time, I walked from the subway thinking “Please, universe, no more bad news. I can’t take even one more thing.”