graceland's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Waffling on Life It's no wonder I sometimes think fondly of being locked into a mental institution for a spell. Beyond the fact that I am admittedly crazy (but no more than the next person, buddy, so pipe down), I have spent exactly 3 weekends since memorial day in my primary residence. I'll tell you, it's tiring packing a back every weekend to go away and yes, it is by choice, or is it? In the summer, yes, I like to get away. I sure as hell would rather sit on the beach than sweat in this hellhole of Manhattan. It's the getting to and fro that sucks ass. The constant hustle and bustle. Packing a bag the night before or in the morning before work. And then you have to lug the bag down to the street (not just out to your car) and pending the cash situation, walk until you catch a taxi or lug it a few blocks to the closest bus stop. Then you carry it a few more blocks to work from the bus stop, and after work, you run down the avenue several blocks to the subway, and run down about a hundred stairs to catch a subway to the main bus station at which point to then run up a few flights of stairs with your gear, through the building and up several escalators, back around the top floor, and hope that you catch your bus. You sit on the bus, now dripping in sweat, praying to have your own seat - which never happens - because you are a)now disgusting and b)you've spent an entire week of moving around on foot in a veritable swamp, dressed in fashionable, professional attire, natch, pretending like you are a fresh as a southern debutante on a cool Fall day. You won't get that alone seat, because no one gets their own seat. There are no empty seats because you are in New York City and every day hundreds of thousand come in and go out. If you're me, you arrive at your destination, and most likely your Mom is picking you up at which point you sometimes think you might cry when you see her because you are so fucking unbelievably tired, you don't think that anyone could ever feel tired like this and at the same time you know how enormously happy she is to see you and how eager she is to hear about your life and what's new when all you would like to do is seal yourself off in some type of hospitality filled panic room for several days at time. You become overwhelmed by the emotion rising with the understanding that your mother is still picking your pathetic ass up at age 32, said ass is pathetic because it doesn't belong to a significant other and frankly, it's not a great ass, so why would it belong to S.O.? You relish the times that your mother can't pick you up, even thought it's a $40 cab ride (which you don't have because you pay more in rent than your friends pay in mortage payments/utlities/car payments and insurance COMBINED), because you have a 30 minute ride to finally, for a moment, have a fucking half hour of TIME to yourself. All that week, you didn't have time to yourself. You rode the bus to work with countless other people. You shared an office, you sat in crowded meetings, you queued up for coffee, you navigated crowded sidewalks of people, you slowly circled the salad bar at lunch in a single file line of strangers, you sat back-to-back in a restaurant to eat dinner trying to focus on your conversation rather than the couples' sitting mere inches your left and right, you ran to the elevator - but alas, there are already 3 other people in it. You. can't. get. a. fucking. break. You live in New York City. It's crowded. This is how we live. We have small refrigerators, and that's fine, because we don't have cars to go to the supermarket anyway, we carry our groceries home. WE GO TO THE SUPERMARKET EVERY OTHER NIGHT. Some of us buy our groceries daily. Our inventory at the grocery stores comes in smaller boxes for cereal, special smaller jars of spaghetti sauces, limited brands of stuff. It's just different. We live in small spaces. With roommates. We see your 4,000 squ. foot homes on Trading Spaces and we wonder if you use all the rooms. Some of us remember what that was like. We don't understand why anyone would have an SUV. We question if as many SUV owners that we read about in the media, truly exist. Most of us probably don't know the price of gas - we only have a few gas stations on the island of Manhattan and they get fewer and fewer each year. We just got 7-11. We don't have a Wal-Mart, a Target or a Walgreens. We don't have a "Mall." We do have something called a Mall, which is a bunch of small stores that you've probably never heard of, in and above a subway station. Some of us take boat to work every day, and we are wearing suits and going to office jobs - not fishing. When we smell smoke or hear a fire alarm, we haul ASS. There's no lack of complacency about that in New York. When we hear about another "credible threat" from Homeland Security, most of us suspect that the White House is trying to deflect another fuck up or crime, but we take note if it. We have terrorism instructions on our desks. Many of us have bags in our offices with supplies in case IT happens again. We have envelopes of cash, bottles of water, surgical masks, flashlights, boot knives, sneakers and socks, extra cell batteries, mace, extra medications and emergency phone numbers. Some of us have pre-written letters to our families. Some of us have parachutes under our desks. And we hardly blink at news of anthrax or elevated threat levels. We are prepared; not panicked. We are a blue state. We are New York FUCKING City. We pride ourselves on our survival skills. We can operate in blackout and attack conditions without rioting or looting. That said, probably half of the people here can't swim. And they live on an island. So you know, everything is a little bit more work here. It's for the very young, or the very rich. I am neither. What I am, is pretty fucking tired. Pretty fucking tired of putting myself out to be everything to everyone all at once and being nothing at all for myself or anyone special in my life. I'm sick of being the single girl at weddings, while being incredibly happy for my friends, feeling worse and worse as more and more friends pair off and I sit there, the good time girl. The one with the stories and the smile and the laughs that everyone enjoys. I beat from looking over my shoulder all of the fucking time. Watching the people around me on the bus, making sure no one leaves a bag behind. Sitting in my office wondering if this time, as the helicopters circle or pass, if this is going to be it. Wondering how long it may take for my family to realize that this time I was in the wrong spot. I was in that subway car. I was on that bus. I was in that building. I'm tired of wondering alone. I don't even want to think about doing this forever. Sometimes when I think about it being alone forever, I wish that I would just die. And I know that is a bullshit thing to say and I know I don't really want to die but frankly, women have hormones that sometimes mine lend me to that notion. Other times, I look at other people's shitty, loser boyfriends and husbands and breathe a big sign of relief that I'm not strapped with one of those eejits because I'm sure I'd wish death upon myself then too. I guess there really is no answer. the answer is, wake up tomorrow and do it all again. 10:46 p.m. - 2005-10-24 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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