Headfirst
My life generally fluctuates amongst several extremes that jut out in every direction.
On the one hand, a month ago I was standing in one of the spacious bathroom stalls at an exclusive Chelsea lounge, teetering drunkenly on four-inch heels, watching friends blow lines off the counter. Moments before, I had stepped forward instead of down and tumbled gracefully down the stairs, face first, slowing to a stop only to suddenly regain momentum, and finally come to rest at a bizarre angle where my bulbous bottom stuck straight into the air and I was face-to-face with my toes.
On the other, I've spent the last two weeks watching reality television on the new 50" widescreen TV I bought for my parents, feeling my brain atrophy, a silver thread of drool oozing from the corner of my parted lips. Nights shrouded in a beer and screwdriver haze are forgone in favor of watching three Netflix films one after the other and stuffing handfuls of extra buttery microwave popcorn into my mouth and letting Dog polish off the crumbs that have settled onto my t-shirt.
Some days, I wrap my skin in low-cut tops and painted-on jeans, tint my lips pink and strut through posh clubs accepting drink offers, kissing strangers, giggling at witless jokes, walking away.
Other days my ass is glued to pub barstools, chatting to bartenders with thick Irish accents, chirping about how much I loved Dublin, downing their free shots until I’m face down on the smelly wooden bar.
And still others are spent frowning in front of the television, ignoring phone calls, feeling sorry for myself.
I can’t seem to find the middle ground. I don’t like the me who gets too drunk with rich sleazy men and models with long necks and Eastern European accents, raises her eyebrows in feigned interest as they discuss boats and Fendi bags. I don’t like the me who has to screen her phone calls because she forgot who she drunkenly offered up her number to, like a sacrificial lamb, in exchange for drinks the night before. I don’t like the me who lies idly at home dwelling on nonspecific streams of thought, wondering who and what she’s missing, too lazy to keep in touch with friends she was supposed to call three weeks ago, then having to drag herself to work with nothing to show for the weekend.
I need to stop diving into extremes. While on occasion, indulging is healthy, I’m constantly in a state of all or nothing. I've got to find a niche.
-L
On the one hand, a month ago I was standing in one of the spacious bathroom stalls at an exclusive Chelsea lounge, teetering drunkenly on four-inch heels, watching friends blow lines off the counter. Moments before, I had stepped forward instead of down and tumbled gracefully down the stairs, face first, slowing to a stop only to suddenly regain momentum, and finally come to rest at a bizarre angle where my bulbous bottom stuck straight into the air and I was face-to-face with my toes.
On the other, I've spent the last two weeks watching reality television on the new 50" widescreen TV I bought for my parents, feeling my brain atrophy, a silver thread of drool oozing from the corner of my parted lips. Nights shrouded in a beer and screwdriver haze are forgone in favor of watching three Netflix films one after the other and stuffing handfuls of extra buttery microwave popcorn into my mouth and letting Dog polish off the crumbs that have settled onto my t-shirt.
Some days, I wrap my skin in low-cut tops and painted-on jeans, tint my lips pink and strut through posh clubs accepting drink offers, kissing strangers, giggling at witless jokes, walking away.
Other days my ass is glued to pub barstools, chatting to bartenders with thick Irish accents, chirping about how much I loved Dublin, downing their free shots until I’m face down on the smelly wooden bar.
And still others are spent frowning in front of the television, ignoring phone calls, feeling sorry for myself.
I can’t seem to find the middle ground. I don’t like the me who gets too drunk with rich sleazy men and models with long necks and Eastern European accents, raises her eyebrows in feigned interest as they discuss boats and Fendi bags. I don’t like the me who has to screen her phone calls because she forgot who she drunkenly offered up her number to, like a sacrificial lamb, in exchange for drinks the night before. I don’t like the me who lies idly at home dwelling on nonspecific streams of thought, wondering who and what she’s missing, too lazy to keep in touch with friends she was supposed to call three weeks ago, then having to drag herself to work with nothing to show for the weekend.
I need to stop diving into extremes. While on occasion, indulging is healthy, I’m constantly in a state of all or nothing. I've got to find a niche.
-L
posted by CEO of the World at 9:39 PM
1 Comments:
As they say, meh. You're young and can afford to screw around for a decade. As long as it's not hurting anyone else, it's all good.
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