Tuesday, January 29, 2008

Blowing By

Every weekend after is like an explosion hangover, a detox needed from so much more than the general overconsumption I usually succumb to, but lately it’s been like I can’t catch a moment. On paper it all sounds great, in application, it’s sort of upsetting. There is too much to do. Far too much. And when any of it is done, a handful of other items of equal importance or more fall by the wayside.

Case in point—This weekend I:

1. Went to the Black Kids, Kid Sister concert in the Planetariumand Kayne just showed up in the middle to play some songs. In a word: radical. He was within sweating distance. And sweat he did, as he was wearing some sort of monstrous fur coat. A kid in line offered me a Percocet because my friend was able to buy an extra ticket. The evening’s events capped with a Space Show where a bunch of argyle and neon-clad concertgoers cheered when the Earth did not get blown up by a chunk of burning sun. Robert Redford’s voice narrated and at the end told us that we were all “safe…for now” and the crowd went berserk.

2. Afterwards went to a club (insert grimace) where I was harassed by several men with accents from far and exotic places like Staten Island who wanted to pet my head because I had a really ridiculous fake-fur hunting hat with graffiti on it and for some reason thought I should wear it in a club where girls in bikinis were dancing.

3. Met up with some still-in-college kids and actually had a good time. You would have thought I learned my (cougar) lesson by now, but you know, they just keep coming up to me!* And then I have to be like shaking my head all world-weary and look into the distance like the Marlboro Man, weathered and smoky and say, “I’m fifty seven years old, kiddo, just keep on walkin’.” But for some reason it doesn’t detract anyone. Mrs. Robinson should be a reference on my resume.

4. Made a huge mess in my room and in my own head with piles and piles of dresses that I just can’t fit inside a closet.

5. Worked myself into a circle.

6. Had a revelation about how to structure the novel.

7. Did not write down any of said revelation. Then wished I was one of those really dramatic types who could fall down to their knees and shout, “Noooooooo!” instead of whimpering.

8. Overpromised.

9. Underdelivered.

10. Slept too little, ate too much sushi, vowed to keep Sundays sacred and after a misstep or two, kept that promise anyway.

*Incidentally, I was also at an unbelievable Upper East Side apartment (and I thought I had seen Upper East Side apartments, this one was at least 15 rooms not counting the bathrooms) where I ended up hanging out with a five year old the whole time (he gave me a circular “tour” that lasted almost two hours and kept going into the kitchen for chocolate ice cream). Babies and children love me for some reason. I think they think I’m one of them. They always giggle and run up to me. The same with nineteen-year-old students in New York. I can’t explain it, but it’s horribly amazing.


Anonymous said...

I've had weekends like those. It's hard to recover. I try by doing laundry and staying late at work but it's not that much of a help

Buffy said...

Clearly my life pales...