I’m normalize-ing.

As you can probably tell from the last post about peacock-boy, I am feeling infinitely better as compared to a couple weeks ago.

Better = condescending, not entirely self-actualizing self, rude, giggly, sassy, more capable of seeing awkward moments in situations and sticking my fingers into them to extend the discomfort of others = not an incredible improvement overall but at least I’m more like myself. ::signature giant cheesy smile::

I’m even sleeping. Maybe not an entirely fitful eight hours a night. But a tossy-turny six hours or so now. Food still makes me a bit nauseous, especially post-eating. Especially something sweet. So you can probably imagine my intense self-loathing after my banana pudding binge last night.

But still, it looks like I’m on the up and up.

I shouldn’t be allowed out of my cage

Oh wow, son, do I have a bad case of the Mondays.

I woke up, bloated and not excited at all. Bleary-eyed. Without thinking, I backhanded my alarm clock, swung my legs over the side of my bed, stumbled to the bathroom, sloppily squeezed out too much toothpaste, shoved my toothbrush in my mouth, and made my way back to my rocking chair– all with my eyes closed.

I tried to find a suitable fat outfit. I was too disgusted with myself to brush my hair so I didn’t. I applied makeup carelessly and then promptly wiped off most of it. I had a fierce inner debate about wearing flip flops [Me #1 is staring at her reflection in the mirror. Pressed pants, passably ironed shirt, and tasteful jewelry. She is smiling and pleased until she sees my feet. She starts yelling, loudly, which most of me can't take right now. "What the HELL is wrong with you?! Havainas?! Are you crazy?! You have to meet with Dr. -- later today, aka: Mr. Decorum." To which, Me #2 says at an indoor decibel level, "Fuck off" as she searches for a lighter, cigarette clamped between her lips.] The real me compromises– no cigarettes and a change of shoes.

I can hardly stand the idea of packing my gym clothes. My ass and thighs are so sore that I don’t bother with anything below knee-level. My abs feels as if I’ve been kicked in the gut all weekend. So really, I don’t even consider the remote possibility of attending to things below chest level. It’s a good thing I’m not very tall or else there would be some very miffed adults right now as I run around the hospital, not paying attention to anything. I’m not even sure how I’m supposed to see my trainer today.

So I left for work with a mostly empty bag– no weight of gym shoes and clothes to tax my also-sore back. I stopped at the corner cafe without a thought. As the man in front of me chatted up the cute barista, and began to appear more and more like the equivalent of a coffee cockblock instead of the idiot hormonally-charged but charm-challenged boy he actually was, I began to feel hostile. He said something offhand about being glad to see her at the start of his week ["The perfect Monday morning..."], yammering a bit and stuttering even more. She stiffened and her eyes shifted to me. And in my coffee-less, shoot-me-it’s-Monday haze, I couldn’t find my what’s-proper-etiquette filter [not that I always have a stunning grasp on that filter to begin with] and burst out laughing. Unabashedly howling over the tepid attempts at suaveness being displayed here. If he were a peacock, I’m sure his feathers would be dull in color and a bit ruffled. His displays of comely mate-ness would be awkward. He’d probably trip a few times through his mating jig, his voice would warble as he gave off his mating call but he’d think he was doing fine. And this image sent me doubled over. The barista began to laugh too, the images travelling in the space between my mind and hers. The man shot me a vicious look. The barista laughed as I handed her money in exchange for my usual coffee, perfectly doctored. She had slipped a coconut muffin into my bag as well.

As I left, she was still stifling her giggling. After the first sip of coffee, the Mondays were gone and I felt ready to start my day.

I should hire that man as comic relief. He has been the most effective thing so far to get me through my Monday morning blahs.

All I’d have to do is put a pretty face in front of him, wind him up and watch him go.

I am a fish on deck

If you are remotely invested in the idea of my moving back to California, AVERT YOUR EYES. Or click here. Whatever the case, stop reading now.

Yesterday [well, if I really want to be honest with myself, the whole weekend] was a classic New York experience. I woke up to great big slats of sunshine, cleaned my room, went to the gym, and ate leftovers from our Greek experience the day before. And then [and here's where the whole tumultuous moment really begins] I sat out in Central Park.

The day was drop-dead gorgeous. I mean, it was seriously a Penelope Cruz type day. Sun warm and bright. A perfect 80 degrees. This song playing in the background of my mind.

The meadow was entirely dry and full of city inhabitants in the normal arrangement: families on the periphery and the more naked people [a la American Apparel] towards the center with flying footballs and frisbees sprinkled throughout. When I first started lying out in the park on warm days, it was ludicrous and a source of condescending amusement that people would be lounging around in bathing suits with no respectable body of water nearby [of course the reservoir doesn't cut it and neither does the moat, not that any one lies around either of those in their string bikinis or otherwise]. And now, I’ve fully embraced it. I spread out my big beach towel without a second thought, shimmy out of my clothes, and apply sunblock every half hour much the same as if I were in Playa del Carmen or somewhere in Baja.

So I lay out in the sun, alternating reading and texting [duh, I'm in NY] and swearing under my breath, as people ran around pretending to toss around a football and coming way too close to my head. After a couple of sweaty hours under the sun and the subsequent induced need for a nap, JET and I made our way over to the Fairway Market on the Upper West Side. On our way, we ran smack into a street fair [my heart went all aflutter] and treated ourselves to delicious fresh lemonade.

At Fairway Market, she braved the crowds indoors as I begged off and stood outside, listening to the workers with their thick Queens accents bitch about the snooty clientele. “Dey fuckin’ ack-tuh as if dey wOnt me to MAYKE duh fuckin’ cart fuckin’ out of suhm fuckin’ clothes hangers or sumthin’. FUCK, man.” Observing the unrelenting mothers with strollers attempt to muscle their way through the store. I looked up at the soaring buildings around me until I got dizzy.

Once home, I showered and ran out the door to go watch Righteous Kill with TN. Afterwards, after finally coming to grips with the idea that I might as well have shredded those twelve dollars instead of watching that movie, I consoled myself with banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery. I walked down to Columbus Circle and sat around, watching the water shoot out haphazardly around me. I saw the couples intertwining their fingers and bending their heads so close, the friends chatting and laughing, the children shrieking with laughter as the water splashed them and parents took their photos. I began to hum “The Way You Look Tonight”. My eyes began to water and my heart felt as if it were being split open.

I looked up and saw two lonely dim stars.

A man looked over and said in-between deep therapeutic drags of his cigarettes, “What’s wrong, sugar?”
The overwhelming sadness prevented me from being an absolute bitch to a stranger and I said, “I’m leaving New York.”
He frowned and wrinkled his brows. “Why would you do that? This is the best fuckin’ city in the world.”
I shrugged, uncertain how to respond. And then he said, “I wouldn’t fret, sugar. You’ll figure it all out.”

To stop the moment and the logic it was pointing to, I got up and started walking east on Central Park South and then north on Park Avenue, smiling at the yawning doormen, mentally noting all the areas I wanted to come by again with a camera, and just taking it all in, accepting that it soon wouldn’t be mine anymore. Everything looked beautiful and bright in the cooling summer night.

I sat outside with MML, enjoying an iced tea, trying to not stare at a couple making out, to keep quiet as the homeless men slept outside, to not scream as roaches darted out and around the benches. I quietly thanked myself for the foresight in purchasing a one-way ticket a while ago instead of waiting until the last possible nerve-racking moment because after this day, I will have to be knocked unconscious and then kidnapped to the airport and forcibly pushed into my airplane seat and strapped in, all after being forced to pack at gunpoint.

If my love of NY were summarized into a postcard series, it would be full of the images from this day. I just have to brace myself for the reality of having many of these moments before I leave, of standing before my favorite shops in SoHo and bursting into tears, clawing at the giant naked statues in Columbus Circle and unwilling to think that I won’t be able to laugh about them all the time as I do now, feeling stunted by the prospect of not eating at all the great cheap places I’ve finally managed to find in this money-sucking city,….

I feel as if there are two of me, duking it out over this decision. The part of me who wants to be in California, like, tomorrow is smug about the airplane ticket. The smaller but more spry part of me who somehow belongs here is whispering in my ear about how tickets are only 149$ for the possible return trip. Both of them perch on my shoulders and point at different parts of the scenery as I walk around and scream, “Look! There!”, bolstering their respective arguments.

I’ll be fine with it once I’m back for a while, after the initial few weeks of NY-homesickness. I’ll go on some of my trips in CA and feel better. Enjoy the fresh air, the cleanliness, the comfort of being back. And then I’ll be able to look back with a keener eye on the stress I have here, the lack of responsibility, the selfishness with which I act almost all the time now.

I’ll love being home again. In the meantime, I’ll be completely lovesick about being here.