Sweet grief, it’s been so long. Truthfully, I didn’t expect to see you again. Not here, at least. Not right now. Not during a period marked by such intense joy. But joy and sadness can exist in the same space at the same time, and here we are.
I owe you an apology.
Continue reading “An Open Letter to My Grief.”Jordan proposed on the morning of Saturday, December 17, 2016 amidst the cat condo and stray socks in the living room of his one-bedroom apartment. As he sautéed sweet potatoes for a breakfast hash, he asked me to sort through a pile of postcards on the coffee table—four of his own design—that read simply, “will you marry me?”
Eleanor Roosevelt is often credited with advising “do one thing every day that scares you,” but it was Mary Schmich, a columnist for the Chicago Tribune, who penned that exact phrase in her article aimed at students on the brink of graduation. I agree with everything she offers, including the bit about scaring yourself, save for her frequency. Because the truth is, if I forced that kind of stress on my heart each day, I’d already be dead.
I swam so hard to reach you.
Two years ago, a former colleague slam-dunked a job opening in my inbox, told me to apply, and winked. She quit for the same reasons I needed to, and her gesture was a last-ditch effort to help push me toward an exit while she made her own.
Praise pussy for that woman, for the blessing she bestowed upon me resulted in (spoiler) a new job. And lo! it is good.
I turned 27 years old this morning at 6:49 a.m., and it feels really damn good. So good, in fact, that I hardly scoffed at the torrential downpour that completely soaked my pants on my walk to my office. The cards and daisies that littered my desk made up for it.
About this time last year, I was busy grinding on a frat boy, barefoot, in a $400 ball gown. If you were looking for me, I apologize—I lost track of my phone, my shoes, and my gin and tonics. It was a productive night. Continue reading “First Date.”
My trek to the grocery store via bicycle was an overambitious endeavor prompted by unusually warm weather, no food, and a lack of car insurance.
For the first time in my adult life I’d forgotten to renew my coverage, which was due on a Sunday, and I was too busy sleeping in and sipping mimosas to bother with things like bodily injury and property damage liability. Then I found myself (sort of) car-less with a naked fridge, and a sister needed to eat.
This is where shit goes south.
In 9th grade, I wrote a love letter to a boy. I imagine it was entirely dramatic—depicting my teenage longing and the color of his eyes with gag-inducing metaphors—but genuinely heartfelt, and honest nonetheless. And while I tried my hardest to emulate the letter-writing greats, like Oscar Wilde and John Keats, my letter read like a scene from Degrassi with the raw emotion of a Dashboard Confessional hit.
If there is one thing our parents raised us to be, it’s honest people. Growing up, we were given the space and the freedom to make our own mistakes with the expectation that no matter the grandeur of our follies, we would clean up our messes with a little grace, and a lot of truth. Liars were not welcome at our kitchen table.
SO VICARIOUS 