When I'm walking down the street in a new outfit, I assume people are looking at me and I assume they know something I don't.
I'll catch one person's eye and automatically move my hand to check that my seam is lined up, that my sweater's not strangely tucked in, that a boob hasn't fallen out, that my hair hasn't fallen off.
My next assumption is that I'm walking strangely. I've only been a grownup for a few months now, and as such, have not grown completely accustomed to traipsing around town in heels. I remember the things my mother taught me about walking in heels: relax your hips, let them sway. Stand up straight, tuck your tummy in, don't hunch your shoulders. Walk slowly, take small steps. This is the thing that mothers do best: teach their daughters how to be women.
I'm dying to stop in front of one of the impossibly tall buildings with the one-way windows -- they can see me, but I can't see them, but I can see my reflection and that's enough on many levels. If I stop to ensure that, indeed, I am wearing clothes and look like a normal human being, everyone will know that I'm just faking it, that I'm still twelve years old at my first dance, where no one dances and everyone pretends to have the sorts of conversations you think you're supposed to have when you're twelve and at your first dance.
I make it to my building, physically unscathed but my dignity and self-esteem in shambles. How a two-block walk can destroy me is a mystery, but apparently, I'm a master of all things destructive.
I had a great weekend, starting with a walk to Golden Gate Park, where my dad, his roommate, Aaron, Damien and I observed, among other things, the Purina Ultimate Dog Challenge!. You know, the thing where the dogs have to run in and out of posts and through tents and up and down teeter totters...that sort of thing. It was most amusing, listening to the crowd oo and aa and coo and caa and OOOOoooohhhh and aaaaaaaaAAAAAAAH along with the success or failure of the dogs. Then, we hiked up to the top of Stow Lake and had some Cheez Nips and came back down and were treated to dinner at Aaron's restaurant.
Sunday, we had brunch at the Metro and then I met up with my mum for some hardcore shopping. By the end of the day, and $700 later, we were simultaneously pooped and ecstatic. Then we got into a huge, erm, discussion about my relationship with Aaron, went and had oysters and cosmos at Farallon and dinner at Aaron's restaurant, and headed home to sleep.
La la la. I feel like I have a thousand things to do. Ten minutes ago, this was a stupid feeling. Now, I do have a thousand things to do. Does boredom emit a smell that people pick up on, an instinct that comes alive when the office realizes I'm not doing anything productive? I'm at the bottom of the delegating totem pole, and it sucks.
one year ago today: "maybe i'd appreciate the saying more if it read: DO SOMETHING REPRODUCTIVE WITH YOUR TIME."> two years ago today: "this has taken way too much effort to type." and "gaaah!" three years ago today: "In your face, Bette Davis!" and "Oh, to be 13 again."