The Blahs: Mid-Winter Edition January 22, 2008

It happens every year around this time. I should be surprised that I am surprised.

Everything - from the sky to, you know, life - starts to take on a grey pallor.

There is much to be excited about: Eli Manning finding himself at just the right moment, visiting Molly in three weeks, nearly-done Save the Dates, receiving mock-ups of invitations very soon, the realization that it is possible to re-fall in love with your fiance, as insane as that sounds.

But, really, all I want to do each and every day is put on my sweatshirt and the sweatpants M hates so much (splattered with bleach, ripped, unflattering, more comfortable than anything I own) and curl up in bed and drink hot chocolate and not have to talk to anyone.

I don’t know what has gotten into me. Things that were once shiny (even you, blogging) are now dull. Unappetizing. Unattractive (to borrow from Sandra Day O’Connor because, why not).

I blame the bone-chilling cold. The kind that makes me shudder when I even think about leaving the office to get lunch. So, I skip it. Or I forage around in a drawer for some cashews, an orange. Anything to stop the hunger.

Oh yeah. About that.

I’ve taken on “healthy” as my new word of choice when it comes to eating (I know! I’m such a pioneer!). I’m trying hard to eat 1200 calories a day and abide by this rule: “eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants” (credit: In Defense of Food). Some days it seems like an insurmountable number, impossible to attain. Other days, it is a drop in the bucket and I feel I could eat 1200 calories before noon.

I’m working out. I’m drinking water (and peeing. Often. So often that it is getting embarrassing because I work in an open-plan office and, yup, the tall girl with the long hair is going again). I’m doing what “they” say to do so that I don’t, you know, either die or binge my way through life.

It’s working. Kind of. I have headaches, which is annoying, and the bitch that lives in the back of my mind is still hanging out, stilettos on, slim legs and arms crossed, look of disdain, all “you are fucking eating too much. Stop it. Stop it now.” I’m learning to drown her out, mostly with some Kanye or Eminem as I commit to a treadmill for forty minutes or more. I picture the endorphins I get from exercising lobbing spit balls at her and it spurs me on.

Oh. And (raining, pouring, etc.), I recently found out that the Almighty New Job with Old Boss that I was supposed to start in two weeks has been put on hold. Except, um, I already quit my current job.

Sometimes this industry makes me want to throw things. Things like daggers, straight at the chests of a few suits in Los Angeles, whose whims we are at the disposal of.

In a word: blah.

I’ll get over it. But right now, I’d really like the sun to come out and play. I’d really like to have a job in a few weeks. I’d really like to have an epiphany about food and eating and be cured. I’d really like Heath Ledger not to be dead (wtf?). And I’d really like my new shoes to arrive so that I can coordinate a “meet Molly” outfit around them.

This is not turning into a disordered eating blog. I promise. January 10, 2008

This is something I wrote for myself, before I had the balls to publish my post about my sporadic bouts with not eating. Writing “fiction” helps me process things; I don’t know why I don’t do it more often.

She writes; doing something with her hands keeps her from picking at her nails.

Truth: keeps her from moving anything into her mouth.

A fiancé who doesn’t know means that there are Doritos on top of the fridge and cold pizza within it. They taunt her from the other side of the wall and she wants to eat them, to shut them up. And then vomit, to shut herself up.

Fuck you, cheesy gordita crunch. Fuck you, anyone who can go to Taco Bell and enjoy a meal and not give it a second thought. Fuck you, fiancé, for being one of those people.

It’s the hunger. It makes her mean. It makes her not want to be touched. It makes her scour the internet for information about whether or not she is killing her metabolism and thus will have to eat nothing forever.

She pictures her metabolism, grey and empty and parched. The fire has burned down to ash. It coughs, looks up at her with weary eyes. Pleading eyes.

“Please ma’am.” She hears Oliver Twist, British orphan, and laughs.

Thinking about how she got to this point is not original.

In short: girl goes to college; girl meets unlimited buffet at dining hall; girl gets fat; girl learns from other girls the tricks of the non-eating trade as college girls do, late at night, in darkened dorm rooms, with Guster on the stereo. Cue the rollercoaster.

It’s such a cliché, but one she is not fully ashamed of. An eating disorder, she thinks – as an image of Posh Spice flaunts itself in her mind – is decidedly more glamorous than, say, meth.

“You’re glamorizing an addiction,” the therapist that lives inside her head says. “Just like Hollywood glamorized smoking. Just a fresh coat of paint on a rotting wall.”

Rotting. That’s kind of how she feels, especially without the energy. Without the muscle tone. Without the zest that comes from being a fully fed adult.

“Just another few weeks,” she tells herself, like the heroin addict who wants “one last hit – a big one” before rehab.

Another few weeks and then what? And then I’ll eat like a normal human being? And then I will extend the olive branch to food and we will live in perfect harmony? She pictures herself skipping down the street, hand in hand with a Twinkie. Cowboy hat and all.

She’s in her own head a lot these days.

On the messageboards (and there are always messageboards), they say that drug addicts are the lucky ones. They don’t have to “redevelop” a relationship with drugs. They, technically, can survive without the subject of their addiction.

“We,” writes SexyRexy129, “do not get that choice.”

She eats exactly two dried cranberries and then immediately searches the internet for their calorie content.

And so it goes.

Exposed. But it’s okay. January 6, 2008

I feel exposed. Which is normal, seeing as I revealed a side of myself that I had really only hinted at previously.

I feel a bit embarrassed, too, but that’s okay. That comes with the territory of admitting that you are far from perfect; that you sometimes fail at something that is so…primal.

On Friday I was sitting at work thinking about how I should post something but I couldn’t stop thinking about food long enough to come up with anything. Instead of writing, I went onto a recipe website and stared at a photo of mac and cheese and literally - literally, people - had to wipe a bit of drool from the corner of my mouth.

And then it hit me (I’ve never been incredibly quick on the uptake) that, um, I should probably write about not eating and all that comes with it: the emptiness that can feel almost like a high, the panic attacks I have in the middle of the night because I’m afraid I’m going to die, the lies, the 300 calorie days, the breath.

And so I did. And so you commented and emailed. And so you said amazing things that made me feel warm and bubbly and most of all safe because I have the best freaders (friends + readers) ever.

I drew strength from every comment and email - every word of support, every “I have been there too” or “I am right there now.” Essentially, I drew from you the strength I did not have.

Because, you know what? Sometimes we project our ideal selves on blogs because that’s the easiest thing to do. Being a better version of yourself is easy on on a blog; you can depict the bits and parts of your life that are awesome and leave out the shit.

Except that I knew that leaving out the shit, in this case, would just make the shit worse. Not writing about the shit would allow it to linger inside, taunting me. The shit tends to do that. And if you let the shit do that, it will build and build and build until you no longer have any control of it and your hair is falling out and you’re too weak to get out of bed and life has lost all of its sheen.

I’m better now. Not well, but better. Not eating as I should be, but better (as in, I’ve had a salad today. Yes, just a salad but it’s better than nothing and I ate almost the whole thing). It takes time to talk myself down from the ledge, to pull myself from from the wreckage of disordered eating, to sit down and have a talk with myself about what’s really going on and how what’s really going on is not related to the size of my thighs.

As for telling M - it is rational for me to tell him and rational for you all to want me to tell him. But I’m not rational when I’m in it - when I’m secretly writing down every calorie I eat, down to the piece of gum, when I am drinking water until I feel like vomiting just so I can attempt to feel full, when I know I should stop but also know that another week or two will allow me to drop some more weight - I can’t think clearly. I’ll tell him, when I’m ready. In fact, we had a roundabout conversation about it just last night and that’s about as close as I can get right now. I don’t know how to explain it and thank god for those of you who have said “we know why you’re not telling him” because you’ve been where I am and you know what it is that I just can’t articulate right now. I can’t articulate it to anyone, except semi-anonymously on the internet.

After a particularly ugly bout with this earlier in my life, where disordered eating and I went a few nasty rounds (where was my blog then, dammit!), I now know what I need to get everything under control when it starts to slip from my hands but before it is completely out of reach. It took a long, long time to get here but the fight was worth it, as you can imagine.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Thank you for, as I emailed cdp or Peter or maybe both, making me feel less like I was floating in the middle of the ocean in the dark and more like I was in a crowded room, with outstretched arms and warm smiles.

What you’ve given me, I will never forget.

Note: For any of you who have struggled or are struggling with disordered eating, reading www.goodwithcheese.wordpress.com will make you feel even less alone. If you’re anything like me, you’ll find yourself nodding, crying and trying not to think “she exercises so much; maybe I should do the same to lose more weight” because it’s not about picking up tips, Clink, it’s about not being the only one to go through it and, hopefully, to get out of it also.

In happier news: Woo! KLC! I can’t even deal. Go congratulate her, even if you’re really not supposed to “congratulate” a bride. It’s supposed to be “best wishes” or whatever but hey, I’m pretty sure either will do.

So… January 4, 2008

I haven’t been eating much these days, mainly out of sheer will.

I got drunk on a glass and a half of wine last night; my sushi remained largely untouched.

I tell myself that it’s just “detox” from the holidays, but I know better. I know that this is the start of something that can wreak havoc on my life if I don’t get it under control.

And if I can’t post about this? Then the entire blog is a whole lot of bullshit because this is what’s going on in my life right now.

The wedding planning is fine. Things with M are wonderful. My family is fantastic. My career is about to turn in a whole new direction if I can just wait one more month. My new clothes are adorable. So are the boots I’m wearing today. My friends are lovely. I’m excited about politics again for the first time in a long time.

But I’m not eating. And that trumps all.

I’ve been saying my stomach hurts so that M doesn’t suspect anything when I don’t want dinner.

My breath stinks. It’s what happens if you don’t eat. I’ve gone through packs and packs of Trident.

I’m lethargic and snappish.

My eyes glaze over at work, to the point that I have to go out and get a coffee (black) so that I don’t fall asleep.

I go to sleep early to ignore the rumbling in my tummy.

It’s all there. It’s something I haven’t truly dealt with since before M and I got serious, and I’m not entirely sure what prompted it.

The wedding? Upcoming trips to Vegas and Hawaii? My grandmother saying that the skirt I was wearing the other day looked a bit tight? The need to control something?

My parents have a friend who is a therapist and I usually call her in times like these and she usually kicks my ass back to reality. I’m going to pick up the phone as soon as I hit publish.

I guess it’s a bit weird for me now that I’ve gone from anonymous to semi-anonymous. It’s hard to write posts like these because I’m afraid I’ll be judged.

I’ll probably be judged either way, but that’s ok. This is me, and if anyone has gone through this or knows someone who has, I guess I just want you to know that you’re not alone.

Law school finals, grr. December 5, 2007

I fucking hate law school finals.

And, um, I’m not even taking them.

But they’ve stolen my fiance and he’s all in their clutches and I’m all pout, neglected and he’s all ‘doing it for us’ and I’m all ‘hey, I hear that bankers work pretty decent hours.’

This is our first foray into the tumultuous Land of Law School Finals, so I think I can be forgiven for being a total brat.

Look, I get it, they’re muy importante. Not like undergrad, when your grade was pretty much determined by how well you could bullshit an essay and how much you raised your hand just to hear yourself talk. Also, perhaps how hot the professor thought you were because, let’s face it, undergraduate professors were sometimes slimy.

In law school, the finals are, like, 90% of your grade. And grades are, like, 90% of how you get a big firm job upon graduation. And that means M is 90% busy (and 10% sleeping). Which makes me 90% missing my boy (and 10% wanting a glass of wine, as always).

I just feel so disconnected. He does too. I mean, when we actually see each other for the 2.5 minutes a day our paths cross, we talk about how disconnected we feel.

And then he goes off to study some more and I watch another episode of The Real Housewives of Orange County before going to sleep. (The Real Housewives are totally freakin’ entertaining but they are clearly not an adequate substitute for quality time with M.) (Or, um, sex with M.)

I’m hoping that, come December 19th, all will magically go back to normal and we can be all “sunshine! Rainbows! Unicorns!” once again, instead of two independent balls of stress that occasionally knock into each other.

That’s right, I’m stressed too. I mean, my workdays lately start at 7:45am and don’t end until 7:45pm and even then, I still get work-related emails and phone calls well into the evening.

The fact that I’m so busy is good - it takes my mind off of the fact that my relationship has essentially been put on hold. And when I’m not working I’m hanging out with one friend or another at one bar or restaurant or another (which is, you know, perfect for my Holy Shit Less Than a Year Left Bride Diet and how do my friends stay so skinny and eat so much? Does not compute.)

But still.

M is my sounding board. Being with him at the end of the day - leaning against his chest, taking comfort in the consistent rise and fall, listening to him give me advice or call me a rock star (which I totally am and this job - the one I am leaving soon - is so awesome and I WISH I COULD TALK ABOUT IT but even if I wasn’t anonymous, I signed a non-disclosure agreement) and alternately giving him advice or calling him a rock star (which he totally is - the boy has a sick number of interviews lined up already for a summer internship) is what grounds me. Centers me. Makes me feel like all is right in the world.

Take that away and all you have is a very frazzled Clink and a very frazzled M and a very frazzled relationship. Which, do not want.

December 19 - and the blissful work and law school-free days that follow, cannot. come. soon enough.

I am flawed, but I am cleaning up so well. October 25, 2007

I have a confession: M and I aren’t perfect.
 
Perfect for each other, yes.
 
Perfect? Absolutely not. 
 
I’ve stopped writing about the difficult times. Mainly because they’re few and far between but also because…Well, I don’t know how to finish that sentence. Because I’m afraid of being judged? Because I’m afraid to share more now that I’m less anonymous? Because now that we’re getting married, I’m afraid that every tiny argument can be seen as a chink in the armor of us? 
 
It was Sunday, the day before my birthday. I woke up with a mood as grey as the sky. Something about twenty-six really got under my skin. I had one day left as a twenty-five year old and I was apparently going to spend it snapping at M and sulking and in general being a not-so-pleasant person to be around. 
 
M, bless him, tried his best. He tried to make me laugh. Failing that, he tried to get me to talk. Failing that, he got a bit frustrated. He’s human. And I had been pushing his buttons all day, dragging him down into my black hole of a bad mood. Misery does love company, yes, but even more than that, misery loves a good fight.
 
I won’t go into the details – that’s between the two of us  – but it escalated. Escalated to the point that I did something I’ve never done: I grabbed my stuff and bolted out of our apartment, letting the door slam behind me, not bothering to lock it.
 
In New York, you can be alone both nowhere and everywhere.
 
I cried once in London, while walking down the high street. It was homesickness, if I remember correctly. Three people stopped me to ask me if I was okay. By the time I got back to my flat, I was smiling. London cared, London took care of me. 
 
New York could give a shit. 
 
I walked to the fountain at Columbus Circle, one of the most underrated spots in the city - especially at night - and took a seat between a disoriented bum and a beautiful teenager sketching evening gowns.
 
I was iPod-less and phone-less and money-less and crying, wiping the snot onto the sleeve of my red hoodie, sitting knees to chest. Suddenly embarrassed, suddenly very sorry, suddenly feeling very stupid and yet still too full of pride to go back. I chided myself for letting my emotions get the best of me, for not being rational, for being such a bitch. A foul-tempered bitch.
 
I fight like my mother and my sister. We’re feisty, we’re Greek, we go for the jugular. If we’re angry - no matter if it’s justified - we’ll tell you everything you don’t want to hear about yourself. We’ll spot your weakness and go in for the kill. This is an attribute that is going to make my sister a stellar divorce attorney in just a few years. However, it’s not something I’m proud of and I definitely wasn’t proud that day, sitting in front of the fountain, mulling over the things I had said.
 
I saw Cameron Diaz first, walking with an actor I recognized from Alias (IMDB says: Bradley Cooper). I welcomed the distraction that came with passing judgment (skinny but not too, a bit of a flat ass, skin looked fine, overall very pretty).
 
Then I noticed a familiar face crossing the street towards the fountain – the stubble, the mess of brown hair, the black jacket with the collar, the one I love. The ice in my veins – ice I had worked so hard all day at keeping in place – melted.
 
He came and found me.
 
He sat down next to me. We just let each other be for a short while, sitting in complete silence, facing forward. The water drowned out the rest of the city, which is the reason the fountain is my favorite place to think. You can’t do anything but.
 
I could be remembering it wrong, but we reached for each other’s hand at almost the same time.
 
Somehow, some way we got from there to a perfect pre-birthday dinner. A perfect after-dinner. A perfect after-after-dinner. A perfect actual birthday. We built back up again after a not-so-pretty crumble.
 
It’s why I’m marrying him.
 
Because we’ll fight - hopefully not often, but it’ll happen. In fact, I’m wary of couples that don’t ever fight, not even just a bit. There are times when the connection, or the communication, they’re just not going to be perfect. There are times when things aren’t going to be easy.
 
But we’ll always find a way back to each other, M and I. And that’s what makes me believe in us, with ever fiber of my being.
 

The Platinum Wedding October 21, 2007

I woke up this morning much less hungover than I thought I’d be; a welcome surprise.

I tried poking M, like I usually do, because if I’m up then shouldn’t he be up? Isn’t that how this love thing works?

Poke, poke, kiss on the ear, another poke. Nothing. He didn’t even budge - clearly depleted from his Best Man duties - so I grabbed my cell phone, curled up on the couch in the living room and called my mom.

Because, fuck, I needed to talk to someone about the Platinum Wedding.

By the time my father and I exchanged some witty banter, conducted a brief analysis of the Giants vs. the 49ers and the phone was passed to my mom, the tears came.

Not full-on sobs; just a few rogue droplets running down my cheek.

“How was the wedding?”

“Mom. I don’t want my wedding to be anything like that.“

“Uh oh.”

“There was no…,” for lack of better words, “heart. There was no soul. I mean, they did everything right, there was definitely a ‘wow’ factor, but it just felt…empty.”

“Was it really that bad?”

“Mom, I didn’t cry. Me. At a wedding. No crying.”

Which is true. I didn’t shed a tear and hi, I’m Clink, and I cried at the ROCK OF LOVE SEASON FINALE.

I just wasn’t…moved. It was all very pretty, it was all clearly very well-planned, down to the very last detail, it was all very well-coordinated. But it was all very…lacking in intimacy.

The best wedding I’ve ever been to was also the smallest - 100 guests, lots of impromptu toasts, plenty of tears, a packed dance floor. I remember not wanting the evening to end, I remember excitedly rehashing it with my family and M the next morning at breakfast. It was a wedding that brought people together, ushered all of the guests into the inner sanctum of love between the bride and the groom. We were all glowing, we were all thrilled to be there, no one even noticed or cared about the food or the time or who was wearing what.

The Platinum Wedding was the opposite - 500 guests, exactly two toasts (one given by M), no tears (despite the presumptuous packets of tissues handed out at the ceremony), a half-empty dance floor.

Sure, there were the “platinum touches” - though, to be honest, I’m hesitant to give details because who knows if one of my readers was there? I’m so paranoid, but the truth is the bride and groom would undoubtedly be hurt and angry if they found out that I found their wedding to be empty.

Because it wasn’t empty for them, clearly. It’s what they wanted - they meticulously planned everything.

I don’t know. I feel guilty. I wish this was a fun, GUESS WHAT HAPPENED post but, truly, M and I were a bit morose as we drove back into Manhattan last night, just like all of M’s friends were a bit morose at the end of the evening, when we were all sitting at the table, wondering whether it was appropriate for us to leave.

We just didn’t have a great time. There wasn’t that invisible force that compels you to dance, to mingle, to bask in the joy of of the couple. Maybe we were all just in food comas.

When you’re in the middle of planning a wedding, it’s hard to attend a wedding and not compare. I tried - I really did - just to enjoy myself and not pass judgment, but it was near-impossible.

All I can take away from the event is what I told my mother - “I’m sure it was fine for them, but I want mine to be so, so different.”

***

On a related note, what is with people not showing up at the ceremony? Is this something that’s acceptable nowadays? Did I miss the memo?

Because there were only about 100 people at the ceremony - the church was damn near half empty. But there were 500 people at the reception.

That, to me, reeks of “we didn’t feel like sitting through the boring ‘in sickness and in health’ part, but yeah, we’ll show up for the free booze and food.”

It really bothered me.

***

Also: don’t ever get in a car with me. Seriously, if we ever meet in real life and I offer to drive (Molly, are you paying attention?) please just say no.

I had to drive by myself to the church yesterday afternoon because M was in the limo and I almost got in about five accidents, mainly because I kept forgetting that driving takes so much concentration. Also, I ran a red light. Just blatantly RAN A RED LIGHT. Apparently, traffic signals are nothing but mere suggestions in the Clink School of Driving.

Thank god I live in Manhattan.

The Platinum Wedding Approaches. October 17, 2007

So, in sum, after reading amazing comment after amazing comment: I’m not a freak. You’re not a freak either. None of us are freaks.

We all just have unique relationships with food. And that is okay.

I’m okay with the fact that a friend and I just sat on my couch in front of the TV and inhaled a scallion pancake, beef lo mein and General Tso’s chicken. Also, two Fig Newtons. Because I know that tomorrow? Tomorrow I’m barely going to have time to eat. Maybe I do have balance after all.

I’m watching Gossip Girl (and girl crushing on Blake Lively because could she be any cuter? And sunny-y? I kind of wish she and I could be bff forevah omg and go shopping and she could show me where she buys those awesome clothes and how she gets her hair to be so…big and sexy. What’s that? She’s not real? Oh hush.)

Kickin’ it alone tonight seeing as M is currently at the rehearsal dinner of the Platinum Wedding of the Century though, really, it isn’t very Platinum to have a rehearsal dinner on a Wednesday (when cough the fiancee of one of the groomsmen can’t make it because she can’t leave work early the evening before a huge network meeting cough).

Oh, the Platinum Wedding. It’s this Saturday and I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t looking forward to it partly for the gossip it’s going to generate.

The latest rumor is that the bride has three wedding dresses: one for the ceremony, one for the reception and one for the after party.

Yes, there is an after party. They will apparently be serving breakfast at 12am and then open a hot chocolate and fresh donut station a 2am.

People, this isn’t a wedding; it’s Disneyworld. And I am bound to gain about ten pounds over the course of less than 12 hours.

I don’t mean to be bitchy about it; I’m more curious than anything. Curious about what a 500 person, Platinum Wedding is actually like because lord knows I’ve never been to one.

The only thing I’m sure of right now is what I’ll be wearing (Dress #5! Gold accessories! Sexy M in a tux on my arm!). Other than that, anything goes. Including an actual orchestra instead of a band. No, seriously.

I’m sure it’s going to be an in-person “what Clink does and doesn’t want at her own wedding” session. Bonus!

First off? Do not want: three dresses. One (the one I haven’t even FOUND YET because hi, lazy and apprehensive) is more than enough for me, thankyouverymuch.

Any of you ever been to a Platinum Wedding? Will I have to like, curtsy?

Update: Just spoke with M; he’s on his way back into Manhattan. Was informed by him that I am the recipient of a gift from the bride. A gift in a Tiffany box. I am not in the wedding, y’all. I am not even remotely close to the bride in terms of friendship. I am merely engaged to her soon-to-be-husband’s best man. Why the hell did I get a gift? Slash omigod, I am SO curious as to what it is.

Update II: So, it was a beautiful Tiffany silver picture frame of a photo of M and I from the soon-to-be-married couple’s engagement party last year. So thoughtful and beautiful. She also sent me another box with various things inside - a tote bag monogrammed with “Bride” on it, a photo album, another frame, all in chocolate brown and pink - my wedding colors. So awesome. But, um, I don’t know if I should actually write about how I’m thrilled over my surprise gifts because that will probably make me sound even more materialistic, right Lisa from the comments?

Dying. Farewell. October 12, 2007

I was going to write a post about how it’s Friday! And this weekend is going to be awesome! Because I’m going bridesmaid dress shopping! And having a wonderful Mexican dinner to celebrate the engagement of a friend! And we’re meeting a photographer, the photographer who could be ‘the one’!
 
Except, um, I may die before any of that happens.
 
I’m at work but only because it is absolutely necessary that I be here. Granted, I’m hunched over my desk, clutching my stomach and unable to do much else (except type, of course, because hi, I love you guys) but still, I’m here.
 
My stomach hasn’t felt right all week. I’ve been eating very light so as not to make it angry because when my stomach gets angry, it’s not a pretty sight.
 
Last night, I met up with one of my bridesmaids for dinner and because we hadn’t seen each other in months - months! - we decided to go all out. And by “all out” I mean we had french fries. As an appetizer. For example.
 
Big mistake.
 
The minute the check came, I felt something wasn’t right. I started to get the shaky, nauseous feeling that tends to come on right before my stomach decides to go a few violent rounds with my body. 12 hours later, something still isn’t right.
 
I won’t go into the gory details but I’ve never experienced this before - not even with my long and storied history of a sensitive tummy - and, judging by my symptoms, I should probably go to the hospital. Or at least to a doctor.
 
There’s only one problem: hi, I’m Clink and I work freelance and I don’t have health insurance.
 
The good news is that it has gotten a bit better. I mean, I’m no longer crying or writhing on the floor in pain, so that’s a good thing.
 
M has called me every half an hour since I got to work to make sure I’m ok. I’m half expecting him to show up, throw me over his shoulder and carry me - kicking and screaming - to a doctor.
 
This morning he said, “you’d better not do ANY googling of your symptoms, Clink. I know you let the internet pick what dress you’re going to wear to a wedding but that is not the same as letting the internet diagnose you.”
 
Of course I googled. And I’m pretty certain I have dysentary. Or cancer. Or some rare stomach disease that has get to be discovered and will probably kill me in the next few hours.
 
Ok, I really can’t sit upright any longer. Back to my hunched over position. If this is it, my friends, well…I’ll miss you. It’s been real.
 
Update: From Peter, which made me laugh out loud (and then, um, clutch my tummy in despair because laughing makes the tummy very upset):
 

 
 

Also, I called my uncle, the doctor. Left a message. As embarassing as it will be to discuss the symptoms with him, if he tells me to get my ass to an MD, then I will do it. And I have y’all to thank for even prompting me to call him because little known fact: I’m stubborn.

Fantastically shitty. September 18, 2007

Work yesterday was hard, hard and also hard.
 
I have never talked so much in my entire life. I have never smiled so much in my entire life. I have never been so stressed in my entire life. I have never inhaled a package of Nutter Butters for lunch so fast in my entire life.
 
I got out of the subway at 9pm with my twenty-five pound bag in one arm and the custom signs my assistants accidentally left behind because sometimes they are NOT VERY DETAIL-ORIENTED in the other and I actually contemplated climbing into the fountain at Columbus Circle and drowning myself.
 
But then I thought of the pile of chocolate chip cookies sitting on the counter and I thought to myself, “wait a second, maybe life is worth living.” (Yesterday was an all-cookie, all-the-time day which is disgusting. I am disgusting.)
 
Yesterday morning started fantastically shitty, actually. After I got out of the shower, I searched my closet for my favorite pair of Seven jeans, my very first ones, the pair that made me realize that an ass isn’t just an ass when it’s in Sevens.
 
I couldn’t find them in the pile of jeans on the shelf in my closet. I searched a few more places and slowly, like death via poison that moves like molasses through the body, I started to realize that I couldn’t find the Abercrombie jeans that I have prized since high school (that still, miraculously, fit), the Citizen jeans that I wear when I’m feeling skinny, the Joe’s jeans that I wear when I’m feeling fat, the True Religions that I heart so very much…
 
Oh fuck. Oh fuck.
 
I searched the entire apartment and could not find any of them. I even looked in the bathroom, convinced that maybe - in a fit of moving induced insanity - I misplaced AN ENTIRE PILE OF JEANS IN THE CABINET UNDER THE SINK.
 
But no. Do you want to know what I think happened to the ENTIRE PILE OF JEANS?
 
I will tell you.
 
In what I thought was an act of brilliancy, I stuffed many of my clothes into black garbage bags since I was only moving one floor down and there was no need to pack everything all nice and neat.
 
The problem? When you’re moving, you have a lot of trash. And where do you put that trash? Oh, I don’t know, maybe into some BLACK GARBAGE BAGS, perhaps.
 
We threw out a lot of black garbage bags when we first moved in. There was something deeply cathartic about sending those black garbage bags down the garbage chute. With each and every one, the place felt less like a cluttered shitstorm and more like our place.
 
Except, now, I’ve realized…we accidentally incinerated (or whatever they do to the garbage; I’ve never asked) close to $1,000 worth of denim. Maybe more. I can’t bring myself to think about each and every pair that is gone. Well, no, actually I can’t remember each and every pair that is gone, which leads me to believe that maybe this was a sign from God.
 
A sign that maybe one shouldn’t have more jeans than one can remember and maybe one shouldn’t buy expensive fucking denim because it is just as easy to throw out as cheaper denim.
 
Hey God: lesson learned, ok? But please, don’t touch the shoes. For the love of…well, you…I am begging.
 
It was one of those days, yesterday was. It sucked. Please take a moment of silence for all of my long lost denim. Rest in peace, dear wallet-busting, ass-shapers. Rest in peace.