In Which I Go Out Sober and Succeed

After last weekend's going-out debacle, I was anticipating shutting myself away this weekend in a sober, angry, me-against-the-drunk-world funk. Then I found out that the ol' college newspaper crew was going to be in NYC for a one-night-only limited-engagement reunion, and there was no way in hell I was going to miss that. Let me explain. First, although I went to school in the city, after graduation a lot of my friends moved away to such far-flung outposts as the Carolinas, Washington, D.C., Africa, and the Bronx. Second, our college newspaper experience bonded us through extreme shared misery, dedication, insanity, and cohabitation in a TV-sitcom-worthy downtown loft. We worked ungodly hours, perpetuated much drama amongst ourselves, and toiled away dutifully night after night because we were young, idealistic, and possibly insane. But it was all justified because we, the select few, were upholding the highest standards of journalistic integrity and keeping our fellow students informed! At least, that's what we told ourselves when we were trying to close the paper and it was 3 a.m. and half of us had a 9:30 a.m. class and oops, the server just crashed. Third, the fact that this group of uber-geeks managed to find one another in the social wasteland that was my giant, scattered urban university is fairly notable. You could say that if you picked out the dorkiest dorks from a random selection of gifted-and-talented elementary school programs in the country, those kids would grow up to be us. I mean that in the most endearing way possible, and lovingly include myself as a dorky dork.

Basically, over the course of three or four years, I got to know this group of around ten people better than my own family. When I heard we were meeting at our old bar haunt in the East Village—our go-to spot because for many years they didn't check IDs and we loved a certain Portuguese waitress—I decided to swallow my crippling self-consciousness and just go, figuring these people had seen me in far more disastrous states over the past six years.

Lo and behold, I had a great time. Not only was it fantastic that everyone showed up and played nice and caught up on the past few years of gossip, but I realized how much I really, truly admire and respect my friends. We've gone from awkward, tortured college kids to...awkward, tortured adults. Mostly joking. I would say that all things considered, we're growing up to be pretty badass grown-ups. A lot of us actually have the jobs we dreamed about when we were snot-nosed freshmen, or we're getting there fast. My newspaper buddies are scary-smart, hilarious, and worldly. We've gotten a little older, maybe shed some of our blind ideals, but we've still got that shared bond—that sense that those years of newspaper work important and weredid make a difference—that seems to be lacking among so many of my peers. I think that's one of the reasons why the fact that I wasn't drinking on Friday night didn't even raise an eyebrow. More important, I didn't even notice. We talked about the election and current events and our sex lives (some things never change), and we retold juicy stories. As much as I tend to complain about my college experience as having been impersonal and a waste of money, I'm not sure that's a fair assessment. Somehow my friends and I managed to eke out some really great relationships revolving around something that wasn't partying, and even though we're now dispersed around the world, we haven't lost that bond. It makes me comfortable around them, as if I don't have to prove my worth or humor or attractiveness or partying abilities. Which is, unfortunately, how I do feel around some of my other, more current peers.

So in conclusion, thanks to the newspaper crew for quelling my social anxieties for the weekend, and giving me hope that as long as I stick around the right people, even if they're considered idealistic dorks by some standards, my social life might thrive after all—drinking or no drinking.

Care Package From Mom

I just got a box from my mom. It contained:

• PADI scuba-diving membership renewal notice (1)
• Northwest Airlines WorldPerks junk mail (1)
• Chilean undershirts (3)
• Chilean hamburger seasoning (2 packets)
• alfajores, my favorite dulce-de-leche-filled treats (6)
• Black lycra halter top with neon-green striped trim and...a hood. This is not a joke. (1)

wtf. But also, thank you for brightening my day.

In Which I Go Out Sober

It's Saturday night. I haven't been out to the bars in more than a month, since before I decided to try this no-drinking thing. There's a birthday party of a casual friend and I sort of feel obligated to go, since she's always been nice to me. Mostly, I feel it's important that I attempt to socialize with my peers. "Enjoy people's company," as A. suggests. But this is the first time I'm going out to a bar where I don't plan to drink. I'm surprisingly nervous as I'm getting ready. I stand naked in front of my closet until I start getting cold, debating whether it's possible to put on an outfit that will convey, "Hello! I am young and attractive and nice. Please disregard the fact that I have a diet Coke in my hand and I feel thoroughly awkward tonight!" My clothes are not speaking much tonight, so I just put on black skinny jeans, a cream-colored tank top, my favorite new orange T-straps. Gold necklaces and my orange silk scarf. I note with some satisfaction that there are no muffin tops spilling over the waistband of my pants; maybe this won't be so bad. But I feel like a fraud, a 24-year-old channeling Methuselah. I glance at the clock and see that it's 10:30; I haven't been out this late in months. I've been to this bar several times before, and I have always gotten tipsy there. It's the Lower East Side, for crying out loud. I don't even think you're allowed to be sober in that neighborhood from the hours of 9 p.m. to 4 a.m. on Friday and Saturday nights. I will stick out like a sore thumb. The hipster police will arrest me for being a party pooper. These are the thoughts going through my head as I put on my makeup. I want to prove to myself that I can do this, though, that I am strong enough to get through a night at a bar without booze.

"Did you have enough to eat?" A. asks. I laugh a little too loudly. "It doesn't matter, does it?" I say. "It's not like I'll be drinking."

In the car going over the bridge, I mentally review conversation topics. "The weather has been fantastic these past two days, eh?" "My new job is great, thank you for asking." "This one time I moved into a new apartment on the subway because I couldn't afford movers." I debate asking the driver to turn around and take me home, but he is on his cellphone chortling with laughter and yelling joyfully in Arabic. Maybe I should start driving a livery cab.

The bar is teeming with people; apparently there are three birthday parties going on at the same time. I stand in the doorway trying not to hyperventilate. I don't like crowded spaces anyway; my typical course of action in this situation would be to hightail it to the bar and order a vodka soda. I debate leaving, just turning around and getting a cab and going home before anyone sees me. Then B. and his roommate appear through the sea of people. "Oh hi!" B. says. "We're going outside to smoke." Now here is something I can do. We stand outside smoking. I drag out the cigarette as long as possible and try not to cry. B.'s roommate is Austrian and a personal trainer. We'll call him Austria for now. Austria is probably not stupid, but he has an Arnold Schwarzenegger accent which makes everything that comes out of his mouth sound ridiculous.

"What is wrong?" Austria says. I respond, "Oh, I stopped drinking. It's sort of hard getting used to being out at the bars." Austria looks at me sympathetically. "This is your fault!" he says. B. shoots Austria a dirty look. Austria seems to realize he has misspoken and offers, "You must own it! Learn how to own the party!" This is actually good advice, but I am clearly not ready to own the party yet. Suddenly a cat runs across Norfolk Street; it's a bizarre sight. "Did I ever tell you about the time I run over cat?" Austria says. Oh, no. He obviously doesn't know he's dealing with the craziest cat lady of all time, and she is fragile tonight. This does not bode well. "Okay then! Let's go inside," B. says. I decide to bite the bullet and follow them in.

It is a zoo in the bar, no room to move. I set my sights on finding the birthday girl. She is hanging out by the DJ, so I wedge myself in on a stool next to her. We make small talk for a bit, but unfortunately the DJ area is right next to the bar and I find myself distracted, staring wistfully at the bottles of Stoli. Austria comes over and plants himself in front of me, sort of hovering over my leg. He looks at me suggestively. "I have a very bad reputation to uphold," he tells me. "With the ladies." I step outside myself for a moment and see a "choose your own adventure" unfolding before my eyes. Normally, under the influence of two or three cocktails, this would be the time to follow his lead, flirt back mercilessly, maybe end the night with an obnoxious public makeout session. I've pulled that one off before, once at this very bar in fact. But now it all seems really dumb and pointless, and I want to tell him to back off. Instead I chuckle politely and angle myself away from him and stare into space. Now I am feeling like Methuselah plus a thousand or so years. It is SO loud in here! The women here are so scantily clad! I want to jump out of my skin.

I tell B. I'm going out for another smoke and he comes with me. My lungs are burning; I've been smoking like a chimney lately and it's catching up to me. "I'm sorry," I say. "This is a lot harder than I thought it would be." B. is understanding, but he is swaying slightly and beginning to slur. We talk for a bit, shoot the shit. I'm more relaxed outside than I have been all night. But it's time to go;I can't imagine going back inside. I finish my cigarette and B. gets me a cab. Time: 12:30 a.m. I was out for less than two hours. This has to be some kind of pathetic record. I feel like I have failed at being 24 years old, at being fun, at being a normal member of New York society. Will it get easier, I wonder? Will I learn to have fun? Or should I even try?

Yikes, Since When Do I Write Poetry

When I'm depressed
It's not enough to think of my favorite things
Like Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music.

There are no favorite things.
Nothing except the toxic soup gurgling through my veins,
Poisoning memories and thoughts and possibilities.

I need to do more than think of my favorite things:
I have to visualize, reset my synapses,
Time-travel, will myself with all my might to:

My bed, under the down comforter, with the window open to a chilly early-spring night.

The open sea on the boat, standing at bow watch on a still night.

Or a beach, with my head and belly on the hot sand and the sun on my back and the waves in my ears.

The sofa, curled up tight on my side with my head next to the purring cat.

A Q train going across the Manhattan Bridge during a sunny morning rush hour, the moment the Statue of Liberty comes into view and the swelling feeling that Wow--I really live here.

My backyard in Montana during a warm, clear, dry-heat summer day, barefoot, watching the ants in the grass

Pilates class, when I manage to forget ache and place, and all I am is breath and body.

If I can just reclaim one of those moments in my mind, rescue it from the toxic soup and put it on dry land, there is hope that this time
I will not be swallowed whole.

Caturday

To Jew or Not to Jew

I've decided to be Jewish again. That sounds weird. What I mean is, I would like to get in touch with my Jewish faith again. That just sounds gay. Anyway! Once upon a time, from third to fifth grade, I went to temple twice a week: Hebrew school on Wednesdays and services on Saturday. I despised it. I happened to live in a mostly non-Jewish neighborhood in northern Virginia, so I didn't know any of the kids at my synagogue. They were rich and snobby and had names like Tiffany and Alexis, and my dad always forgot to pick me up after temple, so I spent a lot of time watching the Tiffanys and Alexises get whisked away in their parents' Mercedeses while I sat on the curb. Let's hear it for awkward plurals!

When I was 10 we moved to Montana, where the tiny Jewish community lacked both a rabbi and a synagogue. Once a month, they would fly in a rabbi from New York to conduct all the necessary Jew business (bar mitzvahs, weddings, the occasional holiday service). There was a makeshift "Sunday school" at the YWCA, which mostly consisted of dirty-hippie arts-and-crafts. Combined with the fact that some of my classmates truly believed that I personally nailed Jesus to the cross, I quickly lost interest in Judaism and didn't even make it to my bat mitzvah.

Fast-forward to college, where I fully intended to get involved with the NYU Jew-people. Then I encountered the JAPs—who were the grown-up versions of Tiffany and Alexis—and that was the end of that.

After my friend's lovely Jewish wedding this past weekend, I've decided to try again. In the event that I ever rope myself a husband, I would like my ceremony to be performed by a rabbi I've known for a while, not one I find in the Yellow Pages. Maybe I'll meet a kindly old yenta who will find me a nice man. Or, you know, I'll just meet some peeps to sit shiva for me in case I kick the bucket. So I found a Reform temple close to my apartment in Brooklyn that looks promising. I'm either going to Shabbat services tonight or tomorrow morning. I'll let you know how it goes. As long as no one is named Tiffany, the Jew thing might work out this time.

Favorite Chat of the Day

2:24 PM me: i'm unhealthily obsessed with lolcats

2:25 PM Geoff: It's a good obsession to have

2:29 PM Better than being obsessed with obscure royals. Oh, Queen Beatrix, you are the living end!

me: the netherlands rule!

2:31 PM Geoff: Let's hope they don't send their fleet across the atlantic and attempt to retake New Amsterdam.

me: man, that would blow. i hear the dutch navy is pretty badass

god that sounds like a joke

the dutch navy

2:32 PM Geoff: They are a fearsome lot. With their wooden shoes, legalized prostitution and the like

2:35 PM me: well, if it makes you feel any better, I talked to margeaux today (my downstairs neighbor) and she said Astro attacked her when she fed him one day!

Geoff: Oh no! Astro...he's a picky person.

SOme sort of Cat-Person

2:36 PM me: so you should feel very special that he didn't attack you

feline person thing

Geoff: We got a thing going

We hang out. Watch sports.

2:37 PM me: touch each other sometimes...

Geoff: ...just sometimes

2:38 PM We were bored!

And he was naked!

me: he took off his fur pants for you?!

Geoff: Alright, you win. That got a laugh out of me

2:39 PM Fur pants

me: YAY!

astro only takes off his fur pants when we dry-clean them once a month

2:40 PM Geoff: Dry-cleaned fur pants? He's living the high life!

Postcards From Yo Momma

I used to think my mom's e-mails were unique in their randomness and syntax errors because she's foreign. I was wrong.

Iced Tea and Diet Coke

I just got back from a fantastic weekend in Florida. For one thing, spring is abominably late coming to New York this year. Even though the daffodils are blooming in the park, there's a constant, miserable chill in the air. Second, after a recent family trip to Spain that was heavy on drama and pork products but light on relaxation, I needed the proverbial "vacation from the vacation." Third, this was the perfect opportunity to try out my New Lifestyle. No, I'm not renouncing material possessions and shaving my head. I am, however, shelving alcohol for an indeterminate period of time. Why? Lots of reasons, not all of which I'm ready to get into. The gist of it is pretty simple: I feel a lot better when I don't drink. You know that whole "tolerance" concept? My brain does not recognize this concept. Most of the time I can drink a glass of wine at dinner and be fine. In fact, nine times out of ten when I drink, nothing happens. But the tenth time, all hell seems to break loose: I fall over (see: last summer; in front of Pianos; toppling over onto parked bikes), I puke and my friends have to take care of me (see: New Year's Eve; West Village sidewalk; barely after midnight); or--best-case scenario--I start texting people (read: men) I should not be contacting (read: booty-calling). My hangovers are miserable, I hate losing out on sleep, and I'd much rather ingest the calories in chocolate or cheese form. So gradually it has become pretty obvious: Why drink at all?

Granted, sometimes it seems like this city oozes alcohol from every pore and orifice and drain pipe. It's hard to escape the Friday night bar outing, the Tuesday happy hour, the bloody-mary Sunday brunch. Drinking is a convenient excuse for practically every event. Friend's band is playing a show? No thanks, unless there's free or cheap beer. Watching the game? How can you even think of doing that without a beer in your hand and a six-pack in the fridge? Birthdays: Prime reason to get drunk! Even more than the alcohol itself (for most people, at least), it's about the Tribe mentality of drinking. So, for me to step outside of that tribe potentially means feeling left out. I have great friends who ostensibly don't care if I'm drinking toilet water as long as I grace them with my presence. But how much fun is it gonna be if I'm the only one sober?

The answer is, we'll see. But so far so good. The experiment began this weekend, where I managed to get through the triple whammy of Obnoxious Flight Delays, Beach Vacation, and Open Bar at a Wedding without any alcohol. I stuck to Diet Coke and iced tea. Here's what I did: I danced my ass off at the reception. I bought a great pair of sunglasses. I laid out on the beach. I got sunburned. I stole Bulgari (excuse me, Bvlgari) toiletries from the hotel maid's cart. I survived a wardrobe malfunction. My fears about being branded with the Outcast iron at the wedding because I wasn't boozing it up were totally unfounded; in fact, I don't think anyone even noticed. And here's what I didn't do: I didn't send out a single embarrassing text message, I didn't fall over, and I didn't wake up with any hangovers. I don't expect that every social occasion will be this easy or fun, but this weekend made me optimistic about my prospects.

Welcome to my Vault of Memories

Whenever I regale someone (roommate, friend, captive coworker, stranger on the subway, etc.) with the particularly dramatic, sad, hilarious, self-deprecating, and/or unbelievable thing that happened to me sometime (last night, last weekend, in college, when I was in fourth grade, when I was in the womb, etc.), that someone often tells me, "You should write that down." Perhaps they are saying this because it will spare them from having to listen to another one of my stories. But I've decided to listen to those someones and actually write it all down: for posterity, for my ego, for comic relief, for the days when I can't seem to make sense of anything. I hope you can laugh with or at me; comment when something strikes you as interesting or wrongheaded; and share your own stories from your personal vault of memories.