The Shame

I’ve been writing and talking a lot these past few weeks about vulnerability. Authenticity. And the realizations I’ve had about myself as a result of all this writing and talking have been pretty fucking humbling.

So. Because I cannot write or talk about anything else, I'm going to tell you what happened.

I have realized, as I said in that post a couple of weeks ago, that while it is extremely easy for me to be open, it is not easy for me to be authentic - to show the people in my life the *real* me, in all its complicated unprettiness. I know how people want me to act, and so that's what I do. And if I deviate from this performance - if I'm in a bad mood, or depressed - I apologize, and then I fix it. 


A Few Old-Ish Posts That Feel New To Me Today

Sometimes I read older posts of mine, and I can't remember having written them; it's the oddest thing. I remember the feelings, of course, but then I read the words, and it's like they were typed out by someone else. Someone who understood me intensely, yes, but certainly not me.

That's been happening a lot these past few days: I'm looking for a recipe, or a reference, and I happen across one of these older posts...and it feels less like a memory than like a letter from a friend, telling me everything will be okay.


Just, Yes

Tarrytown, New York, with Dad on Friday

Something has been in the air these past few days, and I've been having one beautiful little experience after the other. So I thought I'd tell you about them.

It started on my flight to New York, where I currently am for my high school reunion (more on that in a mo'). The woman in front of me was traveling with her kids, and one of them - the baby - started fussing, and immediately the woman next to her said, "Oh, let me hold him," and then just...helped her. The whole way to JFK. I passed stray toys that I found at the bottom of my backpack to the older one through the crack in the seat, and the flight attendant brought extra snacks and helped fill bottles, and there we were: A miniature village of women at 36,000 feet.


Tears And All

Last year, on my birthday, I wrote this - and I think that even though I didn't know it at the time, that moment very clearly marked the end of one thing, and the beginning of another.

This year, my birthday was - for lack of a better word - weird. It was my weekend with the kids, and a three-day weekend at that, so I came up with all sorts of grand plans. These, alas, ended up getting sidelined by a monster head cold, but on Saturday night I rallied, having planned a whole hibachi dinner-bowling fiesta for myself, the kids, Francesca, and my neighbor Margo and her daughters. And then, at 6PM, Francesca took one look at me getting ready to head out, all sniffles and patheticness, and suggested we take it down a notch.

Here's the part that got weird: By 6pm, I didn't actually want to go to the hibachi-bowling thing; I was sick and exhausted and half-asleep already. So when Francesca suggested we just do a low-key dinner somewhere nearby I immediately agreed...and then, just as immediately, started crying. Like, heaving.

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