Friday, October 3, 2014

Edging back to Normal

I’ve being trying in vain to start this post for over a week now.  I guess I don’t really know where to begin.  Do I document grief? Is that helpful to other people or is that just one Sylvia Plath poem away from bummersville?

Probably the latter.

I think I will carry on much as I was before, but with maybe a more generous pinch of the morose.  Just chase it with all the various pumpkin flavored goodies you’ve been sampling recently and you’ll be fine.

Speaking of which, did you know this was a thing?:


Type II diabetes be mine.

Or

May I introduce you to the reason I will never have a thigh gap?

I could keep going but I'll spare you.  We are venturing heavily into two drink minimum territory.

Every fall, I go a little...how do you say?  Bonkers for pumpkin flavored anything.  Yes, I am that person.  I'm what's wrong with America.  Moses opened our pantry door the other day and was horrified as the boxes to five variations of trader joe's pumpkin flavored cookies fell at his feet.

This time of year is also when I traditionally resume my quest for the perfect pumpkin beer.  What is it about pumpkin beer?  It's never quite what I want it to be.  And yet, without a fail, I find myself reaching hopefully into the corners of liquors store coolers for yet another brand of pumpkin ale, thinking: maybe, just maybe, this will be the one.

I walk home airy footed, expectantly crack the lid, and with breath bated, take a swig and...instadisappointment!

But it's out there. I know it's out there.  I just haven't found it yet.  Too bad there is no human/beer equivalent to eharmony, to match me with my pumpkin ale soulmate. 

This will be the first real fall I've experienced in quite a while--a little over six years--and I'm ridiculously excited about it. People were saying this past summer in Boston was pleasant in comparison but holy humidity, Batman.  Maybe the West coast has softened me, but if that was a "pleasant" summer, I don't even want to know what constitutes an unpleasant one.  In any case, I am loving this cool, rainy weather (I purchased my first pair of duck boots for only $40 on ebay!) and the dusty color of the leaves on the trees in our neighborhood and eating soup for lunch and dinner and retrieving that favored wool sweater from the top shelf of my closet on chilly evenings. I am also looking forward to opening the shades in my apartment on weekends without worrying that it will make the apartment too hot.  Just color me optimist.

The one downside to this cooler weather is that the T has been a little bit more of a cluster than normal.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, I am still positively giddy about living in a place with reliable public transportation and I still roll my eyes every time I overhear exasperated complaints about it.  (It’s almost always coming from a BU undergrad but considering the proximity of my apartment to BU, there is perhaps a sampling bias there.)

I do think it’s amusing though, how the T is one public place with a no holds bar type of attitude in regards to personal space.  Like, I have pretty rigid boundaries when it comes to people I don’t know very well touching me.  Sometimes, it’s okay, like: Oh! I guess we’re friends.  But typically, I get pretty perturbed when someone stands or sits too close to me.  But on the T?  The T maybe the one time in your life when you could spoon with another human while standing and it feels neither intimate nor particularly awkward.  Someone could brush, grasp, press, push, claw, clutch, or sit down in my lap and I would barely bat an eyelash.  The other day, I grabbed a girl full around the waist to catch myself falling from precarious footing.  And that was just a regular ole Thursday for both of us, I'm sure. That certainly wouldn’t fly in Los Angeles.  Anytime I stepped foot onto public transit there, I wore my best come-near-me-and-I’ll-cut-you face.  Which is essentially just my normal face.

So much of my life has been in flux recently—moving, new job, the loss of my brother—and the strangest things make me feel emotional, like America’s Next Top Model episodes or seeing the Johnny Cupcakes shop on the way into work (not only because my brother’s name was John but I told him the story of how I walked into that shop to get a cupcake only to realize they only sold clothing). I’m not worried about it; I am sure it’s very normal. But I really feel my best when I am doing normal things like cooking, exercising, rewatching the same familiar t.v. shows over and over again with Moses (can we talk about how blah Fall tv is this year?), online shopping for boots, starting blog posts and then promptly abandoning them….so I’ve been trying to do those things as much as possible.  Especially the online shopping.

One boot at a time...

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