in the meantime

in the immortal words of Tyson

"Nice only counts in grade school when no one even cares anyway."

I am weak today

The only thing I'm sure I remember from the philosophy class I took my senior year in high school is (obviously, not any of the actual philsophy, but) this discussion we had about how Plato's whole argument (or, maybe it was the whole philosophy constructed by all the various arguments) was really pretty circular. And then, actually, we decided it wasn't even circular, because while /almost/ everything was justified by the thing before it in the circle (itself a dubious way to justify things, obviously), the starting point wasn't even justified circularly. It was really more like a 'Q'.

Then, what was that line in High Fidelity about popular music and people being sad?

because, this is getting a bit out of control, people:



Next?

oh, and (a day in)

I've been trying to work out this thing about values

... and which values you really /have/ to have in common with the people around you, and which you can overlook, and which you just shouldn't have, since they tend to rely on other people.

But let's scratch that for a moment, and just say: How many and what things might you never go looking for, but would for sure definitely drop /everything/ for if they came along?

I was just compelled to write this in a text message

"... I mean, for all the shit I've decided to stop taking in the last week or so, I feel surprisingly good about people at the moment."

I'm sure it'll pass.

every time I think of you, I laugh

but, maybe it was funnier the first time? ...I'm tryin' here.

no offense

What's funny is, I feel like I'm very, very rarely offended. And yet, it seems frivolously easy to offend my sensibilities.

Maybe I'm missing the point?

the lighter side

damn it, he's right again

but isn't he always?

Won't you stop and breathe, tell me what you want to feel
I could draw on all these things, baby I feel this beauty pull me to a
Soft and warm, I know this all I need, one day we will learn to grieve
Baby I'd leave you for the person you used to be

(and damn it, if he's messed me up again...)

the power of obsession

I've often mused on the way we're taught to form relationships. And on why the kids who are socially sucessful in high school often aren't in college. And on the culture of kids as it differs from that of adults (and how neither is /always/ "better"). But I must say, it's refreshing to finally feel like indifference doesn't equal power, and that, either we're growing up and, because we don't /have/ to work together, we have to want to. (Or maybe, just, Geek Chic is having further-reaching effects than we thought.) (Have I mentioned how much I love dorky boys?)

what is /up/, Seattle?

I finally decided it's nice to look nice. Like, I used to always scoff at my little sister for not being willing to just jump out of bed and into the car so we could beat the crowds at breakfast on Sunday morning. And now (I don't know if it's the huge number of semi-enemies I have, but rarely see anymore, so suddenly I know what it's like for someone to relish seeing you at your worst, but) I feel like it's nice (or, respectful, or polite or something) though also a bit of a defensive move. And it's gotten to the point where, if I really don't want to take a shower (/I'm breaking out so badly there's nothing to be done) I just stay in.



Stay in, for example, and order pizza. Stay in and order pizza and ice cream and put on my pjs and get the Law & Order going and the movie all set up and wait for the pizza guy who is /NOT/ supposed to be some nice, cute, sweet kid who says, "I think I see you all the time up at Victrola! Do you live here? What's your name, anyway?"

full disclosure

I was sitting around the house one warm summer night (back when I lived with a bunch of guys in Wallingford) drinking a beer, and two of my roommates walked in. "Man, I'm hot" said one of them. "Well, yeah—you're wearing a sweatshirt." "And it was stuffy in that theater, too." "Well, why don't you take it off?" "Well..." he said, and took it off, revealing his red T-Shirt with the CCCP and the hammer and sickle on it (which I always thought was pretty darn cute, considering he actually is from Moscow).
     "But I love that shirt. What's the problem?" "Do you know what movie we went to see?", he asked. Turns out they'd gone to a film festival showing without checking the listing, and ended up seeing some Russophile something-or-other about the realities of communism. "I didn't want to be That Guy—you know, the guy who wears the shirt of the band he's going to see?"

I was at a coffee shop with my friend the other morning when, through the floor-to-ceiling window, I saw a woman approach the front door with a parrot on her shoulder. "Uh oh", I mumbled. "What?" he asked, while turning around. "It's That Girl." was all I had to say.

(this is going somewhere, I promise)

I heard this great episode of This American Life the other day that started out (you know the little intro mini-story) talking with this guy—this crunchy backpacking-the-world kinda guy—who was talking about refusing to get a piece of rolling luggage. "I didn't want to be That Guy", he kept saying. "You know—the guy who bought the fancy rolling luggage and now he's having trouble on the escalator and knocking things over as he goes past, or rolling over people's feet, even while rolling his eyes because he's so 'with it' or whatever." And he goes on and on about it, and I'm totally with him, and still kinda thinking, "but.." somewhere in there and finally Ira Glass (sigh) says, "So there you are, walking through the airport, lugging a hundred pounds in this enormous duffle-backpack..." and the guy answers "Yeah, and suddenly I'm That Guy—you know, the guy who refuses to buy a rolling suitcase 'cause damn it he can /carry/ his stuff."

I don't like talking about it. I don't think showing it off is the point. It's not even my project. And I definitely don't want to be That Guy—you know, the guy who's always shoving his music in everyone's face/constantly needing approval and reassurance. But in the interest of not turning around one day and realizing I'm That Guy who hides things and tries to claim they're unimportant just out of insecurity or excessive self-whatever let me just quietly mention, I sing in this band, and we're called The End Times, and I'm fond of saying "We're not a band so much as 'band practice' is just this thing we do", but we do it two or three times a week these days and gosh darned if we aren't going to play in public for once.

Well, not really in public. We're having a party. At my house. And we're going to keep the booze downstairs and just play a little "set" in the upstairs spare bedroom, so no one has to listen if they don't want to (a lot of it is pretty down-tempo, not-so-party music). And to avoid at least some of the trappings of being Those Guys who play a show at their own party, we're going to have a second band. And it's all going to be on March 10th. And you can listen to some of the music by clicking here. And you should probably prepare yourself (and know that the set's only about twenty minutes long and starting promptly at nine so it'll be really easy to accidentally miss it) and you should definitely not say anything at all, unless you /really/ /really/ want to say something nice 'cause we certainly don't care and don't need you anyway. What do you think I am, That Girl? That insecure girl who sings in a band, secretly hoping people will pay attention to her and she can hide all her other inadequacies under a veil of false flattery/modesty?

we're also going to ________ as well

When I was little my sister and I always fought over music; I always wanted to listen to music and she always didn't.

We were in the mini-van once (Dad was driving us home from somewhere) and I wanted to turn on the radio, and she started screaming. "But I don't /want/ to listen to music!" (or something like that) and we yelled and screamed (and probably kicked each other's seats) and finally my dad said, "If you two can't decide, we're just going to leave it off and that's final." to which I, obviously, said "But that's not fair! You're making it sound like a neutral decision; can't you see that that means she wins!" (and then we got into it for maybe twenty minutes after which my dad actually pulled off the freeway and kicked us out of the car into a gas station parking lot, but that's another story entirely).

(there's more here, but I'm having trouble narrativising this morning, so imagine long bourbon-soaked talks about failed relationships (sexual an otherwise) and some conclusive-sounding conclusions that felt really right until ...)

and that's why it seems like I'm always making things harder. Because taking the passive out is never fair. And just because I'm hyper-conscious of everything doesn't mean other people are. And just because it's easier to be mean, or dismissive, or even just inattentive doesn't mean it's the right thing to do.

I want to be extra-attentive. I want to be as involved and obsessive and demonstrative as I want to.

But the solution is to walk away? Because isn't that just being passive on a larger scale? (And just how /much/ do we have to admit weakness in order to function sensibly?)

another night at the club

How many people do you know who are kind of obsessed with movies? And of them, how many of them just seem to be in search of role models?

also, One thing I really like is, in a song (or a poem or something), when one lyric that's been repeated suddenly changes to something slightly different—maybe a little more specific, or abstract, but usually, I think, more to the point. D'you think that usually means "I mean, this is what we were /really/ talking about all along, isn't is? but I just didn't want it to sound so crude /it took me two thirds of the song to get up the nerve to say so"?

I have all this stuff, see?

I have all this stuff that really doesn't belong to me. And while most people seem to think it's just fine to keep an ex-boyfriend's sweatshirt as, you know, a souvenir or a trophy or something, what if that was his favorite sweatshirt? (Come to think of it, that happened to me once, and I'm still a bit bitter—maybe that's why this means so much to me.)

So I need a nice way to return stuff.

Some of it, I've just waited so long I think it's probably ok to give it to Goodwill or something.

Some of it is pretty strange, though.

I considered writing up a nice big Craigslist ad, like the one about the ill-advised leather pants, but I'm really not that clever. (And then, actually, trying to auction it off on eBay might be more fun.)

But mostly, I don't really care about the ungodly shipping costs, I just don't want to look like I'm starting a fight (or holding a grudge, for that matter).

I've decided I need calling cards

The trouble is, I can't seem to sum myself up in a single word. Or, at least, one that makes sense on a piece of personal advertisement.

'Photographer' is pretty much a lie.


but 'Layabout' didn't seem quite right. 'Amateur Grammarian'?

'Amateur' by itself held strong for a while, but ... really?


I like 'Dabbler' but it doesn't have enough dandyism in it, I think.


Can I really just go with 'Dilettante', or do people not know that that's actually self-deprication that just /sounds/ like snobbery?


(also, are the small photo cards even hokier than, just, the whole thing?)

there are plenty of things in my life that I find (at least mildly) disturbing

Not the least of which (nor, necessarily the most—it's hard to say, really, what with the severity of it being not terribly consequential, but the frequency really rather shocking) is that I sometimes wake up in the morning with Bob Marley's "Redemption Song" stuck in my head.

when your life is maybe not /exactly/ the same as doubling the tax

In preparation for a talk last weekend about the relative merits of anonymous communication (with an old, dear friend about whom you will hear more in the near future, I'd wager), I recently read /The Fabulous Girl's Guide to Decorum/ and the first part of /Choosing Civility/ (with /21st-Century Etiquette/ following close behind, and /Miss Manners/ still sitting in my bed).

Strangely, the piece of advice that resonated most had to do with tipping at restaurants. Tipping 15%, write Kim Izzo and Ceri Marsh (our opinions diverge on specifics, actually), is not an option or a sliding scale based on what you can afford—it's just part of the cost of going out to eat; if you can't afford it, stay home.

I completely agree. I've always felt that way. In fact, I've always kinda felt that if you can't afford to have everything you'd want at a particular restaurant—whether it's the steak instead of the chicken, or a bottle of wine to go with the meal—you ought to be eating somewhere else (or, actually, I'll usually skip a meal to make up for the cost difference).

But it occurs to me that I feel this way about social engagements, too, and that maybe I shouldn't be applying the principle so liberally. Or that my exaggerated commitment to /everything/ in my life is maybe not such a fun/stabalizing plan. Plus, clearly I'm just a snob, right?

finish the analogy

Your ideal lover (/life partner) is like which kind of music:

1. That one band (or album, or song) that, when that's what you want, absolutely nothing else will do.


2. That artist (or song/album/minor genre) that always works out—that, when you can't think of what you're really craving, you put on some of that and it's always good.


3. That singer you always kinda forget about (and never think to put on), but who's always surprisingly great (/comforting) when he comes on the radio.


4. That one record label that, even though you kinda hate some of what they put out, you really do love almost everything, and so much so that when something comes out that you don't like, you keep listening anyway, hoping to figure out what it /is/ about that guy's taste that speaks to you, and how it all (disparate as it seems) really does hang together.

(Please include band names and reasoning, if any.)

I feel compelled to mention:

Cocktail parties are my new favorite thing (and Pink Gin is the new Pink Pussycat; and "I love" is, apparently, my new catch-phrase).

But seriously, folks, what better way to spend the two or three hours you can stand to waste on them than curled around a glass of something silly, chit-chatting with people you love? Thanks for being drunk (or sober); thanks for pretending it sounds appealing when I suggest something that "kinda tastes like a syrupy cherry creamsicle, but alcoholic!"; and thanks for laughing just enough when I just /love/ everything.

Hm... and thanks for reading things on the internet that are better gushed over bookmarks. I might still be drunk.

love (again!),
me

Tyson stole my idea for a party and put it in a blog post

so now I'm just sayin', you know, me first!

the karaoke cut

Happy Valentine's Day.

(click here, if you dare)

love,
me

p.s. I think Pink Gin is my new favorite drink.

some things I'd like to say to NPR

also,

Loves of a Blond
Belle du Jour
Secretary ...

fraught

I need help with feeling, and thinking, and being (and acting).

because it's bothering me that the causal link seems to go both ways. (but, then, I'm not sure it really does.)

Because clearly you can have money, and then feel that you're entitled to it. And you can be entitled to it, leading to, I guess, not feeling bad about having it (if you do). Or you can be treated like you deserve (or have) it (and blah blah, boring treatise on wealth, and money, and privilege, and superiority and oh, the social construct of it all), but what about that whole theory that you become happy by acting happy (or nice, by acting nice)?, and at what point are they no longer distinct? Can you be a sad person who seems (or acts, or feels) happy all the time? What if it feels like that hiccough cure (where you just ask someone if they still have the hiccoughs and if they think about it hard enough they don't)?

And when did we decide that crying was a good thing?

but, you know

I really do miss you.

caption needed

new city; new light

if I don't die

This weekend, I think I will pretend to be in Yalta.

Maybe I'll read a little Chekhov and dream up ways to become a mess hall cook on some Ukranian cruise ship.

"you would / never want to / know what she knows"

What does it say that something I'd sorta like to do is suddenly reminding me of this movie?:



more importantly, it should be a good sign that I've decided not to, right?

mysterious packages

why would someone deliver something like this?



and more to the point:

What if I found something that I'd like to give to someone, without all the trappings that might go along with having given it to them? Is that even possible? Could it work?

an honest question

What do single people do on Valentine's day?

Because, honestly, I love Valentine's day. I was even thinking about having a casual cocktail hour, since I usually have enough enthusiasm for everyone (and everyone has some enthusiasm for cocktails). But (here's the whiney /easily bruised side of this kind of passion), does anyone care?



Because I have enough pink plates and cups and wine glasses and cake pans to serve more people than I know. And I'd rather be surrounded by people I care about, drinking something that would match my pink dress (or, maybe purple, for contrast) than curled up at a bar. But I'd obviously rather be curled up at a bar than standing around my house, alone, in a pretty dress. (or, actually, I could go play pinball...)

p.s. recipes for pink/purple cocktails would be greatly appreciated, party or no

also

I'm pretty sure this



is my new favorite movie.

why masochism appeals to me

(/it's not you, it's how I /feel/ about you)

I think I don't like pain so much as I like what it means. And not just in that "I want to feel more intensely, and it's easier to feel pain than pleasure" way (though, don't get me wrong—I certainly understand that), or even in the "externalization of internal turmoil" way (though—again...).

From the "good god, what was I thinking?" angle, it's the same as that joy you can find in looking back on something incredibly stupid (or take pleasure in remembering "wow—I really thought that was a good idea" (whether you were drunk or just thirteen)).

This summer I took my dog camping. He's very gentle (and loyal, and reasonably intelligent) and I just let him run around the campsite, leashless. One morning he was out wandering around and we heard barking at the campsite next to us. I ran down toward the sound and found another dog, leashed up near its owner, barking at my dog (who didn't seem to have noticed, actually). Figuring the dog just wanted a sniff, I asked the owner "should they meet?" She agreed, explaining that, "Yeah, she's just nervous because she's leashed up; she's very nice; if your dog wouldn't mind, we'll just let them sniff each other and then everything will be fine."

Now, I didn't know it at the time, but it turns out this other dog was some kind of attack-villian breed. She ran over, took a couple sniffs, and lunged at Coco's jugular. Immediately, Coco whimpered, looked at me, and started pulling away, with this enormous growling thing attached to his neck. Now, Coco might have been able to crush this dog just by sitting on it, but it was a good 80-90 pounds of pure muscle. My first move? I ran after them and grabbed the strange dog at the hips, worked my way forward, and tried to pry her mouth off of Coco, all the while kicking at it and (when they pulled away) smacking the other dog on the rear. (I mean, I know it was dumb, and I didn't do it out of heroism—if I'd managed to think first, I never would have been so selfless. Maybe that's the point?)

So, yeah—like that.

I'm trying to excercise a little self-control these days, but when I don't, remember that I revel in the evidence the way I might be proud of a raised welt, or would have felt a kind of honor if that huge dog had bitten my arm half off.

And that gnawing pain—like a bruise you keep sitting on, or a little semi-constant heartache—it's probably worth it.

externalities

A while back I was listening to something funny on the radio just before getting out of my car. I chuckled a little, and maybe ten seconds later, walking down the sidewalk toward the coffee shop, it struck me, and I laughed (pretty hard). Fully four or five people on the street (one of them two blocks away) jumped to attention, and each one started looking around as though he'd stepped in dog shit, or left his fly down. I repeated this anecdote to a boy (in front of whom I was pretty concerned about being both sincere and clever) and he said, "What? Are you suggesting that some people are so inherently embarrassed at all times that they're walking down the street assuming people are laughing at them?" "Well, yeah." I said. And after a pause, he said, a little quieter, "I am."

I went to the bar tonight to do some editing (yes, I know, but it really does help me to have all that ambient noise) and then realized I'd left my cell phone at home, and decided to deal with it, and then really couldn't (well, that and a few more things I couldn't deal with) and I walked back to my car. I'm not used to this part of town, though (and I drove around the block a few times before finding a place to park), so I wasn't exactly sure where I'd left it. A block and a half down the dark street I thought I heard someone playing a harmonica. But I spotted a little green Subaru and walked around to the driver's side a few cars early (since there was an obvious gap between cars). When I got to the car I realized it wasn't mine, but mine was just a few cars down so I continued walking in the street. It wasn't until I reached for the door handle that I noticed the harmonica player, neatly positioned in the doorway of a semi-abandoned building precisely opposite my passenger door. I was just starting down a train of thought that went, "Oh, god, I hope he doesn't think I stepped out in the street to avoid walking near him" when he screamed, "It's legitimate! See?" and flicked on the light in the overhang, and patted the orange crate he'd been sitting on.

Sometimes I just don't want to leave my house.

dark and grainy

but, overall, a nice night.

sometimes the easy answer is still the best

(and sometimes cliches are not so simple.)

---

I went to see my new boyfriend in concert the other night. And it was wonderful. And the crowd was a little strange (all the hipster kids almost overwhelmed by older, frumpier folks), and I wondered what the sign on the front door was on about (something about, "this is /not/ a Ms. so-and-so concert. She is simply /accompanying/ Mr. ...").

Halfway through the show (I was sitting at the back—I'm not exactly sure what happened) they announced that some chick with a violin was going to take the stage, and she did, and the crowd got all reverent, and she yammered on about being so flattered and, surprised, and blah blah blah (at one point even saying, "And I know you didn't come to hear me talk, but I just wanted to say [and on and on]."). And then she played.

Now, I love violins (and, you'll remember, I'm the one who keeps dragging people to the opera, and suggesting symphony tickets as birthday presents), so I shut up with the rest of them and strained to hear the /entire/ concerto (or whatever it was she was playing) and pretended not to be mildly annoyed that she took fully twenty minutes out of the concert I'd actually come to see.

And I was definitely huffier than some of the other people when, in the middle of it, some sorority girl answered her loudly chiming cell phone and started yammering away (and was actually ushered out by one of the black-clad, tatooed bouncers). And, yes, I snikered a little when the accompanying entourage of frat boys shuttled past us to meet her on the sidewalk.

But when the door swung back in (to allow the last staff member to rejoin the crowd) just wide enough for us to hear one of them say (in equal parts annoyance and honest disbelief), "I've never been shushed in a bar before.", I shut up.

---

This morning I was listening to NPR's version of pre-Super Bowl hype. And one of the guys got on to talk about how football is really the ultimate metaphor for America's expansion into The West (and the conquest, and the brutality and everything). And he made some good points and the guy interviewing him seemed pretty intrigued (if not entirely surprised) by the whole concept and turned to the guy next to him and said, "Is that how you look at it? Does it seem like a socialized reenactment of the brutality of the ancestral environment, or, at least, the colonization of the wild west, and conquering Indians and all that?" and the guy (who actually cared about football) said, "Well, I mean, maybe that's happening in my subconscious somewhere, but I certainly don't think about it that way."

The academic's comeback? "Well, I think this is clearly a case of being so close to the forest you can't see the trees."

Clearly.

---

I was walking back to my car last night and saw a guy looking at me as I approached the streetcorner he was waiting at, and I caught his gaze and he smiled, paused, and then screamed, "We're on the same street!".

(Which—I'm sorry—was the best line I'd heard all night.)

femme fatality

I've written a lot about self-portraits (and taken quite a few more). It's all true; I take none of it back. But an old friend of mine recently reminded me (inadvertently) of where it all came from.

Years ago, in a fit of research on a small movement of "absurdist" Russian poets and writers of early 1920s-30s Petersburg, I came across a photo of one of these guys (sadly, I can't at the moment recall which one, or else I'd dig out the photo) standing in his small apartment, in front of a make-shift photographic backdrop (the edges of the canvas didn't come anywhere close to filling the frame), posing in (what one imagines is) his only suit, which, given the time period, was a very strange thing to be wearing.

If I may paraphrase myself here,

In a time and place where people were being executed based on the mere assumption that they came from aristocratic stock, [this guy] would bring his own silver to the neighborhood pub and refuse to eat off of anything else. He had a fake mustache, which he wore to the theater and similar engagements claiming it was 'indecent to be seen in polite company without one'. A large, mostly unidentifiable contraption stood in the corner of his apartment, about which the following conversation was frequently had: "What is it?" "It's a machine." "What does it do?" "It does nothing." "Then, why do you have it?" "One should always have a machine around the house."

The idea of Dandyism has always fascinated me, mostly because I don't think I've ever understood it, much as I've been drawn to participate (and to participants).

I had a talk once with this boy I had a crush on. (Ok, fine, still do. So what?) I brought him to the opera (which seems to be a contentious thing to do to people...) and we were still feeling each other out, having met only recently, and I have a complicated enough relationship with the opera house (let alone to all the people there) and neither of us seemed comfortable saying exactly how we were feeling about the whole situation, lest it seem ironic, and hence insulting (should the other person be more fully committed) or naive (if the self-consciousness didn't come through enough). Lest, basically, we speak too casually about something complicated, and ruin a chance to get at something meaningful by putting up quills.

I won't bother outlining the conversation, since he explained my feelings on the subject better than I ever will.

But the point is this:



I told a friend of mine the other day, "You know, the funny thing is, I have terrible impulse control. I mean, I will do anything if I've convinced myself that the reasons I shouldn't do it are any kind of social construct, or, you know, just less important than 'but I want to', (even if that's not really true, since I might just /think/ I don't want to because of some kind of social construct). But point out that this might not be the right moment in the narrative, and suddenly I'm all stocisim and grace."

I went out tonight, in hopes of 1.) having a nice time and 2.) proving to myself (and, maybe, others) that I can be some place without being in the way; that awkward situations don't have to be, if people can control themselves. I left work, bought a new pair of shoes, went home and changed into a little black dress. I put my hair up (at least in part because it really needs to be cut) and stuffed my face with meatballs and diet coke (did I mention I'm not drinking this week?).

At one point in the evening, there were /three/ men on stage, any one of whom has the power to make me weak in the knees (note: I like this expression mostly because I /always/ mean it literally). I got all kinds of swooney more than once or twice (and was supported by a friend of mine who seemed amused by the whole situation, if only because he thinks I have seriously questionable taste in men).

(aside: There were any number of things that I would have loved to have happen. But none of them seemed anywhere near as important as, just, nothing bad happening. Every little Six Feet Under-style fantasy/hallucination was scratched closed by a realization that, while they would all be wonderful, they'd make the next part worse, if only by proving yet again that I have yet to prove otherwise.)

And I love to swoon. It's probably why I like unavailable men (no one else will indulge that kind of attraction for as long as I'd like, except, maybe, someone who's an exhibitionist but actually shy in public, or, (sigh) is just not that into you). And, believe it or not, I love to feel inconspicuous. And I love bars. And I love buying people drinks. And I love good music, and good books. And I had a beautiful evening, and left the club all giggly and giddy.

And I finally figured out how to wear a dress without feeling flashy or self-aggrandizing. I finally felt like the outfit was something of a protective shell. That I didn't have to think I looked good in order to put on a dress—I could put on a dress in order to look a little better. Or, just, in order to be wearing a dress. (My escort for the evening said, at some point, "You're so nice tonight!" and all I could say was, "It's probably the heels.")

So as I marched down the hill to meet another friend of mine (at a bar that turned out to be almost ten blocks farther than I'd expected) and called, and text messaged, and waited for a response, and trudged down anyway, feeling bad, already, about the last time it took me longer than I expected to get to the bar, I thought about what a good idea it had been to buy these shoes earlier tonight, and how much it seemed to make the walk that much more tolerable, and how this whole thing would feel sort of dejected and unnecessary if I were wearing jeans and sneakers.

And when I got to the bar, and got the once-over from the bouncer (who was sure I'd ended up in the wrong place), and looked around, and realized I'd missed them, I didn't think once about how upset I've been these past weeks at being stood up, or about all the trouble I went through last night explaining the whole thing yet again (in, probably unnecessary, detail), or how much I (claim to) blame myself and still try to rely on my friends to know how fragile I can be (though I know there's a lot more I have to learn about this).

I walked the twenty blocks back to my car, in my new weathered Italian leather pumps, past a man I love but can't talk to (though, please, not the way that sounds), all the flirt drained out of me, thinking only, "I wonder if it would be more appropriate for me to take these off and throw them over my shoulder, or if, maybe, I ought to cry just a little more."