Fighting February

During the months of January and February, New York sails into the doldrums. Or maybe it’s just me. I recall this time last year and how tired I felt, when all day I had hardly lifted a muscle at my desk and maybe even taken a cab home after work because standing in the subway was too much effort. This somehow didn’t stop me from going out all the time even though nothing was going on. Leah and I were living on 22nd Street. We felt so close to everything and could muster the strength to traipse around the Lower East Side on a Tuesday night in stilettos and tights. Tights are not pants, we’d say thanks to some viral web thing going around. We didn’t wear tights as pants, but if we saw a girl who did, we’d look at each other knowingly and probably hate her a little bit for either being from Jersey or being thinner than us. 

I met P around this time and we started dating. I got my hopes up because finally, finally here was a decent boy. At least it brought me Logan. Ran into P on the street just this past Sunday and thought, that was a waste of time but then, I wonder what kind of person he’ll end up with who can hold a conversation with him and hold his attention.

I can’t remember where I was for Valentine’s Day last year, but I think that’s a good indicator that Leah and I were out - oh wait - it’s coming back. I hosted a party at Sweet & Vicious called “Luv Sux.” P came. Maybe that’s where the envelope got pushed.

There was a lot of drinking, and a lot of drunk dialing. I remember one night getting home around 3 a.m., first stopping at the Morton Williams for peanut butter sandwich ingredients, the cashier girl looking knowingly at my hazy eyes. You’re that party girl who comes in here wasted every weekend. I attempted to focus my eyes oh her name tag Charone then stare her down. I am not drunk, okay, bitch? I was…at a dinner party. Or fucking Carnegie Hall. What do you care?! Then back upstairs, unable to open the jar of Jif which for some reason was now being manufactured with child safety devices. I skipped the sandwich and called James, working up the tears before he would pick up. And he did each time. Why was I calling him? I would clutch the phone to my ear while rolling around on my bed telling him how unhappy I was, how lost I felt. And then the words - I still love you. To which he said, I still love you too. I didn’t love him, so why did I say it? That first time, he called again in the morning. He was concerned. Said I should talk to someone. Like I haven’t been in therapy for years! I snapped at him. As we signed off, he said it again and I didn’t say it back. I didn’t even feel bad about it.