Today is one of those days that I don’t want to work- I mean, nothing out of the ordinary from any other day of the week- but it’s one of those days I pick up the phone already exasperated before the person on the other end can say ”hello”, if I don’t just hit the ‘ignore’ button. It’s one of those days I type personal messages in Outlook, like dummy work emails, and feel a sense of vindication whenever a co-worker passes unaware. It’s one of those days that my resume is minimized at the bottom of my screen next to the website on which I am casually sifting for other jobs, and the excitement I feel from my clandestine operation is the greatest rush I’ll feel until I leave for the day, or until I get into a text fight with my boyfriend. It’s one of those days I’ve gone through the holiday calendar and already picked out which days I plan to call in sick to offset the trauma of discovering we have no days off in October. It’s one of those days I have to sneak out of the building at 2pm to eat a cookie, just so the sugar spike can remind me that I’m not actually asleep, as I simultaneously contemplate why there are so many people aimlessly wandering around in the street at 2pm on a Wednesday.
It’s one of those days when people talk to me I nod, but really I’m perusing in an article on my computer screen, hoping that my blatant sense of disinterest will deter the person from continuing to talk. It’s one of those days I will periodically perform searches on apartments outside of my price range, just to imagine how much laundry I would do if I just had an in-unit washer and dryer or how much more I would internet shop if I had a doorman to receive my packages.
It’s one of those days I go to the bathroom just for fun. One of those days I wonder if the muscles in my legs had actually begun to atrophy before I got up out of my chair, which feels like I just got out of an airplane seat after a Trans-Atlantic flight.
It’s one of those days I wish people would be more active on social networks, so I could funnel my time into Buzzfeed articles or some ALS bucket challenges, and if IT were to quantify the number of times I’ve visited www.facebook.com, I would return from the bathroom to a large empty cardboard box on my desk.
It’s one of those days. A two cup of coffee kind of day. A let-me-put-my-headphones-in kind of day. One of those days that I’m well-aware I’m at the office, which somehow has an adverse impact upon my work ethic.
One of those days.
I wonder why we have to work 9 hours a day. Whose idea was that anyway? Isn’t that something we can re-discuss, like a presidential term or something? You know, how they re-interpret the bible? Why can’t we re-interpret the work day? Things have changed. For example, I don’t have to use a fax machine anymore- that’s 10 minutes right there I should get back because I email and scan these days. I type a lot faster than they did before computers; that should cut down on at least an hour. And I don’t waste time drinking whiskey in the office with my feet on my desk (I drink it very quickly and discreetly out of my file cabinet). Assuming output is the same, I think I do the same amount of work in half the time.
I’d be so much more pleasant if we worked even 6 hours a day. I would dress a lot better for work, first of all. I would blowdry my hair and not comb it over wet, like a character from Grease. I would carefully choose an interesting and thoughtful outfit, and not the same one I wear twice a week because it’s still hanging on the arm of the couch from earlier in the week / I have 15 minutes to get out of the house after the gym. And I would be nicer. To people in general. I would pick up the phone and say “Good morning, this is Justin” in a very cordial and well-rested manner, as opposed to talking into the receiver like I’m holding a shield and sword on the other end. I would be philanthropic. I would volunteer group in the evenings to hang out with some old people at a home, or pet some cats or something. I’d join a kickball league. But right now, I take a nap instead because the dark circles under my eyes look like they are swallowing the rest of my face like solar black holes. And I’d eat better, instead of getting cheap take-out from the grocery store because I can’t be bothered to cook and my quality of life seems to be embodied in a TV dinner.
But it’s Wednesday. And soon it will be Thursday, and the sweet nectar of the weekend will begin to spring. And then Friday, we will run unbridled through the wildflower-dotted prairie of freedom called the weekend and drink freely from her sweet Ambrosia-filled river.
Until Sunday. When the flowers and the river dries up again come nightfall. And then Monday. When it’s just another day.
Don’t get me wrong, I am going to be annoyed by everyone posting about Joan Rivers’ death. In fact, I’m sure I’ll be hiding Facebook stories for days to come. I don’t want to read trite articles captioned “goodbye to a legend”, like people were friends with her. Let’s be honest, Joan Rivers wouldn’t want to fuck with half of my friends on Facebook. She’d scroll through my feed and be like, “This person actually believes in knee defenders?” “That baby’s face looks like runny egg.” And I imagine she’d quietly de-friend the bible verse posters, with a drawn-up, one-sided smirk on her face.
I don’t know what it was about Joan Rivers that makes us miss her so dearly. She wasn’t beautiful. She wasn’t glamorous or refined. And frankly, she wasn’t terribly confident, either. Her face looked exactly like the plastic masks they made of her face in Halloween stores.
But maybe it was because she was always trying to make us laugh. Watching her on television made us think that she ‘got it’, she understood. She saw some streak of ironic humor in this world rife with perplexing human behavior, to which we could also relate, which made her one of ‘us’. She could hang in the group.
But what’s more is Joan Rivers was relentless. Persistent. Maybe to a degree of what seemed desperation, but she never took ‘no’ for an answer. Never backed down. Despite rejection. Criticism. Prejudice. She carried on and fought to stay relevant in the public eye, all the way to age 81.
But why? Not simply because she wanted to forge a career. Or for fame. To make a splash as a comedienne in a male-dominated industry. After all, if you’ve seen “A Piece of Work”, she was constantly disappointed by her own perception of her inability to succeed.
But, to me, what is most bittersweet, through the window into Joan Rivers’ life from which I look at such a distance, is that, she, like many of us, simply yearned for acceptance. Relentlessly. Desperately. She just wanted the public to love her. And despite her historic career, from the Johnny Carson show to her stand-up act, to her epic stint on The Apprentice, she simply longed to be accepted. She devoted her life to an audience, to humor, in hopes of approval, to distract from the reflection of a vulnerable, unsure person underneath. And isn’t that what drives most of us to achieve? Feeling needed? Belonging? The yearning for approval? Maybe we do share that in common.
In the end, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I guess that I’ll miss Joan Rivers, just like everyone else. And through it all, she even took her gift of humor to her death:
If only Joan had known the outpouring of love, admiration, and respect that would occur after her death, she’d probably be the one laughing. If only she knew how strongly people felt while she was alive.
A streak of ironic humor, I suppose, in this world rife with perplexing human behavior.
And this is why I never walk through Times Square.
Just hit the flight attendant button instead of the flush button in the lavatory. It wouldn’t turn off so I ran back to my seat without washing my hands. It’s time to get this trip started. Family vacation. Off to Berlin.
Seen in Manhattan on 36th street. I know monochromatic is in, but I think she misunderstood the assignment.
How does a person even put a look together like this? It either requires years of planning, or a bathtub, a lot of dye, and the above jacket, skirt, and pantyhose. It’s worth mentioning this is a very specific shade of purple; it’s like she matched it to a grape soda bottle. It’s like she was standing in the mirror at the store like, “Fanta purple. That’s it. That’s the ticket.” Unfortunately, that show never really took off.
Remember when I took my shoes to the cobbler and they made them look like a spray painted car? (A spray-painted car with furry dice hanging from the rear-view mirror and upholstery hanging down from the ceiling.) This is not how I brought them in.
These are perfect for either 1. one of those street performers who also spray-paints their clothes, hands, and face this color and only moves when you put a quarter in their bucket or 2) a Michael Jackson impersonator.
This is what I get for buying gold shoes. Fail.
Secrets to happiness 101:
1. Go to Patisserie Claude on West 4th at 7:30 AM.
2. Get a chocolate croissant and a coffee. Don’t worry about size specifics because there’s only one cup.
3. The person helping you will probably speak very little English, but if he/she asks “milk?”, and you nod, just know in advance it will be whole milk and there will be a lot of it, unless you respond “pequiño”, in which case you might get lucky and it won’t taste like chocolate milk. You ‘just-about-a-thimble-full-of-soy’ people can take your attitude elsewhere.
4. Everything will come in or on paper serving-ware, and it will be $4.
5. You will sit down on a rickety wooden chair that momentarily will give you pause it may collapse under the weight of your own body, and you will go tumbling onto the floor.
However, now you are ready.
When you take a bite of that warm, flaky, out-of-the-oven pain au chocolate, the rich, molten silk will drape over your tongue like a passionate lover, kissing every taste bud as if he will be gone by morning. But just as the body seems to transcend itself hedonistic pleasure, the just-cooked, doughy layers of pastry will sweetly embrace your soul in cocoon of buttery bliss for a landing so smooth, it’s a ride that will be over before you once again open your eyes, that you’ll want to take over and over again.
And then you’ll want to eat the flakes off the table and realize that will make you look homeless and starving, so instead you throw the paper plate out in the trash and leave the premises, forever changed.
I had this experience this morning. I want to fashion a bed out of that chocolate croissant and sleep inside it. Instead, I left to pick up my shoes at the cobbler..