“You must go outside; it’s gorgeous out.” Smelly tells me over the phone. Please, she’s paying Mohammad for the ride and heading to the salon to sit under a lamp. Don’t go talking to me as if I’ve never seen bark. I just don’t get this. I never have. The obligation we feel to be outdoors in good weather. I enjoy thunderstorms. That’s when the action happens. Happy weather bores me.
It’s going to be gorgeous this entire summer, why do I have to start enjoying it now? I’d prefer to write in book stores , having a productive day, over sitting on grass and watching people enjoy the resplendent weather. It just doesn’t do it for me. Boats do it for me. The water does it for me. Central park is hellacious.
Tonight I’m going to Strip House with a reformed fat-camp champ to eat creamed spinach in a room that looks like the inside of a vagina. I’m wearing a Michael Kors blue and white striped halter top that ties with nautical rope. I look like I’ve spent the day on a yacht, not in a red chair typing until I made myself laugh. I’ll drink red wine, eat red meat, and not give a shite that the bridge of my nose will turn scarlet. Then I’m off to kick it with my chiclets for Samantha’s birthday party. It seems every single weekend of my life for the past two years has consisted of a birthday, engagement, welcome back to town, or bon voyage bash. My inbox always finds room to house an evite. Normally, I’d complain about wanting a weekend without obligations, but that’s crap. I love that I’ve become part of invitation lists. It’s why I always bring my camera, even if the faces and poses are always the same. I love capturing the moments, making memories with my new friends, in my new unmarried life.
