Pictures Can Deceive

Do I take myself too seriously? Don't answer that. But seriously, can someone please pluck myself..out of myself for a moment? I wish there was a way to switch bodies, minds, on occasion. Just get out of my life and into someone else's. And it's not like my life is BAD. It's just fine. But it's me. Always thinking, analyzing, wondering, hoping, wishing, expecting...about everything. After I got my pink Geo Tracker in 2001, and things still didn't get better...that's when I realized that material things can't bring happiness.

Why is it that I'm 25, and I'm still wondering if I'm normal? Maybe because I wonder about it so much...it means I'm not? I'm not an adolescent, but I still get that feeling you get when walking into the school cafeteria on the first day of high school, unsure as to who's in your lunch shift because maybe you have two friends and you fear you'll be sitting alone. So there's a rock in your stomach. Some ball of dread that things aren't right, that you're missing something. Something that other people who are living just like you are really get. And you're not being clued in. Your head's off. Your actions are off and your life is off. And if you're a girl, it's not that time of the month which has you really confused. You go from one week a month to four weeks a month with feelings of sadness and fear. Even though this has only been happening for one month, your life still feels like that annoying Zoloft commercial. I find speaking in second person a comfort.

A Second Person Account of PHD, Hypothetically Speaking

PHD. Post-Holiday Depression. That's what I'm calling it. September strikes like a new school year, filled with foliage and fall clothes. October brings a much-anticipated chance to be someone else for a night and November, well...who doesn't like stuffing your face? December comes with financial stress for about a week until you work out a solution on how and who to buy for. The fam drives you batty until the magic of Dec. 25 bestows itself upon you and you're suddenly grateful for your little life and those in it. The Merry Christmas text messages pour in and you know you're loved. New Years brings hopeful expectations and a hangover and then, BAM! It's all over. Maybe there's something to the fact that most people start out the year by feeling like crap. So you're hungover (hypothetically, of course), maybe you trek to the drugstore for some aspirin. But what do you see? A depressing mess of 50%-off holiday decorations and an aisle full of red and pink. Valentine's Day chocolates, hearts and teddy bears. Teddy bears that you probably won't receive if you're single. So now you're hungover, dateless and have no where to store the new holiday décor you just had to buy because hey, it was on sale.

So you walk back home, stepping over evergreen trees that have been tossed out like day-old KFC. But you think, hey, at least it's not snowing. Everyone likes snow in December, but in January? Hell no. Especially if you live in New York, because January and February is when the real winter starts, and that's not snow. It's dirty gray slush that (hypothetically) ruins your Manolo Blahniks. You reorganize your apartment, trying to find crannies to store your new holiday swag and useless Christmas décor for next year, when it suddenly hits you. All those things you'd planned to do in 2006? None of it happened. You're at your same old job, five pounds heavier. Perhaps you tried to (hypothetically) get a plant last year like the movie 28 Days suggests. And you deprived the pot of purple geraniums of water, so they died. Then you got a kitty, and she died, too. But there's always 2007 to start over. So yeah. I won't lie. I've been depressed for two weeks over all facets of life, hanging onto life by a pink thread. Is that normal?

Little Death

They say a little death makes life more meaningful. I can't agree. It doesn't make me want to live with less regrets. It just leaves a black hole. I know from experience that the hole gets smaller in time. But it's always there. Whether losing a family member, a friend or a pet, it's an aching emptiness that never fully goes away. You may hear a song, get a vision from the past or become flooded with memories, and you choke up. Tears well behind your eyes. It isn't exactly fair.

She was my world for three months. When you're 2,000 miles from a place considered home, trying to make a home out of a place that still feels a bit foreign, and you encounter a ball of love, pure love, it's a devastating blow when it's gone. Every night after work, I ran up two flights of stairs as fast I could, because I hated to hear her crying. I would crack the door, and there she'd be, on my kitchen table, tilting her head up at the doorway. I could always tell she'd just woken up by the way her eyes squinted. She hated to sleep when I was around, as she was afraid she'd miss something. I'd scoop her up, and she'd nuzzle my cheek, complete with a few kisses. I'd get ready for bed, she'd be under my feet. She'd bring her favorite stuffed mouse over to me, and I'd throw it. She'd bring it back, and it would continue like this until I decided it was time for bed. She'd stretch out on the pillow beside me, and we'd watch TV together. She never fell asleep before I did. I only knew this because I'd catch her sleeping, stretched out on her back when I'd wake up in the middle of the night. Until the sun came up and she'd lick me awake. My face, chin, neck. I'd brush her off, but she never gave up, always determined. I'd get up, take a shower. I always knew that when I stepped out of the shower, she'd be laying there. Ready to lick the water off my toes. Then she'd lay and watch me apply my makeup, in awe of what I was doing. Every day for three months. And I miss her so much. She wasn't afraid of anyone or anything. She loved people and she loved life.

And then she was gone, and I didn't see it coming. And I was in denial This isn't happening straight to hysteria Come back to work on Monday, Tina then angry at the animal hospital Couldn't they have done more? then guilt Could I have done more? then ashamed She's just a cat, right?, and then a dull, throbbing ache. And the next day I was OK. Until I found myself rushing up the stairs for no reason. And everyone at work is so sorry. And I'm OK. But then I come home, and I'm alone, and it's hard. That's the way grief is. I know from experience. But I also know from experience that she's just one of two angels who'll always be with me.

On Having a Cat

Do you have a cat? I do. Her name is Chloé. She's four months old. Every morning, she likes to wake up at the crack of dawn. I don't. I hate mornings. So she wakes up, and she runs. She runs back and forth, across my face, over my ass, across my head, taking no care as to what she's stepping on. It hurts when she steps on my boobs.

I'm a beauty editor for a teen magazine, so I have like 30 pots of eyeshadow lined up on my dresser. I like makeup. Every morning when I finally do get up, there are 30 pots of eyeshadow strewn across my 300-square-foot apartment. I pick them back up, line them up on my dresser. I do this every morning. Then I take a shower. Chloé sits on the floor, waiting to lick my toes when I step out of my claw-foot tub. I think it's weird. She likes it.

On this particular morning, I went to my dresser to apply my makeup, like I always do. Chloé just lays there on the dresser, like she always does, with her fake sleepy eyes, waiting for a prime opportunity to make my morning routine a living hell. I grabbed my navy blue loose-powder eyeshadow that I never wear, but on this day, I was wearing a navy blue dress. And Jilian taught me in the 11th grade that it's a good idea to match your makeup to your outfit.

Chloé pretended to be sleeping. I knew better, but I did it anyway. I put the eyeshadow down, lid off, and quickly applied it. BIG mistake. I'm swiping the shadow close to my lash line, like a liner (I learned this in Glamour), when I hear a THUNK. I spot the paw in mid-air. FUCK. All over my white floor rug! Agh. Wet hair, half-done makeup, 4 minutes to catch the bus. I toss a towel over the blue mess, curse the furry asshole, and go to work.

PS On the way to work, a crazy homeless man called me a cracker. I looked back at him to ensure he was talking to me. He was.

Hoping By a Thread

Wanna hear a secret? Sometimes I put a package of M&M's in the fridge, let them freeze a bit, and then pour them in my jar of Jif peanut butter and eat them...by the spoonful. I make sure only to scoop a little bit of PB on the spoon, after all, a little goes a long way. There's my secret. And I just put away my jar of peanut butter. This could only mean two things: I had a bad day, or I had a bad day and got my heart bruised.

Dramatic, I know. And my heart's not even scratched, but my ego, oh, that's another story. So my latest conquest wants to be friends. We don't click. The thing is, I didn't even like him that much. I was simply open to taking a chance. I was told to put myself out there, so I did. Perhaps it's because I'm a touch immature? I do have a voice like a 12-year-old on speed. Maybe my love handles aren't quite...loveable? Could I be too honest and upfront? Fine. I know the answers to these queries. He's not worth it if he doesn't love me for me. I just can't help but wonder...if anything will ever happen for me? I'm like the chick in Never Been Kissed, only, I've made it to fourth base. ...So maybe I'm not like her, scratch that. It's just, well, there's this article in an old issue of New York Magazine that continues to haunt me. It focused on four women, all of whom never fell in love. They never got married. They had fullfilling lives, just no...fourth base. If I knew that when I hit 32, I would fall in love and get married shortly thereafter, I would be completely fine. It's just that terror that I'm destined to be alone. Not to party in my pity, but it's just a fear of mine. I'd like to think it's human nature, but everyone else is too cool to admit it. I guess I never really was one for cool.