Nine dollars can do a lot of things. And I don’t even mean feeding-a-kid-on-a-quarter-a-day things.
I mean, it can buy really good hummus and some cucumber, tomato, and pita. It can buy a shirt on sale at the Gap outlet on Chestnut. It can buy a Belgian beer with change to tip. It can buy the Juno soundtrack on iTunes. But Sunday night, I used my nine clams to cry.
It’s more than a day and a dollar late and short, but I’m newly fired up about La Clinton’s momentary emoting.
I can’t pinpoint why, but my inability to pinpoint exactly why I so dislike HC’s campaign has brought me a lot of angst lately. Like so many women, I’m torn, and feeling a little like a traitor for not blithely supporting another vadge. Maybe, as some feminists have suggested, it’s because I’m having trouble seeing myself in her campaign. Maybe I want to be able to connect with her, and her pandering and robot veneer are in the way.
I happily hold forth on my pet subjects for hours. Wii, coffee, the merits of fall vs. spring, the disastrous effects of broadcast journalism, this city of supposed brotherly love, and the downfall of modern grammar. These all elicit almost immediate and well-worn monologues. But let someone dare ask for further clarification when I beg out of plans for “not feeling well,” and all I hear are the messy mechanical noises of a factory shutting down. Nope. Just don’t feel well.
Despite believing that people are better off for continual self improvement, and despite the fact that I generally feel more reflective on birthdays, I can’t seem to dodge the sense that this ought to be some new beginning. Trouble is, it’s difficult to begin something without a plan.
I’ve given myself a pass on the whole “life plan” thing for last few years. Rolling around the calendar aimlessly seemed achievement enough. But now, somehow, there is pressure again. To be productive, to have a linear plan, to get with the program. To partner off, to stop bitching about work like I’m in Reality Bites, and to function. To stop overdrawing my bank account, work on a budget, clean up my room, get a real doctor, and grocery shop instead of eating out. To swear less, bitch less, and drink less, and to be sweeter, more open, and more direct. To stop overbooking myself, go to the gym more, and finally take up yoga or some manner of meditation.
These are the things I should do in 2008. I remember living by some theory in the Mezz that I probably read in some horrible book. Something about your life fitting into a triangle. With an angle for platonic relationships, one for romantic relationships, and another for work. Or something. When one angle was acute, the other two compensated. A fine theory until your triangle collapses to a straight line (what, with no beginning or end, to boot). When you’ve got a line, you have to build from scratch, and you’ve got to figure out where to start first. Job searching is good, but lacks the immediate satisfaction I crave. So I send applications into the ether and wait to be picked. Sounds a lot like dating.