An insightful (i.e. know-it-all) friend, who read yesterday's vow, called to advise me that it was in need of some amendment. It was pointed out to me that I rarely, if ever cry, and am probably having more sex than just about every person I know, definitely anyone who lives in my apartment building. As such, I should like to remove, cry less and fuck more from my previous vow, and will focus my energies on loving more and fighting less.
nit-pickers.
June 23, 2006
June 22, 2006
~ Thursday's Oath ~
I woke up today, a day not unlike any other day, with the desire to make a difference, be a better person. I planned to do this by crying less, loving more, fighting less, fucking more. Why not? This could be the vow I actually keep.
Not like my vow to eat more fruit, less ice cream or my vow to go inside the gym and not walk briskly past it in an aerobic burst of energy, which is kind of like working out but lasts all of 6 seconds and makes me feel sporty and fit just long enough to get me past the gym doors without guilting me into walking in. Not that walking in works either. I’ve gone up the steps, in the door, into the locker room and just changed my mind, walked right back out into the street, with the sweet taste of defiance on my lips. I can’t be one of those people who’s a slave to a treadmill, who finds solace in tight abs, not me, not who I am at all.
I’m more the hear about a sample sale, try to find the location, walk 15 blocks out of my way, finally find the building, scale 8 flights of stairs because the elevator is broken, then furiously rummage the racks and boxes and bins, find something cute and boldly try it on in front of other women, and sometimes men, me on display, flaws exposed under harsh sample sale room fluorescents, no shame, no apologies type. That’s who I am. The sweaty, frazzled, maniac shopper who you see stripped down to her drawers trying on a too tight but deeply discounted dress in the middle of the sale room floor at the Diane von Furstenberg sample sale.
Next time you see me, cut me some slack. I'm trying to be a better person and it's not my fault they don't have a dressing room.
Not like my vow to eat more fruit, less ice cream or my vow to go inside the gym and not walk briskly past it in an aerobic burst of energy, which is kind of like working out but lasts all of 6 seconds and makes me feel sporty and fit just long enough to get me past the gym doors without guilting me into walking in. Not that walking in works either. I’ve gone up the steps, in the door, into the locker room and just changed my mind, walked right back out into the street, with the sweet taste of defiance on my lips. I can’t be one of those people who’s a slave to a treadmill, who finds solace in tight abs, not me, not who I am at all.
I’m more the hear about a sample sale, try to find the location, walk 15 blocks out of my way, finally find the building, scale 8 flights of stairs because the elevator is broken, then furiously rummage the racks and boxes and bins, find something cute and boldly try it on in front of other women, and sometimes men, me on display, flaws exposed under harsh sample sale room fluorescents, no shame, no apologies type. That’s who I am. The sweaty, frazzled, maniac shopper who you see stripped down to her drawers trying on a too tight but deeply discounted dress in the middle of the sale room floor at the Diane von Furstenberg sample sale.
Next time you see me, cut me some slack. I'm trying to be a better person and it's not my fault they don't have a dressing room.
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