Have you seen those tests online that supposedly determine your RealAge? Yes, RealAge. It’s one word, because that’s what that accumulation of scars and wrinkles of yours is - another product to be peddled and bought.
Posts under ‘Thinking’
The RealAge test
Dreams deferred
I’m feeling a bit empathetically (or should I say empathically - they’re both in the dictionary) overwhelmed with stuff happening to some people I care about now.
Q & A
Q: Why didn’t you get your hair cut?
A: Actually, I did. It’s pretty subtle to me and some of my closest companions. To others, it’s a shocking follicular development or lack thereof. It’s a razor bob. It was done entirely by razor, instead of scissors, which I think it pretty darn impressive. It was my first do as a hair model.
What I want to say…
To You:
You exert no effort to be involved in her schooling all year, and then you suddenly act surprised that she has a “promotion in doubt” letter? Hello! You have a beautiful and clever little space cadet there, and she is not going to be all she can, if you don’t get involved. I am NOT enough.
The forced clean slate
Perhaps it was the giddiness of staying in a five-star hotel or maybe the discombobulation of random cool pecks on the cheek by people I’ve yet to meet. I’m not used to that, nor do I understand how everyone thinks it’s sophisticated rather than invasive. In fact, the only one whom I was okay with this familiar greeting is maybe that one co-worker of Cade’s who took a sip of my mojito over the summer. He and Cade.
What I did in 2006
What I remember…
Overcast
There are so many things I never told you.
My recorded thoughts and experiences in this blog don’t match my personal recollections of each month. This is the case for a few reasons. One, I want to maintain a sense of privacy about certain events and relationships. Two, there are things too difficult to write about, though I know these are the things I ultimately should write about. Three, I’ve been burdened with a label, because I know how some people view my writing. My mom, for example, has abstained from reading my blog, because, “It’s not funny anymore. All you have are pictures.”
Parental constant
The fifth was the eleventh anniversary of my grandfather’s death. I never once had an extensive conversation with him, though I remember spinning round and round on the barstools at his house. I remember going with my mom to deliver a Father’s Day cake every year, too. Who the man was, I mean, besides Mama’s dad, was something I never knew.
Dreaming of the dark
Last night, I was standing outside of the open entrance to the Columbus Circle subway station. I saw the escalators gliding up and down, and I stood studying the circled alphabet letters that indicate what lines the station serves.
Moving on
She called in tears.
