My first date after moving to Paris was at a cemetery. I had been messaging a girl on OkCupid from New Zealand who was looking for people with whom to knock must-visits off her Parisian bucket list; her name was Ruby, and she suggested we meet up at Cimetière du Père-Lachaise. Ruby from New Zealand had only one OKC profile picture, and it was of a small, distant, short-haired figure sitting in a kayak. I had no idea how I’d recognize her in a crowd unless she brought the kayak along with her. But that didn’t end up mattering, since outside the Gambetta metro stop on a sunny spring [...]
You’re going to need some Gatorade. For the fluids, electrolytes, sugars. Or instant chicken broth, if you can get someone to make you a cup, because you’re going to be there for… Wait. Back up.
You’re 40 years old, and this is your second marriage. You’ve waited until you’re ready. Waited so many times, really. Until you got remarried. Until your husband got back from the deployment, got through graduate school. Bought your house that you will never move from, because you hate moving and refuse to do it again. There’s room in it, even if your kids (two boys from your first marriage, one girl from his) [...]
In high school I read a poem about a woman watching raindrops slide down her windowpane. Each drop reminds her of a different past lover. The memories accumulate on the same plane, slipping and colliding at unplanned intervals. I remember nothing about the author or the rest of the poem, but I remember wondering if it was possible to have as many boyfriends as raindrops, and feeling inexplicably sad. I didn’t yet have meaningful relationships that could be put in the past, so this was a foreboding sadness—a sense of a dark raincloud on the horizon.
In an interview with Grantland recently, Lena Dunham shares her many “passions,” one [...]
Uncle Barry's Sports Bar, 2:30 AM
I've been drinking with a bearded guy from Wisconsin all night, maintaining a steady conversation about his humble upbringing on a dairy farm, his work for an international human rights NGO, how much he loves his mother, etc. He pays for a fourth round of drinks, and I decide to ask if he remembers my name. He doesn't, and when he asks whether I remember his, I scream "THAT'S NOT THE POINT!" and sprint to the nearest subway. Poor Alex (Andrew?).
Analysis: I’m an idiot.
Mechanical Bull Place, 12:00 AM
I attend a fancy holiday party with some friends. Afterwards, we go to [...]