Behold the Mating Ritual

If you haven't noticed (or have a serious Edward Scissorhands thing going on) it's finally spring. After months of trudging through snow and slush and God knows what (seriously, in NYC you never know what you're stepping in), it's warm and the sidewalks are mostly dry... unless you happen to get spat at. Which has happened to me. Multiple times. I no longer have to sleep in three layers of sweatshirt because of the draft by my bed. The city is teeming with people who have clearly been planning their kick-ass summer outfits for, well, ALL of winter. And frankly, they're impressing me.

In short: I'm 21, it's warm, and life is fun again.

But a little bit weird, too. Now that it's legal for me to go out on the town and enjoy the [expensive] nightlife this city has to offer, I'm finding that I actually AM... enjoying it. Weird, right? Typically, I'm the kind of girl whose comfortable bed starts to call to her at around 1 a.m. regardless of how fun the party is. But recently a little voice inside me has been saying "Hey, why not go out and have a beer and RELAX?" I mean, I've been working out a lot (all part of Operation: Hot Weather, Hot Bod)... why shouldn't I strut my stuff a little bit?

Except as much as I want to have fun, experiencing nightlife can often lead to uncomfortable situations. Which brings me to the whole "Mating Ritual" aspect of this post, because I have qualms with bars and what exactly one is supposed to DO at them. Last Saturday night I went out with a few friends and our first stop was a bar near Union Square. It was one of those wait-in-a-line, yell-over-music, $8-dollar-drink bars, which are generally not my forte. Some guy who smelled like stale beer and had a super cute (read: not cute) Neo-Nazi hairdo tried to chat me up until I made it pretty clear I didn't think he was worth all the yelling (What? I have to protect my vocal folds... or "The Folds," as I affectionately call them.) But still, the time was well spent, because I always find bars fascinating as case studies in human nature. Young, hormonal, uninhibited drunk people are just a science experiment waiting to happen. It's like watching reality television. Live. With 3-D glasses and Scratch N' Sniff.

Yet my own experience in bars is pretty repetitive and uninteresting. I sip a drink and look around and adjust my outfit while I talk to my girl friends until, at some point, some guys either build up the courage (or drink until they're courageous enough) to come over and talk to us. Which, I'm warning you, is a bad idea. Moral of the Story: I should just invest in a sign that says "You're Better Off Talking to That Drunk Floozy Over There" with an arrow pointing toward someone with a few more drinks in their system and lower self-worth.

That's not to say I'm some prize catch or pick of the litter, because I don't consider myself either of those strange animal metaphors. I just can't be won over at a bar. Whether you say "I'm an investment banker" or "I live with my parents," you've already bombed because I discount bar meetings right off the bat. Even though Mr. American History X at Union Square gained points after giving me an exuberant high five for my patronage of the Yankees, he was unknowingly up against impossible odds. (Important Update: We discussed the ridiculous amount of home runs hit in the new Yankee Stadium. Sports Knowledge!) No matter how much you coax me to talk, Anonymous Bar Man, I am just waiting for you to walk away and give up on me so I can go back to my rowdy girl chat that is far more interesting than anything you can tell me about your dead end life. 

Sorry, that sounds harsh. And I guess it IS a little harsh. But those Bar Men can certainly make things even worse for themselves. Example: if you ask me to play a game of pool with you, like some guys did at a beer garden the other night, you better be good at it. Because if your pool game is equivalent to mine (Read: inbred orangutans without fingers could play better than I do) you're going to look neither confident, nor masculine. Thus: Fail. Another tip: If you're drunk enough to talk to me, you probably don't smell too nice. Fresh beer breath on someone whose company you enjoy is harmless. Stale beer breath on a staggering stranger is not. Curse my excellent sense of smell, but it's the truth.

I think a lot of people would tell me to get off my high horse - that the guys who approach me in bars aren't looking to Woo Me (hah, get it?) but instead are betting on the off chance that I'm as drunk as they are and might be easy. Which is cool, I get that. I also understand that people go to bars just because they like to talk to new people, and maybe even flirt a little bit. But seriously... what do you know of me so far, Cupcake Lovers? I like Jeopardy. I don't know how to flirt. I've been hung up on one guy for, like, forever. I like arts and crafts and I use "What's your middle name" as my pick-up line. Which of those things DOESN'T scream "Destined to be a cat lady scrapbooker"?

Point is, I'm learning to assimilate and adapt. I'm determined to memorize the steps to this elaborate, complicated mating dance. Who cares if I see myself as more of a termite, or a fox? (Note: those are two animals that mate for life. I think I'm going to go with fox over termite, for obvious reasons. Namely, wood tastes bad.) Maybe I'll even start resisting the urge to roll my eyes immediately when someone approaches me in a bar and says "Hey, I'm [Insert Generic, Unattractive Name here]. Where are you from?" Maybe instead of one word answers - "Uhh, Connecticut." - I'll actually be talkative. Imagine that.

We'll see. It's more likely that the termite in me will hinder my attempt at enjoying bar life. Which is fine. Plan B is to join a gym so that I can accomplish Operation: Hot Weather, Hot Bod while scanning the treadmills for potential soul mates. And I assure you, treadmill flirting is a very complex mating ritual unto itself.

From the Bottom of My Heart

I've been thinking a lot about what to write here for my next entry. With each post, the pressure gets more intense, mostly because every day at least one new person comes up to me and tells me they read (and love!) my blog, usually with an air of "This is going to sound creepy but...."

I didn't make this, but if I did, I would give it to you! To eat!

First of all, I'd like to address all you WMWC readers (since apparently there are some of you! Maybe even a lot of you!) I want to say a hearty thank you, because it really warms my heart every time I hear from someone about this silly blog here. I spend a lot of time on these entries and tend to think of them as personal essays. I ruminate on them and I edit them, and I also think about YOU, Cupcake Lovers (Ooh, I like that!) I try not to whine about my life, leaning instead towards insights I've gleaned from living the Oh So Exciting life of a 21-year-old college student. And regardless of whether you know me in real life or not, I really appreciate your reading this... and even more so, I really appreciate your enjoying it! So please, keep reading, comment if you'd like, and never hesitate to talk to me about it in person because I am honored that you even take the time to wave that cursor over my URL and exert the energy to click.

That sounded sort of dirty. Something about, "Wave that cursor over my URL..."

Wow, sorry. Please ignore that.

Beyond the "thank you" that I felt was really necessary, I also want to provide a few updates that have to do with previous entries. On Friday we get the keys to our beautiful Brooklyn Nook (that's definitely its new title) and it just dawned on me that we need to somehow get furniture. And move things. And suddenly I'm not as ecstatic anymore since the prospect of moving my whole life from this dorm AND from Connecticut to Brooklyn is sort of terrifying. But still, I'm excited, and BiddyLuddy and I are trekking there on Friday to toast a glass of champagne to The Best Summer Ever and to The Brooklyn Nook.

Past the apartment news, you will be proud to know that my Sports Knowledge is working wonders. Not necessarily in the man department, but in overall adorable-ness. Also in the life department, because I'm finding intense pleasure in watching Yankee games and finally knowing all the names in the starting lineup, something I haven't been able to do since 8th grade. I figure the Yankees are the closest thing I have to a school team (NYU baseball is existent, but who cares? We're "In And Of The City" so I'm claiming the Bronx Bombers. Bite me.) And I felt super cool the other night when I really DID use my Chien-Ming Wang line... which went a little something like "Dude! His ERA is, like, 36!" It got a laugh. I'm practically a pro. I think my next line is going to be "Hey, does anybody else think Kevin Youkilis looks kind of like a serial killer? No? Okay." That one might not work as well, but I'll keep you updated.

Unfortunately, the deadly combination of Sports Knowledge and Sunny Weather is bringing out a glumness I'm having trouble fighting, all to do (of course) with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend. (Side note: Someone actually referred to him as that out loud the other day. I love how my blog is taking over my life! This is not sarcasm!) It's not just that the last time it was this sunny and beautiful I was falling head-over-heels in love with him. It's also the fact that I just REALLY want to ask him what he thinks about Mark Sanchez and the Jets. That's really strange, I know, but I just want to hear him talk about their new draft pick in the way only a guy who watches too many hours of ESPN can talk about stuff like that. Call me crazy, but I find it fascinating. Oh well. I guess I'm just going to have to secretly watch ESPN when my roommates aren't home and keep reading the Sports section tucked into Arts and Leisure.

Of course, as I write this entry, the Yankees are blowing it. Again. But I don't care, maybe they'll come through for me. Plus, I have readers... and people who think I'm interesting! And it's finally getting warm out, which means I don't have to wear pants! (No worries - I'm no Lady Gaga enthusiast. I'm just all about skirts.) Thanks again, WMWC readers, and keep reading!

Someone's On To Me

Sometimes it's frightening how insightful people can be by accident. There's this girl in one of my classes who can only be described as abrasive and a little scary. But the other day, she surprised me - because she saw right through me. Here's what happened...

Scene: The NYU Journalism Department, which only looks like a beautiful, fully-functioning academic building but instead is full of the usual broken computers and incompetent professors. Cupcake Lover is sitting at the table with everyone else when class begins. She has taken out a crossword puzzle, which she hopes to finish by the end of class... and usually does. The TA with a strange, unplaceable accent that involves a lot of odd vowel sounds begins to talk about an article in the New York Times that morning. Cupcake Lover is very proud of the fact that she receives the New York Times (and tries to read it) every day. Today, however, she did not read the article. So she can't strut her commitment to periodicals. Great.

Cupcake Lover: I can't believe I didn't read that article! I didn't read the front page section. I read every other section... I read the arts and leisure section, the dining section. I even read the sports section!

That Abrasive Girl: You read the sports section? Are you trying to get laid?

And that's when, suddenly, Cupcake Lover realizes. 

Yes.

That IS why she reads the sports section. Of course, CL doesn't say that. Instead, she blushes and says this:

Cupcake Lover: No! Please. I uhhh... I really like baseball. I like baseball season. It's the only sport I totally understand so I read about baseball season. I like baseball!

I do like the Yankees. Pinky swear.

Lies. Lies, lies, lies. And it took some weird girl in my journalism class to show me the light. Who am I kidding? I mean, don't get me wrong, I like sports. And I really and truly DO like baseball. Maybe even a lot. Okay, FINE. I like baseball uniforms... and baseball too! Whatever. 

The point is that I'm a manipulative little harlot and I didn't even realize it. I read the sports section because I think it's going to be attractive and super-cute to open my mouth and be all, "Wow, so how about Chien-Ming Wang's new ERA. Sucks, huh?" Or to use little tidbits to incite more talking. Such as, "Okay, I understand the play that just happened, but can you tell me a little more about this whole line of scrimmage business?" Vocabulary words are key (such as line of scrimmage) and it's very important to get them right. I read the sports section because I'd rather be the girl who DOESN'T say "Did they just score a touchdown??" during a game of hockey, or something to that effect. But I do find myself trying to memorize little things out of yesterday's article about The Game because, well, if a bunch of guys in my class are talking about it, I want to be able to interject. With a big, fancy sports word. And a giggle.

I don't know why I do this. Maybe it's because I can't rely on my feminine wiles to get me anywhere in this world, considering "flirting" for me consists of smiling a little wider and feeling uncomfortable. So what do I do instead? I rely on the fact that I'm a girl and it's cuter to say "Go team!" when you're a girl. I may be setting the entire female species back by half a century, but I'm doing what I can. And I WILL watch this week's Yankee games (the ones that aren't on the YES network. Bastards.) And I WILL read the sports section. And I WILL use it to attract men.

But I WILL NOT watch basketball. Because it's boring.

11211

Starting on May 1st, 2009, that is my new zip code.

It may not look like much, but that is soon to be our backyard. 

Summer BBQs, anyone? You're invited!

I knew it. I knew something good was around the corner. Yesterday, when my roommate called me to say that the landlord of the very first apartment we fell in love with in Brooklyn had decided to "go with her heart" and offer it to us, I was both ecstatic and surprised. When I wrote my last (Debbie Downer) entry, I was pretty much broken by this whole apartment hunt animal. But it seems as if my abusive boyfriend (Brooklyn) decided it was time to enter the honeymoon stage and show up at my doorstep with flowers and candy. The wait is over. On May 1st, BiddyLuddy and I will be taking the bottle of champagne I got for my 21st birthday to our empty apartment to pop the cork and celebrate the end of an era - the end of living at home. For good.

Mind you, this fact only dawned on me today, after the lease had been signed. I called my grandparents to tell them about the apartment, and of course my Grandpa asked me, "When are you coming home next?" And I realized... Oh My God. I don't know. I DON'T KNOW. I'm not? I mean, I AM coming home for one of my best friend's graduation party, and I know I'll go home during the whole moving process. But I won't be living at home anymore. I'm a real grown-up. It is terrifying. 

It is overwhelmingly exciting. 

I was reading a Time magazine the other day (swiped from the Journalism department) when I came across an interview with Michael J. Fox. A reader asked him about how his diagnosis with Parkinson's Disease had affected his beliefs about life, death, and spirituality. He said that it's a wake-up call, but he also said, "I think that's a good thing for us to get out of the way - the earliest you can responsibly deal with the fact that this isn't a dress rehearsal." And by "this" he obviously means life. I don't know why I found this so poignant. Maybe it's because Michael J. Fox has been handed some really tough things to deal with in his life, or maybe it's because I always had a huge, inappropriate crush on Marty McFly in his Calvins. Either way, I feel like I've been really living this past year... no dress rehearsals, only closing night performances. Hopefully that makes sense to the people who read my blog besides my fellow musical theater aficionados.

I never want to sleepwalk through life, and I never want to feel numb. I want to feel each and every thing I get the opportunity to experience. This past year, I've learned that not everything feels so good or always turns out for the best. But it's all a solid reminder that I'm breathing and living and lucky enough to be here.

And all of this because 11211 is my future neighborhood. I can now hold up my fingers - the ones I use to represent the things I need to make this summer (and my life) even better - and put one down. 11211, you were well worth the distress and the worry.

Oh, and by the way, I'm going to have a kick ass housewarming get-together. And BiddyLuddy and I are totally going to get a kiddie pool for the hot New York summer. And put ice in it. Sweet!

I Think I Need a Hug and a Drink

In the last few days, I have been driven to insanity, had my emotions toyed with, my heartstrings pulled, my hopes lifted, and the same hopes ultimately dashed... over and over again.

And who is responsible?

Brooklyn, NY.

So wonderful, yet so harrowing.

Aha! You weren't expecting that, were you? You thought I was going to say You Know Who, didn't you? Surprisingly enough, it is my new least favorite game called Are You My New Apartment? that is literally making me sit right here at my desk to skip class, blog, and simultaneously pull my hair out. Which, of course, requires typing with the tip of my nose, since both my hands are engaged in strenuous hair-pulling and nailbiting.

But I don't particularly want to blog about the details of this apartment hunt. Those are boring and stressful (big bathroom! bad location! broker fee!) and forcing those on you, WMWC readers, would only make the whole situation worse. I think, instead, I would like to continue with the "Brooklyn as my new abusive (hipster) boyfriend" metaphor and tell you a little story complete with (control yourself!) a SCENE.

Scene: Park Slope, Brooklyn. Cupcake Lover and BiddyLuddy are wrangling their umbrellas as the wind and rain assault them, full-force. BiddyLuddy's umbrella has seen better days as it droops in more places than one. Cupcake Lover quietly curses her decision to wear a dress that essentially covers little more than her [tights-covered] ass cheeks, considering the hurricane winds that are now threatening to expose more than she would like all of Park Slope to be privy to. Luckily, few people have braved the rain, and so CL silently makes a note that underwear exposure chances should be slim-to-none. Just then, two sketchy looking men walk in the direction of CL and BL. The two women continue their conversation.

Cupcake Lover: (About the apartment) I WANT it! I want to live in it! I want to buy it, I will put down a deposit...

Biddy Luddy: Me too! I hope we get it I hope we - Oh look! It's so close to the mall too! It's perfect, it's so perfect.

Sketchy looking men come closer, start taunting.

Sketcher #1: Oh, mamis, you're hot, you're so hot!

Sketcher #2: [Agrees with similar tone of voice]

Sketcher#1: You're beautiful, you're sooo beautiful.

At this moment, Sketcher #1 proceeds to reach out as he passes and run his hand along the side of Cupcake Lover's [wish-it-was-a-liiiiittle-thinner] thigh. She jumps a foot in the air and starts freaking out.

Cupcake Lover: AHH I hate when they touch me I hate it! I hate when they talk to me but I REALLY HATE WHEN THEY TOUCH ME I hate it I hate it I feel so dirty.

Cupcake Lover gets over it, gets on the subway, and heads home to blog about the experience, all the while wondering if perhaps she had worn pants or a skirt that wasn't so devilishly close to exposure, she would have avoided the uncomfortable borough-molestation that had befallen her.

Oh, Brooklyn. I include this scene because it is a perfect example of the way our apartment hunt has made me feel these past few days. I feel used and dirty... put through a vicious spin cycle and hung out to dry on a windy day. I've been to so many apartments and fallen in love with them, only to realize that we may not secure them and that we may not secure ANY place. Each lovely little affordable Brooklyn nook gives me wonderful visions: Me, at a Natural Foods store, inevitably wearing plaid. Me, lounging in a park in Ray-Bans. Me, barbecuing in the backyard or on the roof. Me, jogging along the residential streets. Me, in the local coffee shop with Wi-Fi. Me, working at some adorable hipster bar.

And the ever popular: Me, opening the charming door of a lovely brownstone to welcome The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, knowing full well that there is a parking space outside for him to put his shiny car and a sunny, beautiful apartment we can hang out in.

Yeah, that last one is the most far-fetched (except for maybe the Ray-Bans... those are expensive!), but I am, as usual, hopeful and utterly hopeless (insert shoulder shrug here). I'm not going to apologize for it - I figure by now you must be used to it.

I also hope that by now you understand what it is I'm feeling. I have all those previously described visions for my summer, my school year, my LIFE, and I just can't seem to get any of them to come true in this moment. My life is currently filled to the brim with potential - potential for gorgeous living space, for exciting summer job, for romantic bliss. And yet when I hold up my fingers, hoping to slowly fold them down one by one, I can't reduce my checklist at all. It is utterly exhausting. What does a girl do?

Well, I happen to think the question is really, "What choice do I have?" I don't have one. I can't go back to Connecticut for the summer only to amuse myself with awkward high school run-ins and typical suburbia fare that includes, but isn't limited to: mall, movies, and cheap beer. It's find an apartment or bust. It's get a job or bust. And if The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend isn't going to be showing up on my doorstep (that I WILL secure!) well, then, someone else will be. I'm on the verge of so many great things. I just know it.

I'm crossing my fingers and saying a little prayer that maybe - just maybe - something good is coming.

Le Prof de Français Parfait

So this entry may strike a lot of you as creepy, but I'm really hoping that instead of freaking everyone out to the point where they stop reading my blog and also stop thinking of me as a sane person, I'll instead tap into something that every woman - or even every person - feels at some point.

I want to temporarily see what it's like to be you.

First of all, I really hope my French teacher doesn't read this, because she is who I want to be. Granted, she's French and her English is adorably mal, so even if by some stroke of universal craziness she DID happen upon WMWC, hopefully she wouldn't exactly understand that her and her je ne sais quoi are the reason for my posting. I'd say the odds are slim that she'll see it, so, throwing caution to the wind, I'll take my chances.

Another french women I would like to be.

In typical blog fashion, I'm providing you with a list entitled...

Why I Want to Wake Up, Freaky Friday*-Style, In the Body and Brain of My French Teacher:

*Disclaimer: I hate Freaky Friday. Hate it. I hate any and all movies where the stupid miscommunication scenarios could be solved by a simple "Oh, hey! You're in my body. I'm in yours. Let's just, you know, chill out for a while till we figure this out and not go running around, ruining each other's lives by accident. Whew, good talk. I'm so glad we spoke before zany chaos ensued!"

Apologies. I digress. 

THE LIST:

1. My Perfect French Teacher must be close to 6 feet tall and rail thin. Not in a, "Yikes, eat a hamburger way!" but in a, "Look at that fine specimen of beauty who is so sinewy and willow-like I can't take my eyes off of her." My 5 feet, 6 inches pale in comparison.

2. Perfect, porcelain doll skin. With rosy cheeks. To die for.

3. I kid you not - tendrils of curly hair. Like, each piece falls in perfect spirals that, regardless of humidity or temperature, seem to stay completely intact. Sometimes, when she glances down at her lesson plan, a single tendril falls in front of her face. This is going to sound certifiably nuts, but they look like a pasta my mom used to make. A pasta which, after careful research (read: a 2 second Google search) is called cellentani. See below. Oh, except her hair is waist length, and manages to avoid that "I'm home-schooled and my mom trims my bangs and I wear scrunchies" look. How does she do it?

4. The French-ness. Duh. When she speaks English, all her "th" sounds come out like "z"s. One day, she made a mistake on the board. Immediately, she raised her graceful hand to her mouth, eyes wide, and cried out, "Oh, Mon Dieu!" Suddenly, my fervent cries of "Eff my life!" seem so... banal.

5. She wears high heels and pencil skirts and tops that are clearly made by fancy Parisian shirt-makers who specialize in tasteful lace and sparkly little bows. My dirty Converse - hell, even my adorable Anthropologie wear - just don't cut it next to her snazzy ankle boots.

6. She speaks beautiful, perfect, Parisian french. Complete with that thing French people do with their mouths when they say "o." You know, that pouty lip thing that looks like you're about to kiss someone. Starting now, I'm practicing in the mirror. No literally, I just did it. It's not as good as hers.

7. Her Perfect French Childhood. Okay, this is more fantasy now than reality, but I just imagine her as an enfant, running through the halls of some antique-filled French home screaming "Maman, maman!" Complete with the tendrils, of course, only tied with little pink bows. Compare and contrast: I used to wear leggings and Wile E. Coyote sneakers and was totally denied the experience of even having those frilly white fold-over socks. Plus, my hands were always covered in magic marker. I bet she never had dirty hands.

I could go on for a while and add a few more reasons, but I think those will suffice. The truth is, I'm not obsessed with my French teacher (whose name, by the way, sounds like some sort of wonderful fairy-tale creature I want to name my first born daughter after) but I am feeling a little insecure and wishing I could walk a few miles (or kilometers...) in her black platform ankle boots. 

In all honesty, I may be using Perfect French Teacher as a means of escapism. It is becoming increasingly clear to me that no matter how skinny I am at the moment, no matter how clear my skin, no matter how chic my new haircut, and no matter how good a person I try to be, I can't immediately remedy the situation with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, which can only be defined as I Am Being Strung Along Whether I Like It Or Not. Which, you know, essentially sucks. But what I CAN do, somehow, is instill a little bit of a mademoiselle's je ne sais quoi in my own life, and perhaps channel Perfect French Teacher. I don't have to incorporate "Oh Mon Dieu!" into my everyday vocabulary (can you say prétentieux?) but I may just walk down the street imagining I am a tall, willowy, beautiful thing and that every American man I pass is ogling me... but only in that unattainable, French perfection sort of way. It's a coping mechanism, and mark my words, it WILL work.

From now on, I wear nothing but ankle boots.

Update: I don't own ankle boots. Now what?

Well, This is The Epitome of Ridiculous

I laughed out loud at my New York Times Thursday Styles section when I saw this.

Here's the article: 

Doggy Yoga, or "Doga" if you will.

I mean, I can just imagine how my dogs would react to this. My greyhound would just stand there and give me this dopy look like, "Seriously? I can't even sit on my hind legs without looking like I might topple over. Now you want me to do what?" And then she'd lay down with a "clunk" that usually sounds when her hip bones meet with the floor. My other scrappy little mutt won't even sit on command, let alone go into Warrior 1. Plus, she'd be way too busy sniffing butts to get any exercise.

So basically this is completely unreasonable and utterly ridiculous. But how adorable is that dog sitting on TOP of its owner's back bend? I'm going to go with really adorable.

Death By Cement Truck, And Others

Last night, I had one of those really fantastic experiences (Note: The sarcasm has returned) where I didn't sleep. I spent at least three hours staring at the ceiling, trying not to think of a few BIG things including, but not limited to: 

Impending Apartment Hunt 

What Do I Do With My Life?

I Am Poor 

I Need To Lose Five Pounds

And the ever popular: Will Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend Re-Break My Heart? ...which is generally paired with Would I Let Him? and the unfortunate Yes, I Probably Would. Ugh, cue the self-loathing.

But that's besides the point. Essentially, I am sleep deprived. And caffeinated. And feeling it. My hands are literally shaking as I type, which makes this experience feel like an odd parallel to drunk texting.

This heavily caffeinated state of mine is not a side note though - it's actually the catalyst for this post. My head is reeling with all sorts of crazy thoughts (such as, "I'm moving at super human speed!") but one especially struck me as something that might be good blog fodder...

Irrational fears. 

I was walking home in the dreary rain this morning when I passed a rotating cement truck. My first thought, before anything else, was, "Gee, I hope it doesn't disconnect, roll off, and kill me."

Is that normal?

See? There's danger in everything! Even gates!

The answer is no... at least, I don't think it's normal. I see potential death in everything, every time I encounter it. I never stand on a subway platform without thinking I'm going to fall off. Or be pushed off. I never walk through the subway doors without thinking I'll fall through the crack (which, like, isn't even possible.) I never ride the subway without thinking we're going to crash and I'm going to die in a fiery ball of twisted metal and breakdancers and bad-tempered mouth-breathers. Every subway ride is my last... well, in my head anyway.

I'm also afraid of planes. I keep a white-knuckled grip on the armrests at all times. I glare at anyone who dares use their electrical appliances when they shouldn't. If your iPod is the reason we crash, I'll take it upon myself to kill you with my bare hands before we even make it to the ground. 

I'm afraid of big, scary bodies of water. You can thank The Perfect Storm for that one. I don't care if I'm drowning alongside a rugged, perfectly-stubbled Fisherman George Clooney. I don't want to drown at all, thank you.

I'm afraid of heights. And being shot (especially point-blank). Every time I'm in a car I think it will tip over, or I'll inadvertently fall off the bridge we're crossing, or someone will pummel into me, or a dim-witted woodland critter will decide now is a really good time to savor the plant life on the other side of the highway. I'm even afraid of the dark. I saw the movie Gremlins when I was a kid and slept with my light on for like 7 years because I was convinced poorly cared for gremlins were going to crouch in the corners of my bedroom while I slept, waiting to do scary gremlin things. (Seriously, what DO gremlins do? I don't even remember.)

But the odd thing about all of this is that I still do everything I want to do... I just happen to think, "Well, I might die doing this. That sucks." Every little hint of turbulence makes me jump, but that's not going to stop me from traveling. I take the subway every week, even though each screechy little bump makes my stomach churn. I just happen to spend a good portion of my thoughts accepting the fact that death might befall me in that moment. Trust me, it's sort of time-consuming.

And you know what? I'll take constant threats of death and bodily harm over all the stupid italicized fears above... because those are scarier. Bring on the imminent cement truck squash. That's WAY less scary than "Oh My God I'm About To Sign My First Lease On A Grown-Up Apartment." Plane crashes pale in comparison to another round of that super fun game called, "Oops! Turns Out I Still Don't Want to Date You." And you know, a subway pole through the abdomen is hardly as terrifying as the G word. (I shudder to say it, but here goes: Graduation. That one deserves to be capitalized, bolded, and italicized... but I'm very much anti-font-overkill.)

Now after all that rumination on fear, I'm sorry to say my caffeine high is slowly departing, leaving in its wake an overarching feeling of anxiety. Yikes. A literal buzzkill.

Maybe I'll go make myself another cup. Or four.

Next Benchmark: AARP?

Well, I survived it. The Big 2-1. I haven't bought myself a single drink yet, which of course makes me the lamest 21-year-old on the planet. But I did it - I made it 21 years on this planet, and I think I deserve a pat on the back for that.

The cupcakes I decorated for the cast of Candide!

Please, excuse the lackluster introduction. I have to say that yesterday was one the of the best birthdays I've ever had... ever. I guess it sort of slipped my mind that 21 was big and important, which produced low expectations that were consistently blown away by all the amazingly kind things my friends and family did for me. 

To simplify, I was just praying my birthday wouldn't suck too hard, and it happened to rock. 

Similar to my Thanksgiving review, here is a typical WMWC list of why my birthday was pretty much awesome, in no particular order.

1) Beautiful, sunny weather. It could have been warm, but hey - I'll take sunshine over gross any day.

2) Wearing a fabulous (far too expensive) shirt paired with perfect little turquoise flats and my current favorite pair of jeans. Great outfit, if I do say so myself.

3) No less than THREE "perishable packages" arrived at my dorm unexpectedly. Flowers, a bottle of champagne, and a big ol' Edible Arrangement, which will act as all of my meals for the next few days. That, and cereal.

4) Gotta love the constant Facebook wall posts. Thanks for those, everyone.

5) Lunch with my mom. To be fair, that was the day before my birthday, but we went to Todd English's restaurant, Olives, in Union Square, which was sufficiently swanky and delicious, so it belongs on this list.

6) Obtaining, decorating, carrying, and giving away cupcakes at rehearsal. As much as those damn cupcakes took forever to decorate and made my arms burn walking to and from campus, there was something so rewarding about feeding the people I love who are working on this production right now. I don't know, call me crazy, but making people happy is a present in itself.

7) Knowing my best friend was having her birthday on the other side of the island. Even though we played phone tag all day, I like to think she was enjoying her birthday as much as I was.

8) Removing my fake ID. Replacing it with my real ID. Sweet.

9) Little things - text messages from friends I haven't heard from in a while. Being treated to a skinny vanilla latte (which is becoming an increasingly expensive present!). Hugs.

10) Hearing the cast of Candide sing "Happy Birthday" even though it was like 11:30 p.m. and everyone was completely exhausted. Really, I almost cried.

11) Coming home from rehearsal to find my Edible Arrangement refrigerated and my roommates waiting, card in hand, to give me champagne-infused Jacque Torres truffles. Mmmmm.

12) Finally, and most confusingly, a long overdue, refreshingly honest conversation with The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend. Oddly enough, he was the first person to wish me a happy birthday at midnight (via text), and the last person I talked to when the clock struck midnight and my birthday was over. The lines are blurred and it's all pretty much a mess, but it may be a good kind of messy... although I can't say for sure. All I can say is that it felt very natural to begin and end my birthday with him, in spirit.

I apologize, my WMWC readers, for the lack of sarcasm in this post, which was hardly even the least bit humorous. But I guess I'm just feeling too grateful to be spiteful, you know? So I want to say to everyone a big hearty thank you. Thank you roommates, castmates, family members, friends, and even thank you to The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend. If I could, I would reach out through the blogosphere and hug each and every one of you.