The picture of jet lag.
It's so dark outside it seems as if the sun may never rise again. For a moment I have no idea what bed or timezone I'm in but after a few sleepy blinks I am sure to be in England, comforted by the notion that there is family just down the hall. I put on my thin cotton robe. it's black and white and covered in pineapples, and I admit I enjoy the fact that I appear to have a couple screws loose whenever I wear it.
Despite my tiptoeing, each step creaks with a greater conviction than the last. I reach the kitchen and pull out two Portmeirion mugs- one designated to the expensive loose leaf vanilla black from a tea shoppe in Cambridge, the other, future home to a heaping teaspoon of instant french vanilla coffee. I can't help but notice that I live my life in a perpetual dichotomy of appreciating both high-quality and absolute junk. Michelin star or drive thru milk shake. Renaissance era literature or astrology.com. Cashmere sweater or fleece pants. It's always polarized. The middle is a mediocre place I'd rather avoid.
I sit at the kitchen table with my laptop, it's been almost 8 weeks since I've written more than a lyric and my sense of being out of practice is aggravated by the leaky faucet that is rapidly eroding my already fickle attention span.
I was prompted to think back to the last occasion in which I analyzed the contents of my purse. On a random day in May 2015 I held hostage inside a pack of Haribo, a bottle of Rosé, a box of xanax, a single tampon, journal, and case of ray bans. In this sense my personal life as mirrored by the contents of my bag hasn't changed much, only now instead of a pack of benzodiazepines, there is a half eaten pill wedged into the memory card drive of my laptop, while the bottle of bubbles has been replaced by an auspicious can of tuna. The ray bans have been substituted by my seeing glasses because I've accepted that I'm rapidly going blind with each passing day.
I pop the xanax into my change purse for later, replacing it with the memory card from my Lumix. My desktop lights up with hundreds of photos from the last two months and I'm met simultaneously with the sensation that it was all just a dream, as well as the frustration that is present-day iPhoto software.
In July I culminated 24 years of formal education. It doesn't mean much as I still have no job and am 32 and still using my father's address. I have no possessions other than books, old letters, notes from medical school, and some clothes for my back. (In the same vein, my mother also recently accused me of smoking e-cigarettes because she found these tabs in my bedroom. i explained very defensively that they were just mosquito repellant.)
But for what I lack in things and responsibility I seem to make up for in freedom. From here I embarked upon a phase that I wish could last just a little longer, a phase marked by excess distilled beverages, socratic seminar, and one impetuous plane ticket after another. I chopped off all my hair and dyed it pink, drank a bottle of Cristal with my girlfriends for no better occasion than sitting on the sofa and softly critiquing Jlo music videos on a Wednesday night, moved out of the apartment I had shared with the man who broke me into a million pieces, and then with middle fingers up, I left the country.
First stop was rural Hungary to get a little tipsy with my granny for her 91st birthday. just look at her tongue!
Then I peed in a pod in London
Rode floaty objects in the Hamptons
Flirted with my nephew in California. noticed he and granny make the same face after feeding
Saw the silver lining in Paris
Ate mont blanc and stared out the window in Versailles
Drank rosé in Provence.
Danced with cousins in the Cotswolds in the spirit of holy matrimony
Road tripped around Iceland with my high school sweetheart
Rode solo through Hong Kong in a tesla
And hiked volcanoes at sunrise, trampled rice paddies, chased dolphins, and snorkeled with tropical fish in Bali
But wait wait wait. it couldn't have possibly all gone off without a hitch.
First there was a terminal-wide power outage at JFK and my luggage was consequently lost somewhere "between San Diego, New York, London and Brussels", leaving me with only the bare essentials for five days- a passport, cotton dress, and single pair of undies. If it happens to you: American Airlines will refund your money for all "essential items" purchased while your luggage is delayed, providing you save the receipts and mail them in within 45 days.
Then my hair turned bright blue from an overly chlorinated pool filled with well water (ie copper). If it happens to you: blend up a shitload of tomatoes and soak your hair in a bowl for 30 minutes. Repeat. Took me three tries.
Then an aggressive pedicurist in Seminyak not only shaved off half my big toe with a callus remover, but in a fit of panic scooped up all the dead skin from the floor and piled it on top of the hemorrhaging wound as a sort of skin graft. If it happens to you: vent your expletives and then stay calm. Remove the dead skin. Compress the wound for 20 minutes until bleeding stops. Get betadine on it immediately. Refuse to pay for the pedicure when they try to charge you anyway.
The morning I was to catch a plane out of Indonesia was conveniently met with a resurrection of the previous night's banh mi. If it happens to you: don't eat or drink or try to resist it. Make it rain from all orifices now because it's going to eventually have to come out and better now in the comfort of your hotel than in the shuttle to the airport or airplane lavatory. When things calm down, sip coca cola and have a few salty chips. You'll be fine.
Which brings me back to the present. My clothes were returned to me. My hair is once again blonde. Toe is on the mend, and my bowels appear to be back to normal. It's raining in England and Dad has gone up to Cambridge to replace the supply of expensive loose leaf vanilla black tea. He asked me if I wanted to come, but I declined, remembering the temptation I faced the last time I joined him in the University District. He had taken me to a sporting goods store to buy my hiking boots for Iceland. The flirtatious shop manager was complaining about how sore he was, clearly begging that I ask him why, so he could brag about the fact he'd just returned from a big trip to the Alps. He asked me if I'd ever been before and I coyly admitted to having snowboarded there "once or twice". He asked if I lived in Cambridge, to which I responded that my current address was the luggage tag on my suitcase. When he asked me if I had a job and I told him I was unemployed, he lit up like a californian at a free ziggy marley concert and told me he was looking for a female for the winter season to sell snowboards. I smiled and politely declined, I'd prefer to work in a tea shoppe.