Every girl wants a pony

I ate too many Cheerios tonight. I'm addicted to cereal. I think it's the sweetness and the texture that I love the most. Or it's that they're made out of crack.

Today, I worked from 7am-8pm, which was especially brutal after participating in an 8-hour improv class the previous day. I left work ecstatic, though. I think it has something to do with how crazy these last few weeks have been. So many social engagements, meeting new people--it's revitalizing.

I think it also has something to do with the Mustang, which I've rented while my car is in the shop. This evening, on my way home, I squealed and giggled when the car suddenly sounded like a club--the depth and richness of the sound system shocked me. I've never had anything close to a decent sound system in any of my (three, used) cars, so it was quite an experience. I made sure to leave a good song on my iPod so I can continue the club atmosphere on the drive to work tomorrow.

Speaking of tomorrow...I'll likely have to return the Mustang in the afternoon. Boo! I do have meetings all day, so perhaps I won't be able to make it in time? I do love my little Beetle--or Beetbox, as I've been calling it--but it ain't no 'Stang.

The way it handles, how the engine purrs and growls, how the hood peeks up into your eyeline, the way your body's pressed back against the seat when you gun it, the lines of the car, the steering wheel, the sexiness and power, the gear shift, the side mirrors, the rear view mirror, the gigantic trunk, the power and muscle, the throttle and thrust., and finally, the way it makes me smile and lose my breath all at the same time. These are all examples of why I want one--need one. Maybe not before June, but soon. Or at least one day. This is the kind of car you make love in, with the top down, parked by the beach and under the stars (so California). I'm puzzled at the mechanics considering that the middle console is large and immobile, and space is tight. Something to tackle when the time comes--someday! Let's not get ahead of ourselves.

My therapist suggested today that I might have spent 2.5 years of my life with a closeted homosexual. Life just gets funnier and funnier.

Life would be much better if I made the following improvements:

• Lose 15 pounds
• Get a haircut
• Become wealthier
• Focus on work
• Make an effort (to eat well, be well, see well, feel well, love well, well...well)
  
• Give cats up for adoption
• Take off these dingy overalls, my glasses, and let down my hair to finally reveal that I'm not the dorky, awkward girl, but rather the hot girl
• Buy/lease a 2009 Ford Mustang GT Premium Convertible with a racing stripe, spoiler negotiable
• Move to New York City or Roma or London or Zurich
  
• Get rid of my old laser printer, Dell desktop, Dell laptop, and Gateway laptop
• Stop having nightmares about 9/11-like attacks in Mountain View, California
• Stop having nightmares about crazy earthquakes, especially when the panic stems from my plasma falling over and breaking
• Pay attention (faites attention!) at work
• Live life freely
• Learn how to meditate
• Do yoga
• Make friends
• Wash my car
• Buy a new mattress and fancy bed frame
• Cook instead of microwave
• Go to bed at a decent hour
• Stop letting smart, sarcastic persons and their silly conversations keep me from going to sleep at a decent hour
• Tell said persons to ping me pre-12am

I think that covers it?

Monday night, Question city

I don't understand California. Or its customs. Or its people. Je ne comprends rien. When are we finally eaten by mountain lions? And why are earthquakes happening while I'm not here to be petrified by them?

Why do I feel rejected by welcomed rejection emails?

I like this format. I'll continue with questions.

If I were good at math, would I be pursuing a career in the sciences?
If I were pursuing a career in the sciences, would I not hate my job?
Do I really hate my job?
If I'm smart, why am I continually fooled into believing that a non-highly functioning human person is actually highly functioning?
How come I can't see what everyone else sees?
Where can I save money on my car insurance?
Tell me, why does Twitter exist?
And why do people who despise Facebook like Twitter?
What's the difference?
Seriously?
Is social networking more acceptable within the confines of 140 characters?
And while we're on the topic, would you create a Twitter account for your pet?
I'm sorry, is that supposed to be adorable?
And why do I feel threatened by such an absurd person?
Have I mentioned that I am incessantly puzzled by my own emotions?
Is there a kind, adult way to end a friendship with someone who is most likely not even really your friend?
How long does a Chia pet last?
When will I stop feeling like a leper?
How do you know if you have contracted rabies?
Am I a bad person if I give up my cats for adoption?
Will there ever be enough money?
Why is it that nail polishes never lasts more than a few days before cracking at the edges?
Do you understand why, after a 12-hour day at work, I have enough energy to work out and then stay up until midnight (swiss chocolate)?
Is it wrong to be strongly attracted to Seth Rogen?
Do I care?
How upset would I be if I were laid off?
Do I really want to move back to NYC?
How weird is it that I have no real passions beyond writing, reading, music, and food?
And love?
Or are those enough?
Can you really put too many eggs in one basket?
How many is too many?
And how big is the basket?
How's it gonna feel when summer ends?
Is it bedtime?

I think so.

Distance and Liberation

A week ago, I was happy. I was free, alive, and satiated. Life felt exciting, new, beautiful, and alluring.

There was a moment of true joy. I was on the train back from Lugano, reading through my journal of the last few months. Each entry expressed agony, disappointment, pain, and hopelessness. Every page gasped for an end. Had I really forgotten how bad it was, how black it was? Here was the proof, my lamentations in ink.

Night and day. There I was on a Swiss train, in first class passage, traveling across some of the most beautiful landscapes ever imagined by calendars and postcards. I had just left idyllic Lugano, charming with its Lombarian Renaissance-style architecture and piazzas linked by narrow streets. I was on my way back to Zurich, my stomach fluttering with anticipatation.

How could such crushing sadness and such tremendous happiness have existed only weeks apart?

I felt elated and liberated. I resurfaced, gulping in the rejuvenating Alpine (filtered through train) air, rejoicing in the distance from my past. If I were in a musical, I would have burst into a song, bright with references to springtime, sunshine, bluebirds, and glistening mountain peaks. Instead, I smiled widely at my reflection, and beamed inside, wishing the train would move faster towards its destination.


And now?

Well, vacation is over. It's curious, thinking back to how wonderful I felt, in comparison to how I feel now. To be trite, the difference is palpable.

I expected to be disappointed upon my return in reaction to the let down of no longer having an amazing vacation to look forward to. Surprisingly, that's not how I feel. I'm excited for the next few weeks--lots of fun outtings planned, even a trip to New York. There are things to look forward to.

But I can't help myself, especially in the evenings, from looking back. I think of how I passed the hours. When will I feel as good again? When will I find someone who I get lost with for hours at a time, without the faintest idea of how it got to be 11pm, or 2am, or 4am? When do I stop missing how good it felt to be held in his arms?

The neat answer is "eventually". It's easy to brush off these late night longings as overreactive romantic tendencies induced by fairly recent heartbreak, jetlag, and stark reality.

After all, life is not a vacation, which is a lesson taught to me by my parents. Life is work, stress, hardship, with pockets of fun hidden within the inside lining. Of course we don't want the holiday to end.

But that's bullshit. Why shouldn't life be more like a holiday? Why shouldn't happiness exist beyond the confines of departures and returns? It must; that's the only right answer. I need to fix this life of mine: patch the holes, paint the walls, update the fixtures--whatever it takes. I'm not entirely sure, honestly, what it'll take, but I feel like I'm a few steps closer to figuring that out now.

I sat on a couch and talked about hopefulness, about finding and tackling love, and was called brave in response. I don't think I'm so brave after all. Idealistic. Romantic. Ridiculous. Amorous. Not brave. If I were brave, wouldn't I have said all of this, and more, aloud? What's the difference between brave and silly anyway?



As an aside, someone said that he hopes my jetlag will be gone by the time we see one another, so that I can reenact the "more exciting parts" of my vacation. I think I must have blushed.