play.

Act one last night was dinner with a new friend. I have known her for a bit, but our interactions have been relegated to my place of business or hers, conversation and laughter interrupted by customers needing to purchase something..."hold on a sec, I will be right back"..."hold that thought...I want to hear it...I just have to help this person"...These sentences have been spoken between the two of us countless times. It was really refreshing to have some uninterrupted conversation time.

She is a gem of a person, someone I feel unbelievably lucky to be getting to know. Her smile is infectious, and her kindness toward people inspiring. Post dinner, we would be going to a play that opened last night, and she invited me to go along. After the play there would be a meet and greet with the cast, I was told. It seemed as though my evening, as well as the play, would be divided into three acts, interrupted by ten minute intermissions.

The play itself was set in Oklahoma, Osage county, and was written by a native Oklahoman, Tracy Letts, the son of a writer. Titled August Osage County, the play depicts a dysfunctional and addicted Oklahoma family, their struggle to love each other well, and the ease with which they were able to hurt one another. It was a captivating performance, the drama and acting so deeply drawing me in that I had to do a little shake in between acts, as the intermission lights went up, and remind myself I was attending the play and not actually on the stage having dinner with the family.

Post play, act three was the meet and greet I mentioned above. My friend said the person that gave her the tickets called it, "a chance to hob nob with the snobs"...Sort of appropriate. You know those local Oklahoma magazines with photos of beautiful and wealthy everyday people posing together with a drink in hand, looking like they purchased their wardrobe at Nordstroms? I was there, with them. I got a plate for pineapple alongside one of the cast members, hugged the man that owns Eskimo Joes, who happens to be a bundle of joy, and bumped into former mayor Susan Savage too many times to count. I listened as people made conversation, mentioning what they do, what movie they are producing, what book they are writing, what committee they are on, what business they own, and I just stood back, trying to keep myself from picking up dirty plates to take to the back to be washed. That's the part of the conversation that I would have been able to enter. Someone told me I looked familiar, and I reminded them that I used to make their coffee.

I just stood back, mostly, and watched people interact, compliment, blush, and laugh. The cast was warm, and seemed genuinely glad to have been able to perform the broadway play on the soil where it's set. One of the cast members, Bill, whose real name was Jeffrey, walked by me intuitively. He could sense that I wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed the performance but didn't have the courage. He stopped to let me speak, kindly introducing himself, and asked me how I thought the play was received..."if it was liked or at all offensive?"

I had one of the actors ask me how the performance was perceived. This moment, I was reminded that we are all just people who never really grow out of that curiosity of how others see us. I was reminded of the connectedness of us all...The waitstaff, myself, donors, actors, photographers. At some point throughout the evening, I would venture to say that everyone in the room had asked themselves a version of that same question, "how do I look in this? was my speech too long? Did that scene go well? Was this orange scarf a bad choice?"...

I left the room, after speaking my peace, with a renewed excitement and joy. I was reminded of how wonderful it is to make new friends, the crazy adventures new friends can take us on, and also, to be curiously kind to people.

the half, have-s, and the have-nots.

I am just sitting here, sipping my americano and my overly buttered bagel, and a man walks by. He is old enough to be my dad, his face is marked with a beard, and he is balancing his bulky gray laptop in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. In any other moment on any other day, he would just be a man, walking by. But I am almost sure I saw a look in his eye of loneliness. I wanted to get up, and invite him to sit with me! I began to think of all the middle aged women I know that my be looking for someone too! I was flooded with the feeling of helplessness, wishing there was something I could do.

A few minutes later, I looked up, and I saw a friend that has been out of town for a while. He moved, chasing change, and his girlfriend stayed. I have thought about her a lot while he has been gone, assuming his absence has been all kinds of difficult. Looking up and seeing him, and then seeing the smile on her face from being in his presence once again, I was flooded with a feeling of near tear inducing joy.

Back and forth and up and down and sad and happy, empty and full and sometimes, in between it all...And this, this is life.

dinnertime.

Last night our server recommended the sea bass. We wanted to split the salmon, Melinda and I, but they were out. We were sad, for a moment. The both of us. But then we read that the Sea Bass was crispy, which seemed much more exciting than just plain old grilled salmon, and all of a sudden, we were happy again!

Then he brought my wine, and whatdya know? I was thrilled.

He agreed to put the truffle oil on the side, which was kind of him, as we both dislike truffles and the taste of dirt. I don't really care if they are a delicacy. I say leave them in their delicate home, and spare us the extra six dollars that we were paying for the sea bass, likely because of this truffled delicacy. Truffle oil on the side scored him extra points.

He forgot that we had wanted the sweet potato fries instead of carrots, which meant we got sweet potato fries and carrots! Really, could this server get any better?

Yes.

We finished with the lemon tart. Oh yum. This evening was a treat...Dinner with two of my favorite couples, and me, splurging on delicious food after a really long run. Zac had a salad and the Cherry St Fry, while Liz and Chris sipped soup and salad.

Ticket time: not my favorite time. Our delightful server casually comes over to the table, bringing up the check question. As a server myself, I know this can be an awkward time. You don't want to interrupt your guests conversation, or make them feel rushed out of there, but you also don't want them to think you are ignoring them. Flubs abound. He starts off well. He isn't intrusive, or in our face, and he came at the right time. "So the two of you together," pointing to Melinda and Zac, "and the two of you together," pointing to Liz and Chris," and you all by your lonesome," pointing to me, as I ate my tart. Hello sour taste in my mouth, and hello jerk server. Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to point, and also, it's rude to point out that the only one flying solo this evening is "all by her lonesome"?

He followed it up with, "That's OK. It happens to the best of us".

Thank you server, for your excellent service, for recommending the sea bass and for putting the truffle oil on the side, and for bringing us some delicious sweet potato fries. Thank you for splitting our checks so well, and for keeping our water glasses full, and also, for reminding me that every moment in life does not require commentary, and sometimes it's best to keep ones mouth shut.

taking care. p4.

The making of a decision is a wonderful thing, especially if it propels much needed change. I decided to move out of my parents house, with the worried voice of my mother still echoing after my exit. My next move was to South Korea, for the summer. My mother's worried voice was still there, her tight hug and tears ushering me onto the plane.

And though navigating through her worry was, well, really annoying, her worry came from love. Those people that say those catchy things that people repeat, especially mothers, always say "a mother's love...You just won't understand until you're a mother"...She just wanted to take care of me, keep me safe and healthy, and leaving the house after dark to run, or to move to a less than safe part of town, or fly across the ocean...These conditions, to my mom, were not very manageable.

I was in my little bitty apartment in Korea, watching Six Feet under, when my running walls came down. I had started watching the series while there, and though I was in a different country with all kinds of sights and smells, the beast of laziness was always knocking at my fake wood front door. Weight had begun to disappear, because of diet, mostly vegetables and rice, and because I was able to walk everywhere. The weight was easy; it was the moving my ass part when I didn't have to that I was having trouble with. I didn't have to be at work until four most afternoons. This meant I could sleep in, take mid-morning naps, which I happen to love, venture over to the refrigerator for sustenance eventually, and wander over to the school where I worked somewhere around 3:30 in the afternoon. On a certain summer day, living the lazy life, I watched as Ruth was in the kitchen, scolding her son Nate. He was having a hard time with life, and his mother, the care taker, was losing her patience. The synopsis of the conversation was this: "I am sorry things are hard. I am sorry they aren't going your way. But you are the only one that can take care of yourself. Stop drinking beer for breakfast". She didn't actually say the beer thing, but it would have been cool if she did.

This scene was not monumental. There wasn't anything that clever or ground breaking about her words. But something about being where I was, with NOTHING in the way of me taking care of myself, STUCK. If I couldn't do it there, with NO stress, NO real responsibility, NO children or worries, no extra weight to bog me down, no lack of sleep (quite the opposite, actually) and no multiple job action, then when would I be able to take the initiative to take care of myself? When I have a million other things to juggle and not enough time to do half of the things that need to be done in a day? Not likely.

I laced up my shoes that very minute. I bolted out the door. And I ran.

sans running, proficiently weighty. p3.

I finally found the courage to leave Florida. The only place I knew to go was home, literally. I drove back across the country and moved in with my parents. It was winter, I was sad, and I wasn't running.

I was in a friend's wedding during this time, and I remember the anguish, once again - six years later - of having to fit into a dress. It was a really wonderful dress; Something that would be worn by a really wise fairy. I was completely uncomfortable with myself, and henceforth, completely uncomfortable dressed as a bridesmaid. I don't want this to seem like a weight post; I just want to express the amount of weight, physical and emotional, that running helped relieve. I remember being an emotional mess at the ceremony, and this is the saddest part, sadder than the extra weight I was carrying around. I hate that there are times in our lives when we can be so crippled with something that doesn't have to be, that we are unable to be fully present in such a joyous occasion. I was an emotional mess, and I was beating myself up because of it the entire time. I hate that I tainted one of the happiest days of her life with my own instability.

just keep running. p2.

I made it to prom; I was able to fasten the pink dress. But somewhere between my house and the road, a part of me fell in love with the action of running. Eventually I ventured off of my driveway and onto the undivided blacktop road that still finds it's way in front of my house; my mom worried some more. I remember the first time I ran three miles. The summer before college, I would run a mile and a half, stop at the white cross that was painted on the middle of the road, and say the Prayer of Jabez. That was, until I realized I didn't agree with the prayer of Jabez. Then I just started running past the cross, thanking God for the beautiful morning.

All along, however, I began to develop an extremely unhealthy relationship with food. I had watched my mother struggle with this same horrible struggle my entire life, and I vowed to not end up in her heavy position. I thought beating the problem before it began would be my savior, so I started dividing food into categories very early on. Good foods, foods I could eat, and bad foods, foods I couldn't. And when I veered into bad food territory, my new savior would be running. This dependence on a task to save me from unhealthy behavior built up an incredible amount of resentment toward one of the healthiest things we can do for our bodies. Even though a part of me loved it, if I didn't do it when I knew I "should" I would beat myself up emotionally, and not run for weeks, since I was "failing".

This cycle followed me into college, and reigned supreme my freshman year. College presented new problems of its own. I was suddenly surrounded by so many lovely women that didn't seem to be struggling at all. They seemed to be thin and eat pizza! How could this be?

And this is how the story went, for the next three years. There were bursts of health, when my true love for running took over, but battling my weight reigned supreme, and never let running gain enough of a foothold to set me completely free.

After college, I moved to Florida to live with my brother. Though I loathed the experience, the year, and still nearly loathe the state, I loved the fact that I could run all year long! I could shield myself from the comparing, as I was no longer on a college campus surrounded by beautiful women I would never live up to. I could stay in and eat dairy free pancakes, a recipe I perfected while there, and run whenever I wanted. And though, as I mentioned above, I hated Florida, it was the first time in my life when I realized that the struggle I had been having for so many years, and still had while there, wouldn't always be there. It's the season where I started to be more forgiving toward myself. These were the thoughts swirling around in my head when I would hit the road. It's where I ran my farthest distance up to that point: seven miles. And it's also where I realized that this running, it would be a huge part of my exit from the mess of unhealthiness I had been immersed in for so many years.

Even though I was still fully in the mess, if was the first time I could see the exit, and the only thing I knew to do was to keep running.

ran down. p1.

I had played basketball that year, solely because of my friends. I didn't want to be left out of their fun (I say their fun, as it was in no way fun for me). It was also my first year of high school - the awkward year - and I didn't want to be stuck in seventh period with the un-basketballed rejects, and the sophomores that were re-taking physical science because they failed it the year before. But after hearing that we would have to run track in the off season, I knew their fun would no longer include me. I tried it for a day...The mandatory running, after the basketball coach gave us a pep talk about about how we are so much stronger than those PE girls, that "sit up there on their butts in the mezzanine area, eating chips and soda pop", while we are out here, "challenging ourselves" by running in circles. CIRCLES.

Around, say, lap three (post pep talk), I exhaustedly explained to my best friend Shaya, who was running next to me, that "this being made to run thing just isn't my thing". I ran right off of the track, waving at the coach with a smile on my face, on my way to join the lazy PE girls.

That was my last memory of running, until the spring of my junior year. I bought my prom dress in the fall, in the middle of volleyball season, at the height of my physical condition. By spring, I was finding it difficult to fasten. We were approaching April, the chosen month, and the fastest way I knew to drop pounds, based on what I had read, was by running. I began eating a lot of saltines and steamed broccli, and also, running up and down my long pot holed driveway. Up and back once was 1⁄10 of a mile. Up and back twenty times equaled two miles; that's what I did. I remember running out the door during the nine o'clock hour, battling the voice of my mother even after the door was shut. "I don't like you running out there after dark," she would say. "It's our driveway, mother," I would respond. "It's not like I am running down the highway...And I don't like the idea of not being able to attend prom because I can't fit into my dress." I would slam the door behind me at some point mid sentence.

This is where my personal relationship with running began; I would spend the next-nearly-ten-years of my life undoing the damage I imposed upon one of the {now} most joyous {activities} currently filling my days.

helpfulness.

This post seeks to explain why I may, in the future, punch a hole in the usually closed up tin can of vulnerability.

Vulnerability?! On the INTERNET? Where EVERYONE and ANYONE can read it? This used to make me nervous. Channeling the anxiety of a teenage girl getting ready in the morning, I created blogs and deleted them the way above girl would try on outfits while getting ready for the cute boy...er...school, I mean. I closed blogs, made them private, abandoned them, and even closed my Facebook account, for a while, as it offered the world too much exposure into my world, debunking my anonymity.

And then I realized that this masking of honesty to the world is pointless if I ever think of writing an actual book. That's what people that write memoirs, personal essays, and the like DO with their time. They open up to the world, write books about stuff that strangers read, and then they travel all over and talk about it! And why, I asked myself...why is this OK? Well, for some, books sell, and the people that write them make some money. I suppose there is a portion of the population that does it for monetary reasons. The second reason is cooler.

The other evening I was with a friend talking about life circumstances. Things weren't going the way the friend had hoped they would. This made me sad for said friend, but I could also relate to what said friend was going through. This moment of relating, it made me feel less alone, and for a second, it made me feel a little better, that I am not the only one. And that's why I think vulnerability is often good.

I just want to be helpful. I like getting dishes for friends that work in coffee shops that the lazy of America leave on the tables. I like listening when someone needs to talk. I like giving rides to the airport when they are needed, and buying lunch for someone when they are more broke than I usually am. I like being helpful. And this hope for helpfulness...It includes helping people with themselves.

This does not mean I am further along on figuring things out. It just means that sometimes, when someone hears or reads something that they also went through, and can relate, it helps with the day, the moment, the YEAR, whatever. It helps.

While still working at Starbucks, on a drizzly gray day much like today, my boss and I decided to order some food from the Chili's next door. I really wanted a grilled cheese. Bad. When I was little, I ate so many grilled cheese sandwiches the my parents told me that I was going to turn into one. I briefly experienced fear, while imagining my body morphing into lightly grilled buttery bread, cheese oozing out, limbs sticking out.

I called the kind folks at Chili's to place the order and asked if they had this delightful meal on the menu. They said no, but they would make me one. I was so happy to be eating the sandwich, but not simply because it was filling my craving. I told my boss that it was more than a sandwich because "I used to have an eating disorder and never would have been able to order a grilled cheese off of a menu at a restaurant and then proceed to eat the entire thing".

In college, I purchased the light bread, fat free cheese and spray butter. This amounted to a 120 calorie meal, which I ate nearly every day for lunch. I didn't have a period for six months, and I didn't visit the cafeteria for fear of what I would be tempted to put on my tray. Things had changed, over over the course of a grueling few years, and I was at the point where I could refer to it with humor and weightlessness.

I realized, after seeing the awkward, caught off guard look on my bosses face after the phrase "eating disorder", it was not a weightless funny matter to most. I also realized that traveling through it, and saying it out loud, and also saying out loud that the not-so-weightless-not-so-funny-matter maybe should be talked about sometimes, as this is the kind of vulnerability that, I HOPE helps someone else with themselves.

I hope you haven't ever had to deal with an eating disorder, and that you can fully enjoy the joy of a grilled cheese sandwich. I hope this kind of vulnerability doesn't make you nervous, as I think there will be more of it. I hope you keep reading.

grateful.

This post is weightless, full of no substance at all.

I enjoy writing on this silly little blog more than many things in my life. And I would write even if people didn't read. But sometimes, some people leave comments, which affirms that sometimes people do.

So this silly little post is a thank you to readers. Comments are not necessary. I am just glad you read, and if you're reading this, it likely means you do.

So thank you.

some sun.

Some nights are chalked full of fun. Tonight, for example, I am eating dinner with my dearest cousin, making coffee for a few hours at brown shades, and then coercing my janky ankle into dancing the night away. There will be ample endeavors to occupy my time.

Time occupation. Though time often turns out to be so much more, on some evenings the first two sentences of this paragraph is what it turns out to be. Me, and also, me, finding ways to pass the time. There are always books, but sometimes I begin to read the wrong ones. There are always movies, but lately I have been too lazy and cold to venture over to that place where people rent them. There is the internet, namely Facebook, but the amount spent on that "social community" can veer very close to the line of unhealthy. There is writing, but not usually four hours worth.

Last night the pastime that helped me pass some time: cleaning out my email's inbox. I also cleaned up my apartment a little, vowing to hang things up after removing them from my person, instead of flinging them across my couch, or leaving my pants in a solo pile on the floor. Back to the inbox, a space as cluttered as my room. As I began to click, delete, click, delete, click, delete, oops, undo, click, save, click delete...I was reminded how full my life really is.

I love the task of driving during sunrise. There is a sky in front of you, and a completely different one in your rearview mirror. This morning it was the same sky, the same space, but in front of me was a gradation of yellows to orange to pink to blue. As I glanced at my side view mirror to change lanes, all I saw was the lingering semi-darkness of night, a true blue on it's way to something brighter.

My inbox took me to someplace brighter. There was a note from a friend that ate a chicken salad sandwich, thought of me, and wrote to inquire, a song gift from another, as the song's words brought me to her mind, a statement reaffirming a fun conversation from his highness in LA, and thoughtful exchanges from my best Tulsa friend, despite the fact that we see each other most days. Devi encouraged my writing and my gingerbread house crafting skills, costume encouragements from a friend in India, and another around the Bend, words of love from brand new friends, and words of kindness from the oldest and best kind.

My hope is that the probable cheesiness I mentioned above won't leave you feeling greasy, but rather, will remind you to think about the people that bring joy to your world, the people that know you and still love, support and encourage you. The previous evening, in all of my solitude, after eating take-out alone, it would have been easy for to have fallen asleep with a grease stain kind of feeling, focused on the lingering darkness in my rearview mirror. But after thinking of the sweet and delightful people in my life that are here, even if they weren't physically there, I entered my evening's slumber with a sunrise stain on my day.

a goner.

I strained to reach the top shelf of my closet this morning, which is the most disorganized and frustrating area of my 600 sq. ft. apartment. I wince each time I slide open the door. There is one narrow shelf, that's, well, really narrow. So the excess of my life - the things I don't use every day - are forced, crammed, shoved in this inaccessible and poorly designed space. I QUICKLY rummaged to find my lease agreement, quickly knocked things down from the shelf in the process, and quickly shoved the door once said lease agreement was retrieved.

I needed to see what it was I signed that I would do when vacating my apartment. My lease expires the last day of February, and that's the day I end this comfortable consistent routine like life I have been enjoying the last year, and reenter the potentially nomadic existence I am more familiar with. I say potentially because, who knows? But I do know that I am moving out of the comfortable space I have had all to myself, and moving into a tiny basement room (for much less money), to potentially move even further away in the summer. I say potentially because, who knows? What is known is that things are changing...I also just left the job I have had for over a year for something different.

The reality of the impending change made me wince once again, as if it's been crammed on a tiny shelf high up in the air for the past year, and just tumbled down on top of me this morning.

I should start packing. I should start taking things out of the closet, and make a pile for Goodwill. I should begin taking the pictures off of my walls, the old food from my refrigerator, and patching the nail holes I have contributed to the already worn white walls. Though I claim to love change, there is also something so comforting about consistency, which is why I am not going to do any of those things just yet. Instead, I am planning a party to be held inside the picture covered walls. The hope is to leave one last delightful memory in the space that's been my sanctuary, instead of leaving it before I am even gone.

service, please.

So this whole serving gig is new to me. I am used to dropping stuff off at tables, grilling sandwiches and heating up cold cinnamon rolls in the microwave. But fine dining?

My first moment of realization came during a lunch shift while training. Sonya was explaining to me how we remove first course before bringing second, and how we drop a knife or a soup spoon, in relation to the order, before the coordinating food item is brought out. But the knife and spoon need to be taken out on a tray...Not just carried in your hand. The back of your arm shouldn't ever be directed to someone's face, but rather, the inside of your arm, and the lady's food should be dropped first. This means you have to have the seat numbers in your head, and which direction the table is facing, before you take out the food. If the food is in the wrong hand, the back of your hand may be facing the lady when you set down the meal. This is no bueno.

On that day, she let me take a table all by myself. I am so used to dialogue, and feeling kind of equal to my customers. I have made many friends over my past few service industry years. But here at lunch, where people are paying extra for a good meal, they don't want to be my friend. I approached the table and immediately felt that invisible wall between the guests and myself. I took their drink order, and walked away feeling like a seven year old being ignored by her mother, because she was on the phone.

There had been foreshadowing of this before I was actually allowed on the floor. In the beginning, when I was just making coffee, hanging around in the back, I laughed at how two faced the servers had to be. I watched them charm, and attend to their tables every need on the south side of the restaurant, but once they crossed the dividing line, to the safety of the kitchen and register area, charm was gone. It was replaced with profanity, annoyance, complaints. "I f*%^ing hate the couple at table 10. He's so this, or that"..."can I have a water with no ice?" "The dad at the table is artificially nice, and it's insulting"...etc. After witnessing this for a few shifts, the sentiment was summed up by one of my co-workers: "We hate them (pointing south, to the front of the cafe) but we love each other (fellow servers)".

I thought about this idea...Automatic dislike of anyone. The conclusion leads me to my next fine dining breakthrough.

Yesterday was my first lunch shift to work as an official server. I clock in differently. Instead of indicating "expo" or "hostess", both of which receive a higher wage, I indicate "server". This, because I will "tip-out" at the end of the evening. I tried to meet my tables with kindness, and attentiveness. At times, I was likely too attentive. It's possible, when it's not busy, to "hover", which is likely annoying to the people that aren't wanting to be my friend, like I mentioned before. Once the table's cycle is done, and the guests are out the door, it's time for clean up. Cups, plates, and silverware are removed, and taken to where the dishes are done, trash is thrown away, and the ticket is taken from the table. So much rests inside the plastic black folder. The content's details are entered into the register. The tip is declared.

That's the clincher. Yesterday, when declaring these details, I realized how tempting it is to judge myself by the amount written in by the guests, that's added to the total. And that's where I think the disdain for customer may come into play. It's not how much they leave that leaves a stain of anger. It's the reality that the people walking through the door have o-so-much control over a server's daily life. When clocking in as a server, with the lower wage, you are clocking in with the reality that the day can go any way. There's no guarantee. It's easier to be naturally nice to people when they have no impact on whether or not rent will get paid this month.

These people, they don't want to be my friend, and they determine my financial future. What have I gotten myself into?

vino.

I remember sitting in my friend Brandi's kitchen in high school, munching on pizza. It was a fun place to be at the moment, but my overall feeling of high school was in such contrast. I was the thirty-two year old sixteen year old. I hung out with adults, and was in the kitchen with the parents at most parties, talking about peer pressure, mistakes and bad choices being made by others. I was pious too. I think my dad called it "uptight".

Sitting at Brandi's wooden kitchen, chewing on pepperoni, I remember her mother saying that (her) "high school years were the best of her life, and we shouldn't rush ourselves out of them as we will look back on them with fondness and longing someday"...

choke. on. pepperoni.

"My God," I thought, "that may be the most depressing thing I have ever heard come out of such an intelligent beings mouth. If this is as good as it gets, I am going to quit now."

I didn't believe her. I kept going. College (not some of my best years, though I made the best kinds of friends)...and going...Florida (Yikes. Not some of my best years, and didn't make any friends at all) and going...Living at home (not recommended for anyone that has already left home...necessary sometimes, just not recommended)...and going (house with a front porch and wonderful roommates - porch itself surpasses all four years of high school)...and going (South Korea, oh man, not adequate words as to how much better than high school it was)...and going, backwards, this time (to Tulsa, briefly homeless...still better than high school)...to now.

I am thinking of all of this because of the marker we just passed; January one. The evening before is referred to as "New Year's Eve". This is a holiday, and one that I would liken to High School. Very anti-climactic.

Every. Single. Year...Wrought with expectation, build up, and disappointment.

So back "to now", and this idea that things can get better with time, as opposed to worse.

NYE 2009. I worked, for the first NYE of my life. That was kind of like going to my Junior prom alone. But, I made quite a bit of money in tips. That was kind of like the dress I wore to my Junior prom alone. It was stunning. And then I left work, put on my smokin' hot blue dress, and picked up Melinda. We went to where her boyfriend was, and three other couples that were smoking. This is how I rang in the new year, quite similar to going to my Senior Prom alone, and watching the boy I had a crush on dance with his date, having not danced with anyone the entire night, while wearing a dress that was less than stunning.

Leaving was the best part, kind of like graduation.

Arriving at the Marquee, where people were dancing, was full of promise, kind of like the rest of my life. The song that was playing was awful, kind of like the bad stuff in the middle of good seasons that we all have to wade through. The next song beckoned me, and my blue dress, onto the dance floor. I remained there for the next two hours, and left with a massive sweat stain on my no longer smokin' hot blue dress.

Let's not have any of this, "[insert section of one's past] were the best years of my life". That's what I like to think of as bull-shit. The other side of the coin says things can get better, and better, and better, as the years go by. This is truth to me.