You ever have that internal battle with yourself to decide if you want to take a bath or not?
You fantasize about a really great bath experience. Candles. Aromatherapy. Bath salts and powders and oils. All that shit. Lavender. Everywhere.
Your hair piled up on top of your head but with some of it slipping out the back because your hair isn’t quite long enough to be put up that high. Your tiny shoebox of a bathroom is steamy as fuck and you can’t see anything but you can’t wait to get out and swipe your mirror with your hand and pretend you’re in the opening sequence of some 80’s John Hughes movie where The Psychedelic Furs are playing in the background while you dance around being all excited because you might see Jake Ryan or Judd Nelson in the hallway today.
Maybe you’re listening to music. Maybe you’re not. If you are listening to music it’s probably the soundtrack to The Graduate because you just watched that movie the other night and Simon and Garfunkel be mellow as hell and weren’t Anne Bancroft’s highlights and outfits just so effing perfect like OMG.
You’re having such a wonderful time you don’t even notice that the tub is too short for your body and no matter how you position yourself, some part of you will not be submerged in that delightfully scented water. Lavender. So much lavender. LAVENDAHHHH. You don’t even care. Nothing can ruin this for you. It’s just you and maybe the slices of cucumber that miraculously found their way to your eyes.
In reality, you lack the patience to even wait for the tub to fill up. You have no lavender. None. Your knees will be really freaking cold. You’d rather dip those slices of cucumber in some ranch dressing. JAKE RYAN ISN’T REAL.
This isn’t like a metaphor or anything. I just really want to take a bath right now…kind of.
I don’t know what it is or where it came from, but I’ve suddenly got it into my head that I want to date an older man. How old? I’m not sure. How old is too old? I’m thinking maybe a George Clooney old. Not that I think I could ever find myself a George Clooney. I’d totally take maybe a Colin Firth or a Gary Oldman, though. God yes, I love Gary Oldman. OLDman.
You see, I feel like an older man would at least kind of have his shit together. Besides the obvious mid-life crisis thing he’d def have going on. But that I can handle. Because that is the exact reason a man in his late 40s to mid-50s would even date a 23 year old. And he’d obviously have to be loaded. If I’m going to do this I’m going to do it right. Not with some man who still drives the mini-van his wife left him after the divorce. No way.
Also important to point out in this mantique fantasy of mine is that I would probably not love him. I would probably not fall in love with him. This is a one to two years (tops) kind of sitch, ya feel me?
I would mostly just like for him to be charming and mature and take me to interesting places and lavish me with Agent Provacateur lingerie and macaroons imported from France. (If you think trading my body for a silk corset and some thigh highs is gross then I need you to go look at some AP lingerie and tell me you wouldn’t do the same. I mean, come on. Get real)
But then I’m like oh no, what if it turns out like Carrie and The Russian on SATC and I move with him to Paris and then he ignores me the whole time because he’s preparing for his big art exhibition or whatever and then I feel really out of place and everyone’s mean to me because are French people mean? I DON’T SPEAK THE LANGUAGE. WHY ARE YOU TALKING SO FAST??? I MISS MY FRIENDS.
How does one even go about finding this kind of man? Should I put an ad out in the paper? ‘Poor 23 Year Old Woman Seeking Rich Old Dude – Not an Anna Nicole Smith Situation – Like, Please Don’t be Dying or Anything – Be Very Much Alive and Have Lots of Frequent Flyer Miles. Okay. Thx’
What about you guys? Would you ever go silver fox hunting? Tell me that doesn’t sound mad hot, right? Right? Yeahhh.
The Internet is a desert at 2:30 am. It’s dark. It feels weird. It’s desolate. Pretty sure a tumbleweed just rolled by.
You go to Twitter and the only ones tweeting are the people from a different timezone where it isn’t this late (early?). And you’re left to assume that the ones in your own timezone are out doing something with their lives or sleeping, which you should be doing but you don’t because whYYy do you fight it?
You go to facebook, good God you go to facebook, and it’s all people you went to high school with sharing **Just Cause I Talk Slow Don’t Mean I’m Stupid**’s photo of a Marilyn Monroe quote paired with a ‘girl stares off into the distance while her hair blows freely in the wind’ stock photo.
You go to tumblr and you’re like yes these are my people what is uppppp. And all of a sudden you’re on the Cillian Murphy tag and you’re staring into Cillian Murphy’s pretty/creepy/sharp blue eyes and asking yourself why Red Eye isn’t a movie that anyone talks about ever and who the hell is Cillian Murphy, really? Does he even exist? What is time? What is space?
You repeat this process so many times and there’s never anything new but you keep doing it anyway. Why don’t you just close your eyes? Why don’t you just read a book? Why don’t you just write something?
Your eyes are tired. Your body’s tired. Your brain is probably tired but you overstimulate it with this useless shit all the time.
I would say go to bed, but you’re already in your bed.
Step away from the social media. Step away, already. There is nothing for you there. It’s too late to make sense of anything. It’s too late to wonder what that status update means. It’s too late to come up with a clever tweet. It’s too late to reblog that gif from 30 Rock.
All of that…stuff will be there in the morning when you don’t feel so bored/restless. All of that stuff will always be there. All of that stuff you don’t even need, no matter the time of day.
Know what you do need? Sleep.
So power down.
I love the dark. I love how I always have to bring a hoodie because I know it will be freezing inside. I love the seats that sometimes creak when I cross my legs. I love when no one sits in front of me so I can put my feet up on the back of the seat. I love when someone does sit in front of me and I sigh loudly like a spoiled four year old. I love not having to wrestle anyone for armrest privileges.
I love going alone because I love to be alone. I do. Knowing how to be alone gives me a confidence that I don’t think I would have if I felt the need to do everything with someone else.
I love going to the movies by myself because no one else cares, really. It’s a movie theater, not couples night at the Olive Garden.
Don’t pity the ones who enjoy going to the movies alone. Don’t pity the ones who want to take themselves out for a steak dinner. Don’t pity the ones who don’t need to be with another person to feel good about themselves.
But when I get down from my high horse and get real, do I actually love going to the movies by myself? Do I really love laughing at that one really great joke in a room full of strangers? Do I really love the lack of a shared experience with someone I know, even if it’s just seeing some lame-ass Nicholas Sparks flick? Do I really love walking out of the cinema alone, getting into my car, and going on with my day like la di da that was fun?
Knowing how to be alone can be scary. Knowing how to be alone can become a habit; a really fucking hard habit to break, too.
Sometimes I worry that I like being alone too much. Sometimes I worry that being alone will get stale and I’ll become that proverbial old married couple. Except I’m married to myself. Ugh.
I worry that I’ll get sick of me. Me. Me. Me. All the time. And one day when I’m too old to drive myself, who’s going to drive me to the movies???
But then I’m just like, quit your worrying. You’re twenty-three years old. And that’s what cabs are for, dummy.