On St. Patrick's Day, I was infected with a terrible case of melancholy, as I allowed myself to be taken over by some existential angst and seeming warranted self-pity. I bought a green bagel with roasted red peppers, tomatoes, tofu cream cheese, and a large coffee, and sat celebrated the Irish through carbo-loading and "methods of reasoning" flashcards. The streets were teeming with green 20-somethings, and I found myself lost amid a sea of inebriated, swaying emerald on my way to hot yoga. I made my way through masses of joyous meatheads, and on my way back, I trudged through the same crowds, though the proportion of those still standing had slightly changed. As I sat by my window, slightly shaking from a raucousness reverberating through the thin walls of my new bedroom, I felt a profound sense of loss.
The following day, I woke up with a renewed perspective on my First World problems, most likely induced by a full night's sleep. I finished all my laundry, did extra hot yoga (along the lines of a double shot of espresso), and generally felt good about industriousness of the weekend (it had been a good green bagel). After my shower, I decided to take a stroll around my new neighborhood (i.e., head to the overpriced grocery store one block away). It was a particularly balmy evening, and I decided to dress to impress (myself), and wore my diamond earrings and my yellow birthday scarf and my red lipstick.
I walked down 35th Street and caught some people staring at me. I noticeably turned away from the regard, to make a point about sexual equality, but I secretly thought, Rucha, you still got it. You got grey hair and you haven't seen daylight all weekend and you inexplicably smell like glass noodles, but you got it.
I walked into the grocery store and felt a slight breeze, the normal draft that follows a door opening.
People continued to stare. I continued to be falsely indignant, and clandestinely proud.
I had to itch my left leg (a continuation of the aforementioned First World problems), and so bent back and realized there was no fabric for me to scratch.
My whole skirt was tucked into my underwear.
People were still staring.
I did not still "got it."
I officially lost it.
No comments:
Post a Comment