Ways to tell I’m massively preoccupied/consumed with anxiety/I’m not doing so well:
1. I take a shower and forget to shampoo my hair. Stuck with gross, greasy hair for the rest of the day makes nothing better.
2. I forget to put on deodorant. See above, though this one’s worse because I can’t just put a hat on.
3. Calls go unanswered. I might be avoiding my friends.
4. My room looks like it’s been ransacked, it’s only me sleeping there so who cares?
5. I binge watch holocaust movies. If I compare it to The Pianist, my life is mother-f-ing swell!
6. I neglect my blog. See this past week.
7. I go down stairs to get the mail and end up locking myself out of my apartment.
The first six I’ve done before, the last one? That’s a new one. That was bad. That was yesterday.
I’ve been waiting on a $3,000 check to come in the mail. It’s been driving me crazy. I made this sizable sum of money over a month ago but I have yet to see it. My bank account is demoralizing, seriously so. I barely scraped together rent for October and since then it’s been a strict broke-ass diet of eggs and dollar pizza. Not cute. Every day I hope that check will be in my mailbox. Yesterday, I didn’t work until evening. Having no money, there aren’t too many things to do in NYC. Thus I was home mid-day. I decided to check the mail in the vain hope my deus ex machina check had arrived.
Still wearing my pajamas, I threw a dress over boxer shorts. Appropriate just-checking-the-mail attire. I slipped on slip-on shoes, grabbed the mail key, and ran down the five flights of stairs. Open the mail box: no check. Damn. Disappointment quickly turns into horror. I left the apartment with only the mail key! All other keys are still hanging behind a locked door! Oh my god, I’m an IDIOT.
I burst into tears. It’s always something like this. The cliché straw that breaks the camel’s back. After weeks of pretending I’m fine, I realize I’m not. It takes locking myself out of my apartment wearing a sleeveless dress displaying my can’t-remember-the-last-time-I-shaved legs, striped boxer shorts bunched underneath. No money, no phone; nothing but an issue of Time Out New York, a solicitation from the NY Food Bank and the damn mail key in my possession.
I wiped my eyes with the Food Bank solicitation and thought, Fuck this. I’m not happy with my life. La vie Boheme, a lover who is so romantic and intriguing at the beginning. But we’re out of the honey-moon phase now, it’s becoming clear this metaphoric relationship is headed for Splitsville.
So what the hell did I do locked out of my apartment at 2pm? Well, I am insanely lucky because four of my good friends live right across the street. They are each enduring their own struggles with la vie Boheme (quite the neighborhood slut she is). Thus they were home mid-day too and able to console my whimpering self. I sat, cried, and drank tea. I was able to contact my roommate so I could get her keys.
It takes locking myself out of my apartment to realize 1. I have amazing friends and 2. I need to make some life changes. Oh what a daunting task. Any advice? Wish me luck?