I’m not sure how this dream ended—the endings are always hazy—but I remember waking up and thinking, “WHAT THE FUCK IS MY PROBLEM?”
10:30 a.m.: consider showering.
I don’t know if this is middle age or what, but if I’m going to go to a thing, I like to bathe right before the thing happens so anyone I might encounter will know that I am a clean and virtuous person who cares about presenting her best self to the world. I am not that person, but if you ran into me at a party, I could probably convince you otherwise. But I cannot muster the strength to shower two times in one day, unless there has been an incontinence emergency, and even then I’m only washing from the waist down. So on event days I face this conundrum: shower in the morning and try not to ruin it by being a gross asshole, or be disgusting all day then shower right before the event.
I decide to skip the morning shower and instead drink a bunch of lemon water to wash down a handful of Advil and the assorted giant vitamins I’ve decided to start taking this year instead of going to the doctor.
11 a.m.: should i eat?
So here is the thing about carting around a bowel disease when you actually have to leave your home and do things out in the world: you’re always thinking, “What if I have to poop?” I’m not shy. My favorite thing to do in a public restroom, other than cruise for closeted gay politicians with whom to have loud anal sex, is to get comfortable in the stall with my butt directly on the seat and poop like a person who understands that this is a normal function of my human body. I don’t love to go number two during a night out on the town because: (1) guaranteed it’s going to be a mess, and (2) the bathroom at the club is probably not the most relaxing place to completely unclench your sphincter and get out a healthy, fiber-fortified stool. I’m not saying I haven’t had explosive diarrhea while holding up my ill-fitting sequined skirt with both hands, party clutch full of valet stubs and coat check tickets clenched between my teeth, while a line of drunk party animals whine collectively because there’s only one stall, but those were definitely emergencies. Which brings us back to my original dilemma: What is there to eat in this place that won’t cause me agony in the middle of the dance floor? I select a banana from the stash of emergency food I got at the airport and hastily shoved into my purse at the cab stand.
12:15 p.m.: quickly cycle through all five kübler-ross stages of impending-social-engagement dismay.
Denial: “Did I really tell homegirl I would meet her for dinner and drinks tonight, or is this a dream?”
Anger: “WHY THE FUCK DID I AGREE TO THIS I HATE GOING PLACES AND DOING THINGS WHY WOULD THEY EVEN INVITE ME?”
Bargaining: “If I go to this restaurant tonight, and I tell some jokes and act real sweet, I will keep this friendship intact, plus I won’t have to make up a transparent lie or sneak around trying not to like shit on Instagram, and also I don’t ever have to leave my crib ever again.”
Depression: “Is there anything worse in life than someone wanting to hang out with me? Especially in a fancy bar that serves ‘handcrafted’ cocktails? Maybe I can throw myself off the organic rooftop urban garden and end this miserable charade for good.”
Acceptance: “Fine then, I’ma just watch four episodes of SVU and eat saltines with my shoes on until it’s time to call a Lyft.”
12:30 p.m.: in the old days, i would do something to my eyebrows and nails.
I used to like to go out to get wasted with my friends and dance to house music, but also I was aggressively hunting for people to mate with. The year 2002 was a less cynical time, and the possibility of glancing up from my nine-dollar Stoli Razberi and 7UP with a lime to find myself locking eyes with my future soul mate while a Crystal Waters deep house remix pulsed in the background felt (at least to me, a very naive person) like a real thing that could happen. To prepare, in case it did, I would walk down the block to the nail shop after work and get a polish change (two coats professionally applied to my natural, bitten-down nails for half the price of a regular manicure, a dirtbag life hack) and an eyebrow wax.
Would anyone notice my scuffed red polish and brows stripped thin enough to slice deli meat in a strobe-lit disco? Definitely not. But what if someone fell in love with me on the dance floor and invited me back to the apartment they shared with nine roommates to drunkenly hump me before passing out at dawn? I needed them to know that I was worthy of their attention, and clearly the only way to do that was to pay someone to push back my ragged cuticles! Nowadays, who even cares? I don’t think my wife even notices that I have nails. Instead, I use this time to make a plan for the evening, i.e., imagine, in excruciating detail, all the things that could go wrong.
12:40 p.m.: start making the plan.
Remember when you could be roused from a night being spent on the couch in your pajamas, curled around a pint of Chubby Hubby, and goaded into joining your friends at the bar even though you’d already taken off your bra? Yeah, I can’t either, but I know those days existed. I have the liver damage to prove it. Now when I go out I have to start gearing up for that shit at least three days in advance, and if I’m actually going to go through with it, it has to include both an ironclad reservation and a reliable seating arrangement. Showing up at a restaurant and hoping for the best is a young person’s game. If I’m going out, I need to know that there is a table with my name on it and a comfortable seat pulled up to it. I’m too old to hover anxiously near the door, sweating under my coat in my good outside clothes, watching people who actually planned ahead be ushered to their awaiting tables and served the foods I am dying to eat.
I’m not that organized, though, so I spend a long time scrolling through OpenTable to try to find a reservation for 7 p.m. at a place that has more than a few high-tops left and won’t attempt to put us outside. It’s slim pickings.
1:00 p.m.: get the text chain going.
I’m going out tonight with three people who all get along, and I don’t mean that they can endure each other for two hours without scratching one another’s eyes out. I mean they have relationships that are established enough that I don’t have to spend the whole time babysitting them or pointing out the things they have in common. In the past, I would have been just fine being the common thread in a random group of people and spending my entire night bouncing from person to person screaming, “You like pasta, right? So does Melissa! Talk to her about it!” or “Emily has a weird boyfriend, too! Discuss!” and trying to make a group of virtual strangers feel comfortable while low-key ruining my own good time. It’s exhausting, and inevitably one person hates another person, and then you have to defend the bad person to the good person, while internally questioning both of these stupid friendships, and why the fuck am I doing this again? Now I just ask the group chat if they want to go out.
3:30 p.m.: either a coffee or a nap.
It’s the aging club kid’s Sophie’s choice: drink a giant watery espresso and risk further aggravating my irritated colon, or lie down for a refreshing ten-minute disco nap and wake up at seven the next morning. Both have their advantages. Coffee is cheap and readily available; or, if I overshoot my nap, I won’t have to go out and party! It’s usually around this time in the afternoon that I start rethinking my later commitments, no matter what the fuck they are. An eight o’clock movie on Tuesday night sounded plausible last Thursday, but now it’s Tuesday afternoon. I just had a lot of soup delivered while squinting at the laptop in my office, and now I don’t think I’m going to be able to make that movie, okay? Going out on Saturday night sounded great on Wednesday, but now Saturday is here and I’m in my cozy clothes and I’ve got Joni Mitchell’s Court and Spark playing on this phone I’ve propped in a glass because I couldn’t connect to the Bluetooth speaker and it’s gonna be really hard to put shoes on, dawg. It’s extremely hard to motivate myself to get to a place where I’m required to pay a twenty-dollar cover to get hip-checked by linebackers in church shoes all night, especially when I could just get back in my warm bed and NOT DO THAT. I decide on a coffee, beca
use housekeeping is outside my room and I will literally die of shame if I am just lazily lying around in the afternoon half-sleeping while people are at work vacuuming, plus there is a Starbucks in the lobby of this hotel. Convenience is the number one driver of everything I do.
5:00 p.m.: it’s put-up-or-shut-up time.
This is the absolute latest I can cancel without pissing off my friends. An hour ago would have been preferable, but it’s really unlikely that anyone has already started prepping with two hours to go. The crime isn’t bailing on the night. The crime is bailing on the night after hair has been shampooed and meticulously styled and Spanx have been squeezed into. If I’ve put on a real bra and you pick up the phone to tell me some shit about a headache, I’ll meet you at the club with some Excedrin, bitch.
5:15 p.m.: the slog begins.
I’ve just spent an hour regularly checking my phone in the hopes that someone else would cancel, but they haven’t, so I guess it’s time to wash. First, I’m going to take a few Imodium in case my intestinal tract decides to get cute. Which it definitely will, either because or in spite of the fact that all I’ve consumed in preparation for this evening is a banana and a Luna Bar and three glasses of water (for health). And I’m not actually watching this movie, just putting it on so I have some comforting background noise. (Okay, fine, I’m watching it a little, but it’s not going to make me late, I swear.) Now would be a good time to clear out my junk e-mails since my laptop is open anyway, but somehow I resist. I should also probably eat some dry toast in the shower so that my drinks have something soft to cushion their landing, then do my hair on the toilet, because the way my bladder works now is that I could just keep peeing forever if I wanted to. I’m perimenopausal and constantly dribbling. I definitely should pull out my best dark pants.
5:45 p.m.: “will anyone notice …?”
… that these shoes are FitFlops and I didn’t paint my toes? … that I messed up my eyeliner? … that these pants don’t really fit right? … if I wear underwear that goes all the way up to my chin? … that I’ve stopped aggressively exfoliating? … that I didn’t spend enough time with a comb? … that on the left side, my lipstick extends a centimeter above my top lip? … that there’s an eensy-weensy, teeny little piece of tape on these glasses? … that this ill-fitting bralette is giving me quadra-boob? … my hair, which isn’t curling right? … that I really did use tweezers, I swear? … that I recently switched to natural deodorant?
6:00 p.m.: panic city.
This is usually when I start worrying that some combination of lateness and extreme anxiety is going to ruin the evening for me, and tonight is no different. I’m sitting on the side of the bed and I’ve already unsuccessfully tried on:
a sequined top (why on Earth did I buy that?)
a cold-shoulder sweater that obviously snuck into my fucking closet
boots with a conservative heel (wtf)
jeggings (um, I do not believe in clothes I have to peel on—this is a violation)
lace (itchy)
something called “tapered peg leg trousers” (just use your imagination)
Not only do I have to throw all these clothes in the garbage before I leave, but I also have to seriously evaluate who the fuck I thought I was buying these clothes for, since obviously it wasn’t me. I like to wear nightgowns from Lands’ End. Why are there zippered pants in this suitcase? Who okayed the stabby underwire bra? No time for an existential crisis like the present, and honestly, when better to slide down a self-esteem spiral than when a cab is outside with the meter running and I’m about to embark on a full evening of casual judgment from inebriated strangers? It’s obviously the perfect time to rip the lid off Pandora’s box and launch a deep investigation into Why I Buy So Much Aspirational Clothing, right? I know my friends are currently putting on one final swipe of mascara while getting ready to walk out the door, but instead of getting my shit together, I’m trying to exorcise the demon inside me that purchased a fitted satin skirt.
6:10 p.m.: this is fine.
I’ve been sleeping in these high-waisted, black yoga pants and a scoop-neck T-shirt that has gone loose around the collar since my book tour stop in Omaha, so why not keep the party going and wear them out? I mean, who’s going to know. Okay, let’s be nakedly honest: I am wearing actual pajamas, not just real clothes I’ve fallen asleep in. I’m talking a nondescript pile of gauzy black fabrics that came from the sleepwear section at Kohl’s, worn outside of my house, where other people can see them. And not just to the grocery store—I mean I’ve worn them in meetings. During interviews. Onstage. These days, disgusting cozy clothes are my main sartorial vibe.
One Saturday night, in my early twenties, I was sitting alone on the floor in my room watching rom-coms on my combination television and VCR in the apartment I shared with my old roommate Joseph, who by that time was already knee-deep in his evening’s festivities, I’m sure, when our house phone rang. It was never for me, but I answered it anyway, and it was a girl whose friendship I maintained mostly because we liked to go dancing at the same Chicago clubs. And by “dance” I mean “drink a lot and sway.” I couldn’t tell you whether she liked horror movies or what kind of cell phone she had or if she was a vegetarian, but I knew that bitch liked a Grey Goose L’Orange with soda, no ice. It was after eleven when I brushed the crumbs off my sweatpants to get up and answer the phone, and if then was now, I would have had a hearty laugh at her proposition that I leave my warm apartment in the dead of night to meet her downtown in a dark warehouse with no chairs, but once upon a time I was fun, so I struggled into a tight pair of magenta polyester bell-bottoms and a shiny silver shirt (imagine this, I dare you), then took the bus (!) downtown, where I met her outside a club called Ontourage, spelled with an O because it was on Ontario Street. That’s the only thing you need to know to formulate an accurate mental picture of exactly what that place was like. Dudes with fresh fades wearing sunglasses at midnight accompanied gorgeous half-naked women on stilts past the bouncer, who was collecting twenty-dollar covers, and I was there dressed like I was about to shimmy down the Soul Train line. I paid the cover with a collection of crumpled bills I dug out of the couch cushions (I am not and have never been cute enough to have the charge dismissed) and was ushered into the cavernous club, where I made a beeline for the bar. I jammed myself between several men in silk, collared shirts (this place had a dress code, because it was all class, you see) and ordered a gin and tonic, which a young man wearing many chains over his T-shirt slithered over and paid for, unprompted. An hour later, he had purchased several more and per the terms of our unspoken nightlife contract was allowed to surreptitiously grind against my outer thigh in a far corner of the dance floor next to a speaker, while drunkenly slurring, “Let me see that ass,” into the side of my neck to the tune of “U Know What’s Up.” My neurotransmitters and synapses dulled by watered-down Tanqueray, I took him literally (omg) and proceeded to remove my pants in the middle of a fucking disco. I know that the mental image this creates is one in which I effortlessly slip a pair of silky trousers down my unstubbled legs and gracefully step out of them in one smooth motion, but nah—sweat and humidity (and possibly urine?) had given my pants an adhesive quality that required my tugging them over my thighs inch by constricting inch. At no point did anyone in close proximity grab my arm and ask just what the fuck I was doing, and my new boyfriend was clearly thrilled at the return he was getting on his investment (my stark white underpants glowing fluorescent under the neon lights). So when I was asked by security to leave the premises, I did so in a pair of Just My Size Cool Comfort™ briefs, with my soaking-wet glue pants balled up in my hand.
But tonight, the waist of my loose-fitting yoga pants is so high that I can tuck my nipples into it, which I am doing.
6:55 p.m.: i’m not that late.
If my Lyft doesn’t get lost, and there’s no traffic, and we hit all the green lights, and no pedestrian steps off the curb while texting right in front of this 2007 Camr
y, and we go sixty miles per hour on city streets, and I can figure out how to bend the space-time continuum, I will be only twenty-seven minutes late.
8:30 p.m.: i swore i was just gonna eat rice.
So far I have ordered: two cocktails (one on purpose, and the other I had to get to replace that one, because I didn’t want to tell anyone that I don’t really know what Lillet is, and when the drink came, I hated it and immediately replaced it with a wine, which, if we’re being honest, I didn’t really like, either); water—that we had to pay for—so I wouldn’t have to dry swallow a naproxen; a bread basket, which is fine, I guess, except it’s fucking health bread with seeds and that’s definitely going to be a problem on the way out; some baked-cheese business with herbs on top that is impossible to eat while looking sexy, thank God these hoes are my friends; a deconstructed designer salad that came piled high with shaved fennel and preserved lemon and asparagus ribbons, and yes, it was gross, but I want the people who love me to think I care about myself; and a fancy vegan dessert donut, which, come on, just why.
Wow, No Thank You. Page 2
