Committing to a one-year waxing plan, I braced myself for the emotional state I’d be in when faced with the decision to renew. The plan, paid over four installments, redeemable in Boston, New York, or Miami, offered more flexibility for relocation than romantic hesitation. Twelve months later, no need for celebration, I found myself just taking advantage of breathing easy at this occasion.
…is the message you receive when you puke in a German hostel bed, and its other occupant breaks three years of silence to interview to work with you.
Let the record note that it took less time for me to reconcile with tequila.
He says to me, “How can I know?”
He says to me, “How do you know?”
He says to me, “What does it even mean?”
His questions rest with us, tucked in tightly between the covers and darkness.
I’m the type of girl whose blog automatically assumes every post I write should be tagged “penis”.
What’s mine is yours, and yours is mine
When I need you, and when I don’t, what’s mine is yours, and yours is mine
When you notice my low rise socks ride up a heel’s worth of extra fabric, what’s mine is yours, and yours is mine
When you have the feet that fill my day-old dirty socks, when you find yourself across town, across the river, for the night, what’s mine smells less than what’s yours.
While I don’t like how I look every day, I’m pretty sure if I looked this way in forty years, I’d be pretty damn pleased with myself. So I strut, and tell myself to live life like I’m 60.