A Taylor Swift Range of Emotions

I have one flaw I’m mostly proud of and not ashamed of, that flaw being the way I fall deeply in love with people, places and things almost instantly.

My beloved Annette is proof that I fall in love with people so quickly, we’re attached at the hip (and by our address). Annette lives on the other side of my building with her dog, Gemma. I could write a separate blog post just about our parallel experiences. She’s away for two weeks and I miss her very much, feeling aware of what a mirror she has become for me, teaching me to feel my feelings shamelessly but with a sense of humor and appreciation for irony. Annette may very well be one of my soul mates- one of those people you meet for the purpose of seeing yourself through their eyes, linking pinkies and finally learning to talk to yourself the way you would talk to someone you think the world of. Days before she left for Tel Aviv, we were on our rooftop, shooting the shit with a bottle of wine, breaking any promises we made about drinking less. I could feel my tear ducts fighting to steady, like they were freshly filled ice trays being carefully carried over from the sink to the freezer, trying not to spill. 

I needed a cry. Like, a REAL GOOD cry, the kind that is bound to sneak up on you if you don’t let it out- the uncomfortable side effects of being a deeply feeling person with a Taylor Swift range of emotions on the regular. (I was on my period, but still.) 

I put on a cancer movie- one of those movies where just by looking at the promo poster, you know someone will die and you’ll cry lots and then you can get back to your regularly scheduled programming (and suppression of your annoying emotions that no one has time for). Our Friend. If you haven’t seen this movie, I don’t recommend it, unless you need one of those can’t- breathe-snot-everywhere-rocking-back-and-forth-in-fetal-position-hugging-your-throw-pillow kinda cries. Spoiler alert: Dakota Johnson gets everything she ever wants in life with husband Casey Afleck and then still dies a devastating, slow death, but not before she gets her bucket list fulfilled by best friend Jason Segal and writes letters to her two beautiful girls for every major life milestone. And then dies. I didn’t have a mirror close but I’m sure this was some Claire Daines in Homeland ugly crying. This movie was the stuff of adult nightmares because if you worry yourself sick the way that I do professionally, you crawl down a “this bullshit can really happen” rabbithole and you hang out down there, questioning your existence and everything you’ve ever invested energy into. I could probably cry on command thinking about this movie (seriously, don’t watch it) but after Netflix eventually asked me “if I’m still watching?” and shut itself off, I sat on my couch surrounded by candlelight with the TV off like a psychopath, thinking about what would be on my life list. Personally, my neurotic type A side thinks it’s poor planning to wait so long to do the things you know you want to do but you’re too chicken-shit to do them until some tumor makes itself right at home in your stomach and you have to race against the poison-pinata that is sure to burst open and engulf your whole body. 

I’m a firm believer that even our darkest thoughts can be spun into something shiny, like expensive PR we train our brains to handle. Sitting in my creepy, candle lit cave, I made a list of the things I say I’ll do and then circled the ones I actually want to do - the ones I’d put on a bucket list but and be mad at myself for not doing sooner. 

My list:

I hired a personal trainer last week. She asked what my goals were and I said, “I’d really just like to be hated for my hotness.” Why? Because looking like a perfect person on the outside is fun and feels good and I’m entirely content being that shallow. This week, in my fragile state, I’ve had the surreal experience of watching someone who used to be intimately part of my life appear on a reality tv show (essentially) about sex addicts. I had a lot of feelings, trying to remember what this past life felt like in the moment and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t imagine what standing next to this person felt like. Even if you photoshopped me into every photo we ever took together, I just couldn’t see it. I’ve been fixated on this idea of physical perfection and watching ten beautiful strangers compete with their bodies made me think- I’d like to achieve that level of perfection, just to someday ruin it with children and happiness and the anything else that hardly crosses your mind when your body is a societal golden ticket. I’ve worked hard for my brain and my heart and despite knowing better, I’m drawn to outwardly perfect, beautiful people with much work to do in those other departments. What a superpower it would be to have all three locked down before my remaining life milestones get my ego in check. 

I want to get my private pilot's license. This is a new one for me and my beloved skeptics can sod off. I had the privilege of flying a Cessna around Manhattan with a good friend of mine a couple of weeks ago and I’ve never felt more high, pun intended. The next time someone asks me when was the last time I was genuinely so happy, I could barely form complete sentences, I’ll show them a photo of a girl in heels and a dress, grinning like an idiot, flying a goddamn plane. It might not happen until later on this year, maybe not until next year, but dammit, I’ll get my wings. When you try to resist what’s meant for you, it ultimately hunts you down. I found a little airplane charm this morning while walking Leo and thought, “Well played, Universe, well played.” My dear friend Dustin saw a photo of the charm and said “She [the Universe] doesn’t know you AT ALL” and I replied, “Sometimes, I wish she didn’t but I suppose I’m glad she does.”

Anyone who has read my writing for a while knows I’m a slave to my book. I’d truly like to finish writing it and publish it, even if the only person who reads it is my mom. Finishing this book means talking about the uglier scabs I’ve earned from ages 16 until now- the kinds of experiences that I write about and wish I could go back in time to give myself a hug and love her more. Forgive her faster. Give her more compassion for not knowing any better. 

I’d like to sing more. So much more. I miss singing and should stop pretending I’m not proud of things I’m actually kinda good at. Like singing. I find peace in knowing I could walk down the streets of Brooklyn, singing “You’ve Got the Love” and still wouldn’t be the craziest person in Brooklyn. Not even close. 

I want to give myself permission to need people in return. I’d be okay with never being called resilient ever again. Strength is exhausting. I want the softness, ease and the support I give so freely. I don’t want to be the rock or the one who gets applauded for how many hits she can take time and time again. I want the weighted blanket experience and need to ask for it. I want to memorize my emergency contact’s phone number without taking inventory of who’s most likely to show up. I’ll never stop reminding my introverted heart how badly we all need each other and it’s a braver thing to ask than to parade independence like you don’t need anyone. Stuffing rose quartz between your cleavage doesn’t heal your heart the way that people can.

This last one is more about what I want to do more of - I want to be the friend that shows up, the friend that cares and loves. And falls in love with people, places and things almost instantly. Even when that love and effort feels exhausting, I want to love the most. 

You can cauterize the things you want but it’s such a temporary fix. Those wounds reopen and can’t truly be closed off and I’ll call them wounds because it hurts more to not do the thing. How boring life would be if we just closed ourselves off from the wants that consume us. You don’t magically stop craving your cravings or stop needing what you’re so sure you need. I don’t want to wait to take risks until the last moments when I have nothing left to lose. With my Taylor Swift range of emotions- I don’t wanna wait for our lives to be over. (Doo doo doo doo doo, IYKYK.) 

I strung my new little airplane charm around an old chain and I haven’t taken it off all day. It might start to feel heavy around my neck but so are all the other things I want and I can say with certainty, it’s all worth the weight and the wait. I promise I won’t wait so long.