Someone touched my face in Florida
and I broke in my orthotics trying to refill my birth control prescription
Well, here we are. The past two weeks have been a ride.
Some highlights from my end:
I visited my Saba and Savta in Florida and almost immediately regretted it
I love them both deeply and am so grateful I got to spend time with them, but both can be true—it’s also worth noting that my grandfather is a pretty complicated person who has Fox news on all day and sometimes likes to bait me with political “conversations” :). That was a nice undercurrent to the out of control feeling of being in a new environment while getting Omicron wildfire updates from New York. By day two of five of the trip, outdoor dining (though I know logically was safe) felt totally overwhelming. I became hyper aware of how others’ behaviors differed from my own and the germ-infested walls were caving in. After dinner one night a woman we’d spoken to briefly at the bar came over to our table to say goodbye and CARESSED MY CHIN/CHEEK saying that I looked like my grandmother. Touched my face. Touched my face with her hand that likely had been in/near her mouth just minutes before and, given her comfort with touching someones face who she doesn’t even know the name of, I can only assume is not dropping sweet sweet droplets of hand sanitizer in her palm before doing so. Enter stress diarrhea. I’d normally welcome an endless flow of poop with open arms/asshole since I’m chronically constipated but of course this explosive episode sent me into researching COVID numbers x wastewater in the area (there had been some detected in Miami, gorgeous to know). At that moment—legs jiggling and sweat dripping under my mask in the bathroom—I began counting down the days to when I’d be back home (and to a testing site). Yes, back to the center of it all in Brooklyn, but to the familiar—my apartment of eight years, a space I could predict and control…or so I thought…
My landlord increased rent by 13%
I learned this on my last day in Florida
I am moving. We love we cherish we celebrate this man. Pro tip: don’t answer phone calls from your landlord. I need to be out by March 21st. March 21st is my birthday.
Cancelled a “we made it” Christmas/New Years trip to Paris
I’m bummed but also it turns out I will always relish in cancelled plans (and full refunds). Also, I’m moving. And yes, I have until March but I’m the kind of person who stops buying groceries a week ahead of a three day trip, so needless to say I’ve started packing and I have a moving spreadsheet (my retired project manager brain is alive and well). Plus, it’s been fun to reflect on the deeply amped ways I’d been preparing for this momentous European getaway:
I paused all purchases for the home (food and otherwise)—as though going away for a ten day trip erased my concept of life after my return.
I felt the need to reinvent my entire wardrobe—which in this case was somewhat true since I donated most of my non-homebound clothing forgetting why I would ever need to wear pants with a zipper.
this lead me on a wild ride for a last minute winter coat. Mine is old and no longer insulated. I saved this to the last minute and attempted to shop for a parka while in Florida but there are no coats there. This makes sense.
I bought a new pair of sneakers to help with my bunion induced foot pain + a pair of orthotic inserts for added cushion/gait correction.
After wearing them for one day around the neighborhood I panicked that the unbelievably comfortable shoes were too large and went back to the store for a gut check. I learned about the ever-helpful heel lock trick and now my heels don’t slip out of the shoe when I walk!
I broke in these sneakers + orthotics in a frantic mission to get my birth control filled. No pharmacy in walking distance had the pills in stock and I had to go to each one in person to confirm this. At 3:45pm, one hour and fifteen minutes ahead of closing time, I found a CVS in Manhattan that had the pills I needed. Unfortunately, the pharmacist at this location was having a terrible day and screamed at me many times, telling me they were almost closing and I hadn’t transferred my prescription over correctly. I left her with my information and went outside to hope and wait and also to cry.
Buried the lead: I updated my expired passport in under three weeks. The decision to book a trip to France was a bit spontaneous, a post-booster November celebration. My boyfriend and I met online in the height of COVID (part I) and have eaten together at a restaurant maybe 4.5 times (the half is for a time we spiraled and had to leave) and have never been to a bar together. We felt like this trip would make up for all the “real” dates we never we able to go on. And then I realized my passport expired in January 2019. The turnaround time for the passport agency expedited mail-in service is about 5-7 weeks and famously not to be trusted. I’m afraid to publicly describe how I got my passport updated in under three weeks but it involved a trip to Boston and intense agita. Email/DM me if you have questions.
All to say, the universe caught me in a wacky dance of trying to anticipate and control as much as possible and—even with the truly fantastic job I did—things still slithered away, changed directions, and fully upended. And I’m OK.
In the words of my Saba: “Don’t worry, it will happen anyway.”
Stay safe out there, but mostly don’t be too hard on yourself. You’re doing the best you can and even the bare minimum (i.e. waking up, eating something, bathing, calling a friend, taking a walk) is great.
✨P.S. a fun, food-filled bonus newsletter is coming Monday✨
March 21 is my birthday and I have been lacing my shoes like that for years... Maybe we are twins separated at birth 😅