Limbo

That title pretty much describes the very unrequited "on-the-brink" feeling I've been experiencing the past month or so. I'm trying to see this test of patience as just something I needed to help me appreciate everything when it hits (patience is not my strong suit, I will admit), but it's hard not to be disappointed that things seem to be at a standstill. I think I understand the true meaning of the term "dying in the friendship of God but not being allowed to enter heaven," even though I in no way believe in that crap (not being Catholic or particularly religious). On a philosophical level, I think the past decade of my life has probably been a little bit limbo-riffic though -- lots of not-quite failures in love, life and career and seemingly no real significant forward movement in any one area (though I know if I look at it much more objectively, this description of my life is hardly true).

This "Dear Diary" moment was brought to you by the grave displeasure of waiting.

Don't bother me ... I'm spinstering!

For the first time in my long history of watching Antiques Road Show in the privacy of my own home, I experienced a moment of acute awareness about my own penchant for behaving like an elderly person, and it's given me a pretty good chapter topic for my essay book. The gist of it I confessed to a certain special someone that I happened to be talking to while it was happening (and the approximate time of the admission was around the early hour of 8:15 p.m.):

"I just want you to take in this moment, because it will never be more spinstery than this (God, I hope not): I am on the couch eating a cookie in my pajamas while watching some woman get her doilies appraised."

I decided I'm going to call this practice (and I might also remind you, I have a cat) "spinstering." So, you heard it here, and it's the new "it" word. I'm pretty sure if it were 1984, it would be deemed a "Sniglet."

Incidentally, that woman's doilies appraised for $70,000. So, if you were having sex or even just making out with someone at that very same moment, you can just eat your cash-poor heart out!

Mustache Competition Contestants vs. Has Been Female Figure Skaters

The old man bar in my neighborhood is kind of amazing. But I love it when I introduce someone new to it, because they find new characters to add to the cast. It's mostly always the same group: a mumbling man drinking red wine with an ear-flap winter hat and reading the newspaper from four days ago (probably unaware it's out of date), who signs over his social security checks directly to the bar; an old woman that has likely been coming there since the 70s that gets her hair helmet done once a week and never washes it and sips white wine spritzers while bitterly remembering her failed marriage; three perpetually-drunk, white-haired men that look like they could've participated in either a strong man or mustache competition in Coney Island in 1954. Last night, I took E. there for the first time, and she noted a new contender: a 50-something-year old woman in a canary yellow very trendy cable knit sweater with her hair pulled back tightly in a bun, kind of looking like Peggy Fleming. Her comment: "That woman looks like a former figure skating champion." Except she didn't mean she looked like a specific one; she just had the aura of someone that probably took the ice for the last time at some point in the early 80s.

New York is known to be full of celebrities, but I'm not quite sure this is what they mean by that.

singled out

Sometimes I think I need to take more advice from sane people, older than I, that don't feel the pressure to do things the traditional way and feel happy with the way their lives are turning out. I have plenty of friends that lead non-traditional lifestyles and have non-traditional relationships, but I don't feel like any of those lives resonate with me.

In general, I guess I think people need to encourage each other to be exactly who they are more often just to take the pressure off a little bit.

"in a relationship"

It's really funny how important Facebook has become at defining/affirming people's life choices. For example, we (both men and women) do not feel validated in our relationships/accept them as real until we can safely say we are "in a relationship" in a tiny social networking box. Even further, these relationships are not really real until they come with a link to the profile of the romantic co-conspirator. And, you know what? It feels good. It is a way to broadcast your own smart choices (if by "smart choices" we mean "finally choosing someone who will acknowledge happily and proudly that we officially belong to each other"). For me, having it finally makes me jarringly aware that it's been over 10 years since I could acknowledge an other in my life. And doing it this fast may have been misguided at 22 (the last time I was rash with it, pre-Facebook, and I think I've had a decade of discovering/paying the price). But at 34 and 40, it's just right. So, S., here we "officially" go ...

And, no more "Dear Diary" moments. I swear.

In related news, I am going to clean the hell out of two apartments now.

In other related news, I secretly hate you, Facebook. But it is a love/hate thing, so we're still cool.