Party On
I know that I am not well when I do not do my favorite things. I did not go to MEAT v. Death Guild because I decided I had enough time for a quick disco nap and awoke at 2 am. I did not go to my aerials class because the afternoon's search for a zombie prom dress left me anxious and self-conscious in a way that made turning myself upside down on ropes while wearing an unflattering lycra leotard profoundly unappealing.
Incidentally, if you are trying on overpriced dresses at Jessica McClintock and the sales associate asks you "What's the occasion?" "I'm looking for an ugly dress for Zombie Prom" is the wrong answer. The unquestioned winner in the Ugly Prom Dress competition is Ross, where no one cares if you are planning to gleefully destroy the sparkly polyester monstrosity that you are trying to wiggle into.
I can't be that unwell. I went to a lovely house party thrown by some nice people who are fleeing Ess Eff in favor of the East Bay. D brought a contraption that squeezes the absinthe out of shrieking green fairies. M demonstrated his powers of lawyerly persuasion by nearly convincing me that taking an international law class with John Yoo might be a good idea. People tried to drink out of shot glasses made of ice. A boy tried to dance with me in the hallway. Our hosts' many cosmopolitan friends geeked out over language and travel. I did my best by conversing in a number of languages and telling the tale of the Worst Bathroom in All of China, but I was completely outdone by B, who had a story about being arrested in the Kurdish region of Iraq. His story had a happy ending, which is unusual for tales of arrest in war-torn Middle Eastern nations. If I'd had some sort of storytelling trophy, I would have gladly awarded it to him.
And so, my mental well-being is mixed. My sense of accomplishment is mixed. My victory over ugly dress shopping is mixed. Later this week I will wear this ugly dress with makeup that makes me look dead and rotting and I will dance on a box. And the next time I take a disco nap because going to the club, I am setting an alarm.
Incidentally, if you are trying on overpriced dresses at Jessica McClintock and the sales associate asks you "What's the occasion?" "I'm looking for an ugly dress for Zombie Prom" is the wrong answer. The unquestioned winner in the Ugly Prom Dress competition is Ross, where no one cares if you are planning to gleefully destroy the sparkly polyester monstrosity that you are trying to wiggle into.
I can't be that unwell. I went to a lovely house party thrown by some nice people who are fleeing Ess Eff in favor of the East Bay. D brought a contraption that squeezes the absinthe out of shrieking green fairies. M demonstrated his powers of lawyerly persuasion by nearly convincing me that taking an international law class with John Yoo might be a good idea. People tried to drink out of shot glasses made of ice. A boy tried to dance with me in the hallway. Our hosts' many cosmopolitan friends geeked out over language and travel. I did my best by conversing in a number of languages and telling the tale of the Worst Bathroom in All of China, but I was completely outdone by B, who had a story about being arrested in the Kurdish region of Iraq. His story had a happy ending, which is unusual for tales of arrest in war-torn Middle Eastern nations. If I'd had some sort of storytelling trophy, I would have gladly awarded it to him.
And so, my mental well-being is mixed. My sense of accomplishment is mixed. My victory over ugly dress shopping is mixed. Later this week I will wear this ugly dress with makeup that makes me look dead and rotting and I will dance on a box. And the next time I take a disco nap because going to the club, I am setting an alarm.