to ply and prevail
Whenever people ask me how I like living in Houston, a question that usually follows my explanation that I’ve lived here most of my life, I’m usually at a loss about how to respond. Bizarrely apologetic yet irrationally defensive, I’m always trying to justify my decision rather than simply lay out the serendipitous sequence of events. Sequestered childhood + domineering parents + latent risk aversion + traces of agoraphobia = where we are today, Houston bred (if not born) for the last 21 years. Lately, this city feels more like a cavernous hole rather than a cloistered nest. Feel pretty goddamned alone a lot.
A. always manages to lift my mood even when I resist it fiercely, as I did tonight. He teased and flirted and listened and comforted, but I'm ashamed to admit my reluctance towards being appeased. It’s foolish, I know, but how ridiculous is it to conduct a relationship by phone? but I feel now that I’m all that much more appreciative of his kindness. Earlier I felt angry at my isolation, angry at the perceived desertion of my close friends, bewildered by the onslaught of new changes in my life, and irrationally resentful at all the individuals to whom, in my moment of dejection, I fully assigned blame.
It’s time I grow up. I am almost 26 years old.
* * *
One of the funniest moments in New York came as the Six train heaved its mighty length away from 33rd and slowly roiled toward its natural path downtown. We were running to catch the train to Union Square (for dinner with Amanda), and Aaron, being the boy and infinitely more sprightly, flew down the subway stairs and floated into a subway car as the doors began to close. He saw that I lagged behind and gamely tried to keep the doors from shutting. Seeing the doors recoil, he turned his back to find a seat, assuming I would dash through shortly. When he turned around again I was on the other side of the giant steel caterpillar as it began to crawl away, my fists clenched against the window and yelling, “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!” Don’t ask why that came out of my mouth, I must have only been able to reconcile desertion as merely a cruel jest of Fate. In truth I wasn’t terribly put out, but hey, everyone likes to pout once in awhile. He was waiting for me at the next stop and we made it to dinner just fine.
Dinner that night was at Casa Mono on Irving and E 14th, a tiny little tapas place that seemed just as pretentious as the petite hostess with a scarlet chiffon pashmina draped around her shoulders. None of us could really decipher the menu at first, but through ingenious tactics (brattily pestering the waiter and cleverly excavating numerous Latin roots), we ordered lamb and steak and seafood and other dishes despite protestations about lamb and seafood from the majority (uh... Amanda and me). We resoundingly rejected Aaron's plea for some corn dish that did seem enthusiastically trafficked by other patrons, and he was none too pleased with our veto. All was forgiven, though, once the food descended. It exceeded all expectations, prices be damned. We ate at the bar, which provided a full, intimate view the lively and fiery kitchen at work.
Later we walked to a really famous Italian bakery on First Ave, Veneiro's. The place was packed, and we scarfed down a small blueberry cheesecake and an Italian cream puff. I scolded him on eating the cream instead of putting it aside. We roamed around and went briefly to a lounge called People to meet W. and J. Hailed a taxi home shortly thereafter.
* * *
A. insisted that we have a proper dinner Tuesday night for my early birthday, so he took me to Jean Georges, located in a corner of the lobby of one of Trump’s vilely ostentatious towers. We were seated in the formal dining room, where... uh, right, we were the youngest there by decades. I felt slightly self-conscious for being so young, and part of me yearned to be ever so slightly more glamorous and worldly for such an extravagant setting. The food was fantastic, and I melted under the inexorable romance of the wine.
* * *
Central park on Tuesday afternoon: pictures later. Gorgeous arboreal paths, cool breezes, two wedding parties staging various photos under canopies of verdant leaves... Actually, in one of the pictures I asked a man to take a photo for me, and only after I handed him the camera did I realize that he was sitting there... massaging... his wife’s... feet.... Ugh. I pretended to not notice but vigorously, VIGOROUSLY wiped the camera with my shirt afterwards. Sorry about your camera, honey.
Came back Houston on Wednesday and flew straight to Atlanta Thursday. Starting to take flying in stride. Home now... more New York updates later...
Main Entry: in·ex·o·ra·ble
Etymology: Latin inexorabilis, from in- + exorabilis pliant; from exorare to prevail upon; from ex- + orare to speak
: not to be persuaded or moved by entreaty
A. always manages to lift my mood even when I resist it fiercely, as I did tonight. He teased and flirted and listened and comforted, but I'm ashamed to admit my reluctance towards being appeased. It’s foolish, I know, but how ridiculous is it to conduct a relationship by phone? but I feel now that I’m all that much more appreciative of his kindness. Earlier I felt angry at my isolation, angry at the perceived desertion of my close friends, bewildered by the onslaught of new changes in my life, and irrationally resentful at all the individuals to whom, in my moment of dejection, I fully assigned blame.
It’s time I grow up. I am almost 26 years old.
* * *
One of the funniest moments in New York came as the Six train heaved its mighty length away from 33rd and slowly roiled toward its natural path downtown. We were running to catch the train to Union Square (for dinner with Amanda), and Aaron, being the boy and infinitely more sprightly, flew down the subway stairs and floated into a subway car as the doors began to close. He saw that I lagged behind and gamely tried to keep the doors from shutting. Seeing the doors recoil, he turned his back to find a seat, assuming I would dash through shortly. When he turned around again I was on the other side of the giant steel caterpillar as it began to crawl away, my fists clenched against the window and yelling, “ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME?!” Don’t ask why that came out of my mouth, I must have only been able to reconcile desertion as merely a cruel jest of Fate. In truth I wasn’t terribly put out, but hey, everyone likes to pout once in awhile. He was waiting for me at the next stop and we made it to dinner just fine.
Dinner that night was at Casa Mono on Irving and E 14th, a tiny little tapas place that seemed just as pretentious as the petite hostess with a scarlet chiffon pashmina draped around her shoulders. None of us could really decipher the menu at first, but through ingenious tactics (brattily pestering the waiter and cleverly excavating numerous Latin roots), we ordered lamb and steak and seafood and other dishes despite protestations about lamb and seafood from the majority (uh... Amanda and me). We resoundingly rejected Aaron's plea for some corn dish that did seem enthusiastically trafficked by other patrons, and he was none too pleased with our veto. All was forgiven, though, once the food descended. It exceeded all expectations, prices be damned. We ate at the bar, which provided a full, intimate view the lively and fiery kitchen at work.
Later we walked to a really famous Italian bakery on First Ave, Veneiro's. The place was packed, and we scarfed down a small blueberry cheesecake and an Italian cream puff. I scolded him on eating the cream instead of putting it aside. We roamed around and went briefly to a lounge called People to meet W. and J. Hailed a taxi home shortly thereafter.
* * *
A. insisted that we have a proper dinner Tuesday night for my early birthday, so he took me to Jean Georges, located in a corner of the lobby of one of Trump’s vilely ostentatious towers. We were seated in the formal dining room, where... uh, right, we were the youngest there by decades. I felt slightly self-conscious for being so young, and part of me yearned to be ever so slightly more glamorous and worldly for such an extravagant setting. The food was fantastic, and I melted under the inexorable romance of the wine.
* * *
Central park on Tuesday afternoon: pictures later. Gorgeous arboreal paths, cool breezes, two wedding parties staging various photos under canopies of verdant leaves... Actually, in one of the pictures I asked a man to take a photo for me, and only after I handed him the camera did I realize that he was sitting there... massaging... his wife’s... feet.... Ugh. I pretended to not notice but vigorously, VIGOROUSLY wiped the camera with my shirt afterwards. Sorry about your camera, honey.
Came back Houston on Wednesday and flew straight to Atlanta Thursday. Starting to take flying in stride. Home now... more New York updates later...
Main Entry: in·ex·o·ra·ble
Etymology: Latin inexorabilis, from in- + exorabilis pliant; from exorare to prevail upon; from ex- + orare to speak
: not to be persuaded or moved by entreaty