Pretty Hands
I met Frank at a Chinese nail salon in midtown yesterday-- it looked as if all the little Asian manicurists were pretty bemused by our presence there. One of them offered to buff my digits but I declined (as if having pretty hands is going to make things better). Frank's fiance Anna showed up a little later and made an appointment for herself-- that made the owner happy because she liked to see "a diverse palate" among her clientele. They did a good job though, Frank's chubby, once-filthy hands looked as soft and glossy as a little girl's.
We tried on our tuxes-- mine fit great, very slimming. His was way too short, and now he will have to run around Long Island like a panicked loon today in an attempt to make things right. I sympathize, if it were me I would be totally out of my fucking mind. I would just cease to exist as a functional person.
I don't think I'll ever get married. I would have to meet the world's most liberal woman, I'd have to love her and she'd have to love me, I'd have to be attracted to her and vice versa. I know people get married all the time and it's normal but I feel so out of the loop with this. The pressure's on, of course, but I 'm pretty sure that all the folks that are trying to push me towards that traditional route are going to one day get over their sore disappointment.
Today I have to go to Frank & Anna's crib in Inwood for pre-pre-wedding festivities. This will be day one of three. I'm a little uneasy about it for some reason but I'm sure I'll get over it soon enough. I'm bringing my freshman year photo album of course-- I paged through it last night, and man, I looked like an infant in those days.
Where the hell did those last 10 years go?