on beauty.

When cars honk at me when they drive by, I may glare or flip them off.  There’s a smile somewhere inside me, though.

When a waiter leaves his name and number on top of my receipt when I’m out with my girlfriends, I’ll call him a creep, but I really kind of like it.

When strangers on the train ask for my card, I don’t give it out; but really, I’m flattered.

Notwithstanding, when I look in the mirror, I’m sometimes repulsed with myself.  I call myself uncute; undeserving; unattractive. It’s like I’m a different person, inside versus outside, and it’s more than a little bit unsettling.   

There surely must be a balance, somewhere between my insecurities and image anxieties and the world of cheap compliments.  Maybe some of the honks and numbers and requests are sincere, but maybe they’re not; maybe I’m only desirable when it looks like there’s something in it, a cash reward, each dollar spent earns a point towards valuable merchandise!  

In so many ways, this is where I see J as something of a savior, a hero, a cheering crowd that loses no intensity despite the sleet and pelting rain on the playing field. He loves me even when my tears have left black trails down my cheeks, when my hair is unruly and ridiculous, when I angrily hang up the phone and pout that I can’t go out because I have nothing to wear, and I’ll never be cute enough to be seen by society, ever again.  Little by little, his constant presence reassures me. I’m sure that I frustrate him, but he sticks by me just the same.  He holds my hand and pulls me out, dripping, from my dark pools of pity and self-loathing.  His love, he gives freely; his appreciation, his adoration, his absolute admiration is apparent.  For the first time in cognizant memory, I feel wholly loved by another.  His love is building me to be something beautiful, and it’s a beauty I (at last) can understand.

It shouldn’t have to be this hard.

This is one of those weeks that’s been going just so. ridiculously. slowly. I hate living for 5:00, and I’ve done it three days in a row now. I’ll just find myself staring at the little oppressive clock in the corner of my screen, and it’s miserable.

Here’s the thing: I’m torn (No, do not cue Natalie Imbruglia). Generally, I’m very satisfied at my job. I’m paid comfortably for what I do, and my days are rarely very stressful. I have no reason to complain. Except.

In June my boss told me that, in appreciation for all the great work I was doing, they were promoting me. I was doing said great work, I’ll note, because our other staff writer quit in march. Quick aside: he was not replaced until September. Repeat: September. This means I was doing essentially two jobs, so I took the promotion without much hesitation.

But it didn’t come. And didn’t come. And didn’t come still. Finally, management said they thought I’d be better off if they waited until my hire-anniversary date. This is how passive of an employee I am: I even bought that. Sure, I said; I’ll wait. Sounds good.

My hire date passed in October. Do not pass go, do not get a yearly review, do not get promoted.  It is December this week, people. What! The! Hell! I talked to management. “Paperwork,” they said; “it takes a long time.” It was about here that I went to the grievance committee. I could have just sucked it up, but you know what? I’m tired of sucking it up. The grievance board said they were appalled, and proceeded to tell me that I’m within my rights to demand backpay to March, when I became the solo staffer, the ridin’ the range cowgirl of a writing hero. Or something.

I’m not really a demanding girl, though, and this kind of thing isn’t easy for me. J’s the lawyer for a reason: I’m just not confrontational. I know, I know, I should be able to stand up for myself a heck of a lot more easily than this.

I took the advice of the committee, and my friends, and my parents, and sent an email to management explaining my dissatisfaction. I haven’t heard back, and frankly I feel pretty miserable. In short, I feel something like an ungrateful wench.

In my own little world, yes, I feel mistreated and strung along and angry. I have been doing a lot of work above and beyond what’s required, and it’s insulting that I’m paid at the same grade as our new girl. The larger scheme of things, though, paints a very different picture. I really do have it pretty good. I have a lot of flexibility, and I really feel privileged. I don’t have kids. I don’t have debt. I’m only a few years out of school. There are people in our company with a lot more going on who are much older than me and who are paid less. It’s thoughts like these that make me feel pretty much lousy.

I’m just excited for it to be over. Till then, well, it’s going to be drinks after work (makes five come sooner, surely) (detox? what detox?), and my marvelous powers of imagination. It’ll work out. I love my job! The people I work with are amazing! I have the coolest life! Keep saying that, magda; one of these days it’ll come true.

Back, and beginning detox.

OMG. One of J’s twenty-something relatives in New Orleans, a great girl working in NY these days, would say this– O M G, the letters, as an expression. At first it caught me off guard; we’re aren’t in an instant message, honey. By the end my time there, though, I found it pretty catchy. As in, OMG, I had the greatest weekend.

I’ve met all of J’s immediate family in New York. The South Texas/New Orleans crowd was new to me, but they were all AMAZING. All of them. So warm, and welcoming; I’m glad I was there, instead of home (which, at least where I come from, is hard to pull off). It also helped that they had a gallon bottle of vodka in the freezer, heh heh.

It was my first trip to New Orleans; I couldn’t compare it to pre-Katrina conditions, clearly, but I thought it was great. We could walk to the quarter from the condo, and J and I spend lots of awwwww moments holding hands and looking in shops. The weather was warm, there was so much to see, and hey, it was Thanksgiving. I love love love the fall; absolutely the best season, even if palm trees and bayous are involved.

But the food, the food was the most brilliant thing. Thanksgiving, clearly, was fantastic, and (following course) I ate far too much. I gorged myself throughout the whole weekend, though; this was not the usual “eat too much Turkey but make up for it over the weekend,” oh no. This was full on, coffee with full cream and beignets at breakfast, giant meat and cheese muffelettas and a cocktail at lunch, a beer later in the afternoon (because who can resist a “big ass beers to go” sign? Seriously.), chips, guacamole, and other fatty snacks back at the condo, probably with a vodka tonic, then a giant hamburger, a baked potato, and gumbo at dinner (probably with another beer). And drinks when we went out after that, of course.

Rinse. Repeat.

Result: detox time. Arrrg, I feel like such a cow. It was all so delicious, and I don’t regret it, but the problem is this: its Christmas, and one of the things I love about Christmas is the cookies and the drinks and the delicious, delicious party foods. I want to eat it all, but I want to be able to wear my skinny jeans with confidence when I’m home for Christmas. Answer: more time in the gym, lots of water, and discretion. I can do it, yes I can.

If today’s shopping expedition is any indication of how I’ll be eating at home, I’d say I’m in pretty good shape, though. We flew back to DC this afternoon, and I have seriously not been hungry. I stopped in at Whole Foods on my way back to my place, and I did a whole tour of the premises. I tried to sell myself on some nice cheese, or some pasta, or any of my usual favorites in the frozen entree section (Hey, don’t judge. Cooking is hard when it’s just for one. I end up with loads of leftovers and scraps of ingredients that basically mean I eat the same damn thing for two weeks; defeats part of the purpose, I say. But anyway). I just couldn’t interest myself. Here is what I bought … drumroll please … (a) lowfat vanilla yogurt and (b) skim milk. Huh.

The great news is, though, that it’s officially Christmas; only a month to go, so all the music and decorations can stop vexing me (the pilgrims have SO been shafted, seriously) and start enchanting me.

gaaah.

J and I are leaving for New Orleans in, oh, twenty minutes. He comes over after work. He decides that he has to take a shower RIGHT NOW, and proceeds to unpack his clothes, strip down, and waltz around like there’s no problem. Oh yeah, and he barely says hello to me. (Pardon me while I vent; it’ll be short-lived).

Okay, so I get stressed when I travel. This has always been true. But this? Gaaah! Also: I can hear him in the shower. He’s angry. “Do not fucking rush me,” he says to the tile. “I can’t believe this shit.” Well, J, that makes two of us. What the hell.

He can vent by cursing out my bathroom; meanwhile, I’ll write, and take slow sips of wine. Mmmm.

Notwithstanding this blip, there is so much that I’m grateful for this year. Especially him; really, he tops the list. If we miss the flight; well, that might call for a reassessment. And if he keeps this tone, I might lose it. But still.

Basically, I walked to Maryland.

J embarrassed himself pretty heartily by leaving his keys at our dinner party Saturday–and not realizing till we stumbled back to his apartment, circa 2am. Leave it to me to one-up him.

Our friends live near U street. Sunday afternoon, I ended up having brunch with some of my girlfriends in Adams Morgan–which, for those of you not familiar with DC geography, is about 6 blocks from U street. Playing the helpful, spectacular-in-all-respects girlfriend, I said hey, I’ll swing by the U street place before I come home and pick up the keys.

Which would have been great, had I not gotten lost. Like, 45 blocks northward lost. Like, in ten more minutes I would have hit the Maryland border lost. Way to go, magda.

I’m not good at directions generally. (Exhibit A: my car has gps. Nonetheless, I regularly detour 30, 35 minutes out of the way. Regularly. I can’t help it; I get it from my mom. Blame her). But, at least here, I had some semblance of good intentions, howsoever misguided.

I know they live on 14th, and I know that 14th goes into downtown. My thinking, once I hit 14th, was that either way I went, I’d either (a) hit their condo or (b) hit downtown, and I could adjust accordingly. I failed to consider the possibility that, from where I was standing, I would have to pass their condo to get to downtown. It was not an either-or scenario, and I chose poorly.

I started walking, and things were looking good. The streets were very unhelpfully named–Euclid, Fontaine, that kind of thing. I was looking for the letters I know and love (in this instance, specifically, U). The streets were going alphabetically, albeit by bizarre names rather than letters, and they were increasing–I figured they’d run out, and then we’d get to the letters. I should have started noticing that the neighborhood wasn’t so cool anymore. The buildings were looking a lot more ghetto. Suddenly, not one sign was in English. This was the neighborhood where the afro-caribbean liquor/deli/laundromat has irons over the windows; where the panamanian grocery has apparent drug-deals going on right outside; where the only words I understand are “hey sexy baby, how ’bout some lovin’?”

Enter magda, skinny designer jeans, big sunglasses, stylin’ coach bag. AWESOME. Someone, MAGDA, does not belong.

A rational person would have turned around blocks and blocks ago. That’s what J told me, anyway, when I gave him the umm, we have a problem here call once the streets ran out–AND THEN STARTED OVER. All of the sudden, I went from Yates or something street to Allison.

“Irate” is probably the best word to sum up J’s sentiments at that moment. He looked me up on google maps. (oh how I love technology). “Fuck, Magda, you’re practically to Maryland! Why the hell are you walking NORTH?”

Umm. Yes, I should have asked directions. I don’t actually know why I didn’t. I thought I had it under control? I really wasn’t worried? I live in a blissfully naive world where hi, I’m magda, and despite my idiotic mistakes everything always works out for me? Tough to tell.

The happy moral, of course, is that I turned around, and about an hour later, ended up where I was supposed to be all along, and made it safely home. J won’t talk about it anymore. I still find the situation very hilarious, however. It was an adventure! A part of the city I never would have otherwise seen! Or something.

Except, I think I’m crippled. Oh My Lord, I was so not wearing walking shoes. I was wearing adorable flats that, while certainly more practical for walking than, say, my three inch boots or the various heels currently lining my closet, have left me in a silent period of mourning for their sadly worn-down soles. Not to mention my be-blistered feet. I nearly died today at work. I do not mean this figuratively.

I have a propensity for extremely impractical shoes. Come to my office sometime, and look at the bottom shelf of my bookshelf: it’s its own mini-closet, filled with adorable professional-esque shoes. That girl who has her pants rolled up all funny over her flats/flip-flops/tennis shoes on the train? Yeah, she’s me, and she’s going to kick it up into something glamorous once at work. I don’t like to wear ‘em out on the metro, you know.

In any event, today, just walking in those babies–any of them–was an excrutiating struggle, and I nearly tripped, twice. Both times in front of people, and I only hope they think I’m just a silly girl in silly shoes (as opposed, say, to assuming that I’m trashed at work or something). I almost kept on my pumas. Almost.

Needless to say, I skipped my run again today. Confession: I was never a runner till I started dating J. He’s hard-core; he does marathons and everything. He’s under the misapprehension that I’m training for a half-marathon. HA. Ahahahaha. Seeing as the farthest I can go is, oh, 2.5 miles, I’d say the only way I cross the finish line is on a stretcher. It’ll be amusing, no doubt. If I keep this up, though, I’ll likely have a way out. Feet not working = disqualification, surely.

growing up?

It used to be that Saturday night would find me out … well, let’s just say “out,” getting up to all kinds of mischief.

Last night J and I went over to the condo of some friends of ours who’ve just moved in together. They cooked dinner, we brought wine, and we had a very sophisticated urban-chic couples-only dinner party. And I liked it.

Should I feel old? Or is this just what growing up is all about?

I’m a bit alarmed at how quickly this whole couple-thing has hit me. J and I have been dating for a little over a year now, and really, I couldn’t be happier. But there’s something in the single life that I really miss. How hard it is to keep up with my single friends, for instance. Granted, most of my best single friends are out of state. I moved to DC from a rainier and happier clime , where my family and school friends largely remain. Keeping up with them is hard, but that’s rather irrespective of the couple thing. I’m talking about my new friends here, scant as they are (and dwindling, surely).

It probably didn’t help that I threw myself into dating J, oh, two months after moving here. It was the right thing to do as I’m absolutely enamored with the guy, but it made forging real relationships harder (especially in this city, but I’ll save that for another post). I hate feeling like I’m second-rating my newbie friends because they aren’t a couple we can hang with, or because I’m doing something J-related, um, all weekend. The biggest problem? I’m no longer able to do spur-of-the-moment. I used to be great at just calling people up, saying hey, let’s go downtown, or how about a late lunch. I do that kind of thing with J sometimes, but I feel like I just don’t have that kind of freedom anymore on the larger life scale. Sigh. Just as our relationship hits the comfortable, “wow this love thing is great but we actually have to work at it” stage, I find myself scrambling to keep my friendships alive, too. This adulthood thing? Not all it’s cracked up to be. But awfully fun to dress up and pretend in for awhile.

so un-comcastic.

There was a time, in the not-so-distant past, when magda shelled out an exorbitant percentage of her writer’s salary for premium cable, which (they told me) came conveniently bundled with phone and internet. Really, I was only after the internet. After a year of comcast’s total fascism, I bailed, canceling all but internet (because really, can a girl survive without internet?). The sad truth of it is, I just wasn’t using it. I watch a total of three shows. (a) the Today Show, which I miss roughly 3 days a week because, um, I wake up in J’s apartment; (b) Grey’s Anatomy, which is free online; (c) Sex & the City on demand, all of which I’ve seen and most of which I actually own on dvd. J is the only person who ever called the phone, because his office phone can only dial local numbers.

The reason I cancelled wasn’t even about the money–it was all principle. I have a hard time paying into an institution; paying for something that isn’t valuable, that isn’t up to par. I don’t believe in comcast; I think they’re full of shit. An example, thus: When J was trying to connect his laptop to my internet, it took one of their technicians an hour to tell him that he “needed to talk to the manufacturer.” That’s just preposterousness, in my books.

Seriously, though! It wasn’t always like this, where the customer got screwed because there was corporate profit to be made. I’d like to step back into my grandparents’ world, realizing that it’s clearly far from the ideal we make it, and just take time to appreciate life, and each other, and grocery shopping and listening to the radio and all that. Anymore, I think we’re too caught up in the end goal, the crossing-off-ness to really appreciate where we are.

At the end of it, I’m here, watching Grey’s wirelessly, and drinking a bottle of wine in bed, waiting for J to come back from his big fancy job. My grandparents? Well, I guess I’d just say that they’d be as surprised to land in my life as I’d be in theirs. And I’m ok with that.

breaking point.

It may have been my company, still dragging its feet on the promotion it promised in JUNE. Or maybe it was my boss, showing alarming tendencies of being a slacker and not (I feel) appreciating the effort I’m putting out there. Or maybe it was my boyfriend, the infamous J, sending a series of distant and cold-seeming e-mails. Whatever it was, it came to a breaking point today.

The trains were slow, and so were the people (this is DC, people. Walk left, stand right. Do not stand on both sides of the escalator. Not acceptable). I actually tried to smoke a cigarette on the way back. I hear it calms the nerves. Point of reference, I don’t smoke. Hence, “tried.” These weren’t even the real deal; just cloves a friend gave me awhile back when, after a few glasses of wine, we thought it would just be so cool to smoke. And no, I am not in high school anymore.

In any event, I used all of my matches–every last one–trying to light that commie bastard cigarette outside of the metro. They all blew out. I made it home, through the wet and rain-ness, and there’s a knitting convention, or craft show, or something going on in the lobby of my apartment building. Knitting. Lots and lots of tables of knitting. I should go down to the gym and run, but I think the knitting tables are the only encouragement I need to stay right here, write, wait for my cookies to come out of the oven (I bake when I’m stressed–bad for my figure but better, I suppose, for my lungs?), and yeah, oh that lungs point, smoke my clove. Smoking is totally not allowed in this building. First time I’ve ever done it, and likely the last. But it’s a clove–which means, it’s like incense! Right? Right.

Somewhere within all of this, I decided–yes, I, magda, decided–that I’d had enough. That’s it, I said to myself. There’s got to be a better way. A better way for what, exactly? Well, I’m not sure on that yet. But somehow it involves me, and this space, and my fingers frantically dancing across the keyboard. I’m here, and if you’re here, well welcome. Welcome to the insane world of magda, sometimes coherent, sometimes not, but hey, you get what you get.  And after today? I’m ready to take it all on.