Learning to Slow Down, It Can Take Some Effort.

It’s true what they say about life moving fast. Sometimes it’s hard to tell where the boundaries are; the movements blend so seamlessly that you wonder if the curtain was pulled at all. These costume changes—are they new characters, or were you just too distracted by the front lines to realize what was going on in the wings?

This weekend I was a date and a hostess, a girlfriend and an enemy, a competent planner and a disorganized mess. Nothing unusual, really, but surreal when I think on it now.

The me who was out drinking northwest microbrews until an ungodly hour Friday with J and his Senate groupies was the same girl who, the next morning, was making pancakes and wandering, latte in hand, on a Mother’s Day mission through old town. She was the me who was glad she’d so responsibly remembered her UV lotion, the me whose arms are less pale (but not sunburned!).

Hours later, she was the me who was expertly fixing her hair into an envy-worthy cascade of curls, fretting over her eyeliner, and packing her accoutrements into a few totes and hangers to take over to J’s for her routine’s finishing touches. In typical me fashion, she takes three trips to the car before she remembers everything, and then realizes she doesn’t have the car keys; four trips later, she’s en route.

She was the me who sipped white wine while touching up the pedicure she wrecked by running into a doorframe on her quest for those keys, and the me whose adoring boyfriend had flowers waiting in his otherwise cluttered apartment, and who waited, camera in hand, to document what he called her “biggest night ever.”

Still, she’s the me who lets stress overrun her and who snaps at him, laying blame for the little things she’s forgotten, upset at him for the stresses all too common to the transient girlfriend plight.

She’s the me who stepped out of his car, with a heartfelt thank-you and a kiss goodbye, and onto the red carpet, averting her eyes from flashbulbs meant for someone else. The me who met her guest, an exceptional attorney downtown, and worried that she wasn’t entertaining enough, connected enough, engaging enough to make the evening worthwhile. The me who drowned her insecurities at the myriad open bars, trying to make lively conversation that might stand a chance against the glittering surroundings. The me who wanted to be so much more than she was, and worried that she wasn’t living up to it, but the me who smiled just the same, as any petrified fish out of water will do.

The me who walked through camera crews pointed at John Cusak, at Marcia Cross; the me who stood behind Madeline Albright in line for the ladies’. The me who heard the President speak mere meters away. Hundreds of meters, sure, but meters just the same. The me who laughed and clapped in all the right places.

She was the me who, knowing of no after-parties, star-gazed with her guest for a few drinks at the bar before heading out, in the pouring rain, into separate cabs home. Kisses on the cheek, thanks for a good time, let’s talk again soon.

The doormen at J’s building know this me; the well-dressed me that arrives circa 12a, haute hooker-style. They smile and let her in without question; she crawls into the elevator, staring fixedly on the numbers as they light, 10, 11, 12. Ding, you’re home, they seem to say on opening.

She’s the me who wakes up to the smell of breakfast cooking with slight smears of makeup lingering on her eyes. The me who, having not planned for the seachange outside, has to borrow one of his coats before they walk around downtown.

Swimming in a man-sized fleece, she’s the me who gets teary-eyed in JCrew because he’s picked out three shirts for her that aren’t her style at all; she sees a tote she likes and he suggests another; she takes it as a giant sign that they aren’t meant to be. She’s the me who all too easily surrenders her heart to the life-sucking relationship goons that stalk her, who is too willing to blind herself to the goodness underwriting it all for the brief high of self-pity.

She’s the me who drives with the radio at such an outlandish volume that she doesn’t hear him when he calls to tell her that she’s forgotten her flowers. She’s the me who drives back for them, at midnight, because they were possibly the sweetest thing he’s done for her. She’s the me who, at the end of the day, still manages to see the sunshine, and thanks him for it, and apologizes for being such a wreck.

She’s the me who realizes that unless she slows down, she’ll be up and down to the garage, siding up to bars, and driving across state lines for a long time yet. She’s the me who’s finally learning to catch her breath and enjoy the sights and surroundings because really, life’s pretty sweet.