This space, and indeed all the spaces of my life, have been woefully negligent of my darling boss. In recent weeks she has been kind enough to offer me a ride to either my apartment or my gym every night after work. Each afternoon as I slip into the passenger seat of her large, low Jaguar, I smile to myself as she flips on the seat heater (who else but a baker would refer to it as a bun warmer?) and turns up the volume on the old timey jazz station to which the radio is always tuned. She is a foul mouthed woman, but anyone who lives to eighty-three and retains as much vigor as she does, is, in my unsolicited opinion, entitled to do and say whatever she wants. It occurred to me today that thirty years from now I will look back on these daily car rides as some of the most blessed minutes of my life.
A name that is often uttered in my office is that of M.F.K. Fisher, mostly owing to the fact that one of my boss’s friends co-wrote a book with the venerable M.F.K.F. Not really knowing who she was, I was glad to discover an article about her in this month’s issue of Readymade, along with an eggs recipe which will be made this weekend. Of course I immediately checked out her book “The Gastronomical Me” from the library and a new obsession has been hatched. Finding myself in the literary and physical company of so many gutsy, free-spirited ladies of my grandmothers’ generation leaves me ruminating on the state of my own. It is my sincere hope that I simply haven’t met any yet, or perhaps this sort of verve and blatant honesty takes time to properly cure, but I feel like something is lacking in the younger gals. What passes as free spiritedness these days is all too often a sort of well-dressed vulgarity. I don’t consider myself relieved of this condition or somehow above my contemporaries. I reckon I’m just glad that I get a ride home every night.
A few months ago when newly spawned winter was defeating me and I was eager to purchase a car, I decided upon a sum of money which would be suitable for a down payment. I estimated that I’d be able to save up this amount by the end of January. This morning I transferred some money into my savings account, reaching the number I’d established in my mind. And only six days before the end of the month. Efficiency, thy name is Kim Harvey.
In the intervening months, though, I’ve decided that I don’t really want a car anyway. After almost a year and a half of pedestrianism, I am accustomed to traveling near and narrow. I don’t find myself growing anxious or feeling trapped, so I’m thinking it’s best not to incur additional expenses. Instead I will set my sights upon the warmer months and the bicycling that awaits.
Recently I’ve been wondering how it was that I managed to spend the first eighteen years of my life living in the coldest place on earth without even noticing. Last winter in New York was very trying for me, and the temperature rarely dipped below thirty-five. Here in Chicago, anything above ten feels like a heat wave. And honestly, I am not finding it to be nearly so bothersome. Perhaps owing to other factors, such as a pleasing job and a friendly citizenry and affordable, edible food, the city in which I never wanted to live has become a city that I sometimes think I never want to leave. Crushing loneliness was undoubtedly a major contributor to my seasonal affectation of last year, but I still spend the bulk of my time alone. Perhaps I’ve managed to adapt. On Friday, I thought of a weekend stretching before me with little to do and I didn’t mind a bit. Even though I’m more physically alone than ever before, mentally I no longer feel so isolated. I don’t feel it necessary to qualify that in any way other than to say that I’m okay with this act and I’m looking forward to the next act, too.
Growing up, you have this notion that adulthood is going to be a glamourous affair, rife with tinkling cocktails and sweeping city views from the windows of your penthouse apartment. Well, maybe you didn’t envision this future, but sometimes I did. I never would have foreseen an adulthood that found me lying naked on my bed in a tiny, sweltering apartment, furiously rubbing my own back with a vibrator. Not a massager, a full on phallic vibrator. There is not a shred of dignity in it, though of course the thought of maintaining a modicum of self-respect in this life has long since been chucked to the side of the long long road.
I have been felled by a painful backache, you see, which I attribute to poor sitting posture, elevated workplace stress, and a lack of husband to work out my knots and fetch of my orange juice. When there is no man in a life, where else is there to turn but to a vibrator? It actually worked pretty well, for what it’s worth.
January has historically been a somewhat dismal month in the life of me. The streak of doleful Januarys dates back to the turn of the century. This one is surprising in its ease and simplicity, but I guess ease and simplicity can be a pleasant side effect of rarely leaving the house. I deserve the quiet, after a December which saw me romantically entangled with a man who inexplicably found it appropriate to send a one line email which read, “I just sat on my balls.”
It is no head scratcher I am not eager to date, now is it?
I am finding the dating pool to be less like this:
And more like this:
While I am sure there are many fine creatures swimming around in the latter, I am just not interested in hopping in and perfecting the breast stroke with them. I’d rather be with my library books and my yarns and needles, unfettered by inane chit chat about the particulars of my job and my hobbies and my interests and my me-isms. It’s negative, yes, and selfish, maybe, alas the motivation is simply not there. I am hoping that as winter wanes, my urge to be social will increase. This is likely, though it is unlikely I will reverse the insular trend of my social life.
In other news, I got some new red boots. I waterproofed them and wore them out in today’s fresh snow. Waterproofing, success. Boots, cute.
Here in the frozen north, we have a weatherman, Mr. Tom Skilling, who is really beyond compare. He is the butt of many jokes for his hour long weather forecasts, yet never fails to drop many fun facts. Since checking the weather forecast obsessively is one of my favorite hobbies, it’s no surprise that recently I’ve become a big fan of Tom Skilling’s blog.
Today he busted out this little gem:
It was colder Thursday afternoon in Chicago than at the North Pole — 6 below zero here versus 8 degrees.
Fun times! Once again my eyes froze shut today as I walked to work from the subway station. I gently picked the tiny icicles off, and I am glad to report that there was but a single follicular casualty.
This morning on the train everyone seemed both happy and sad. It’s pretty brutal to have to do anything when the wind chill is holding steady at -40, and tears are streaming down everyone’s face. Well, really it’s just their eyelashes melting, however it imparts a rather melancholy air. The sun, which I must remind myself actually warms other locales, was shining meagerly through the frosted windows. The whole affair was actually kind of sweet. We’re all in this together, this freezing, this crying, this Friday morning commute. There’s not much to be done aside from exchanging sympathetic half smiles with one another.
Incidentally, Tom Skilling’s brother was the CEO of Enron.
Today I have learned a very important lesson. When the temperature outside is -26, mascara is not recommended. Your eyes will water, your mascara will smear, your eyelashes will freeze, and you won’t look very pretty. Not that you looked very pretty anyway, wearing two pairs of pants and three jackets and four shirts and your face being a red, dry, chapped mess. I am told that with experience comes wisdom.
One thing I really love about the Midwest and Midwesterners in general is that whenever confronted with the latest round of harrowing weather, no one really bats an eye or gets upset or even truly reacts. The forecast will call for negative four thousand degree temperatures and howling winds and three more feet of snow to be added to the big old pile and everyone just trudges along, not oblivious but just accepting. I have been watching people on my block digging their cars out of impossible snow and ice blocked situations, and it’s always done with such casual grace. Here we are, liberating our vehicles and placing our lawn chairs to guard the spots. It’s just what we do.
A word often employed to this hardy breed is stoic, yet it seems to go deeper than that to a certain community with the earth and its elements.
Yesterday I agreed to go on a date with a gentleman not only because hey, it’s 2009 man but also because going on a date with him seemed to offer the same sort of adventure as seeking treatment at a beans and rice fragranced medical clinic. With this sort of approach to romance, can anyone really question why most nights find me brushing a cat and making hard boiled eggs?
Well, 2009 is the last full year of my twenties. In 2010 I will turn 30. Something tells me I should make the most of it, but then something else tells me I’ll probably spend it poking around in libraries and pickling vegetables on my kitchen table.
In other news, I am nobody’s girlfriend. This is not an invitation for offers, rather quite the opposite.
