sac·cha·rine

October tore onto the scene like a swell of foamy surf thudding through glass. I was in a low- to mid-grade hotel bed when the month officially turned, less than a yard from an old friend in a matching bed. The room’s plushness surprised me. I had a ceiling of about $150 for the last-minute detour, something I thought of as my Amtrak paused in D.C. en route to New York. About five texts and 20 minutes later, Rachael and I made plans in a few days for an overnight in the small college town, the same one recently ruptured with tragedy. And it was ruptured again after we parted the following afternoon. 

But as we lay in our respective beds, soft from the edibles she bought on H Street, temperatures dropped outside. We didn’t know, but the large sliding glass door frosted behind blackout curtains. Inside, we sipped from small plastic cups. I felt triumphant after, together, we forced the CostCo wine open with a pocket knife, its cork bobbing defeated just below the neck. Sure, it meant we had to dodge cork bits while sipping which also meant Rachael abandoned hers after a courtesy cheers and I had two more. 

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Okay, let’s try this post again—now that power seems to be slightly more reliable and I have the best boyfriend on the planet who’s letting me drain his data plan by using his hot spot till Comcast gets its shit together.

Day 13 was unremarkable; I did my NYLON shift and picked up around the house a little. Met Natasha for an early birthday dinner at Bon Ton. I beat her, sidling up at the bar psyched for a Topo Chico. Not enough restaurants offer non-booze bottles, IMO; sadly, they were out so I drained a pint of seltzer before she arrived. I love that Natasha and I can not talk for months then meet and jump right back into it. We talked about work, planning her wedding, travel, sex, me getting on medication, her getting off medication, how excited we both are for her bachelorette trip to New Orleans in November, pettiness in friendships, nuanced dynamics, our respective and complicated relationships with alcohol, pets, the future, money. There isn’t really any off-limits topics, an aspect of our friendship I’m super thankful for.

We parted and she headed for a murder clown movie screening; I made a pit stop at a gas station for cigarettes and coconut water before home. It’s been about five years since I bought a pack and almost 10 since I smoked regularly. I stood for too long surveying my options when the cashier barked. I fumbled, selecting the kind I remember smoking with Kim in the mornings with coffee on the beach when we were still incredibly young: blue pack Camels. I chose a baby blue lighter to match.

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Booooom, baby. Almost done.

Yesterday morning I worked a little then Rick and I power-walked a mile loop on the almost-done Westside BeltLine trail. It’s coming along nicely and I’m pretty amped for it to officially open—mostly because I feel like a dick driving less than a mile to ‘hood pals’ places at night. Would be dope to bike beneath lit street lamps, etc. After, we snuck in a quick shower and I did minimal work till heading to therapy where I felt like a smug superstar. I got report that not only was I succeeding with the scary, hard thing (booze ban), but I finally found a cool (so far) roommate (another huge stressor: making mortgage solo monthly; especially when one of my largest time-suck employers owed me almost $3000 for about three months. Lucky that’s changed, too) and our latest fundraiser was a wild success (I keep thinking about bringing Amy Dope Girls merch but it never feels quite right).

I love when Atlanta starts flirting with fall. It’s pleasant to open windows and burn white sage throughout the house. My cats are ecstatic to set up camp by the storm doors. The crisp air and rumblings of back-to-school vibes have always signaled new beginnings for me: an opportunity to let go of some bullshit and feel energized to tackle an updated to-do list. However, my inner core vacillates between hyper ambition and front porch lethargy. Surely there’s a balance, but I haven’t quite found it yet. My brain still feels slightly chaotic, a constant static of shifting priorities and concern. I’m certain that may be a constant; something to work to accept and learn to better manage.

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For as much progress as I’ve been making, yesterday was challenging—but challenging in a way different from Saturday (proof of me living through it above, with my two adult sons, Barry and Dustin).

I got a little work done in the morning, then mad-dashed to the Y with Rick again, barely making it back to my house before Gormley picked me up for yoga. Tyler showed up last minute, too, and it was a good, surprisingly hard class. The more I move, especially after just not if I didn’t have to for… a long time, the more I recognize areas of weakness. I’ve never had particularly strong wrists but all the inversions (and on my period! Sometimes I impress myself) and vinyasa heavy on the plank was tough. After, we grabbed some grub at Blue Dahlia downstairs, where we also had to sign waivers because of the camera crews and I had the extreme pleasure of explaining to Tyler actually, no, Little Women Atlanta has nothing to do with the book.

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