On the farm…

This weekend was blissful and like hell all at once. I will never understand why small towns and ‘the country’ can be at once liberating and oppressive. How the same soft sweet air that lulls you to sleep can drive you to drink. Is is boredom? Lack of opportunity? The abundance of purity; unadulterated goodness. Is that what makes everyone a bit nuts?

The wedding this weekend was lovely. I don’t know if it was because everyone was happy to be there, or because they were excited to see the grooms or simply pleased to be in their Sunday’s best. There were a lot of big girls in black dresses with little white polka dots and skinny white girls with big black ear plugs. There were tattoos and chunky black sandals. There were Salvation Army three-piece suits that fit surprisingly well given the short notice. There were older women in flowing linens, layered one upon another as if to say – I am as much the shapes created in the asymmetry of my garments as I am a woman. There were handle-bar mustaches and seer sucker suits that yearned for the days of pushcarts, snake oil salesmen and yellow journalism.

There was a strange amount of joy in the air as well. It was a pleasant event.

25 Sucks

How I ended up drunk in a loft in Tribeca.
Or
Why being 25 years old, sucks.

Having been 25 for about three months, I can officially say that I’m over it. The quarter-century milestone is highly overrated.

Mostly, these three months have been marked by exhaustion and disappointment. Two competing factors take up inordinate amounts of my time — work and socializing — and neither of which are particularly fun. The disappointment stems from the fact that both are unforgiving and taxing. There is always more work to be done and social commitments are hard to make, keep and plan; not to mention I have been on some horrendous dates over the past six months.

Take Friday night (social engagement, not date): I met up with a friend for a string of happy hours and parties. At once, I found myself inundated with media personalities – editors of women’s magazine, celebrity gossip rags and a smattering of financial folk. Not exactly my scene, but this is New York, so I make exceptions.

My companion in all of this is already a few drinks into the evening and greets me with a hello, a hug and a request that I excuse him to use the facilities. That is fine. He departs for the porcelain throne. A beer comes for me and I am left to fend for myself amongst the media mavens. Doable, I think. Mid-way through my conversation with the teen magazine editor, I get the questions: do you have a boyfriend? Are you in a relationship? Having experienced this while out with other friends, I knew to be suspect of such questions. My talk and thoughts immediately shifted to other things.

Where was my friend? Still in the bathroom… Upon his return, he departed again! This time, he left for cigarettes and pizza. Again, I am fending. Now, I am speaking with the hedge fund manager about weather traders. It is all about ‘futures,’ don’t ask. Still fending, I order another beer. My friend returns, fed and fixed for his nicotine jones. I am no longer excited about this evening and it was only to get weirder and worse.
He began, my friend, loudly discussing his cock, its length and his sexual exploits. For those of you who did not attend Hardy Middle School, my experiences the charter bus left me never wanting to hear boys publicly brag about their shafts. I avoided the conversation; this was, after all, MY Friday night.

Feeling a little scandalized, we departed the pub and headed to an awful bar and left for another bar. At bar three, the Italian place, my compatriot and I part ways – he to speak with the leggy bottle blond and me to chat it up with his friend in the fresh pea coat. It is cold in New York.

Bottoms up, the wine goes back and we’re in a cab again. To the Financial District, to another party! A preppy party as my friend describes it. Gone were the media whores, instead, there are financial boys and girls swarming and courting in the most offensive ways. Still, I fended, refusing additional alcohol.

We walked to the roof. As soon as we had made it out, we were on to the next engagement. No more cock talk, tall, talkative toe-heads and bankers with cruel intentions. The final destination was the Tribeca loft of a British blog publisher (there’s only one, really, but I am not one to name names).

At this point, the alcohol had coursed through my veins and the pizza I had eaten earlier in the evening was not doing much to keep me sober. As my company and I climbed the stairs of the loft, I realized I was drunk — not a state in which I had intended to be.

We reached the top of a plain gray staircase to discover a beautiful black space. Three or four men dotted the space, the Brit, the Italian and a Greek or two, I think. We were greeted warmly and immediately the conversation switched to matchmaking. Drunk, I listened intently. Is she tall enough? Rich enough? What career path is she following? Will she make the better half of a beautiful power couple?

Ensconced in the conversation, which was also littered with political talk, I tried to tend to a cigarette (shame on me) and a glass of water. While I could do one, being a blonde, I could not do both and knocked over my glass. The water spilled and I scrambled to find some fabric with which to soak it up. Apparently, being an important media conglomerate means that you don’t own sponges or paper towels. Rather, you keep a stash of white, cloth napkins that are about as absorbent as cardboard.