Clad in a miniskirt. Sipping on a Manhattan. Doing the twist at Peppermint Lounge on West 45th. Living the Mad Men dream (/nightmare).
Unfortunately this kind of go-go girl isn’t that kind of go-go girl. Yeah, I’d much rather be up on table twisting till my heart’s content. But I’m in a car. Or on a bus. Or a train. Or a plane. And I’m just going, going, going, gone. Kinda like this summer.
Everyone concurs - summa summa summatime has flown by. Like that seagull that sneak attacked your sandwich, it’s over and done in a millisecond.
Is it a mean trick of the Universe? Has the Clockmaker sped up time? Are we on a crash course to Armageddon? All signs point to yes. And being a girl on the go hasn’t helped slow anything down.
I know, I know. I’m a ridiculously spoiled brat. CT, Cape Cod, Rhode Island, Maine, Hamptons, more Hamptons, Colorado, San Fran - I cannot complain. Life is ridiculously damn good. I am enjoying the shit out of it. What I’m not thrilled about, though, is being constantly on the go.
I would just like to drop and smell the daisies, you know? Instead of rushing to make the train, running to the subway, thinking about what I need to pack for the weekend, or what’s the most efficient way to get where I’m going, or about the million things that must get done come Monday.
Allow me to reiterate - I know I’m pretty gosh darn lucky to be doing all the things I’m doing. I know. I guess I just wish there was a way to apparate. (Why hasn’t someone invented that shit yet? Ms. Rowling can you get on it already? )
How much better would things be if you could easily get from Point A to Point B without so much as lifting that hot pink polished, dainty little finger.
My weeks are full of sleeplessness (did I pack my toothpaste, my bronzer, my razor, omg!), of Newtons Fruit Crisps for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, of never-ending schedules and Tom Tom’s and public transportation systems. Traveling is tough, yo!
I’m physically and mentally spent. I have no time to get a mani/pedi. I haven’t been grocery shopping in weeks. I don’t get around to watching True Blood until Thursdays at the earliest.
My knee joints hurt, my footies hurt, I’m dizzy with going.going.going. I don’t even have time for No Dankes (hah)! Blasphemy.
I don’t like living à la suitcase. I don’t love sleeping in beds that are not my own, sandwiched between two females (no matter how much I love them). I hate my clean clothes gettin that damp, dingy smell (and the wrinkles, the wrinkles! – thank god once more for Downy Wrinkle Releaser!)
There’s sand everywhere - in suitcases and crevices. Travel shampoo bottles. Unpacked bags and dirty clothes strewn about mi apartamento. My poor little plant seems two steps from death’s door for lack of watering. I need to sweep, I need to scrub, I need to do laundry, I need to sleep. But there’s just no rest for the travel weary.
It’s nada but go.go.go.go all day every day. I feel like an ant in a hole who doesn’t stop, doesn’t sleep, is always walking, dragging a big ole ass behind me.
But then - but then - I’m where I’m supposed to be (a party in the Hamptons, perhaps). And the sand is no longer only in the bottom of my beach bag, it’s actually under my toes. And the waves are crashing. And the gulls are swooping in for my delicious sandwich. And frankly, I don’t care.
(That is, until I am en route home, the weekend is over, and it’s back to go-go.)