My Cathy-esque Panic Mode
My writing mentor once deemed me a "Bridget Jones on crack," and at the time it was hardly applicable beyond a chuckle. But this past winter, something changed.
I turned 26.
No longer the brazen goddess twenty-five-years-young, I clung desperately to my only marketable skill: flirting with the naïve. I threw French words into conversations at the right moments, I toyed with the correct "obscure" pop culture references, I threw in the appropriate ratio of liberal sexual encounters to blasé attitude without sounding sloppy.
But 26 came.
I dated, I loved, I lost, I had fun, and then I moved away from it all.
Starting in a new place, with no late night-dorm parties, no people to get drunk with, no established pieces of ass, no dinner party invites or walks to India Point...
The week here has been a cocktail of non-GMO Fair-trade certified organic tea and Alli pills while feverishly responding to "platonic friendship mature 40 year old male" ads on Craigslist, occasionally dropping on the floor for spasms of power yoga.
And Cathy, the depressing chubby white woman of my youth (usually only catching my eye en route to Doonesbury), became real.
Am I fated to occupy four-paneled tragedy every single day?