I wanted to call this posting I Am An Adult! because I have had *a lot* of adult situations recently that I wanted to recount.
Or not so recently - because sometimes I lose track of time, but either way, they've happened.
But these groundbreaking words came from one of my undereducated, excessively wise adult students when asked to provide an example of what freedom might be like in America and he comes up with "Freedom is a hot dog."
At the time, it was an under appreciated hyperbolic comment, not amusing whatsoever to my end of the day hungry/headachy/why don't we still understand the differences between similes and metaphors and the fact that we are talking about an IDEA, that has absolutely no concrete, overprocessed meat-like qualities at all, self.
But over a candle lit, dinner for two it became so outrageously funny, and amazing, and true.
It's an appropriate title for this post, because once you see it clearly enough, you too will understand that Freedom is a hot dog.
I bought a bison skull recently.
A friend sent me a Craigslist ad - he knew I was in the market.
Luckily the owner lived in my neighborhood. Agreeing to meet, I found him with a giant IKEA bag, my soon-to-be bison skull stuffed inside it, unceremoniously waiting in front of the Starbucks down the street.
A brief discussion ("yea... my girlfriend didn't like it... what?! this thing is amazing. you should be getting rid of her!") and brief awkward silence ("...") and I handed over $60 happily - I've been wanting this amazing conversational centerpiece for so long - I'm gonna be SO HIP.
My brain processes the easy math --> Allyn = quadruple win (close to home+cheapish+amazing hip skull that definitely looks like it came from Arizona...or Mexico+new IKEA/laundry bag) vs. boy from Craigslist = zero (squeamish girlfriend+loss of cool skull+carrying a bison skull in an IKEA bag waiting awkwardly in front of Starbucks) and what a steal! So easy!
My friend drilled the hole in the brick fireplace in the wall for my new skull (which I very ceremoniously call Beatrice and she is a strident feminist with no desire for gender restraints in her proud horns) as I tried to vacuum the brick dust straight out of the air (I can be very efficient, you see) and a few attempts in, Beatrice has a new home on my wall. Over my bed. Protruding into the center of my room.
I promptly took a picture and proudly sent the picture out, to like, everyone - look at my adult decorating skills! And I did it on the cheap! Who said Craigslist is for creeps?
My father's response: If I had known this was your current taste in home decorating, I would have shipped the dead deer carcass that Futar caught last week.
Mine: ...
Best man friend's response: That thing is going to scare the shit out of you.
Mine every single time I wake up at 3 am to use the bathroom: OMG what the!?
I am, clearly, an adult.
To be fair, I think the same thing when I see my reflection in the bathroom mirror at 3am. But that's just because we have poor lighting. That said, guess who doesn't bother turning on the bathroom light anymore? And in case you were wondering (unless you share the same 3am sentiment), yes.
3am guessing games are difficult.
It's kinda springish here... sometimes. And on a particularly spring-like day, I bought a pair of lovely, neutral, open-toed, extremely stylish boutique flats for my ugly dancer/runner feet for $60 so I could tromp around in sudden spring-time downpours, and tread carefully around the dirt and trash lining the subway tracks on my morning commute to my new adult job down on Wall St.
In my head, I look glamorous.
There I am, in my expensive adult wear (neutrals, classy peep toes, red blazer that screams grandma/hip Brooklynite) emerging, bright eyed and bushy tailed, coffee in hand, onto Wall St., the sun bouncing off of the ever-growing Freedom Towers into my eyes, highlighting the yellow brick road to my meaningful adult job in the non-profit human rights sector...
I can look glamorous in your eyes, too, if you imagine me as the urban version of Fraulein Maria in The Sound of the Music, running up the subway stairs singing "Thank goddddd I'm aliiiive, I hate all those peeeeeeople." because once again, I've barely survived my morning commute to the Financial District as I've tried to drink my coffee, read a book on feminism, listen to music, and wield an unruly umbrella like a crazy woman fighting off invisible bats.
And honestly, when someone figures out how the modern woman is supposed to gracefully hold her coffee, while digging in her oversized bag that contains her lunch, her yoga pants, and seven tubes of chapstick for her wallet that holds her metrocard without holding up an impatient line of New Yorkers - ya let me know, ok?
And if you don't have the answer, do not judge me for slurping the spilled locally brewed coffee like an anteater from the fine ridges of my 15,000x recycled, organic coffee cup.
I can see your eyes giving me the once-over in the reflection of the subway car windows and I do not like the judgement that I see.
I paid for it. I'm gonna drink it.
See? I am an Adult.
I think it's this fiestyness that has deemed me fit for bed rest for a few days.
Between the never ending lament for life clarity while working 2 jobs, attempts at successfully attending advanced modern dance classes, yoga certification training, hill repeats and long runs for 1/2 and marathon training, teaching ESL, this bizarre sinus drainage that results in a smoker-like hacking cough when I start laughing, and the kidney stone that tried to kill me a few nights ago - I'm still living the dream... of obtaining my grad degree, taking off a few years for the Peace Corps, starting a dance company, becoming a successful ethnographer with no qualms about never coming back from research, and having a night out with the roommates that always ends in the good kind of sleepover where you definitely get brunch the next day, with both bagels and home fries.
Adulthood - you wear me out!
All in all, I'm still dealing with a bunch of nouns.
All the Persons.
All the Places.
All the Things.
All the Unexplainable/Unattainable Ideas.
Sometimes I think - Ain't Nobody Got Time For That.
Partly because it's fun.
Like exclaiming Ha! when your roommate says something absolutely mindblowingly ridiculous regarding... her lunch for the day, as she tries to squeeze it into a baggie.
Ha! She told that sandwich.
And partly because it's true.
Ain't Nobody Got Time For All That.
Ain't Nobody Even Like Over-Processed, Meat-Like Substances.
