I haven’t spoken to Oliver since the morning I left. All it took was a quick glance in the mirror and I was gone; I’m not even sure I remembered to lock the door behind me. The night before had been a bit off-kilter—belly cramps and slight dizziness—but I just attributed it to our leftover-Chinese dinner and my occasional bouts of low blood pressure. I fell asleep easily in our eggshell-walled bedroom, Advil PM dissolving in my gut, right leg slung over Oli’s left ankle.
I’ve heard of people not noticing the effects of lactose-intolerance, depression, allergies, even schizophrenia until later in life, but I was sure that by twenty-four, I had escaped any late-onsetting of anything. I was prepared to move into my Saturn Return, sloughing off cigarettes and late-night red wine, all the while gaining deep deep perspective. As if the gauntlet of 20-something isn’t dreadful enough, suddenly there are whiskers in the mix.
I spend so much time shaving these days, that there’s no room for any of that self-reflection mumbo-jumbo that I was (secretly) looking forward to. It’s hard enough to wash my face and brush my teeth, remember to floss, and re-apply lipstick after eating, but now I have to run this stupid razor up and down and up and down my cheeks before I can even think about going outside. Last year, I was loose-lipped and whisker-free, all I really worried about was the occasional pimple, pepper-tooth, muffin top, drunk text—amateur stuff, really—but in the blink of an eye, everything’s changed. Not only did I morph into this unholy, hairy, blood-sick creature—something that fits in better on Game of Thrones than in Northern California—but I also had to move back in with my parents. The room I grew up in is now a reptile room; I sleep in the basement.
I’ve heard of people not noticing the effects of lactose-intolerance, depression, allergies, even schizophrenia until later in life, but I was sure that by twenty-four, I had escaped any late-onsetting of anything. I was prepared to move into my Saturn Return, sloughing off cigarettes and late-night red wine, all the while gaining deep deep perspective. As if the gauntlet of 20-something isn’t dreadful enough, suddenly there are whiskers in the mix.
I spend so much time shaving these days, that there’s no room for any of that self-reflection mumbo-jumbo that I was (secretly) looking forward to. It’s hard enough to wash my face and brush my teeth, remember to floss, and re-apply lipstick after eating, but now I have to run this stupid razor up and down and up and down my cheeks before I can even think about going outside. Last year, I was loose-lipped and whisker-free, all I really worried about was the occasional pimple, pepper-tooth, muffin top, drunk text—amateur stuff, really—but in the blink of an eye, everything’s changed. Not only did I morph into this unholy, hairy, blood-sick creature—something that fits in better on Game of Thrones than in Northern California—but I also had to move back in with my parents. The room I grew up in is now a reptile room; I sleep in the basement.
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