It’s much more normal to say your goodbyes at the end of the summer. You wish a bon voyage to the friends you made in the city, to your final dose of R&R at the beach, to your only glimmer of motivation that brought you to zumba four times a week. But because I have to be different for arbitrary reasons, I’m saying (some of) mine now. Also, I just love Shakespeare and have since the first grade when I tried to produce Romeo and Juliet on my elementary school cafeteria’s stage (true story, rehearsals were held during recess, most of our time was spent imagining and re-imagining the scene in which we’d sing LMNT’s “Hey Juliet”), so I’m going to use a quote of his whenever I can.
In this case, for me, parting is sweet sorrow because we aren’t actually parting for eternity. And before I go further, let me preface that with this very long… preface (??):
Over the last two and a half years — yes, The FYD is knee-deep in toddlerhood — The Fro-Yo Diaries has become more and more candid. And it’s grown into this magical, free spirited (probably braless if it were human) thing because talking to all of you (are you out there? yes, you!!) is just me having long-winded, one-sided conversations with my MacBook. I now speak fluent Keyboard, and I’m so good at it that I may be showing early signs of carpal tunnel. Clearly, I blossom.
Sometimes, it’s easier to write this way. It’s so easy, in fact, that 99 percent of the times I meet an FYD reader for the first time in person, she will tell me how weird our initial interaction is because she feels like she already knows me; she often will laugh, saying, “This is exactly how I thought you’d speak,” or even “This is such a YOU outfit!” even though a) we’ve never met and b) I don’t even always know what a ME outfit is, so I’m very impressed that you do!
I guess this means I might be doing something right. I’ve created an identity, perhaps an alter ego. I’ve broken boundaries (hopefully one day, the glass ceiling) and put it all on the table in doing what I love the most — getting away with saying out loud what everyone else is thinking.
There is a downside to writing like this, though, and it’s that my computer screen is a literal and metaphorical mirror. My life has definitely extended past it, but it’s hard to bring The FYD up to speed when it’s stuck in its own universe. That doesn’t mean it can’t morph like Miley Cyrus’ hair, but it will be, like Miley Cyrus’ hair, a noticeable transition when it does so. And though you know me, there are a lot of stories I haven’t yet told simply because they aren’t, or haven’t been, FYD material. If you didn’t already know, I love self-depreciating humor writing. One day, you’ll hopefully read the 20 page (single spaced, hell yeah) memoir I wrote about my family’s recent Thanksgiving in Ohio, or the one about my relationship with my now-deceased grandma, or the one about how I formed this weird theory in the beginning of high school that my anxiety disorder was directly related to the “ball game” (think first, second, and third base) and thus proceeded to relay my escapades to my mother in the hopes that my panic attacks would subside.
And yes, that’s just the beginning of it.
SO, getting to ze point: Over the next seven-ish months I will be heading far and wide out of my comfort zones. Two months as a counselor at an all-boys camp in Maine, one week home, and then (trumpets, please, Jason Derulo), five months living abroad in Prague (!!!!!!).
Just THINK of all the things I’m going to have to write about!!!!!
And they are hopefully going to be more personal than what the labor of my love has provided up to this point. They will be funny, and embarrassing, and real, because growing into an adult is cool and important.
And on that note, I want other people’s help in cataloging this weird process. Expect some changes. For example: transcribed real-life group chats with the male species about topics/questions you want me to ask them. I don’t quite know what else I have up my bell-bottomed sleeve — in fact, I have nothing right now — but something will come. It always does.
There’s even a small chance I go on a small FYDiet (oh god no, not from actual fro-yo, just from writing here) to work on “big girl writing.” I mean, given the opportunity to sit at cafes where you aren’t watched like a hawk by a beady-eyed waiter who is ready to pounce with your bill the minute you finish that last sip of slow drip coffee will be a blessing. You know, the kind of cafes in plazas or on cobblestone streets, maybe where I’d eat a croissant because if you do that in Europe the calories don’t count; how can I not take that and run with it and write longer cooler shit if that’s what the world is telling me to do? If I want to do more, better writing, then I’ve gotta do more living.
But we’ll figure it out when we get there. As my favorite song from the Shrek soundtrack goes, “Turn to face the strange, ch-ch-changes.” This is also known as a very popular David Bowie song, if the Shrek soundtrack isn’t in your mental hard drive.
What now? I think we’ll talk soon (read: some time next week, for sure). I doubt I’ll be gone too long. Right now, I feel like a KT Tunstall song. And I love it.
As they say in seventh grade instant message chat rooms, TTFN/ta ta for now!
We all know what “basic” is by virtue of its aggravating tendency to gradually encompass more and more of our vices and indulgences. First, Uggs were no longer just ugly (and comfortable!) — they became basic. Starbucks, the most convenient, predictable (predictably meh, which is better than surprisingly horrible) cup of coffee became basic. Victoria’s Secret is basic, though it wasn’t basic when I bought my first pair — perhaps the first pair — of mustard, elastic bottomed “Love Pink” sweatpants in fourth grade and everyone laughed at me for wearing something from an underwear store in the blinding, elementary school daylight. Jean skirts are basic, so are leggings, and eff me because, if worn properly, both of those things are great, and so is Sex and the City, Taylor Swift, Tiffany charm bracelets, and more of Taylor Swift.
Now, in order to avoid being basic, or simply to avoid having a select few basic tendencies, I cannot watch Carrie Bradshaw making curly hair look cool nor can I listen to “Speak Now” on repeat. Fine, it may have helped in my recent separation from the latter that Tay pulled her discography from Spotify. Regardless, I digress.
So, if I have ditched the Love Pink attire, stopped drinking coffee because it mixes poorly with my most Jewish qualities (anxiety and sensitive stomach), and only wear leggings in the house, am I no longer basic at all?
And if I, or we — if you’re with me on this — are not basic, then what are we?
I think I’ve forgotten. Before the term “basic” was coined to mean things other than, well, basic, the basic life still must have existed, albeit nameless like a risky, unidentified sushi roll. Still, there must be more basic people now that there’s an identity with which they can clearly express themselves; like how there suddenly exists more perverted 13-year-olds once they get laptops and discover porn. It works the same way.
Considering that theory, then, many of us were not basic in the years between 2003 and 2008. We just were. We were normal. But if everyone was basic, then no one was, and so please lord tell me, WHAT WERE WE?
Yes, I’m sickened too by how easy it is to philosophize about this.
Anyway, I saw this motivational quote Instagram post earlier today that claims the opposite of “basic” to be “epic.” It didn’t exactly state that, but it mostly did, and it got me thinking about this whole thing.
Because when it comes down to it, I’m afraid not many people would call me epic.
So am I basic?
Maybe I’m a lot of other great things, but epic is a big word. I aspire to be epic. Yet, I’m not quite sure if that is the opposite of basic-ness. I mean, in my personal opinion, a pumpkin spice latte WITH whip will always be very epic.
What do you think the opposite of basic is? Or maybe there aren’t even opposites. Maybe basic is on a spectrum, like the rainbow or like sexuality is, and we’re all just kind of teetering back and forth between two misspelled names on a coffee cup.
“Wow, you must’ve been really hungry!”
If you want a mental death sentence, tell me this.
My uncle’s partner did, actually, earlier this week. He’s on a “health kick,” which means spinning classes Tuesday through Thursday. On Wednesday night, I joined him and his biker shorts in the eaves of an old church in Flatiron, and yes, I love how ridiculous that sentence sounds but no, there’s truly no other way to explain what we did without sounding so ridiculous. Afterwards, we picked up dinner to-go from Whole Foods. Salmon, broccoli rabe, and collard greens (the new kale! kaboom!) for me, and turkey, sweet potatoes, and broccoli rabe for he and my uncle.
I was starving, so I ate like a hungry girl. For context, three-quarters of my plate was green stuff from the ground. And no, I’m not talking about the mary jane. That’s a different uncle.
And then it came, flying right across the table like a sharpened steak knife right at my poor pescetarian head.
“Wow, you must’ve been really hungry!”
I scowled. I wanted to jump across the table in rage, Mean Girls style. I wanted to make a bar graph comparing the nutrition contents of each of our meals. I wanted to tell him that there is no shame in eating until you’re full, and there’s no shame in eating a hella lot of collard greens.
Everyone’s been in situations like these, where we aren’t given backhanded compliments but almost the opposite — passive aggressive nips that tug at your ego’s soft spots. Wow, you must’ve been hungry, is perhaps what we can call the “classic,” here.
Getting back to the story — no, I did not unleash my defensive string. I kept those guys on the bench as my fork gracefully reached across the table, stabbed another piece of broccoli rabe, and took it to the mouth like a girl who didn’t half-ass that spin class. (Because we all know spin is easy to fake. We’ve all been there. You know what I’m talking about.)
Later, I vented to my mom about the one-liner that came my way at dinner. “You’re being oversensitive,” she told me then just like she did when —-. He’s a guy, she told me. He doesn’t understand. It’s all in your head.
Being oversensitive isn’t always bad, I guess. And maybe I’m saying that because I know I’m oversensitive, but so is everyone else when someone says something that really gets your weak spot. It’s part of the human condition. If we were oversensitive about nothing, then we simply wouldn’t care.
When an adult recently told me he thought “anorexics are strong, but I have no respect for bulimics,” I wanted to tell him how inappropriate that statement is, how ignorant, how serious of a disease both conditions are, how many people it effects. The lecture I could give would last half an hour.
So, maybe he was ignorant. Maybe, in my broccoli rabe fiasco, the comment was ignorant because it was made by a “guy” (though in my opinion, no excuse — collapse traditional gender roles, people!!) who didn’t know I’m oversensitive and doesn’t understand how his comment is one that knocks most young women get off their rockers, which is oxymoronic to say but true.
Call me a skeptic, or maybe a pessimist, but I find it hard to believe that people can say things like that unbeknownst of their sting. I thought my uncle’s partner, on health kick galore — I mean, he’s just catching on to the spinning trend, for god’s sake — could be fully aware of how his comment would be received because it would make him feel better about what he ate. I sound crazy, I know !!!, but if I was talking about a teenage girl making a comment like this, I know you’d believe me. Sometimes, people are bitter.
Mom could be right, as per usual, and there may be a good difference between those who are offensive and those who are offended in a singular scenario. The true intent of any statement depends on the person. Alas, I am left to rely on the good of humankind, which may be confined to the recent surge in 20-year-old jeans available for purchase, or the fact that my cheetah print espadrilles cost $40, or even that I’m no longer afraid to eat what I want and wear what I choose.