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!
Just the name brings back pings of luxury and memories of the endless struggle of keeping your hair as tame as possible when going out at night. What once was a place of family fun and average-income couples who drink beer on their motel porches until 2 a.m. has now become a harboring for hipsters and young, wealthy 20-somethings alike. I’m out here for a week, but if I see a table of guys wearing cuffed jeans and tight yellow cutoffs while I’m eating my egg white omelet one more time, I might have to leave. And you know me—it is a rare occasion when I let an egg white omelet go unfinished.
The Hamptons are really dreamy, and I say that in all seriousness. You drive out of the city along this thin strip of highway for a couple of hours until you get to a totally isolated but glamorous beach community full of the young, the beautiful, and the wealthy.
So basically, it’s a Lana Del Rey song.
There is a certain stigma about going “to the Hamptons.” Like:
“I’m going to be in the Hamptons next week.”
“You’re going to be in the Hamptons?! Same! Let’s totally get together for lunch one day.”
This is all fab, except a) these two people are blind to the fact that one of them is probably going to Quogue or Westhampton, both of which are 100,000 miles from every other Hampton (put it this way—Cady Heron is to Westhampton as Regina George is to East Hampton) hence the fact that “getting lunch” would actually be way more convenient at home in Westchester, and b) this conversation was 60% actual interest in making plans and 40% an ego boost so that each person could say out loud that she is going to the Hamptons. Scratch that—make it 50/50.
The Hamptons are respected by all, including the rich and famous, and especially by Kanye West. He gives a pretty nice shout out in Yeezus’ “New Slaves”…They prolly all in the Hamptons Bragging ’bout what they made F— you and your Hampton house I’ll f— your Hampton spouse Came on her Hampton blouse And in her Hampton mouth
…so that’s all really appropriate, censored, and lovely. As you can tell from Yeezus himself, the Hamptons are all about good ol’ fashioned family fun. Good stuff.