Future Nightmare

When she is ready to be married wedding hashtags will be obsolete.

The year will be 2020 and her beauty will have faded.

Her best years spent trying hard with the wrong guys; never with the right ones.

Good opportunities tossed away decided instead on the unplausable.

When she finally meets someone her beauty will have faded leaving only the scars on her heart and the bitterness of a woman rejected so many times she lost track.

Prime years spent focused on boys who did not care for her like she cared for him.

Today, she is a nice girl with a pretty face; in denial of wanting a man who loves her; secretly dying inside each day because it seems like she will never find him.

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This is How I Spent My 28th: Back to the Psychic Healer

Colorful cupcakes with sparklers

On my 28th birthday I took the day off work. I awoke at 6:30 a.­m, went through my leg routine, spun it out and burned more than 450 calories at the gym. I stood in the Crunch restroom blow drying my hair in my bright colored, floral romper while passersby stared at me and admired my outfit, complimenting me on how pretty I looked and asking what the special occasion was.

“Today is my birthday,” I responded to a girl who asked.

“Happy Birthday! How old?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“You’re a baby.”

Twenty-eight is a baby, as far as I’m concerned. I’m not ready to be considered “old” by society’s small minded standards.

I had asked my parents to go to a birthday breakfast with me at one of these nice restaurants I enjoy going to but don’t get to visit often. I looked forward to it. The plan was to leave at 10:30. I was not surprised when my mother took her time and we did not leave until 11:30 – a mere hour before my dad needed to catch his train to work.

I sat in the backseat of my parent’s car, stressed out and anxious that we would need to rush and I would be the cause of my dad’s missed train. This situation felt too far out of my control. Even though it’s my birthday my feelings don’t get considered. They never are.

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Moving Backwards: The Struggle is Real

On Cinco De Mayo I posted a photo of myself on Instagram. The picture showed me at twenty-one proudly standing in front of the camera in my dorm room. My bra hung out of my too small top, red hair shone, body fifteen pounds thinner.

A red heart appeared on my photo. I decided I wanted an answer from the person who liked my photo. I clicked the message icon and typed “What happened to you?”

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I Dine Alone

Friday nights spent half-watching reruns of The Office while half-texting until my fingers hurt. Instead tonight I drove my old white Mitsubishi to the Thai restaurant in town. Had to ease my craving for drunken noodle, calm my sour mood.

Immediately, I ordered a Thai Iced Tea. I never even knew what that was until my ex-boyfriend introduced me back in 2013. I traveled to Stony Brook to buy the special tea leaves from an Asian market once, purchased condensed milk then made it for him at home, used way too much condensed milk. He told me so. But I didn’t listen.

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Trust in Your Journey – Part I

Four years of higher education landed me a job at a local deli where I was hired on the spot because the staff “liked my look.”

Five days a week I arrived (most of the time late) for a 7 a.m. shift. On a Tuesday, Jack Johnson played softly in the background as I set up the bagels in the front display case. I grabbed a plastic tub with two industrial sized sticks of butter and stuck it in the microwave. Three large loaves of Italian bread from Lakewood Bakery were placed on the cutting board before me, I slathered each loaf with a generous (yet not too generous) glob of softened butter. I hacked away at the bread with a sawing knife and wrapped the pieces up individually in cling wrap.

During the lunch rush one of the women who “ran the books” entered the restaurant area and watched as I stuck a piece of buttered bread on a business man’s red serving tray. I felt her staring at me. She reached a skinny, tanned hand into the basket of bread and lifted one up, she shook the bread in her fist as she uttered each syllable.

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When Reality Strikes

A voice, a non existent mystery; facial features, a 2D image viewed on a cell phone; height and build, not a way to tell.

Typed font on a little blue lit screen. Two weeks of build up – life, family, careers, Manhattan – day in, day out, for 14 days.

“Are you on the train?”

“How was your day today?”

“How is your night going?”

“Have any fun plans for the weekend?”

Face-to-face with a live human being who moves, speaks, breathes – a sly smile here, intense eye contact, lively hand gestures engrossed in conversation.

Two strangers connect to one another with senses that experience real things.

Thoughts buzz – Did I talk too much? Did I bore him, do we “get” one another?, What does he think of me? Do I smell? Am I annoying? Does he find me as attractive in person as he did when he liked the 2D photo of me?

Have I told him far too many intimate details of my day to day life, nothing left to say and nothing left to guess, no mystery, no interest, no spark, nothing in common, defunct attraction …

The fleshy realness of another human being. An alcohol infused evening, in bed by midnight on a Thursday.  The night ends. Silence from the other end.

Time, effort, suspense – a lovely evening puffs into thin air like it never happened.