Archive for September, 2009

Today is what I call a semi-productive, highly over caffeinated day.

In the midst of organizing my life’s contents, I realized my most prized possession had disappeared: my black pashmina. It seems to have taken its lighter twin, the mustard pashmina, with it. They are probably sitting in Aruba, sipping pina coladas, and cursing the days they spent attempting to keep me warm. But being the resourceful Wellesley woman that I am, I soon realized I could replace my alcoholic, beach loving piece of black cloth with another more loyal one, ripe off the streets of New York City– 33rd and 7th to be precise. And I did just that. I also added an Israeli-esque one to my collection because well, you never know when Aruba may come a’knocking.

Afterwards I got the always painful, sometimes effective flu shot. But before the nurse would inject the needle into my arm, she gave me a lecture about not getting the shot if I am planning on becoming pregnant. She said I looked like the baby-bearing type, clearly a reference to my hips. I tried not be offended and apply some of that Midwestern charm I learned this summer, but being polite when someone is insinuating your should teach a few more Jewmba classes and use contraception is often a challenge. Luckily, I also have some training in playing the role of a politician so I nodded and thanked her for taking my uterus into consideration.

Then it was off to a goodbye dinner with mi papa and mi abuelita (neither of whom are Spanish). I had my standard avocado and spinach salad, while my grandmother traded dinner for chocolate mud pie. (NOTE: I get my hips from her.) We chatted about all things British, and then she suddenly remembered she had this amazing half-blind, novel-writing friend in Edinburgh who I MUST visit. She seems to be an ex-hippie with a penchant for pubs and pens– and I cannot wait to meet her!

After parting ways, I wandered through Bryant Park, only to be propositioned twice– once to buy a puppy and the other to buy an orphan in India. Ah, I will miss this city.


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One last stride…

I used to truly hate goodbyes– more than snakes, spiders, and the smell of bacon. But I am learning that endings have their perks. The people who surround you suddenly realize you mean something to them, and that they should express that something in the form of homemade chai, sweet potatoes, and ┬ábear hugs (in a non-suffocating sort of way). Of course, there is the occasional materialistic offering– gift cards, plane reading, and rain gear, but nothing makes up for those moments where you are sitting in a cupcakery on Broome St with a latte in one hand and a gluten-free, vegan cupcake in the other. Oh, and of course one of your closest friends is sitting across from you, reminding you that you are the quintessential metaphorical mountain climber. Oxford is just another mountain. And like all those that came before, you will conquer it.

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