The Zaftig Chronicles

What's the maxim? Never begin a relationship with someone you work with!  Fair.  But sometimes you just have to Step In and see where things lead. Maybe things will lead to a sushi dinner at Sushi Wabi or burger and fries at some greasy spoon or a meaningful evening in each other's arms. You just have to Step In and find out.  It's risky. Yeah and so is leaving your home. Shit happens; but good shit happens once in a while, and that's the shit you want. The key here is you have to want it.  "What do you need?" he asked me, today at work. "Because I'm willing to give it to you. I don't know how much more I can show this to you." I want a lot of things: I want better manners; smarter decisions; tastier grocery store fruit; 36 hour days; more competent co-workers; better investments; more time with my family (sans cousins); my sister to be okay; less cramping; more women to utilize the sanitary bags in the bathroom to dispose of their feminine...

There's nothing more capable of producing introspection than possibly becoming a parent. Boy, things start to show themselves to you in a different light. What if I were pregnant? (And yes, Aunt Flo is still MIA!) I'd have to find a bigger apartment, a nanny I trust, breast pumps. I'd have to save money for his/her Ivy League education.  Basically, I'd have to stop being selfish.  Being an adult means selfishness 99% of the time. The world literally revolves around you; no matter how self-important that may sound, it's an unembellished truth. We have to look out for ourselves -- that means feeding, bathing, caring, and various other activities that revolve around us and our well-being. Having a child depend on you for survival changes things up, and somehow the world starts revolving around your child. When a woman chooses to reproduce, she is relinquishing her self-importance for a very just cause. That's how I know having a child right now is not for me.  Aban...

I'm meeting Steven for a late lunch. He wants to discuss "where things between us are heading." I thought I could answer his question by reminding him of our most recent encounter . Basically, a sexual relationship. I know at least that could work. Honestly, I'm afraid of going any further than that.  I want to, but I'm not sure I can deal with a relationship with someone I work with. A person who I'd see every day, 9:30-5:30 and then more . There would be awkward moments, knowing looks, and I'd have to make sure to wear pretty underwear all the time, because I'd never know when he will want a quickie before the 10:15 meeting. Oy . Are these silly reasons? Of course they are . All excuses are silly. Still, I'm back at that whole instincts thing . My instincts tell me, and loudly, THIS WON'T WORK! But he wants this to materialize beyond giving me head and one stroke fucks. He says he wants to wash my hair and rub expensive cream on my legs. ...

Yesterday, I took the train to work, and on my way there, my handbag was not zipped up and spilled out onto the train's floor. Pantyliners, gum, hairspray, lipstick, and hand cream littered the gross rubbery floor. "Oh, God!" I shouted, embarrassed. A barrage of friendly strangers proceeded to help me pick up pieces of my daily life. "Thank you, thank you," was on the turntable. It was strange because I felt like mere thank yous weren't enough. This kind act by people who I don't know from Adam overwhelmed me. If one of them had asked for a kidney at that moment, I might have considered it. Seriously. When I got to work, I thought about how people seem to be much nicer to strangers than to the people we know and love. I know the whole pay it forward thing is an ideal way to lead your life, but it should also apply to our loved ones. We don't pay it forward enough to the people who count. I don't do it enough. So on my way home, I gave up my seat ...

I finally seem to be getting off Cloud 9 and back to my life. Getting up at 6:30 in the morning and hitting the gym hasn't been done since I started swamping myself with work. This morning, I realized what I was missing. Leaving the gym and rushing back home to get ready for work made me nostalgic for the early days when I was absorbing my independence. Every choice in my life was of my making, every decision. If I decided to go to the gym, who would stop me? I only had to answer to myself. When I moved into my apartment, it took me weeks before I would stay up past 11 P.M. I felt like I was still in my dorm or at home, where I had to be considerate of others. I made sure to pour my orange juice into a glass and not drink from the carton. If I cooked, I made huge portions because it was selfish not to cook for others. I didn't hang my hand-washed stockings and underwear in the bathroom; I hung them on the posts of my bed. I was still living at home in my mind.  Then one day I w...

Last night, after I left his condo, I came home and popped in my trusty Portishead CD. I needed to hear hypnotic bass notes and dreamy guitars in order for me to go to sleep. Then " Over " came on, and the lyrics in the song captured how I feel about what's going on between him and me. "To tread this fantasy, openly; w hat have I done? Oh, this uncertainty is taking me over" I'm uncertain on how to proceed. And I'm really uncertain if I want things to go further with him. I think he does. But think isn't good enough. Sometimes I feel being single for a while makes some people content, and entering a relationship becomes one of the hardest things to do. It means so much. It means change. The maxim goes: "Change Is a Good Thing," but it should be "Change Is a Hard Thing." Wanted or not wanted. And we work together! That can't be a good thing. It's so messy. But last night, as we watched the World Series and snacked on ...

"Since when is it glamorous to be single?" Viv asked, over fried gobi and delicious, fragrant basmati rice. Since 1998. Ever heard of a show called Sex and the City ? Being single-ish is glamorous in the Big City, don't you know? You get to plunk down $500 for a pair of shoes that kill your feet, drink endless cosmos, and complain about how men are too complicated. You get to eat at exotic restaurants -- because being single means eating out more -- and throw wine-tasting parties and spend lots of time investing in yourself. You get to do the whole therapy thing, too. Fashionably so! A relationship would only ruin things. Because then you'd have to put up with his less-than-perfect hygiene, his dirty clothes scattered all over, the way he handles money. Yuck ! He won't understand why you must have that handbag or those shoes or an expensive pair of sexy jeans; He'll want you to make home-cooked meals, do his laundry, cut his hair.  Where's the glamor in th...

This afternoon, I spent my lunch hour visiting Viv's therapist . For half an hour I sat in a cozy muted-toned office, watching a bobbed blonde write furiously into her notepad.  God, I must be really abnormal , I'm thinking as she shakes her head when I describe that I'm not the therapy type. The she asked The Question: "What do you fear the most in your life?" I thought for a second. "Um... I don't know." She shook her head in an understanding way. "You have to think about the question for more than a second. Really think." "I think I fear...loneliness. No, wait! I fear dependence." But I already knew this. After our time, I hailed a cab back to work, where I proceeded to make a list of my fears. Then I became afraid that I was afraid of everything. I think this is what therapy does to you -- it makes you afraid; afraid that you are abnormal, and that you can't function without therapy. If you're afraid, then you need the...

This morning, while looking for my favorite sweater to bring in the fall weather, I grabbed my pink fleece blanket--the blanket that has kept me warm in many movie theaters, during long drives, and baseball games (Go, SOX!). I folded Fleecey neatly and sat her gingerly in the passenger seat of my car. Why I was taking her, I didn't know, but I felt like I needed her today. The heat at work blew. My office feels like Siberia in the winter. I am currently wrapped in Fleecey's warmth. She's draped across me like a big, fuzzy pashmina shawl. Instincts. What is meant to happen, will happen naturally. "Trust your instincts," it's been said. I did, and now I'm warm. So what are my instincts telling me about Him? Not much so far. Apparently, they are still working that one out.

It's Sunday, which means it is time for my introspective drive through the North Shore . I've filled little Ziplock bags with tart green grapes, honeydew, and strawberries. Today I'll listen to 80s music, eat my fruit, and reflect on my life. Get out today and take time for yourself.

I know people read this blog, but for what reason? I've disabled comments because I don't like what it invites, so there is no open dialogue to engage in. Are you all reading to get a good laugh? I like to think not. But there is so much negativity spewing from keyboards across the world, that it's almost enough to make a girl hate all of this shit. So why do I bother? Brooding. Just brooding.

This morning, on my way to pick up the Sunday Tribune, orange juice and croissants, I realized just how free I am in the world. I literally had to stop and get ahold of myself on the street. I was near tears. An unbelievable feeling of euphoria swept over me as I was walking. I'm free. Free! If I wanted to spit on the ground, I could. If I wanted tea and apples, I could get them. If I wanted to go back to my apartment and have a vibrator-induced orgasm, I could. If I wanted to just be, I could. Free. I tell you, free. How could I ever be envious or jealous of another human being when I'm free. Free to do whatever I want to do with my life. As I get closer to my 30s, I think these epiphanies will occur more often. And I like that. So I bought my paper, juice and croissants and went back to my apartment, where I noticed a message waiting for me on my voice mail: Zaftig, call me ASAP! I got those runs back. There's trouble." It was "Heather" from work. I called ...

Jan just left. He still doesn't know about the blog. I just don't feel comfortable enough to tell him. I've been very candid on here, but I'm not this candid in my personal life. He knows about most of things I write here, but some he doesn't. I think this is for the best; because once I know my friends and family are reading this, I won't be as open. And I like being open here, without the consequences. This is my open journal, where I get to say all the things that are on my chest, inside my mind, without worrying about hurting someone's feelings. Blogging is therapeutic. It's my way of expressing my inner most desires, pains, and frustrations in a public forum, but with privacy. So can you blame me for wanting to hold on to that? Work beckons.

It's one of those days where work is less important than my mental well-being. So, instead of heading to a tense office, I will be eating take-out and having a day of deep reflection. I'm sitting in an ocean of take-out menus trying to decide what to have for a BIG lunch. Chinese? Nah, had that most of last week. Pizza? Nope. Italian? Not quite. Indian? Uh...close. Falafels? Hot! I'm so predictable. So I'm calling Jan over and we're going to do the whole girlfriends thing, and he's going to groom me, and I just might tell him about the blog. Maybe.

So I'm kind of angry with myself about Friday's irresponsible behavior. Actually, all of Sunday I was depressed about it. I thought drunken sexual encounters were reserved for perky 18-year-olds during Spring Break. Apparently not true. I hate that I wrote about it in such a glamorous way -- like it's something to flaunt. Look, I got head from a stranger! Ugh. I don't live like this. Then again, I guess I do. The second part of my self-anger is focused on how readily I'll let a total stranger give me head, but I won't meet a decent, well-intentioned man for falafels and beers. How complicated am I? I love falafels; plus I think He's gorgeous, and He's so my type. So the question this morning is WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH ME? Putting things down on the blog allows me to see myself in a whole different light. It shows me how I think. My thoughts are clearer when I write them down. I see the picture of me in bright lights.  How shall I learn from it? Off ...