That moment when your hangover begins to lift around 3 or 4 in the afternoon. You still feel like hell but you’re feeling it devolve from a Category 4 Hangover to maybe a Category 3 or 2. Watching your body begin to repair itself feels spectacular, like a gentle massage all over your body. It’s hanging on to your body like a hangover is apt to do but it’s beginning to be pushed out. It’s only then that your body allows itself to deflate like a limp balloon, when you can just lay down without experiencing too much upset or nausea. You’re surrendering yourself lazily to the hangover and letting it pass through you without a fight. Gosh, this moment makes me happy; it makes me feel more alive than most things. Is that weird?
That moment when you spritz yourself with a fragrance, light a new candle, lounge around in your apartment in your underwear and rub moisturizer all over your legs or paint your toenails or lay in bed with the window open and a soft breeze is giving you hickeys. These are the moments when being alone doesn’t actually feel lonely. You’re thankful for the peace and quiet, and hope it stays for as long as possible. You find safety in being by yourself.
Driving through canyons or hills or on a freeway with your best friends with the music blaring and no one is speaking to each other. Not only do you feel youthful, you also feel connected to those who are in the car with you. It’s in that moment that you realize your life has officially become a car commercial.
Days that make you happy for no reason. I have one I would like to share actually. The morning after my best friend’s 21st birthday, I was up till 7am making out in someone’s bed in the Lower East Side. I finally left this boy’s apartment a little drunk still and covered in hickeys as the sun was beginning to shine brightly down on me. I went to the Walgreens on Astor Place, bought some Asprin, and went to bed for a few hours, and when I woke up, I remembered that I had to go to a classmate’s graduation party in Tribeca with my friend Grace. Aside from having a few conversations in class, Grace and I weren’t really friends with this girl but we thought it would be rude to not attend so we went. I bought flowers from a bodega on Broadway and 11th Street and took a Polaroid of Grace and I smiling on the street, writing ” Congrats, The Graduate” underneath. We then wandered down languidly to Tribeca, a neighborhood we both weren’t too familiar with, and finally came across the address. Incidentally, the girl neither of us knew too well in our class, lived in a luxury high-rise building and her party was being thrown not in her apartment but in her building’s “Events” room, which was a large space designated for residents’ parties. When we arrived, we immediately felt out of our element. Besides seeing a few other kids our age from school, the party was mostly attended by her family. It felt strange meeting her mother, who looked like she had too many surgeries done in the hills of Beverly, and her older brother and her nephews when I barely knew this girl myself. Grace and I sat alone eating the catered food for an hour or so before we ducked out and went shopping in Soho. Or maybe Grace just went shopping and I went home. Either way, that day may have seemed unremarkable and kind of awkward, but it actually seemed apropos given the state of my life at the time. And for that, it makes me happy. It serves as a snapshot for how seemingly random my life was at 22 when I had recently moved to New York and didn’t know what the hell I was doing. These were the days I went to stranger’s parties in Tribeca lofts after a night of no sleep. It’s only been three years since that day but I can safely say that I would never go to that kind of party again. And even if I did, I would need at least seven hours of sleep to do it.
They say that doing heroin feels like an orgasm but, since I’m too chicken/smart to try it, I’ll just stick to having good, old-fashioned orgasms, thank you! Orgasms are designed to bring an instant happy into anyone’s life. They’re just swell.