Tuesday, July 13, 2010

I'm Gonna Sit Right Down and Kvetch Myself a Letter

Since last we met, I’ve aged. I know... I don't wanna talk about it.

Last week I celebrated my 29th birthday, if you can believe. 29??? Where did THIS come from all of a sudden? It seems like only yesterday I was a carefree twink in a pretty dress and now suddenly I’m Angela Lansbury! How can this have happened?? I don’t know – but there you have it.

So, I’ve been very busy these past days, self-reflecting and updating my age on all of my online profiles (to say 26.) I am embracing this journey toward a new chapter in my life. With every year comes a better understanding of myself, making it easier to navigate my way. There are, however, a lot of things I miss about my younger years: the bliss of ignorance; the cuteness of naivety; the ability to unabashedly take things for granted; the old pair of high heels I made my parents hot-glue red sequins to, so I could pretend to be Judy Garland in The Wizard of Oz (and subsequently redo in silver sequins so I could pretend to be Diana Ross in The Wiz).

I also miss my patience, which seems to have long gone. I don’t know if it’s just New York wearing me out or an early onset of Old Jew, but I find I’m becoming a lot more kvetchy. I mean, it’s no surprise to anyone who’s read this blog before that I’ve always been a complainer. It’s sort of “my thing”. Most people enjoy it, though, because I do it in a way that is EXTREMELY jovial and charming. And skinny, with fantastic bone structure. But now that I’m 50, I’ve begun to get a little curmudgeonly about stuff.

When I was a kid, I remember my grandmother constantly threatening to write letters to various businesses and companies, expressing her dissatisfaction with their products or services: If the seats were too small in the movie theatre; if the toothpaste was overpriced… Even the most minor issues seemed to warrant certified mail to the respective authorities.

This practice of kvetching in an official capacity was a concept that both amused and embarrassed me as a kid, but is now one I subscribe to: If a certain brand discontinues one of my favorite products, I’ll write to customer service, alerting them of my dismay (and asking for free samples); if the service is awful at a restaurant, I’ll fill out the comment card they bring with the check; if a boy I like doesn’t return my phone calls, I will email the NYC LGBT Center and ask them why God made me a homosexual…

Yesterday, I wrote to the makers of my favorite chapstick, who suddenly just decided to stop making the stuff. Not to sound gay, but this is a huge fucking problem for me, girlfriend! Like, I almost called out of work when I found out.

And just this morning, after an altercation with an especially horrible cashier at a particular popular New York-based drugstore with the crappiest service in town (I won’t disclose which; however, I will say that it is a black man’s name paired with a verb you do to books), it took all the self-restraint I could muster not to ask for the manager.

This irrational overreacting is something I vow to work on in this, my final year of twentydom. I’m finally going to allow myself license to relax and no longer sweat the small stuff. It feels liberating and fantastic! Except for the fact that my foot’s been hurting all day, so I can’t go running after work and now I’ll be fat by sundown and alone for the rest of my life. Fucking great.

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