But Slenderly. . .

Introspective Blather

I have rarely been so pleased for it to be Friday.  Maybe it's because it's March (or nearly the end of), or because I can't quite get my head around how quickly the year has flown by, but I am having a bit of . . . melancholy?  Anxiety?  Or I'm just tired.  Last night was a 2 am night in the working world (though on a fun new case), and when I crawled into bed besides a sacked out DK and a hard-stare-giving Topo, I found myself in the ol' worry loop.  You know, when you know the thing you most need to do is sleep, but the sleep is elusive because Mr. Brain has decided now is the perfect time to ponder doleful topics like "Is life passing me by?" and "Whither the child?" and "Am I only happy in this job because I don't know what else is out there?  Am I a coward for thinking I'm happy?" which then devolves swiftly into my plowing deep the fields of crazy:  "If I get pregnant in the fall/winter, then I could take 3 months maternity, and then maybe add an additional 3-5 months as a 'sabbatical' and we could move to France while DK works on his thesis and then I could go back to work as a senior associate and but, wait, shit, we can't go to France because of our enormous mortgage payments and god, this is what they mean by "golden handcuffs" but maybe if I stopped spending money, I could save enough to pay the mortgage and go to France and couldn't we live frugally there?  Could we rent out our apartment? What about the art? Would it go into storage?  Shouldn't I tighten the ol' belt now just in case so I can take long walks with my non-existent infant in a small French village and learn how to properly speak French instead of relying on my current half-assed high school version?"

Or something like that.  It was a boring track set on endless loop and I awoke quite worn out with myself.  I just feel like I am running out of time, like there's this compression when I look at the calendar, not just from a baby point of view (though, yes, I'd be a big lying liar to say it doesn't cross my mind), but from a doors close point of view.  It's easy to imagine taking six months off to live in France as an associate.  It is impossible to imagine being able to do so in three years time.  It is easy to imagine having flexibility regarding where we will live as an associate (with good reason, I've already gotten to move cities three times within the same firm); it is almost impossible imagining we could do so if I have long-term prospects here. And how to figure out baby and savings and mortgage payments in all of that, is, well, worry-making. 

It's not just a question of to go for partner or not.  Sometimes I just worry that my world view has just become to myopic.  The thing is, the world I know, the world of straight-forward, march-step associate hierarchy is, by its very nature, going to change.  Thus, I'm going to have to make some major decisions in the next few years that are a bit daunting.  See, I've had a clear idea of what I wanted to do as a career for many years and it has been a road that is not particularly hard to see: it is well paved and brightly lit, good signage.

Nor has my path to get here been marked by particular angst.  I went to the same small school from pre-kindergarten to senior year.  I went to the college I wanted to go to.  I studied, as anticipated, English and art history.  I worked in a law firm after graduation.  I worked for the general counsel of an internet company after that.  I went to law school and after one summer of doing public interest work, and have been at the same firm since 2002.  On paper, not particularly adventurous.  All those things happened in wide variety of locations: Kansas City, upstate New York, Edinburgh, San Francisco, Boston, Dallas, New York – which I think imbued a fairly straightforward trajectory with a sense of genuine upheaval.  And every year, my job has changed, in nature of work, the level of responsibility, the management role.  But I don't want to lose out on great opportunities (like FRANCE) because I can only see the laurel crown.  Or vice versa.  You know? 

Phew.  Happy Friday!  Well -- an interlude -- I just had a big tearful conversation with DK in which I tried to explain all the above and he basically told me to give myself a break.  That I shouldn't beat myself up for some imagined character failing or degrade our present life because I worry that I could possibly falter at some future point when choices need to be made.  His point is that the path often looks clear in retrospect, and we should be proud and happy that where we are in such a good place, with a great home and dear friends and satisfying work.  He's thrilled to finally be working on his dissertation, proud that I've earned enough doing work I enjoy to live well, buy a terrific home we love and – well, we'll make the changes we need to make as they come due.  We'll have a baby when it's right for us to have a baby (knock wood).  We'll stay or go as opportunities arise.

Can you tell DK is a wee bit more laid back than present company?   

Put like that, it's hard to continue to Eyeore around, all "woe" and "wherefore?"  But I am going to start a secret France slush fund.  Just to have a little reminder that we can do it if we want. 

House Proud

All my worry was in vain!  The very next day after writing about my trepidation that DK and I were about to enter the painting chip abyss, he paints.  As a surprise.  I came home on Monday night to perfectly coated gray walls in our living room/dining room, a grinning, sweaty boy, and a totally weirded-out cat.  Bliss!  Check it:

The BEFORE (wow, this is a lame before, but trust me, lilly white walls):

The AFTER:

We still need to tackle the long wall together, but I am thrilled. 

What the hell, here are a couple more photos of the place (someone perhaps got a new camera and has turned quite shutterbug happy).  I bought these two plates (from this great 7 sins/7 virtues set) two years ago and had this vague idea of hanging them, but they languished in their box under the bed until last week when DK hung them for me in the kitchen.  They look ten billion trillion times better against the gray background: 

Embrace the Beige, Part Deux

Remember long ago when DK and I took the plunge, like lemmings, into the abyss of paint chips?  And we fretted and pondered and debated the little swathes of paint randomly adorning our walls?  After much debate, we finally settled on a color named "Calm" for our living/dining area, an ineffable mix of light gray and cream that we so hotly debated and which has ended up looking like . . . plain old basic white.  So, yes, in essence, last June we hired someone to paint our white walls the very barest , the merest hint of off-white, a deviation so subtle that a standard parlor game for visitors has been "pin the tail on the non-painted wall." 

Now, ten months later, having finally admitted we are still living with white walls, we are back at the Herculean task of finding a paint color we both like that is neither too light nor too dark, not overly beige, but not peachy; subtle but not boring – in other words, right but not wrong.  Perhaps hardened by our last experience, we breezed in the paint store on Saturday like seasoned professionals.  No wide-eyed talk of "well, what do you think about a cheerful green?" or leafing through design magazines for the inspiring choice ("look how nice that inset wall of brown looks against the blue.").  No, we marched in, declined help, made for the fan book of paint chips (all THREE separate huge books) and got to business buying up eight different samples.  And there was almost no disagreement; we knew we liked a coffee gray, we knew we wanted it a little darker, and we knew we didn't want to engage in endless speculation about the relative merits of "Cement Gray" versus "Portland Gray" versus "Revere Silver." 

Once home, we opened up the samples, briskly daubed a finger into each tin and smeared a sample onto a piece of white paper under its name.  And then laughed, because the page looked as if eight identical paint swabs had been applied.  Here's to continuity!  Nonetheless, we both liked one just slightly more than the rest, painted a test patch, declared victory and just as I was ready to ring up the painter, DK said something about "mulling" it over for a few days, "living with it,"  "seeing it in the morning light."  Which – well, yes, good idea.  But that way trouble lies, my friends, that way trouble lies.  I know the boy, and given half a chance, he will happily engage in a quixotic pursuit for perfection, only to drive both me and himself raving mad in the process.  There is a reason we had over twenty (2-0) paint samples in our house last June.  My little questing knight, ever tilting at the windmills of aesthetics. 

So you can understand why I was ready to close my eyes and jump, hestitation be damned.  To be impetuous and paint with abandon, and in the process, neatly side-step the morass of indecision.  Sigh.  Not to be.  And sadly, DK just said something that portends certain doom. 

[The scene: 8:30 pm, Sunday night, apartment bathed in the soft glow of lamps.]

DK: Don't you think it's looking a little . . . yellow? 

[Nancy nervously follows his gaze to the 2x2 test patch on the column.]

Nancy: It's the lamps; they make everything look a little yellow.  Even the white baseboards look yellow.

DK: Right, so it looks yellow.  I don't like it so yellow.

[A beat.]

Nancy: Kill me now. 

---------------

What else?  Well, last night I had perhaps the greatest lobster roll of my life.  And friends, I do not say that lightly.  There are few things I like more than a lobster roll.  I have sought out delectable specimens high and low.  I have debated the merits of straight, buttered lobster on a roll v. the slight tang of a lobster salad on brioche.  I have read articles, searched online and debated where The Best one can be found in Manhattan.  And the answer is Pearl's. Holy moses, it is good.  I'd heard the hype of course, but baby, I am a believer now.  Huge, rich butter pieces of lobster, with the perfect touch of lemony sauce on this totally delectable buttered roll.  Seriously, whoa.   

I picked up five for take-out last night for a girl's poker night and we all ate in quiet reverence, an occasional "oh my god" thrown in.  I didn't have a particularly good poker game (luck was decidedly not a lady), but the booze and the food and the (very) late night of laughs were hard to beat. 

Is it really possibly March?

For the first time in months, I walked to the subway today sans tights, in some seriously high strappy heels, and felt positively gleeful tottering about, new colt hesitant on the busy sidewalk, in something other than boots.  Don't get me wrong, I love a good boot, particularly of the shiny delicious leather ilk, and my ever-expanding collection attests to that affection.  High heeled black, low riding shiny, low buckled brown, high ankle, stripy rain: they line up like dutiful soldiers under my hanging skirts, ready and reporting for duty, ma'am!  But as you may have noticed *cough* I'm been somewhat absent this month, and my time in warmer climes has reminded my calves and toesies of the happiness of being unhampered by layers of material.  So I'm quite jolly at these first whispers of spring in New York, though, as a quick glance out the window confirms, I may have been too quick with the boot banishment.  Bare legs in the rain?  Oh Nancy. 

Well.  It's been quite a month.  In the twenty-nine days of February, I managed to make four separate trips, so my month zipped by with many hours spent on an airplane: NY to Kansas City; NY to Hawaii; NY to Detroit; and finally, NY to LA to Santa Barbara to Ojai Valley.  And when I wasn't ensconced in the latest Sky Mall offerings (which, solid gold, people, that magazine gives me endless delight.  A plant disguised as a litter box?  A full-sized Yeti for the garden?  A globe that opens up to reveal a hidden beer cooler?  Yes, yes and yes), I've had that little niggling annoyance, what is it again?  Something about billable hours?  It'll come it me. 

So much to tell, so little aptitude to tell it. 

Let's see.  Some girlfriends and I went to this mess of an Irish pub on Wednesday. Usually, this is a crew who feels quite strongly about their champagne, so I wrote a hesitant email suggesting that perhaps Paddy McO'Neils might be the best locale for our shindig since wine was likely not an option: "Buyer beware: I think it's Guinness or it's 'I said good day, sir!'" But one friend was insistent, so we found ourselves at a table tucked away in the sea of plaid, a touch incongruous in our suits and carefully applied lipstick.  But, getting with the program, we gleefully ordered up some pints of Bass and onion rings and my single friends started furiously whispering that there were some cute ones about.  Cute, maybe, but less than charming.  At one point in the night, this drunk guy wandered past our table, stopped, turned to eye each of us up and down, and slurred, "I've just got one word to say to you fancy ladies . . . .nicccceeee."  And stumbled down the stairs to the bathroom. 

This morning it was all I could do to leave my closet.  I have a little stool tucked in there and I happily perched on it with my morning tea and admired the surroundings with the cat.  Shoeboxes! And everything hanging by color and type!  Suits over there on special hangers!  DK has been a dreamboat and spent this week organizing my closet.  [I know. Seriously.]  He ventured in on Monday and tsk-tsked over my "unused space" and too many hangers and "look at your shoes" which, I had formerly thought looked fine until I noticed that they were actually shoved on top of each other and covered in dust (see first paragraph) and all akimbo.  I usually abdicate and run when I see that organizing gleam in DK's eye, but I felt weirdly defensive and fragile to implied criticism and tried half-heartedly to shield the worst of it from him.  "It's fine! I've hung up everything! There's nothing to see here!" but the jig was up, as my scraggly sweater arm hanging past the shelf testified.  As god as his witness, my closet was going to be Improved. 

Two days later, and I think DK hung the moon.  My god, it is beautiful.  My pal K came over for dinner last night and she had barely taken off her coat before I shepherded her in to the bedroom and opened my closet door with a flourish.  "BEHOLD."  Ten minutes later, as I lovingly pointed out the cat bed tucked away on the second shelf (what? his favorite respite from the harried world of our apartment is my closet and we are nothing if not indulgent to Herr Topo's desires) and the way the light just caught the undulating waves of fabric, DK found us to hand us some wine. The three of us stood in there for a while longer, thoughtfully sipping, and admiring before I realized it was 8:30 and I hadn't started cooking. 

That's all I got.  I need to summon the strength to write two long emails and then make for the hills.  Tonight is spa night with my sister (Hooray!) and I signed up for a massage, but am now torn about whether I should call and plead to please instead get a facial.  Damn this puritanical streak that makes me feel like I should be doing something productive, like battling those ever encroaching wrinkles . . . and yet, massage? It calls to me, particularly since I got this new fancy ergonomic chair at work that, ironically, is killing me and I find myself clutching the small of my back and wincing when I get up to go to the printer.  So to fight the good fight of the pores or to indulge in some lower back kneading?  Oh these tough decisions.

Happy weekend.  I've missed this place.