Friday, February 21, 2003


The phone rings just as the picture you've been waiting for is starting to load, and it's your boyfriend and he's not where he's supposed to be, but that's Ok because it's better that he be where he actually is. So you roll your eyes but smile, because it's good that he has his priorities straight (for the most part). He says there's been a change of plans for tonight; and you hate changes of plans because they're never good--no one EVER says "change of plans, I just got two tickets to see the Dave Matthews Band, and they're no longer horribly radio-friendly and overplayed"--it's always things like "we have to bring my 10-month old along, so we'll be dining at Ruby Tuesdays and forget having anything to drink". And you sigh and roll your eyes because you liked the plans the way they were, you liked the suburban restaurant and the suburban mall and the suburban movie, in all it's tiredness and lack of creativity you found the idea of it all strangely comforting. And now you have to change your clothes, because your baggy jeans and tank top and sweater won't do for eating downtown. And your boyfriend says "hey, we're all going cas. totally cas. don't worry about it." But you can't not worry about it, you HAVE to change, so you take off your baggy jeans and your sweater and your tank top even though you liked the way the men on the bus had looked at you in your tank top. You pull on fishnets and a long skirt and a black top and change your bra because your yellow and white one showed through the black top. And now your bra and panties don't match but you don't feel like pulling off the fishnets to put on matching panties. And you don't mind so much, this change of plans. But it makes you think about the way things used to be, the way YOU used to be, before you were this girl who went to suburban restaurants and suburban malls and suburban movies; when you were this girl who was at Man Ray or Karma or Axis every weekend and took a cab home at 4 am after hanging in your friend's Newbury Street apartment after the club. You remember the people you hung out with, and the guy who liked you but you didn't like him in that way but he would pull you on his lap and you trusted him, because he was a good guy. But then he talked smack about a friend of yours, said she was a slut and led him on; and you remember the times he pulled you on his lap and the times you danced with him in your bra and fishnet top at Man Ray and you wonder if he means you; if you're the slut. And you feel a little sad that you don't talk to any of those people any more, just a little sad. Then you look at your watch and remember that it's time to pick up your boyfriend at the T station; and you think of him telling you where to find his extra car key and him letting you drive his car whenever you wanted to go somewhere and he couldn't; and the key to his apartment is cool and new against your skin, and you love his friends; not just like them to get drunk or high with but really dig them as people; and you look at your newly-colored hair, and it's too dark but it'll fade and you'll get a color you like better; and you like where you are. So you smile. Really, really smile.

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