Arcade Fire saved my birthday

It has become an annual tradition to totally freak out about my birthday; the wrinkles that deepen ever so slightly, the unfulfilled aspirations, dissatisfactions, missed connections and opportunities, reflecting on my failings and misgivings, etc.

This year I didn't do it.

Why not?

The answers, I'm not entirely sure of. I think it has to do with change instead of stagnancy, the company I keep, a sense of peace with gaining wisdom, and the fact that some people said I get hotter as I get older. Definitely, probably that.

That is to say, I didn't freak out until this morning. I didn't really freak out like I normally do, about the things I always do, but I just got incredibly sad. I woke up feeling lonely. Not alone. Lonely.
I missed my mom, wearing her big smile while greeting me with a vivacious 'Happy Birthday, Sweetie', as I sleepily stepped out of my bedroom. I missed a lover putting his arms around me at the first signs of my waking and whispering, 'Happy Birthday, honey', or various other terms of endearment. There was no phone ringing, no text message waiting, no anticipation of a new year, and no sign of it being a different day at all.
They say you're getting older, get used to it. But I don't, and I won't. We should not celebrate because we get older? That doesn’t make any sense to me, it seems counter-intuitive.

So, I tried to change my mood by throwing on some Satie and opening my curtains to the –15 degree day. I tried to ignore the incredible mess that has been accumulating on my floor for over a week, and to not think about how another night had passed without me cleaning it. I threw on something cute, put on some eyeliner, and tried to get excited about the day, about going out later to celebrate. I read my book on the T, which is packed 18 times the amount of a standard sardine can. Whatever, my amazing ability to shut people out comes in handy. I get to work to work, I get some birthday wishes, and I want to go hide. Suddenly, some flowers come through the door addressed to me, and instead of turning my mood around it reminds how this person will not be with me on my birthday. I’m lonely. Not alone. Lonely.
I try to keep it together, but it’s my birthday and I’ll cry if I want to. So I do. I go into the bathroom, twice, and sob. I sob, not because I’m getting older, not because I feel I am doing nothing with my life, I sob because I want affection. Not the platonic hug from your friend or even your best friend, but one from someone that loves you like no one else. That will smile into your eyes and you will know, without them saying, how much they care and how they will love you forever and no matter what.

I spend hours like this, trying to get over myself and trying to not feel so needy. I’m fine, I’m solid, I do this all the time. But I can’t, and I don’t. I cancel my get together and tell everyone that I’m going to an incredibly cheesy movie involving Hugh Grant, by myself, and if you want to come over for cake (so thoughtfully and challengingly made by my roommate) then come over after.
I think I start to feel better, not sure, but I think so.

I had intended to go out and buy 10 CD’s at Newbury Comics, but the weather outside was frightful and I was kind of feeling sick…not just in the head. So I mope, it makes me feel better.

Later in the afternoon a crowd of three friends gathers round my working space and they hand me a bag. Inside are some odds and ends, makeup bag, yellow peeps, and the new Arcade Fire CD released today, on the day of my birth. Suddenly, I know the answer, I know what I’m missing, and I put that CD into my computer, import and play. Out pours love and devotion, pain and exaltation, strange emotional contrasts that remind me of why I love this band and why I love music so much. I knew this would change my life, I didn’t know why or how but I knew it would happen.

Arcade Fire saved my birthday. I don’t know if I’ll love the CD tomorrow as much as I do today, but I know I love it today and I am so very thankful.

Tonight I will go to my movie, I will come home to my friends, and I will be ok. I’m a year older, and I’m ok.

no more $16 mojitos

I escaped winter again. I don’t think I’ve ever gone away to a warm climate during these bleak months (except when living in California), and now I’ve gone and done it twice in one season. My trip can be explained in three words:

Miami. Ummmmmmmm. Wow.

The location - South Beach at a super swanky hotel on Collins Ave, steps away from the even more uber swanky Delano hotel. The sky was overcast but the temperature was hot, most of the time in the 80’s. I hadn’t been to Florida in ten-ish years and found it hadn’t changed much when I briefly visited Tampa before setting up camp in South Beach.

Tampa- flat, palm trees, big roads, strip malls, fried foods (we went on a search for alligator meat that we had no intention of eating…just wanting to look at it), basically kind of middle America but down at the tips of the U.S. of A, and with lizards running around the streets. We were by the University of Tampa and were surprised at the extreme lack of hip shops and cute college town café’s. We ate outside at an Irish bar with a thatched roof, the menu noted salmon as a specialty. They were out of salmon. We watched the sunset over the bay(?) as stucco’d restaurants blasted top 40 hits covered by local bands. Matchbox 20 never really sounded so bad, and that’s saying a lot. Late one night my friend and I got a recommend from the hotel about a dive bar that was close, cheap, had a great jukebox, and open late. We went, were later joined by members of my friend’s band, and closed the place. The drinks were strong and cheap, the jukebox was probably good but none of our comrade’s songs got played, and we went back to our hotel bleary-eyed and smelling of cigarettes. (You can smoke in Florida bars)
We intended to go to the Dali museum, but didn’t make it. That was very bad of us. Very very bad.

We end up making it to our hotel in South Beach late/early in the night/morning. My friend tours in a band with this big-ish performance group and I was just tagging along to hang out and be warm. The hotel is ridiculous. Super modern, all white lobby, with sheer white curtains that hang down in bunches, covering nothing and signifying nothing. There are two pools and two outdoor bars, all of which are surrounded by huge beds that you can lounge on, drink, and be fabulous. Directly outside the hotel fence is the white sand beach and the pristine blue, warm ocean water. I had never stayed in a hotel this nice and probably never will again. No one that was in the band could ever afford to do this, but luckily they work for good people that were taking care of them, and I got to reap the rewards too. Yay.

South Beach and Miami are unlike any other part of the state, and I had been prepared for it. There are elements that remind me of Southern California, the nice cars, the beautiful people, the girls wearing small dresses and walking for blocks in 4 inch heels….in California they wouldn’t be walking, but you know what I mean. The weather, the outdoor cafes, the extreme air conditioning. Beyond that…. it’s like nowhere else I’ve ever been.
First off, the art deco architecture is both interesting and beautiful. I much preferred walking through the older neighborhoods and seeing the not so perfect, and not so bright buildings, but both were interesting. There is a huge vacation industry, and there are more beautiful Europeans in South Beach than any other place I’ve been to--besides Europe. It’s incredibly diverse, the vegetables and fruits—even in cheap cafes—are crisp, juicy and delicious, and the overall variety of bold flavors that are not weighed down by butters and batters is delightful.
But as I looked around at the Armani, the Gucci, the Manolo’s, the $400 haircuts, I couldn’t help but be incredibly exhausted. It must be pure torture caring that much about what other people think, constantly needing to look so put together to attract the attention of that hot guy and that gorgeous woman. It really makes you only feel more insecure having to go through the painstaking ordeals of primping and prodding, stuffing and applying.
At night, after we got back from one of their shows, we walked into the hotel bar that was overflowing with people at 11:30 on a Tuesday. The hotel had a Nobu, so we went for novelty sake. I put on a new dress, my 2 inch heels, and painted my eyes with lavender shadow, just to try it and play the game. I ate $29 sashimi, 7 pieces, that were delicious but not $29 worth. We went to the bar where businessmen in tailored suits goggled and awed over the girls in their dresses, their heels, their boots, their straight hair, and their perfect makeup—they all looked the same to me. Beautiful, if you like that perfect non-descript creature with a gorgeous body. I know most men do. I never understood why. Maybe it’s because I was never that girl, never wanted to be that girl, but would have liked to have a boy’s attention when I was growing up. Though, honestly, these guys were perfectly trim, expensively dressed, had lots of money, and were totally unattractive to me. If they weren’t so loud and spilling their bottles of $300 Grey Goose into each others mouths, and forcing shots of strange liquids into the hands of these ‘goddesses’, I wouldn’t have noticed except to laugh at the excess. Which I did anyway.

Bar:

5 shots, 3 Budweisers- $143
2 vodka sodas, 1 gin on the rocks- $43
2 mojitos, mint not muddled, limes squeezed- $32
Tips are included in the drinks, but still.

For breakfast:

English Muffin- $6
1 Belgium waffle with caramelized bananas- $17
Organic oatmeal- $13
A side of your favorite breakfast meat- $8

I can’t live like that. Under normal circumstances everyone we were with couldn’t live like that if it weren’t mostly free. But even if I had all the money in the world, there is no way I could ever want to live that way. Gluttonous and false, hustling for things of no importance just to get some status of having that hot ass on your arm.

It’s a vacuous existence that so many crave, and for a night can be fun. As long as someone else is paying and you are surrounded by actual people with interesting things to say that don’t involve their big cars and their big dicks. But those things never really go together anyway.