“two more hours should tell the story, one way or the other. either I’m right and a catastrophe will occur, or it won’t and I’m crazy. in either case the outlook is not so good.”
-walker percy
the past few months have been challenging, to put things lightly.
as much as I would like to pretend that my life has no semblance to a cathy comic, the unforgiving facts have other plans. It’s 3am on a saturday night and I’m stoned in my studio apartment, listening to rubber soul, trying to reason with myself so that the other half of the brick of extra sharp cheddar in the fridge will make it through the night. my ambitious goal to go from dark red to blonde turned out giving me a mop of hair that is several different colors (including but certainly not limited to) a hue I can only accurately describe as "cheeto dust". I took out the trash wearing a button down blouse, pink slippers, and a pair of spanx earlier-- in broad daylight. christ, I belong to an online dating website and carry around pictures of my cat. (cameraphone, but still.)
despite these discouraging admissions, I’m willing to cut myself some slack. cathy probably wouldn’t have spent the afternoon at an antique book expo in the upper east side, then to stroll alongside the horsedrawn carriages to watch the sunset in central park, scribbling in a moleskin to kill time between art shows. on the other hand, I did end up going to the plaza hotel just to pee, and was later humped by a flagrant hobo on a crowded f train.
luck has never been my strong suit, but I excel in steely resilience and hope, though I’m conditioned to be perpetually braced for impact from my crash course thus far. since I moved to brooklyn, I would describe my financial situation as “vaguely impoverished” or “fashionably starved”, but lately I’ve just been pathetically, depressingly, horrifyingly penniless. we’re talking mayonnaise sandwich broke. jumping turnstiles in heels busted. as bukowski would say, “without a pot to puke in”. being fond of the finer things in life, I’ve always had a propensity to hanker for a higher grade of material goods, but I don’t need them in order to be happy. further still, I have learned, is that it always helps to be able to buy a new york post and a coffee every day in order not to be miserable.
if the first two of my so-called quarter life crises were fakeouts, this one has been relentlessly difficult and feels quite official for two reasons; I’m legitimately confused and panicked about what the hell to do with my life, and I’m actually about to turn 25. my mom’s favorite new thing to remind me of is that I’m “not nineteen anymore”, right behind “don’t fuck on the first date”. she’s getting married to her longtime boyfriend/fiancée in about a week in maui and when she pondered aloud the peculiarity surrounding the whole name change phenomenon, also took the opportunity to confess that she never really liked the spelling of my name and that I should seriously consider losing my “h” to seem more european.
“wait, would that mean I could stop shaving my pits?” I asked.
“just think about it. woody allen’s cristina didn’t have an ‘h’.” she replied with a judicious tone, slightly perturbed at my lack of seriousness.
“this is true,” I countered, “but she wasn’t european either, she just balled a spaniard in the movie.”
I actually entertained the thought for a moment after we’d gotten off the phone. was it possible that my mother had just offered me the holy grail of ridiculous parental advice? would I be more responsible, without an h? would my life miraculously change? would I get a book deal easier without wasting precious ink on my silent consonant? is my inevitable destined metamorphosis riding on semantic aesthetics and alternate spellings?
probably not. I still suspect that "h" is not the problem. the problem remains frustratingly at large. what I do know for sure is that my slate is wiped clean for me to change my identity in a manner that doesn’t require the drawing up of legal documents, all over again.
