written inaction

Days after partying are a waste.  Days after hard partying are justified in that to ignore rest on such occasions may bring person survival into question.  Today I was contented to sleep until 9:30 when Erin came into the nook to talk with me. After I got up, we proceeded to survey the damage from the night before, happily deciding that it was mostly empties and dirty dishes—while sometimes considered tame, parties with little or no structural damage gain popularity the morning after.  Quietly, we began to pick up as we microwaved meatballs for breakfast. 

Before long we were going about cleaning, which for me was fun.  It times of turmoil, I can always revert to cleaning as something familiar and even soothing.  Granted those memories surrounding cleaning are not good ones, but they are calming nonetheless.  After the first load of dishes is in the washer and other bastard items are arranged into destination piles, Brian begins to make a breakfast that he has planned with Aria for all their friends.  He attacks the foodstuffs with the precision of someone who has never met an ingredient he couldn’t tame.  

Breakfast replenishes the group after a justifiably hard night of drinking, and just as the food brings spirits up, the ensuing food coma sends them crashing back down.  Within 20 minutes of finishing breakfast, beds are re-entered, couches are claimed, and almost the entire group powers up for re-emersion at the crack of 3. 

Either not tired or stubborn, I stay up and clean, and feel better.  It’s a beautiful house, and the OCD in me is having at it.  What doesn’t fit in the dishwasher is done by hand, and those items waiting in line are rinsed and stacked according to size and shape.  I can let my idiosyncrasies have a field day because I’m the only conscious one within a 200’ radius. 

After blissfully completing 3 loads from the dishwasher, butting away leftovers, and doing a load of laundry, I jump on a bus downtown and grab a cup of coffee.  Starting a day with a cup of coffee feels familiar.  Starting that day at 3pm seems sinful.  Even on this coast I can’t escape the deep-rooted puritanical influence of our fun-loathing forefathers. 

I pass though the aquarium once for the novelty.  Contemplating whether to feel pleasure or shame when the woman at the ticket counter recognized me and calls me by name, I opt for the former.  At least I’m getting my name out there.  Penny wishes me a good day at the aquarium and I begin the process of convincing myself that I am here for scientific observation and career networking, not to molest anemones in the touch pool like a 5-year-old.

After I’ve touched an anemone of every color and my fingers have started to go numb I decide that I’ve done enough networking for the day and walk from the tide pool to the front doors and exit.  The standard drizzle wafts from the gray ceiling of clouds topping the city and dampens my Chacos.  The sound sports deep gray waves with white caps, but the barges at the distant loading docks testify to how unthreatening such disturbances are.  It’s sobering to think about the horrifying size of a wave that can turn such a ship vertical. 

A cup of coffee later and I’m heading home to Wallingford on number 16.  I get into the house, greet the roommates, which is a term that they use with me.  I’m more of a squatter, but they give me the benefit of the doubt.   After a quick dinner I head up the road to the open house that was advertised on Craigslist.  It’s probably not going to work out, but I figure I’ll check it out just the same; meeting new people only ever hurts indigenous people, and that’s not me.  It’s a brief two-block walk, a proximity that makes me want the place that much more (couple that with the low rent and the fully furnished common spaces and I’m SOLD).  I see the address and walk past it and spend a few minutes pretending to be confused by my directions.  To say I was scouting the place out would be a lie.  I was uncomfortable.  What would I say, exactly?  “Howdy!  I’m Bryan; we emailed back and forth on Craigslist and you told me that I might not be the best fit for the room!  Well, here I am!”  That’s comfortable.  The next pass tempts me to sprint home, but I figure as long as I don’t end up in anyone’s basement freezer, a disaster can translate into a well-written story that might help to someday pay for therapy. 

The stress is for naught.  I meet Catherine, a tall, athletic girl who I can tell prefers to keep quiet, her floor mate Lisa, and eventually Dave and Craig.  They all seem like nice people, but I don’t get a look at the freezer.  In the kitchen we grill each other with intense questions like “well, I guess I should ask you about how you feel about chipping in with chores”, countered by savage inquisitions such as “is there room for me to keep my bike?”  Once we’ve all calmed down and have exchanged pleasantries, I head back to the house having enjoyed our conversation and the apartment, and, not for the first time in my life, thinking about how much easier this would have been had I been born female.