Acting My Age

At the doctor's office I used to fear pain, needles, and the possibility that something would be wrong, maybe even irreparably wrong.

Now I fear questions.

Since my grandmother died, I've been incapable of entering any type of medical office without crying. There was the dentist last month. And last week I went to a doctor's to test a cosmetic procedure.

"Do you have a family history of varicose veins?" the receptionist asked, scanning my form.

"I don't know," I answered. Tears pricked my eyes before I was even sure why.

Then I realized: I'll never know. There's nobody to ask.

Whoever knew that when I was lying on the bed at my grandmother's, she sitting in her chair watching TV (she loved Dancing With the Stars), me flipping through a magazine, instead I should have been asking her about varicose veins and life insurance policies and where this coral, lapis and gold brooch was from. And about a thousand million other things.

***

It's been a tough week. I binged again. I passed my six-month anniversary of living in New York – a milestone that only made me realize how miserable I've been, and how small my world is here. (How could it be otherwise? I worked Monday night until midnight, not for the first time.) I'm torn between wanting my upcoming birthday to pass unnoticed, and knowing that however I mark the day, it's probably going to hurt.

That said, I did a handful of unpleasant things today that made me feel like an adult. (It's about time, considering I'll be 36 in less than two weeks.)

I'd been going back and forth with the guy I went out with about another date – a date I did not particularly want to go on, and that could potentially lead to my usual variety of self destructive behaviour.

I didn't lie, or evade, or just disappear.

I wrote: "Sorry I've been making this unnecessarily drawn out and complicated. I had fun on Saturday; I like you and I think you're great. But I don't feel what I need to feel to move this forward."

I wished him well, clicked send, and waited for my computer to explode. It didn't.

I went out to an appointment and feared hitting refresh on my email. When I got back to my desk, I saw he responded graciously. I wondered if I'd made a mistake, but knew I hadn't.

One problem sorted in a way I feel no shame about.

Then I sorted problem two. I was supposed to go on a party weekend to New Orleans this weekend. I bought a flight in New Orleans back in December, knowing full well it was shipping time at the magazine but thinking – naively – that things might get better. Either way, I figured I'd work it out.

And I probably could have. Except that the last thing I need right now is four days of drinking and eating with Friend Bearing Chocolate and another seven people, none of whom are particularly good friends. I feared endless bingeing, stray molecule-ness, the stress of trying to get out of the office, and how awful, physically and mentally, I might feel by Sunday. Not what I need right now.

There are some people who aren't very happy with me. I'm definitely losing some money and may lose more. I'm a little disappointed and even slightly embarrassed that I can't just go party like a normal person. But although I'm not sure what I need right now, I'm pretty sure a crazy weekend filled with endless potential to self destruct on multiple levels is not it.