Dear Friday,
Why, oh why, must you be at the end of the week? If only you came sooner; say, like Tuesday. Ever thought about switching places? It would make the week go so much faster. All of a sudden, Mondays are like Thursdays! Only one day to go until the weekend! What a concept!

Friday, how I long for you each and every day of the work week. How I cannot wait for you to come, even with your increased traffic and moronic drivers who think that by leaving early, they’ll be fixing the situation. I choose to overlook their ridiculousness, since you beckon good times, evenings without curfews and mornings without alarms. You’re a glimmer of hope in my oh-so gray days.

I love your possibility! The opportunity! The feeling that anything is possible. You’re a true motivator, as many of us work just to get to you. We often plan our weeks, and weekends, around all that you offer. Client Meeting? On a Friday? Pooh pooh. We would NEVER ignominize you with something that atrocious.

Friday, if you were a person, I’d make out with you. With gusto. And, trust me, it would be GOOD.

Sometimes, we just can’t contain ourselves, and have to prepare accordingly with a little Thursday night revelry. Please don’t be insulted by our antics; in fact, we are usually just trying to get ready for all that will come the following day. We cherish what you offer, including the occasional late-to-work-dom that happens as a result of these Thursday Pre-parties, and thank you for allowing all Chick-Fil-A Chicken Biscuits consumed during your morning hours to have no calories nor grams of fat. Clearly, you’re looking out for our health, and for that, we thank you.

Friday, you’re revered by both peons & management alike. Golf outings? Afternoon movies? Half-days? Yep, they usually happen with you. You clearly want us to be comfortable on your day, with the de facto attire being of the casual nature. We love the uniform of jeans, khakis, and even those new-fangled slip-on tennis shoes. I bet you had a hand in creating those, Friday.

Whether it’s a late night or an early evening with a movie, a hot date or a warm bath, you are there waiting for us even on the worst of weeks, ready to envelop us with your relief. We long for you. We wait for you. And when you finally come, you’re completely worth it. Thank you.

So Friday, thanks for all that you are, all that you do. And, especially this week, thank you for being tomorrow.

Much love, and can’t wait to see you in a mere 7 1/2 hours,
Aubrey

Driving home in my car last night (at 7:45, mind you, after working for 11 straight hours without leaving the building), I was thinking of my life and where I am. Not just physically (i.e., I’m in my beloved Saab on a still-too-packed strip of Atlanta highway wishing I was already home) but mentally & emotionally as well. Many of the journeys in our lives are more than physical – they’re experiences where you finally find yourself in a completely different place than you were days, weeks, years ago. Often these metaphysical journeys are taken without even knowing it, and only in retrospect do we see how far we’ve come. So I started thinking….

Fifteen years ago, I was in Ohio, living in my house, at the very beginnings of adolescence and finally admitting to my friends (but not my parents) that I liked boys. Every day was an adventure, as we knew that the following year we would embark upon Middle School, the Penultimate Land of Cool. I played the flute. I was in the choir. I wasn’t unpopular, but I wasn’t overly popular either. Somewhere in-between, my best friend Beth & I loved our lives and still maintained the innocence that I’m so afraid that my children will no longer be privy to at this age. I hadn’t yet kissed a boy, but I had snuck into the boys bathroom once after a choir concert, thus making me feel all-too cool.

Ten years ago, I was still in Ohio, still living at my house, in the middle of High School. I was emerging from those terrible years where you really, really believe that you hate your parents for everything they do, for everything they say, and are just mortified that you are even related to these people. I talked on the phone – a lot. I (thankfully, as it was the antithesis of cool) no longer played the flute, I babysat on Tuesday evenings and the occasional Saturday night, and I was somewhat popular, but not so much in my grade than the grade ahead of me. I had crushes that spanned days, and kisses that spanned minutes, but was absolutely smitten with a boy who barely knew who I was.

Five years ago, I was a Senior at UNC. My tailbone was sore, as I had just fallen out of a (parked) car after a day of debauchery & post-GRE celebration. “Popular” meant nothing anymore, but I did know a lot of people. I found myself surrounded by the best of friends, and never had a quiet evening unless I wanted to. I wasn’t 100% sure what I wanted to do after Graduation, but knew I wanted to be in DC. Though I had lost some of the innocence of youth, I was protected in a town where everyone knew everyone else, where parties were open and where you could walk home by yourself safely. I was still absolutely smitten with the boy, and though by now he knew who I was, he saw me as merely a friend.

Three years ago, I was spending my first Fall in Atlanta. I was liking my job, the responsibility, but deathly afraid they’d realize that I really didn’t know what I was doing. I was mending a broken heart over an unworthy Englishman, and living by myself for the first time. I had a cat. Three years ago tomorrow, I would have two. I was not in credit card debt, even despite my (somewhat) exorbitant rent. I was in my second wedding, and had yet to worry about me not finding my prince charming – that thought never crossed my mind. I was young, I knew it, and I was living it up.

One year ago, I was finally starting a new project with my job, away from the most horrible people I have ever worked with in my life, the same people that caused me to cry nearly every day. I was painting the downstairs bathroom in my new house, a house that I owned, a house that I love(d). I somehow ended up the owner of three cats, and I was in a constant battle with cat hair on every surface of my house. I was wondering how my first Christmas without my father would be, as my parents had recently separated. I was pretending I was ok with everything.

One month ago, I was nursing a broken arm. I was befuddled in my love life, trying to make sense of it all. I was drinking too frequently and too often. I was worrying about anything and everything, and wondering where I fit in.

One week ago, I was preparing for my Halloween party, wondering how three cats could produce THAT much hair. I was working long hours, sleeping less than I should, spending more money than I had. I was wondering when I’d find “The One”.

And today? I’m still here, still shocked by mass quantities of cat hair, still learning from the successes but more from the disappointments, still working long hours, still wondering where I fit in. My naïveté has gone missing, with a stark reality in its place, a world where love doesn’t really last forever and there really may be no Prince Charmings. Where even best intentions can go awry, where my list of wants are great but my needs are somewhat limited, where complacency scares the shit out of me. Where I realize you can’t make something happen just by wanting it, just as you can’t ever make someone want you. And despite the frankness in which I relate these thoughts, I still feel that even on a gray day in Atlanta, when I need a few more hours of sleep and where nothing has really gone right, nor wrong, there is still a silver lining on one of those clouds. And one day, I’ll find it.

It’s 6:06pm, and it’s pitch black outside.

And we wonder why I think November is the most depressing month around…

So me.
Now.
Here.
Quandary.

As many of you could likely tell, I’m feeling a bit unsettled as of late. More than a bit out of sorts, I feel I’ve really strayed from all that I’ve been intending to do, be it work out in the mornings, drink less, eat healthier, be more supportive of my friends, budget my checkbook, fall in love, query magazines about articles, kiss a famous person (anyone on my top 5 will suffice), maintain a clean house, get home before 8pm, or anything else on my constantly-lengthening “Aubrey Self-Improvement List.” Instead of all of the above, I’ve hit the snooze bar more times than I’d like to admit, embarrassed myself by being far-too drunk in public, put myself on random diets and found myself consuming more ground beef than any one person should, was all-the-more self-centered, bounced my checkbook every single pay period, fallen into like, but not lust nor love (though tried for a while to interchange the three), ignored my freelancing, stalked Matthew McConaughey (this is at least a valient effort), came to terms with hairballs and cat hair on every single surface of my house, gotten home past 9pm on occasion, and basically have worn myself ragged. I’ve forgotten birthdays, I’m late on wedding gifts, I don’t email people back and a whole list of other atrocities that go against the very nature of who I am. Seriously, my friends, it’s time to have an intervention.

I know I burn the candle at both ends…even in High School I would be studying with the television on while doing my homework and talking on the phone at the same time. I am the Queen of multi-tasking, yet it seems when my multi-tasks involve upwards of 25+ things you really DO need to be doing at once, I get befuddled. Write that email? Finish the campaign? Call the Client? Call my Mom? Plan New Years? Book my flights to Chicago? Maintain a Social Life? Instead of getting one thing done at a time, I feel I’m half-assing my life away, and the saddest thing isn’t that I’m doing it, it’s that I’m getting comfortable in doing it.

I don’t like this. I don’t like the feeling of incompletion, guilt, and basically disillusionment as I continue my journey down the road of Quarter-Life Crises. Sure, I’m aware of it, knowing fully well that I, as many of my colleagues, am overthinking and overanalyzing every little item in our life, balancing our actions with our belief of fate and destiny, thinking we can outsmart Our Big Life Planner in the Sky (whichever deity we attribute it to.) Second-guessing ourselves has become second-nature; just think of that Friday night that you stayed in because you needed some downtime, but secretly wondered if you weren’t just missing your chance to meet someone special, amazing and completely marry-worthy. (You know you do it.) I don’t think I’m experimenting with hyperbole when I say that many, many of you are likely feeling this way as well, and complacency is becoming status quo.

Thus my quandary. Forever on the quest for that Salingerian golden ring, am I “What If-ing” my future away? Am I foresaking the good by seeking the great? Should I be settling for what I’ve got? Maybe there IS no Mr. Right, there’s only a Mr. Close Enough. Perhaps a perfect job doesn’t exist, and I should heed my father’s advice that “jobs aren’t fun, that’s why it’s called work.” The best city to live in? Hell, could be one of many different places. Am I getting too old to wish, to wonder, to daydream, and to go for it? Is it time to accept complacency?

If this is my future, consider me heartbroken.

Any minute now my ship is coming in
I’ll keep checking the horizon
And I’ll check my machine
There’s sure to be that call
It’s gonna happen soon, soon, soon
It’s just that times are lean

And you say,”Be still, my love
Open up your heart
Let the light shine in”
Don’t you understand?
I already have a plan
I’m waiting for my real life to begin
Don’t you understand?
It’s my very own plan
I’m waiting for my real life to begin

-Waiting for My Real Life to Begin, Colin Hay

I love Halloween. The candy, the cavorting, but most importantly, the costumes. Whether I’m a flapper or a princess, Marilyn Monroe or Audrey Hepburn, I adore coming up with a unique idea and making it into reality.

I think it’s the theatrical side of me that is so drawn to the disguise aspect of Halloween. The ability to step into someone else’s life, even for a day, and leave your own behind is nothing if not intoxicating for me. (Even WHEN intoxicated.) Especially now, when I’m desperately looking for hidden meanings and small ‘signs’ in everything as an indicator to which direction I should be heading in my life.

Presently, I’ve got on a white Marilyn Monroe dress, the one made famous by that picture of her over a street vent with the skirt blowing in the wind. I’ve added the brown mole on my face, curled my hair (couldn’t find my wig), and dolled myself up quite nicely for a Friday morning, if I do say so myself. Most of my coworkers are not dressed up, and yet I still find myself walking with a new swagger, a bit of confidence that I certainly didn’t have when I was mulling over new ways to lose weight while falling asleep last night. My stress about relationships, family, work, have virtually vanished as I sashay myself down the hall to get another bottled water. If only this carefree attitude would stay when the dress is hung back up in the closet this afternoon.

Aubs: (I sen tit, fyi)
Sarah Hatter: Good
AS: and I said tit
AS: ha
SH: ha
SH: tits!
AS: titties
SH: boobies!
AS: ta-tas
AS: chimichangas
SH: chi chis
AS: bazookas
SH: honkers
AS: rack
SH: jugs
AS: funbags
SH: big ‘uns
AS: breastages
SH: sweater meat
AS: um…honkers?
SH: already said that!
AS: surely i know more words for boobs than this
AS: damn
SH: please post this conversation
AS: As if I wouldn’t…

A wedding is one of the only times where you get to move to your own soundtrack.

Think about it. You walk down the aisle to meticulously chosen music, kiss on a crescendo, and exit the church, a happy new couple, to music of jubilation and celebration. First dances are coordinated to the step, with the ‘perfect’ song playing to guide you, and often the couple’s exit into a limo/horse and buggy/Rolls Royce is accompanied by an appropriate farewell tune. The soundtrack of your marriage includes upbeat, celebratory songs and softer, romanticized ditties and, above all else, is yours.

Wouldn’t it be great if life followed suit? Like the music in a scary movie before the ghoul grabs the gal, I would love some foreshadowing when things are about to go terribly wrong in my life. About to get broken up with? Strike up the band, maestro, and please make it a dirge. Find yourself walking in on your boyfriend with someone else? Please, for the love of God, give me some soap opera death scene music. On the flip side, a lovely, sensuous tune playing softly in the breeze would prove to be a nice addition to a lovely, sensuous kiss on my doorstep (or hell, wherever.) An emotional, serious talk with a significant other almost requires an instrumental piano tune, perhaps of the Jim Brickman variety. And a proposal? Well, I’d hate to tip off any suitors with exact details, as not to steal their thunder, but watch a few chick-flicks and you’ll get my drift.

Aah, the power of television. We come to expect our lives to follow the typical pattern, where geeky guy finally wins over beautiful girl after wooing her with his moxie and personality, or where Plain Jane wins Studmeister Hunk-o-rific with her class, charm, and all-around inner beauty. Sadly, this is why television, including the misnomered reality shows, are anything BUT reality. In real life, girl doesn’t always get guy. Your high school nemesis may still be tan, taut, blonde and buxom after all of these years, damnit. And long distance relationships don’t always work out, no matter how much you’d like them to. Yet the addition of a soundtrack, some background music, still seems like a nice addition — improvement, perhaps — to our mundane existence.

So next time you find me tapping my feet or looking wistfully off into the distance during a romantic encounter, just blame it on Marc Cohn.

Thinking back, I think I always knew I wanted to be a writer. When our school had Book Sales (which honestly, in accordance with my complete dork-dom, were my favorite time of the year), they also sold blank books, which I bought by the dozen. A whole white, unblemished book! Bound, even! Full of possibilities, full of crisp white pages to fill up with my thoughts! Utopia!

Even before then, I always had a journal, though I willingly called it my diary at that time. My first one was orange with a little mouse on it, complete with lock and key. It had “My Diary” emblazoned upon the front, and within I wrote my thoughts, desires, experiences.

Like the time that Sara Christy threw the volleyball at me in gym class? I promptly kicked her in the knee, and promptly went home and wrote about it. Nicole Elwell, the girl down the street, annoyed me to no end, though today I can’t for the life of me remember why. I talked about my dance classes, my best friend Beth Jerome, and later, as I grew, about the ever-so-secret crushes that I had but would never act upon.

Such as the one I had on Ethan Foster in third grade, and when he asked me “to go with him” even after the catastrophic boy-looking feathered-on-both-sides haircut that I got (a result of my Dad taking me to the barber shop, letting me get whatever I wanted done to my hair, me saying I liked it with the sides back and them subsequently mullet-izing me, to my Mother’s extreme horror such that she called her hairdresser immediately and the only remedy was to turn me into Tiny Tim crossed with Farrah Fawcett), and yet, despite my secret crush, I said ‘no.’ I remember his sweet voice asking me ‘why?’, why I couldn’t go with him and me just repeating “I don’t know” because my Dad was in the room and I was far too mortified to tell my parents I liked boys just yet. I always wonder what would have happened if I had said yes since he was (probably still is) absolutely darling. Oh well, the choices we make…But I digress.

I was always writing, knew it was my strong suit, and loved to not only write what I had written but read it aloud as well. My 7th grade English teacher, Mr. Werner, is to whom I often attribute my zeal for the written word, but it wasn’t until High School that I realized how much I loved to speak in front of people. Perhaps it was those many, many student council elections that I subsequently lost, perhaps it was the only child in me, but I loved it. I’m shocked that I never pursued acting past those few classes I had at the Beck Center when in elementary school, but again…the choices we make.

When looking for a college, the naïveté in me combined with the inflated opinion of myself caused me to ‘pooh-pooh’ any schools in Ohio; the only school I applied to was Ohio University and decided against it, despite my scholarship, because it didn’t have a good enough Pre-Med program. You see, I was beginning to stray.

Along with writing, I also found a natural talent for the sciences, which is the analytical side in me acting up. Whether it was all of those logic puzzles we did on a daily basis in the Gifted Program (the same program that embarrassed me to no end, being that it isolated me from most of my classmates — kids never want to be too dumb or too smart or even be anything but normal, you know), or an inherent fascination with Tweedle Bug colonies when younger, I found myself deciding that the career of a doctor would be the perfect one for me.

So I applied to top-notch schools, went to Carolina, and balanced my Biology/Genetics degree with as many journalism classes as I could take. Oh, the choices we make.

On graduation day, I decided I didn’t want to go to Med school. Coming to the realization that you don’t HAVE to do everything you are able to was a huge realization for me. I always felt bound to science, obligated to follow that path, since not doing so would be, in essence, denying a gift. Yet I don’t know of a day since that I have felt that free, felt that confident in my decision, and being elated in the fact that, for me, the matter was final.

Since then, I’ve gone to Grad school, left Grad school, lived in three cities, seven houses, and now, five jobs and three cats later, I wonder about the choices I’ve made. I’ve turned down offers to work for magazines in NYC, due to the unlivable salaries. I’ve accepted jobs with the promises of writing, only to find my only writing projects to be formal letters of complaint. And despite all I’ve accomplished, despite knowing how far I’ve come, I still feel – still know – that something is missing.

My Mom tells me to have “An Attitude of Gratitude.” I tell her to stop watching Oprah so much. (She claims it’s not as good this year since everyone is “Living their Best Lives.” I tell her again to stop watching Oprah so much.) But it makes me think – am I living MY best life? Am I doing what I should be, living where I should be, working where I should be? I feel like a broken record, constantly questioning this decision or that decision and always looking for more, wondering if there’s something inherently wrong with me that I feel this nagging yearning that seriously, I’m holding something back. And that I am being HELD back.

By these choices I make.

This conversation is only one of the many reasons why I think this is my new BFF.

College is such a unique time, where you find yourself in situations that you’ve never been in before, where you find yourself living on your own for the first time, where you bond with people you never thought you’d be friends with. Returning this weekend to Homecoming, I found myself reliving some of these experiences, mentally going back to the days where frat parties often directed our social calendars and keg stands were a cheap way to get a little tipsy. Walking through the brick-laden campus, I realized that in four short years, a lot has changed.

Take cell phones. When we went to school, they were a rarity, just beginning to come into popularity my senior year. Where we would walk with our friends to and from our classes, chatting about schoolwork and boys and parties and anything else that seemed important at the time, students today wander mindlessly with their phones seemingly attached to their ears. What a waste, I say.

You see, walking the same routes to class invariably caused you to see the same people every day. Some you knew, some you did not. And for those who fell into the latter group, you gave them nicknames.

The same was true in the lunchroom. Down in the annals of Granville West, we would convene at 4:45 (when dinner began) and stay until well after 7:00, gossiping about these people that we saw every day yet knew so little about. Everyone – and I do mean EVERY. SINGLE. PERSON. – had a nickname. Some were descriptive (“Twin Towers” for the well-endowed girl, “Jolly Blue Giant” for the oh-so tall guy that was rumored to have smooched one of my roommates), some were non-sensical (“Square Root of F-ed up Hair Dudes Squared”, the name used when we saw one of the two twins who really did have messed up hair, “Burpie” for – well, I don’t know why, I certainly don’t remember him burping) and some were just random (“Little Chipmunk” and, our favorite, “Little Chicken”).

Though our creativity had no bounds, there were times when we needed a bit of help. Like NBC when feeling uncreative, we created spin-off’s of the more popular names, such as “Little Chicken’s Friend” who borrowed $10 from one of our roommates. We allowed the obvious — the bitchy girl who said ‘Mummy, did you get me any Chardonnay?’ with her nasally, new-yawky drawl forever became “Chardonnay Woman”, the dark-haired scowler whose room was across from ours was “Witch Girl” and of course the all-time, most-famous moniker, one that has endured the 8 years since it was created (at least amongst our group), “Hottie Pants.”

There was little method to our madness, except for amusing ourselves as we wasted our afternoons away under the Columbo frozen yogurt machine. We would sit, nearly crying through our laughter, as we came up with one name after another; we even documented our creativity on a piece of purple cardstock which we posted in the en-suite bathroom, next to a group caricature of all of our favorite schoolmates, known only by their nicknames.

Going back, especially during homecoming, you run into people you haven’t seen (nor thought about) in years. After being out of school now over four years, my memory is waning. I mistakenly called a guy named Brian, Rob. I called Rob, Ben. And the rest of them? I just went with the ‘hey, darlin’!’ route, hoping that they wouldn’t realize that their name had escaped me. Yet in the midst of this confusion, I’d see someone whose nickname graced the hand-written sheet in our bathroom, and know, without a doubt, that Little Chicken was back in town.

The stars at night, are big and bright…
(clap clap clap clap)
Deep in the heart of Texas…

And oh! How true.

Please forgive me, as I write this from the vantage point of a girl whose first visit to Texas included long drives, big drawls, cheap beers and the two-step. If you don’t mind, I’ll elaborate.

As I type this, it’s after 2:30 am. Apparently, my webserver would prefer me to post this in the morning and personnally, it’s inconsequential as I hope to proof this prior to posting and even, in the worst case scenario, at least you’ll understand where I’m coming from.

Welcome to Texas.

Where the stars are big and bright, as are the hairstyles. I’ve seen just about everything in the past 56 hours – squabbling lesbians at the traditional barbeque place. Where the ID’s are rarely checked, but the tips are scrutinized. Where would-be stars play at the same miniscule and spartan bar as they’ve had for 25+ years as opposed to branching out. Where tradition is the cornerstone.

I find myself being more and more endeared to this state. I loved the history of the Alamo, even with the Sno-Cone stand prostituting its wares to unknowing tourists. I love the contrast in the culture, in the clothing. I love the cowboy boots paired with yoga pants, the contradiction between all things customary and all things Texan, the way that people here really don’t give a shit. (Honestly, they really don’t. And it’s charming.) I love that people thought I was a hoot, what with my quasi-Southern accent that evolves when drunk and my obsession with Matthew McConaughey, and I love that people were actually willing to TRACK HIM DOWN when I shared with them my obsession with Matthew McConaughey. I love the fact that he graces the cover of Texas Monthly.

It’s times like these that I re-evaluate, that when I tell people that I like Atlanta, I wonder if I’m not lying to them and to myself. It’s times like these when I wonder what’s just around the corner for me, and how soon I’ll find exactly what I’m looking for. It’s times like these that I wonder just what it is I am looking for.

It’s times like these that I wish I hadn’t had that last shot.