My friend Jared writes that all the time.
Go out and create things and do things. Take risk in the stock market. Build your dream home. Go see the world.
Easy for him to say, as an ex-investment banker type.
But he’s written a bunch of books, runs a newsletter, has a publishing deal with my ex-employer, etc.
And like nine cats.
So basically, we are birthday twins but I wouldn’t mind being him when I grow up.
In any event, I was thinking about standing in line for beignets at Cafe du Monde. Which, honestly, Baby’s Coffee makes such better ones. I got a key lime one that changed my life there.
In any event, I had a Swiftie in front of me at the Cafe, and two tourists behind me.
The Swiftie, age 25 from Maryland, was just going on and on and ON about not having anyone to come with her to the concert. So she did all the hotel and StubHub stuff all by herself.
Welcome to adulthood, friend.
People behind me asked how many times she’s seen Taylor. She said this was her first.
Meanwhile I’m there with friendship bracelets up to my elbow, so they said how many times have you seen her.
Four, I said.
The Maryland one stopped bragging.
I read her loud and clear that she wasn’t the one who paid for that big fat ticket. Sure, she can use the platform, but that was daddy’s hunk of cash.
Which … I wouldn’t have known about but the people behind us asked.
There is a rule in Swiftie-dom, that you don’t ask a woman her weight, her salary or what she paid for Taylor Swift.
I usually honor it.
But not this day.
The 25yo and I gave our numbers — which, I’ll add to the previous list, I will give you my sex number AND my weight any day before I ever tell you what I spent on my tickets (let alone the inflated hotel prices) in four cities.
Let’s all say our sex numbers! And … go!
In any event, after I said my “what I paid for Miami and NOLA seats” … I felt absolutely like shit.
That was because the couple behind us scoffed, “Oh, I would NEVER pay that.”
I said well my mother and my favorite cat just died. I get my kicks where I can.
The line diverged at that point, into dining room and takeout. I took the takeout line and left the other three, happily.
I was telling JH about it later. She, too, had a “telling her number” story.
Like the 25yo, she didn’t have tickets or anyone to go with. But she said life’s too short and bought herself a spur-of-the-moment weekend vacation.
When someone asked what she paid, she answered.
She, too, said she felt awful and won’t do that again.
I said you know what it is? It’s not that we are bragging. We assigned a value to a life experience and we got our money’s worth.
The ick, I think, comes from feeling like speaking it into the universe makes us a target for misfortune. Like, will the universe take it as bragging. Will the paychecks and good luck still keep coming.
She said oh my god yes that’s it.
I said my rule was if someone is rude enough to ask, I’m rude enough to reply. But now I don’t want any sort of weird karma chasing me.
I never did get her Taylor number. Nor she, mine.
Like with all my numbers, I can’t count that high.
I said, so what did you say to the person who asked what you paid?
She said oh after they did the whole, “I would NEVER pay that,” she said, “Good. More tickets for the rest of us.”
Brilliant girl.
I got to thinking about this today because I have one more trip on the horizon before year-end.
Talk about an impulse trip.
I am calling it self-care.
I’m all about funding NPR and PBS in the new year.
For now … I am trying to reclaim my fucking joy.
Look. Orange Fuhrer rigged the part of the election he didn’t win.
My friend T., who is an expat and helps other people get out, says he is getting most of his calls from REPUBLICANS.
People who voted for the shitstain and tell him, “I don’t like where the country is going.”
You fuckers dealt it so you best fucking be around to smelt it, or whatever the fucking metaphor is.
Christ.
I mean, yes, I voted for a sales tax increase in FL. And I sure love that it passed. It’s supposed to benefit the unhoused. But having these trump-votin’ dipshits here to pay it if/when I leave feels kind of nice.
Where was I?
Oh, one more odyssey.
People who’ve got shit to say about anything I’ve done in 2H can eat my entire ass. And it’s a big badonkadonk.
Look what I had to lose to get it.
My joy, not my bulbous bottom.
But like J-rad says, nothing’s going to happen for you while you’re sitting in your apartment.
That said, she happens TO you. The HOA fee is going up 42%. That’s … $1,500 a month.
Big yikes.
Maybe I should start looking for real estate where I’m going.
At least it’s Blue AF in the city.