#fakedscience

Well, I’ll be damned. A housewife walks into a bar... well, I haven’t quite come up with the punchline yet. But the point still stands. (God, is that all I am now? A housewife?) The recession’s been tough (!), I can’t find the work (!). For a while, I didn’t have to, with a fat trust fund and two phD parents to fall back on, until that rug was pulled out from under me. And now, I’m lamenting over a glass of eight-dollar rosé with one ice cube and the remains of a lipstick stain on its side. Whore red is not my shade.

I’ve become everything I fucking despise.

“And you are very charming.” Does this make me a cougar? Don’t look at me like that. I’m not my husband. But I am bored. (Looking like me, you’re used to this kind of attention. It’s more nice tits, or what’s a girl like you doing in a place like this, but the creativity is appreciated. 

“So what gives?” He reminds me of Nick, five years ago. Ambitious. Clever. Cool. God, my husband was so fucking cool. And I wanted to be that for him! I wanted to be cool, like that’s the best thing in the world. I wanted him to look at me and think, yeah. That’s my cool wife. She doesn’t moan. She doesn’t nag. She loves me, and I love her, and that’s all we need in the world. The world has a way of getting in the middle of that, and a U-haul and three hours of unpacking later, and. Well. I think I left my heart in New York.

That’s a saying, right? I left my heart in [fill in the blank]. It’s like a bad tourist gimmick sold on the side of the street. It’s a New York delicacy, next to pastrami and rye, and right behind the I HEART NYC t-shirts made from polyester and child labour.

But, in the most eloquent of terms, I mean this: Every ounce of adoration, love, and respect I once felt for Nick is still wrapped in packing tape in the corner of our NY apartment.

So why not?