I’ve always loved to party. Dances in the sixth grade is where it started. I don’t about where you grew up, but the Carson Valley was EPIC for elementary school dances. Even at age twelve, I remember losing myself in the flashing lights, the anticipation of what boy might ask me to dance, and singing with my friends to TLC (I kept huge magazine pull-outs of T-Boz, Left Eye, and Chilli taped up in my closet, hidden behind my clothes so my mom wouldn’t see).
Nightlife is my modus operandi, so it’s disconcerting when the pursuit of pleasure starts to feel like a drag. Today was 4th of July, and I researched myself so many options of where to go, what to do, that I had an anxiety meltdown of whatwillbemostfun?!?!, made worse by trying to give myself hashtag perspective: #whitegirlproblems #firstworldissues, etc. Add in Los Angeles traffic, and I spent probably 70% of the day driving and 30% actually reveling.
But the real issue is any time away from writing feels like throwing my mind into a black hole. I’m just not a happy, adjusted person until I’ve done some writing for the day. I’ve been “rewarding” myself from the recent accomplishment of filming my pilot with some time off, but it feels like a punishment.
My wonderful roommate Ardalan is out of town on his first Vegas adventure, so me and Chairman Meow have the place to ourselves. I got home from the 4th festivities and did what anyone with a roommate does when they know they’ll be alone all night: got naked (right?), then headed to the kitchen to eat watermelon.
Standing at the sink, letting the watermelon juice drip straight from my chin into the sink, I felt the happiest I had all day. Because chasing the party makes me malcontent, and watermelon is my absolute obsession. But most of all, because I was inspired to write this little blog ditty. But I miss my freewheeling fun-self, up to get down at a moment’s notice. Oh, well. She’ll be back. For now I must write, and write, and then write more.