And now it’s time for a day in the life.
It’s Monday and luckily, I went to bed/fell asleep before midnight the night before, so when Rocky (follow him on Insta: rockythepug) starts stirring at 6:30am, I roll with it. I’m well-rested. I watch him watch me, and finally, at 7, when I hear The Teenager’s alarm go off, I get out of bed. On Saturday morning, Rocky—apparently having a bout of IBS or some crap—jumped out of my bed and unbeknownst to me, relieved himself, which hasn’t happened since he was a wee pup. So I’m still a bit sensitive about him getting out and about. I feed him. I make the The Teenager her lunch. And I walk him, almost immediately. Our elevator in our building is still not working, and I’m loathe to take the freight elevator too many times in the day (some motion sickness I get), so we walk down the nine flights of stairs, something I worry about for Rocky’s joints, but in the back of my mind, I know the elevator will start working eventually, and I rationalize the stairs are a mild form of fitness imposed on the pug. It’s raining lightly, I didn’t realize that, so we’re walking in the rain, something I enjoy, he does not. It’s a short walk and we take the freight elevator up, as Rocky does not enjoy going UP the stairs. There is a flurry in my apartment now, as The Teenager searches for her school ID (she finds it). The Teenager is hoarse; she’s congested, with a sore throat. Still, she doesn’t want to spend the day in bed, and she does not want to go to CityMD, she wants to go to school. She’s out the door by 8am. This leaves me and Rocky to tend to my chores. As I putter around the apartment, he follows me as I put away laundry, put dirty dishes into the dishwasher, get dressed. I have some BARB work to do—reviewing Lelo’s Mia 2, for instance—and by 10am (the witching hour!), I’m on my way to Equinox, my hall of game. I’ve recently switched up my routine to working out in the morning, because not only am I in-between jobs but I am TOO DANG TIRED to work out at night. At the Equinox, the fella at the check-in desk offers me a free Pilates lesson, which, hello, my abs are so not going to appreciate the extra attention and I head to the locker room. It’s pleasantly empty. I change into my t-shirt, leggings and sneakers, grab my iPad and my headphones (ack, I realize, I forgot to bring water with me) and find my spot on my preferred elliptical, the Precor, which I want more than anything for my home. Kickstarter anyone? I do my half-hour Leg-Sculpt work out while watching another episode of the new season of Grace & Frankie. Then I take a shower in the Equinox locker room. This fitness joint is pricy, it’s not for everyone, but when I’m here, I feel like it’s my personal gym. Everyone is personable, the towels are warm-fresh, the shower stream powerful and to my temperature preference (mostly hot); this is an investment in my emotional and physical health. By 10:30, I’m reading to head downtown to meet my friend Liz at The Wing. I get there, about fifteen minutes late, but Liz brushes off how flustered I am; she is kind in all ways. The Wing advertises itself as the “home base for women on their way” and upon entering it, I see what they mean; it’s unusually quiet, with women pouring into their laptops, their books, their notepads. Women are mesmerized by whatever is at hand in this pink-hued haven. I like it immediately and want to join; of course, I’m in between-jobs and can’t afford the fee, not on top of my Equinox membership. Liz and I get lunch at The Wing bar, and we settle in to where she’s set up shop for the day; we talk about our daughters, about online dating, about our respective endeavors. I’d told Liz about BARB ages ago, at a Tribeca restaurant one winter evening, shortly before my Dad passed away. I explained why it took me so long to get BARB on her feet; that my Dad’s passing paralyzed me, that I masked my grief with my anxiety about being in-between jobs, until the election, and how at that point, I knew that my Dad would have insisted I act, and so I did, with BARB. Liz is one of the best listeners I know, and not only did she hear what I said, she understood the chasm of grief I’m slowly coming to terms with. After two hours of the best lunch in a while, I bid adieu to Liz and The Wing and jump on the 6 train to the Upper East Side, for a meeting. I am of course, looking for work; being in-between jobs in taxing on my soul; the lack of response from colleagues that are usually responsive is damaging to me in more ways than I can express. I take every meeting possible, even those on the Upper East Side. That meeting takes an hour and now it’s already 3:15 and I jump on the crosstown bus to the West Side while doing a conference call and answering a series of texts that I have not been able to respond to because of the aforementioned meeting. I am now on my way to the Mandarin Oriental Hotel, where I’m meeting my friend Sam for a much needed cup of hot chocolate. I love the Mandarin Oriental; it’s tall lobby, the gaunt employees, and the view, oh the view. As a holiday gift one year, my colleague gave me the gift of a one night stay in this hotel and it serves in memory as one of the most glamorous Christmases I have ever spent. Sam and I nestle into an elegantly comfortable couch and for the next two hours, catch up on life while juggling the demands of work. The Teenager calls to tell me she is sick and jumping into bed the moment she gets home from school. At 6, I leave Sam, stop off at the Bouchon Bakery and get The Teenager a croissant for tomorrow’s breakfast. I want to walk home but I know The Teenager is anxious to see me, so I get on the train. Upon arriving at home, I find The Teenager under the covers, laptop nestled on her belly, coughing and needing a cup of tea with honey which I happily make her. I walk Rocky. I sit on her bed and listen to her talk about her day. She notices me brushing my teeth and asks if I am going out. When I ask how she knows, she tells me that I always brush my teeth before I go out; this is the wisdom you glean from living with someone. Well, she is right, I am meeting my former Fuse colleague Bob at Cafe Luxomberg. I haven’t seen Bob in over a year and I am looking forward to seeing him; I leave The Teenager at 7:20, get to the restaurant exactly at 7:30 and it is a warm reunion. Bob has a high-powered job in DC; back in the day, he was my marketing partner. He is the first marketing colleague I have ever held in high regard; marketing is a challenging talent, and more often than not, butchered by incompetency. Bob was a joy to work with and be around. Dinner is a walk down catch up lane, in addition to me educating Bob on the wonders of online dating. If ever you want to have a laugh at yourself, show your married friend what it is to be single and trolling the apps for potential poon. It’s no wonder my daughter’s got a comedy set about her mother’s foray into dating. At 9:30, dinner is over and The Teenager puts a request in for more throat lozenges and tissues. I stop off at Duane Reade and get provisions. While walking home, I get another request to bring home grapefruit, because the Awkward Sophomore tells her that grapefruits are like chicken soup for the throat. He’s wrong of course, but she listens to his sort of sage wisdom. I bring her everything she needs. I take Rocky out for his last walk of the day. And while sitting on the couch, watching The Daily Show, The Teenager, who is in her bed, screams. She thinks she’s seen a mouse. She bounces out of her room and we both stand atop the couch, neither of us prepared to address the elephant in her room. She Facetimes her best friend and neighbor, Tyler, who lives downstairs; he comes up right away. With a flashlight and broom in hand, he scours her room and deduces there is no mouse. The Teenager is not satisfied with that answer and crawls into my bed. This means I will have a full house in my bedroom when I got to sleep tonight, and you know what? I’m all right with that.