It is Friday.
Right? It’s Friday?
I decide to leave the office early, which is the best worst decision I have made in at least three days. Strand, eee and I are planning to meet for drinks at eee’s place in Gramercy later, and I am learning lessons about leaving the Upper East Side.
For years, the joke has been: It is easier to get Meredith to leave the country than it is to get her to leave the UES. And this is not so much a “joke” as it is “the truth.” But I am trying to be more flexible; less rigid. I am attempting openness. Glasnost and perestroika, and all of that post-Soviet bullshit in an era of a new Cold War. As if it will prevent more bad things from happening.
So I leave early, and I have my nails manicured, and I pick up a skirt from the tailor, and I refill two prescriptions, and I field calls from the Infectious Disease Specialist, who has been alerted that I have been in the Avian Flu zone.
He all but says: WTF were you thinking?
For the record, I am sick of being a sick person. I don’t think of myself as a sick person. I don’t know that I ever will. When I talk about the sick parts, I often feel like I am talking about someone else.
But at the same time, I have made so many incremental changes to my life over the past seven, eight years, that I almost don’t notice how this has crept up on me; changed me. I almost don’t notice the weird fixes and patches and things I have relinquished until…I do.
So I meet eee and Strand downtown for drinks, and we catch up and chatter, and I remember how lucky I am. We drink white wine until the clock strikes nearly 2.00a, and I am shocked — shocked — that I am still going. How did it get so late.
It is time to go.
Strand and I take a taxi uptown, and I am startled by how optimistic I am. By how, despite everything, I seem to find the world a whole lot funnier than I did six months ago.