Jazmine Hughes works at the New York Times magazine and spent way too much time worrying about this.
7:53a, my couch
I wake up feeling great — yesterday was the end of the first week of my new job. (Why can’t I ever wake up at this hour feeling great during the week????? Thanks Obama!!!!!!!)
The night before, I was at a party that my boyfriend’s Dungeons and Dragons friends threw (girl, I KNOW). I wanted to seem like a cool, generous girlfriend, so I stopped for a bottle of wine on my way over. I drank all of it. So then I realize I am on my couch, where I never sleep unless I am super, super drunk — I like to fall asleep to the TV and my boyfriend doesn’t.
I remember I drank the entire bottle of wine. Fuck.
I get up– there’s that hangover sneakin’ up on me, hello how u doin– and take a dump. I go into my room to see if my boyfriend is awake; he asks me how I’m feeling.
“I feel great,” I tell him, lying a little because I don’t want him to worry. He’s surprised. My braids smell vaguely of stale wine. I don’t really want to know why he asked. Embarrassed, I let him go back to sleep.
I poop again. Hangovers are so weird.
After banishing myself back to the couch, I wake up — and I’m so late!!! I miss a bunch of text messages and a phone from Beejoli and Ellie, who I am supposed to be meeting for brunch in 20 minutes.
I text them back in a frenzy — “ahhh SORRY sorry guys I just woke up”
“Ok you can be here soon just leave now”
“I NEED to shower!” I respond. This, perhaps, is truly the understatement of the century.
Beejoli responds: “When did you prioritize showering? The NYT has changed you” which makes me laugh.
I feel like shit — my hangover has kicked in full force, but I feel worse about Alex having to take care of me. When we first started dating, I’d reject his offers to carry a bag or open a jar by saying “I’M A STRONG INDEPENDENT WOMAN WHO DOESN’T NEED A MAN.” Which: yo, that’s true. It’s been 3.5 years, and we are true partners — we even have a piece of paper from the City of New York saying so — but I can’t help feeling like a burden.
I scrub myself in the shower — Clarisonic and Philosophy face wash, Dove cucumber scented soap. I brush my teeth for extra long, trying to think of something nice I can do for my boyfriend.
The girl who lived next to me sophomore year of college told me she always dressed her best when she felt the worst, and I decide to apply that to today. Two weeks ago, I ~*~*treated myself~**~ to a skirt at Zara (and a fancy gel manicure and a new perfume and some H&M sweaters #YOLO). The skirt wasn’t expensive, but more than anything I usually buy; it’s a black-and-white midi skirt with a floral, almost Rorschach pattern. One of my best dude friends told me it looks like a cow. I love it.
Alex (my boyfriend) (which I don’t call him in real life — I refer to him almost solely by his last name, like we’re sports teammates who like to fuck each other) is awake now, sitting on the bed with cat he recently rescued. She had a surgery a few weeks ago, and needs to go back to the vet to get her stitches out. I apologize again for last night; he brushes me off by saying, “You would do the same for me,” and it comforts me that I know beyond a doubt that I would. I put on the skirt, a thin black sweater, gold hoop earrings, and douse myself in DKNY’s Be Delicious, which I’ve recently decided should be my signature scent, for no other reason than I like saying “my signature scent.”
Alex (this is weird!!!) and I both call Ubers and walk outside; we hold hands for the twelve steps it takes to get from our stairs to the sidewalk. It is sublime out, the best day of the year so far. We kiss goodbye and I’m filled the feeling of ownership and pride and contentment — I feel, however fleetingly, like an adult. When did this happen to me?
10:51a, a cab
On Eastern Parkway, we drive by a women with an Afro so impressive that I can’t stop staring, craning my neck even after the cab has rounded Grand Army Plaza. I rub cocoa butter lotion on my feet.
11:12a, Park Slope
I arrive to brunch and Beejoli and Ellie are halfway done, but we’re sitting outside and no one has any place to be, so we linger for a while. I order an omelet– decent, I could make a better one– and we talk about taxes. Beejoli pays for brunch because she is the best, then leaves to make “wine milkshakes,” which should be illegal to say to a hungover person.
I go 10 blocks out of my way to walk Ellie to the train. Maybe it’s the beautiful weather, maybe it’s the fact that we are in Park Slope and the streets are crowded, maybe it’s that I’ve watched like 9 episodes of popular HBO series Sex and the City in the past three days, but I feel like Carrie Bradshaw (from the popular HBO series Sex and the City). Have I become basic?????
In keeping with my Carrie Bradshaw vibe I decide to buy a bottle of Evian. In one episode, Carrie goes to a BAR in NEW YORK CITY and ORDERS AN EVIAN, which I cannot stop thinking about. I’m incredibly nostalgic for this New York that I have never known.
Walking up 7th Avenue. It’s actually pretty hard to find an Evian in Brooklyn. Hmm, maybe gentrification isn’t–
FOUND IT. I buy the only one this bodega has, which is 1.5 liters and a third of my size, and an Advil. The cashier asks me if I have a headache, then tells me I should drink more water. I make a face like Jim from The Office, then gesture to the 1.5 liters of Evian. #stopmen2k15
YO EVIAN IS GROSS FUCK CARRIE BRADSHAW
I walk home. I call Alex and ask if he wants to go to the Botanic Garden; I offer to buy him breakfast as a thank you. We pass by the garden’s entrance and it’s mobbed. We go home.
I still feel guilty about last night; though we’ve lived together for two years, we’ve lived with other people, and our opportunities to “play house” are few and far between. I worry that I’ve wasted an opportunity to share the morning together– “I’m writing this diary of my day and all I’ve done is poop and drink this fuckin’ Evian,” I complain– when Alex (literally who) reminds me that we’re moving in together, just the two of us, in a matter of weeks.
(I consider using my Enormous Eye as a vehicle to look for an apartment. Please call me if you know of a Prospect Park-adjacent 1BD.)
He and I talk: I don’t remember most of it because I believe it’s very important to occasionally stop listening to whatever your significant other is talking about and just appreciate how attractive they are.
😉 😉 😉 😉
2:30p or something, we all know I’m just making these timestamps up
Alex pretends to nap on my butt. “It’s the perfect height, it’s bouncy, and I can still reach your boobs. It’s a win-win-win.” We do the most passionate, beautiful, most adult thing of all: we order a pizza. He dances around naked while we wait. “ARE YOU GOING TO PUT MY DICK DANCE IN YOUR DIARY???????” I hope my parents never Google me.
Bijan texts me telling me he’s running late to a drinks thing we’re supposed to go to together. “ahh I will be super late, I just ordered a pizza,” I brag. When it arrives, Alex and I eat and watch Key and Peele and talk about how incredible they are. “Heben and Tracy are funnier than them, though,” he says. (He loves Heben and Tracy.)
4:45p, the B44 bus
Me and the bottle of Evian (which I cradle like a baby) take the bus to Williamsburg. I put on “Johnny One Note,” by Anita O’Day, which I cannot stop listening to. The song travels gorgeously, rapidly, and whenever I listen to it while in transit, I feel like I’m going twice as fast. Anita was a total broad; I can hear the smirk in her voice in every song. Her voice is somehow both elegant and audacious — there’s a moment, at 1:31, that always feels transcendent. The closest I can get to describing it is that it feels like Christmas, just without all the bullshit.
I get off of the bus and call my dad just to say hello. He laughs at all my jokes.
5:10p, Spuyten Devil
I get to the bar and I take the only empty seat, which happens to be Bijan’s, naturally. Everyone looks great and knows it. We take a bunch of pictures. A man tells me that they went to college with my new boss, and tell me to tell him that “Diego says hi.” This man’s name is not Diego.
People keep asking me about my new job; I tell them it’s great, and I mean it. Above all, it’s teaching me how to ask for help, which I need now more than ever. I feel incredibly fortunate. I tell someone this, and then quickly push it away with “and it helps that the cafeteria’s not bad, either!!!”
(I hate that I always follow up earnestness with a stupid joke. I’m always, always fearful that I will step over the line from conversation to conceit, especially since starting at the Times. I chase every comment with a shot of self-deprecation. I kick myself, but just inwardly, because I’m in front of a lot of people at the moment and also I’m wearing this really gorgeous skirt.)
Bijan, our friend Raillan, and I leave — Bijan and I are on a panel later. The two of them are tangled up in some conversation, and we go from walking from three abreast to two, and I panic. Is it because I’m a woman? Is it because I don’t know the people they’re talking about? Is it because I keep typing everything furiously in my iPhone while holding a coffee and a large bottle of Evian???? The world may never know.
I put my phone away, and the three of us talk about the thirstiest person we know (Bijan), women we admire (Jess Lustig, Lisa Lucas), and who’s been annoying us lately (white people).
5:45p, Over the Eight
We arrive at the bar in which the panel is being held. I talk to a girl about her earrings, then sneak pictures of the dog outside. I text one to Alex. “Are you just photographing random people’s dogs??? You’re creepy” He’s so supportive.
I’m friends with most of the people on the panel, and it’s really fun. I give the best piece of advice that I have, from my friend Chiara — “always take a meeting,” which has never failed me. Eventually, I have to pee so badly that I end up getting up in the middle of the panel and running to the bathroom. Damn you, Evian!!!!!
8:50p, 333 Brewing
After the panel, my friend Brendan, his roommate Myles, and I take a cab to a friend’s birthday party; it’s perhaps the first conversation that Myles and I have ever had, so naturally I tell him that I’ve known about his work for the past three years and have always been a supportive-albeit-slightly-jealous fan. He is very chill about it!!!!!!!
We arrive, and I start to wander around for an outlet to charge my phone. I return to my friends, dejected. “I’m supposed to be making a log of my day so I have to keep my battery charged!” I tell them. Brendan jokes that I should just write about him. He is a freelance writer based in New York and has written for publications including the Awl and Gawker, and can be reached at @_grendan on Twitter.
Now it’s a party. I talk to Cooper about his vacation; Caroline about cross stitching; Daniel and Vijith about lunch; Amber about her friend who’s name I don’t remember; Amber’s friend who’s name I don’t remember about Amber; Aude about her job; Alanna about her birthday; Ellie about her hair (“you are the bluntest person I know,” she tells me); Meredith about her dress; Delia about her necklace; some dude about his vape.
I find Raillan. He asks me if I want to get food and my heart swells. I suggest Oaxaca and his eyes widen. That, my friends, is the magic of tacos. We grab Ellie and go.
Ellie and I catch a cab to another party; she asks me if I want to marry my boyfriend. “I guess???” So much for being earnest. We arrive at the bar, where I realize I don’t have my ID. We take the Franklin Avenue shuttle to my subway stop, and walk to my house. Ellie has blisters. I tell her I don’t know what those are. (I still don’t.) She’s incredulous.
We get my house and decide to just stay there. I give her band-aids that are “brown like me,” or mocha, according to the box. Alex joins us; we watch Vanderpump Rules and eat peanut butter cups. There’s like 6 minutes between the episode ending and her Uber’s arrival, so I ask if anyone has any cool Vines. 10 seconds later (4 to Google, 6 to watch), we are all in tears.
Ellie leaves, and Alex and I continue watching Vines… hundreds of them. We find compilations on YouTube, some several minutes long, and we watch as many as we can find. I sputter and choke; I’m pretty sure my cause of death will be “Lawnmower Flying to Music,” which is the way to go, tbh.
I wash my face and crawl into bed; Alex is already there, asleep, mouth slightly ajar, snoring, as always. I don’t mind. I’m happy to be here.