August

This post originally appeared on Bed Crumbs.

In August I average five hours of sleep and drink too much coffee and find myself wearing sunglasses inside more often than not. I shake more than usual.

In August I notice that concealer no longer camouflages the dark circles under my eyes and I cancel dates so I can go home and crawl into bed.

In August I notice that I only truly have two toenails. Abused by many years of running many miles, the rest have been clipped down within a centimeter of life, if they’re lucky, or gone completely. I paint patches of callused skin a dark grey. Merino Cool, the bottle says. I feel anything but.

You’re supposed to be in your prime, not supposed to be wasting your time.

In August I lash out at you and tell you that I don’t expect you to understand.

In August we talk for hours on end and I tell you repeatedly you’re my best friend.

In August I realize that I haven’t been home in six months, so I get on a train.

In August I entertain old dads on stationary bikes because I watch classic rock concerts while elliptical-ing for centuries at the gym.

In August I get drinks with a boy (man?) who marvels that I am “truly a child of the ‘70s” and I try to hide my ecstatic grin.

Good times, bad times, you know I’ve had my fill.

In August I write about Taylor Swift and houseboats and other people.

In August I stumble through Times Square slightly tipsy, feeling electric. We were invited to a club, but instead we decide to bail, take the A home, and fall asleep to American Hustle at 3 a.m. We wake up at dawn.

In August I reluctantly buy Skinnygirl Margarita on more than one occasion and agree that it tastes like spiked Gatorade. I drink it anyway.

In August I find a new path for an old scheme that breaks my spell of self-doubt. I get excited about little things again.

The dream was never over. The dream has just begun.

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