Guess what it is? It's February. That's what. And you know what February is? It is the month I slated to herald my own personal new year. I spent January first sick and weeping and then I had surgery a week later. That seemed like such a notably terrible tone to set for a whole year that I decided: Forget you, January. You're not the boss of me.
February, I'm happy to see you.
I feel like I'm back from some long absence. It's so hugely relieving to feel well after being out of commission to varying degrees since September that every day feels a little bit exciting. I've been feeling celebratory. This is jolly, but, also, I've discovered, dangerous. It transpires that "celebratory" means I spend money that I don't necessarily have readily available;* I go out too many school nights in a row; and, interestingly, I keep wearing shoes that hurt my weird broken feet. What can I say? One wishes to dress up a little for the Festival of Wellness. Today, however, I am wearing the Sneakers of Recovery, to make up from the longer-than-it-seemed-in-theory walk to and from the car in the not-so-great-for-walking boots last night.
Last week, a couple days after Porchlight, I took myself on a date (it's vexingly difficult to get anyone else to do it, so I just took matters into my own hands) to Nopa where I had pleasant chats with strangers as well as a very good vegetable tagine. A few days later, I went to a play that made me cry, after which the Blog Bully bought me a fancy cocktail and some brussels sprouts. See? It's been like that.
I've been at the Castro three nights this week seeing dames and hard-boiled guys fall in love and/or kill people. It's been a good time. Tomorrow, I'm going with my [brand new] friend Melissa to the Noir Nightclub, which will briefly allow me to pretend I live in an era better suited to my aesthetic needs (though, obviously, an era in which my feet would have hurt all the time, which is worth bearing in mind).
Coming up, there's Mud and Blood, a cool show that I saw in October, but plan to see again next week. You could go tomorrow if you want. A story with a band and at least one handsome man in a hat? I like that. The lovely Katy Stephan will be singing her very own songs at the Rite Spot on the 5th. Octavio Solis, a brilliant playwright and one of the kindest men I've ever met, has a new play at The Magic. Also, apparently there's a football game on Sunday, a thing I care about not at all, so my friend and I are going to go see a movie which, as far as I can tell, is a zombie love story. I'm generally not so interested in zombies, but I do enjoy love stories. And not watching football. When you're not lying around with a hideous illness or dulled by painkillers, there's a lot to do, is what I'm saying.
Hi, February. Happy New Year.
*That fiscal cliff and its resultant tax changes have left me a hundred bucks a month poorer, which, A) if you are me, is considerable and B) extra considerable if you're still paying for your accursed oral surgery. Boo.
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