Baggage Claimed

This is a nappy, plush toy you win at the fair, not something you put on your person. 

No matter how cold it is, you’ll never find me in gore-tex, polartek or any other kind of high-tech synthetic windbreaking, fleece-insulated zippered nonsense. (And hence why, I was not cut out for Oregon. My rain boots have kitten heels.)

Style wins over function every time. There is always a cuter alternative to whatever the most useful or appropriate article of clothing is for a given situation. You do not have to look like a ratty neon polar bear to stay warm.

That said however, in recent years, if something is entirely uncomfortable, I have given up on trying to make it work, regardless of its cuteness. I once bought a pair of size 6.5 open-toed platforms, thinking my size 8 feet would be okay because they could “breathe.” (I’m not sure what I thought was so stylish about dangling toes.) I got crafty with coffee mugs and salad tongs to stretch out the heels, and even paid $12 for a professional to help the cause, only for the pair to wind up collecting dust in my closet corner.

Thirty-three years of this behavior (okay, maybe 18, I wore Keds in elementary school) has taken its toll. 

I made the mistake of examining my feet recently. I have a total of five scars, four callused toe knuckles, some weird bone thing protruding from the side of my foot under my big toes, and possibly a bit of death under one toenail if I was ever fully able to remove my nail polish.

With this is mind I went to the store to buy summer sandals. I wound up with a pair of black strappy flats with gold zippers up the back, perfect for all my sassy city walking. 

By the end of end of day one, a charcoal film had settled into the crevices of my feet, which were only an eighth of an inch off of New York’s gritty pavement all day; the backs of my heels were blistery from my snazzy zippers. 

But I’d already spent $50 and no one can see these covered flaws, so I feel I must be reasonable and continue to wear the shit out of them.

The contents of a recent care package from my parents: 

6 pairs of athletic socks

4 bags of loose-leaf tea

the local freebie newspaper

July’s issue of Vogue

lip-moisturizing cotton swabs

a cute summer top from Free People

Nevermind that it’s 102 degrees in New York City right now and I don’t have a need for moisturizer, nor can I fathom boiling water for tea; I’m a sucker for my parents’ thoughtfulness, vaguely misguided or not. Their gifts are the perfect balance of planned effort (the lacy shirt is so me) and whatever else they could find around the house to fill up a box and make it look plentiful. (Once for a care package, they threw in a roll of paper towels. I assumed it was for cushioning, but I was actually out of Bounty at the time, so I took it as parental intuition.) 

Yes, I’m 33 years old and I’m still receiving care packages. I’m not ashamed. Though tough-cookie Jessica of her twenties would never admit it, thirtyish Jessica likes being cared for and is a sucker for the little gestures. My parents understand this. As random as the items are in this box, there’s nothing generic about them. No toothpaste, no bath salts, no macadamia nuts. They know I run, I’m vain and I read garbage.

The three of us are no-nonsense types, so we don’t bombard each other with obligatory phone calls every week. But on a Wednesday in the middle of June, my father, who composed his first email less than a year go and keeps most of his correspondence at under 20 words, will write me three paragraphs, purposely in pidgin, about having to endure “Sex and the City 2,” and sign it “your one an only fada.” 

My parents are also aware that I’m a 33 year old with the mindset and financial allowance of a kindergartner. For their birthdays, I’m never able to afford something they’d actually want like a boat, so instead, I make them cards, little construction-paper “odes to their wonderfulness.” Your stubbornness has made me the unrelenting dream chaser I am today. Thanks for never making me feel like this writing thing is stupid. Sometimes I’ll even draw pictures.

It took me becoming an adult for us to master the child-parent dynamic.

Or I could just be more of a sentimentalist in my old age. 

(Above: Me, 19, at Christmas, pouting because my brother, 10, got a bigger gift than I did.)

What the cool kids are doing these days: 

1. Wearing the princess silly bandz, not the animal, or lord forbid, the “texting” ones. 

2. Sporting shudder shades with lens, not without. 

3. Trying really hard not to like Justin Bieber. 

Yes, it’s time for my semi-annual visit with my 14-year old niece and 12-year-old nephew. A time when I brush up on all things young and hip that I haven’t the slighest clue about and try not to look like a fuddy duddy.

Though in my own deluded mind, I consider myself somewhat privy to fads and youth culture (I mean, I too shop at Forever 21!), time and again, I realize my knowledge primarily comes from celebrity gossip mags and maybe what I see on a random trip to the mall.

There are whole worlds out there I know nothing about. Cobra Starship’s “fangs up”? The dance “the jerk”? I have no use for these gestures in my daily life—when I write in coffee shops among introverts disguised as novelists, or copyedit at a paper that’s median age demographic is, at best, 73—but the sociologist in me feels I must be aware of these trends, study them, understand them. I must be relevant! 

Okay, so it’s really a pride thing. I refuse to turn into (or be categorized as) the lame oldie who learns about the latest drug crazes and body mutilation fads from Dateline specials. 

So while I may not understand the appeal of 3OH!3 or whatever the next boy band du jour is all about, what I do have are these nuggets of trend knowledge, courtesy of my niece and nephew, to look superior over my own peers. Do you know what the cool kids are doing this summer, friends? Did you say, not wasting their time blogging about how irrelevant those semi-old people are? Those should-be-but-aren’t parental types who still dress in Forever 21 clothes, have roommates and eat cereal in bed?* Yeah, probably not. 

*Or answer imagined questions?

I am an LOL hater. Let’s not even go there with LMAO. 

I’ll spare the the dissertation about LOL’s abuse. As someone who’s a lover of the English language, I’m more annoyed by its mere inception. Who had the audacity to condense one of man’s most amazing, uncontrollable urges into a single acronym? How can these three unfunny letters (“L” is nothing but two boring, straight strokes!) evoke the rare pleasure of spewing giggles or doubling over in deep, guttural laughter without notice or regard? While unimaginative, at least “hahaha” sounds like laughter. “El-o-el” sounds like a hip-to-gentrification bar in Echo Park, circa 2002. 

That said, I’m an offender of a possibly worse practice: the passive-aggressive smiley face :). Because I can be a sarcastic bitch who heavily communicates via text or email, I like to cushion my snark with a “haha, just kidding (JK!) by the way (b-t-dubs!)” low-brow emoticon. 

No problem, Mr. Editor. I totally understand that you haven’t had a chance to read my article yet. I take comfort in knowing I can keep bugging you to do so. :)

Did you make it home safely? Or did you spend the night at the party, waiting for all the chicks to black out? :)

I wish I could be comfortable enough in my smartassness to deliver my jabs, then hit send without a second thought. But no, because tone is already hard to detect in the un-personal world of emailing and texting, I don’t want to offend anyone. And while the “writer” in me says “convey your feelings in words” not in a cop-out of punctuation (like quotation marks), I believe guarding my true feelings with sarcasm and smiley faces is a much more appropriate way to communicate with coworkers and acquaintances.

Lately, in a move to further disguise my use of passive-aggressiveness in self-deprecation, I’ve started incorporating the obnoxiously cutesy and Japanesey Emoji-cons on my phone. 

Your ability to hold down seven shots and then ask the bartender for his number inspires me. 

My greatest hope in putting an end to this cycle is that I’ll eventually be too lazy to include lazy emotions when I type. Or better yet, all of my over-thinking will eventually grow exhausting. Bahahaha.