After seeing a wonderfully heartwarming performance of The Nutcracker, my roommate and I ventured northward– in search of the diner where I once poured the contents of my drink on a no good, very bad date.
When we arrived, the high of the theatrical experience soon gave way to the grave realities we call our futures. My roommate, balancing a full-time job, night school, and mandatory volunteering, was unnerved by her rather strenuous daily routine. And I, questioning my leadership skills and failed forays into romance, had little positivity to profess. We were two disgruntled peas in a pod.
While chowing down on deliciously greasy omelettes, we lamented our twenty-something failures, neither making the false promise that every well-paid psychotherapist makes– that it somehow, someday gets better. And while there were so many people facing significantly greater obstacles, the “misery loves company” adage seemed meaningless.
“So how do we get past this funk?” I asked between my sips of heavily-diluted Diet Coke.
“We recognize our coping strategies for what they are– means of denial. And work past them.”
“And what are those strategies?”
“I hide, and you clean.”
When the weight of the world is on my shoulders, I take a bottle of scrubbing bubbles and make the bathtub sparkle. I grab hold of a Swiffer wet jet and get my wooden floors to glow. I, as my roommate so wisely observed, clean until I run out of cleaning supplies and/or things to clean– whichever comes first. (I should mention that I scrub my apartment from floor to ceiling at least once a week.)
Since we were being brutally honest, I trusted my roommate entirely. The supply closet was my sanctuary, and clorox wipes had become my gods. I needed to check myself and maybe cut back on my late night Swiffer activities.
And so when we returned to Casa Carroll Gardens, I didn’t take my shoes off at the door. I walked those dirty city boots to my bedroom. And I didn’t grab a mop to clean the remnants of the urban landscape from my recently refurbished floors. Instead, I jumped into bed and determined to employ my second favorite coping mechanism– SNL claymation shorts. Baby steps, amigos.