One year has passed since the declaration that I am a shadow boxer who frequents a corner bar named Jones, wondering if the man who after sending me drinks from across the way will politely follow through on a promise to take me to Mozza for dinner after wistfully discussing football and my talent as a harmonica player.
There is a redundancy to my life that is eerily predictable. The same occurrences reappear on a yearly basis presented in a progressed or an “aha moment” sort of way. Last year my back ached and I blamed my adoration for the sullen girl, Fiona Apple. Admittedly, her songs off of Tidal narrated my everyday and inability to date a man with courtesy. However, I grabbed the bull(shit) by the horns and converted my “mild” wellbeing and slouch into something more proud and less eerie.
Career– My run as a personal chef has since been fried. The financial woes of freelance outweighed my passion to cook and my hunt for stability meant contacting my writing mentors, an old college professor and my uncle, for advice. My uncle, a blunt man of great wisdom told me, “If you want to write, don’t write. But writer’s write, so write.” A quizzical reaction led to a further explanation that if I wanted a steady income I needed to find a job, but if I wanted to be a writer, I had to dedicate myself to writing.
My professor’s magic wand led me to a job as what my boss has recently called, “a floater.” Technically, I am of value at my workplace doing tasks no one else can doâ€¦in the realm of writing. I like to call myself a Writing Extraordinaire!
Love– With the job shift, I dedicated myself to myself refusing all free drinks and eye contact from anyone anywhere. After many months of this and a bout of misty-eyed loneliness, I bucked up and decided to test the waters again. I recently went on my first “available to the public again” date with a nice lad who boasted at length about his laziness. Then “the man who claimed he loved me” a year ago reappeared to then disappear and reappear and disappear. My eyes would rather mist than roll, so I instead latch onto my girlfriends who delight me without annoyance (with the exception of the once-a-month bout of red-eyed darkness) and the painful “will he call back” or “should I call back.”
Travel– I travel to NYC once a year to rejuvenate my soul. Last year, I lost my phone at LAX before departure and spent two days without it, essentially discovering the city without communication. I hope one day this happens to all of you; life without a cellular companion is simply beautiful. My next trip is Halloween weekend. I plan to recklessly/strategically lose myself in the city once again, while sticking a fork into the richness of its culinary offerings. (I’m now accepting ideas on Halloween costumes. Last year, I dressed as Erykah Badu)
Residency– Currently, I’m writing from my red couch, which faces the direction of Jones, where a dear friend has invited me to join him. I declined, with great detest, because “writer’s write” and I needed to write this doodah. He’s eating the roasted chicken salad with fried chantarelles and goat cheese balls, sipping on a Macallan 12. I know this because for a year, I’ve said yes to his invites along with many others and it’s a redundant routine that I adore. Jones is the best and so is this stupid apartment with a useless kitchen.
Three weeks ago, I celebrated my 28th birthday at Mozza. I almost cried twice- once due to overwhelming denial that I finally had the opportunity to dine at my dream restaurant and another because the veal tortellini reminded me of the first dish I ate in Italy. Two days later, I had the great pleasure of seeing Ms. Fiona Apple live at a quaint arena here in Los Angeles. I cried twice- once because overwhelming nostalgia got the best of me and the other because Chris Thile from Nickel Creek played, on his mandolin, a piano song that I spent all of high school learning.
With another year tagging along behind me, and another football season starting today, my heart dances like the nuisance, Deshaun Jackson because Matt Lang chose Peyton Manning in our Fantasy draft. This time I’m overjoyed because Manning is injured and why would anyone pick him? It’s moments like this and events like dinner at Mozza that fill me with billowing pleasure. In one week, it all came full circle. What’s the name for that? A “call back?”
Oh sweet ironyâ€¦
Oh! Twitter– @daniellebernabe