Water bottle panic attack

It’s a red metal water bottle, with three stickers on it. Two are from my favorite breweries, and the other I bought in Patagonia. I stole it from my dad the summer after college. It’s not hard to miss.

It’s just a water bottle. But not. There have been many water bottles in my life, and with each one, I harbored a rather unhealthy attachment to them. Klean Kanteens, Britas, you name it. I’ve had any and every kind of water bottle known to man. I’d be a great spokesperson for Hydro Flask.

I’m not sure why, but the desire to have my water bottle with me at all times progressed into a conscious, emotional need. This probably started around the age of fifteen. It was something to fidget with during my countless awkward experiences in high school. When I went to college, I would sleep with my water bottle tucked in between the nook of my lofted bed and the discolored wall of my dorm room. I couldn’t sleep without it. Also smart for when you wake up hung over (you’re welcome). My room-mate thought it was strange any time I asked her to hand it to me from below, but tell me you don’t like cold, fresh, filtered water when you wake up parched at three a.m. I’m waiting.

It was obvious for me to carry one around all the time during high school and college, because I was constantly going to practices and trainings. Made sense. Things just got a little weird when I’d want to take my bottle out to parties, or even pubs, when I was traveling abroad.And when I graduated, the hysteria of being within five feet (but two feet is ideal) of my bottle became a norm. I am that loser who tries to sneak a water bottle filled with water into Coachella.

I’d rather drink from my own water bottle than the questionable tap water at a restaurant … but I feel like anyone would choose that option. If we’re talking free sparkling water, that’s a different story. It is a bitch to lug this jug of water around New York City when I’m commuting all over the goddamn place. I hate myself for doing it, but I just can’t concentrate on what kind of avocado toast I want when I don’t feel the absurd weight of my bottle inside my bag. I’d even go as far as saying I’ve developed back problems from carrying this shit around all the time.

I’ve thought about whether this is some subconscious manifestation of a desire to have a child to carry around all the time. And I can tell you, it’s definitely not. I love kids, but I love them because I don’t have any. Considering the way I handle my water bottle, I would be a monster if I thought any kid should be taken care of this way. I drop my water bottle constantly — the red paint has given way to it’s silver interior. I’ve set it down in so many dirty, nasty places, carelessly, because we all know that what matters is what’s on the inside. My current water bottle has seen me do so many degrading, humiliating things; things that I wouldn’t even let my own dog see. My water bottle is definitely not a fake baby.

So when I lost it last weekend — at some shitty hookah bar on Long Island — I reacted the way that any mother would and screeched like a bat before washing down my anxiety medication with some wine. And despite what my girlfriend insists, I did not suggest calling the cops.

I typically do not lose things. But when I do, they are of colossal proportions. I have lost: diamond ear rings from an ex (sorry); a Clipper card with $80 on it; and my passport. My ability to hold onto things 98% of the time is something I’m so proud of, I would put it down as one of my skills on my resume. But I digress. As much as I like to think I want to be perfect, I am not, and will misplace stuff.

Losing something, especially something that you really didn’t want to lose, is probably one of the most infuriating experiences, ever. Maybe more than stubbing your toe, or missing the train by two seconds. There’s nothing you can do, except search the entire confines of your room, the garage, and in the gym that you definitely haven’t been to in weeks — but hey there’s still a negative five chance your missing item could be there, just check the lost and found! In other words, it sucks. And I hate feeling incompetent.

When I lost my red metal water bottle, it felt like Barack Obama was leaving office all over again. There was absolutely nothing I could do to stop this event, as it had happened, was going to happen, and did happen. What more can you do than lay in bed and blankly stare at the speck on your ceiling (that may or may not be a spider, you really have to keep your eye on it), and think about your loss. How the POOR choices you made and your irresponsible behavior resulted in the situation you are currently in. You have no one to blame but yourself, and you shame yourself more by admitting that every time your mom tells you that, she was totally, totally right. I would flagellate myself if I could. It is an absolutely devastating feeling.

Fast forward to the next morning. Lo and behold, I found my water bottle in my friend’s car the next morning. On our way to get bagels. If I were to ever have a victory bagel, that would have been it.




Grievances of Manhattan

It’s been about a year since I left the West Coast and moved to New York City. I want to skip the sentimental shit — for later, maybe — and get to some things I need to get off my chest. Listed below you will find everything I have to bitch about living in this city. Yes, I’m complaining. What — like this city needs more praise than it already has? Come on, people. Trump still has a fucking tower here.

1. WHY IS THERE SPIT EVERYWHERE. Seriously. How come I have to dodge globs of spit on the sidewalk more than I do dog shit? I am disgusted by the sound of people hacking up their snot and lungs and expelling them onto the sidewalk. I’m. Walking. Here. I’m pretty sure spitting on the sidewalk is illegal, like, everywhere. If you are a perpetrator of sidewalk spit, please stop. You are making my phobia of germs worse.

2. Subway cards. Pretty sure everyone hates the subway for a plethora of unique and totally valid reasons. I do too. But, I have to say, it’s the little things that get to me most. And that would include metro cards. They are flimsy, pieces of shit that always, always, get lost. It doesn’t matter that I stick them in my jean pocket, or that I promise myself I’ll remember where in my bag I put it for “safe keeping.” I’ve lost my unlimited metro card just two days after using it, and I still blame having to use the subway and it’s paper-thin cards in the first place. And, while we’re at it, the subway manspreading needs to come to an end, too.

3. Seamless. This app is like the first bite you take into that Big Mac. It tastes so savory and satisfying after making yourself sick with Picklebacks at D.B.A. Bar (they’re delicious I promise). What a godsend. But after that first bite, it doesn’t taste so great — but you still eat it, because you’re committed to how great it tasted. And then you take another bite, and another, and everything you hate in life begins to fester in that Big Mac, reminding you of how you ended up there in the first place. This is what Seamless, and other delivery apps are to me. In theory, and in that first order, it’s fucking awesome. But over time, you notice your food is sort of sloshed around, tepidly warm, and not as good as you once remember. And you waited nine billion minutes for it to arrive.

4. Where is Trader Joe’s. Someone please explain the economic and political reasons why there are so few. Food Town and Key Foods sucks. Gourmet Garage is acceptable, but where is TJ’s? I have adapted fairly well to the cold ass weather, smelly alleys, and fuck boy MTA, but there are some things I have refused to compromise on. Like, TJ’s cheap ass Lara Bars, or the fact that they sell kombucha for the low-low. While I make myself subject to sounding like a whiny, entitled bitch, the question of TJ’s is what keeps me up at night. I love that there are TJ Maxx stores everywhere, though. #Maxxinista.

5. Compost. It hurts me that I have to toss my organic waste into the trash can, where I know it will end up unloved and rotting in a landfill. Why doesn’t Manhattan have compost? Probably good reasons. Like, raccoons or the intense summer heat. Yes, I did know that you can take your compostable items to Union Square’s Saturday farmer’s market, and dump your shit there — and that brings me more joy than getting a seat on the A train. But let’s be real. Am I really going to stack up my rotting food for an entire week, inside my apartment, and haul it down in some sort of bag? My ass. I’ve got better things to do on a Saturday morning. Like, eat french toast, or shake off my hangover in a cold shower.

I could probably think of a few more witty, whiny complaints about New York City, but the truth is, I actually like living here.