Angst

My beloved 25-year-old friend, Lauren, who helped me write Y Chicks and then had the bad manners to get married and have a full life without me, came over this morning. We did immediate catch-up and surprise, surprise, 20-year-olds and 80-year-olds share the forever existential question: what am I doing here; how do I make my life purposeful, creative, and fun when you have the luxury of a lack of structure? We came up with one same old answer--talk to your woman friends, because they will get it without offering pedantic advice.

So once again, I've decided to take blogging seriously. And Lauren is going to come back when she can, until she comes up with a more grandiose scheme of saving the world in her terms.

In my August struggle, I've decided I don't have enough friends, although all my friends would tell me I have more than enough. So, today at the Y, I started to kibbutz with the woman at the locker next to me. Her name is Bridgette, and she looks like a Bridgette should--unbelievable blue eyes and blonde hair. I hope she'll be my first Bridgette friend. How bout throwing down your wet bathing suit next to an academic archaeologist with a specialty in art history?! Do I live in a great place?!

So, why am I always complaining...