Thanks to Lindsey, I found out that Shake Shack is opening in Philadelphia.
Matt lives in DC and taunts me almost every day with how awesome DC is and how much Philly sucks. So I told him that a Shake Shack was coming to Philly.
This is the resulting dialogue.
The blossoms are in bloom. They’re not as beautiful as the originals, but I’ll take ‘em.
That must be why Mr. B and I woke up at 5:30 am on Sunday, laced up our running shoes, and headed out.
It was cold, but it was beautiful.
And apparently, we weren’t the only crazy ones.
After we ran all 5k, we collapsed. But not before Mr. B peeled an orange for me. As you know, I have been waiting for this for a long time.
OM NOM NOM. Also, Lobsterface.
If you’re wondering why this post is so sparse on words, it’s either because I want to celebrate the beautiful Japanese artform of haiku. Or EVERYTHING in my body is cramped and tired, including my fingers. Choose your own adventure.
This weekend was officially our last weekend in DC. And we spent it with (almost all of our friends), but the more time I spent with friends, the more confused I became about life.
First, we went to Mr. B’s friend and now ex-coworker at his house in the DC suburbs. He and his wife have a beautiful house and two very, very cute little boys. Mr. B’s other friends and ex-coworkers were there, and they are also all married and either have kids or are thinking about them very soon. They live relatively far away from DC, far away enough that they can’t get in to see, say, the Kennedy Center at night, but that doesn’t matter, because being close to DC is not a priority for them. Family is. Their house is full of love and the chaos that comes with having two small kids.
If you want to have this sort of atmosphere, you have to live far away from the city. While the women were sitting in the kitchen, the conversation turned to childcare. ”I quit my job. I just couldn’t justify the two-hour commute and by the time I got to work and paid for childcare, the net sum I made was less than if I stayed home,” one said. ”We’re thinking about kids in the near future, but I want to start my own business and I can’t do that if we have kids. So I want to, but it’s going to be a long wait for my business to get off the ground.”
Second, we went to an engagement party in one of my favorite neighborhoods in DC, Adams Morgan, for my two ex-coworkers, who also turned later into really, really good friends, and all of my other ex-coworkers, who also turned into really good friends were there. They are all not married or in serious relationships and kids are very, very far off. They are doing awesome, exciting things like working for IMF/World Bank, getting their advanced degrees, and traveling to Ghana and Brunei. We talked about Patrice Lumumba, why diamonds are overpriced, think tanks, and how one of us had accidentally eaten goat while she was in India. You know. The shit I love.
Then my friend, the engaged one, said her future mother-in-law had already asked her when they were planning to have kids. My engaged friend is kickass at her job and loves it, so it won’t be anytime soon. On the one hand, I was angry on her behalf that she was having to field these questions, but on the other, I was sad because I know my friends would make great parents and her job shouldn’t have to preclude her from setting priorities. And then I became angry at myself that I was sad, because this is the exact type of stuff that I don’t want to hear from other people.
When we got home on Saturday night, I thought about both of our groups of friends, and how conflicted I was because I want to be both of those groups of friends. I want everything, and it is so unfair to women that we can’t have it but that men don’t give this a second thought. If I could count the number of times just this weekend alone that I was asked when Mr. B and I are having kids, I could cry.
When I fumed to him about it, he laughed it off. ”Did anyone ask YOU when we were having kids?” I asked. He remained quiet. Because, obviously, it’s never up to the guy. But what if I want to have a big happy family in a safe suburban environment AND I want to go to Israel and become an Israeli ice cream specialist? Or a train specialist that has to travel to Turkmenistan? Or a fruit specialist that has to fly to Finland? It doesn’t work that way, I’m learning. Even if modern feminism says it does and it should, biology says SCREW YOU.
So, as we are closing in on day 0 in DC and beginning day 1 in Philadelphia together, it seems like, by not being able to choose both roads, I am taking one. But really, I’m taking it as a challenge to split that one road into two more smaller, winding, paths and see what the hell happens.
Dear Blog Readers,
I love you. You are the rain to my desert. I love you so much that I want you to get as much enjoyment as possible out of my blog. And since D.C. provides low concentrations of my primary satire material-that is, Russian Jews (and really, there’s only so much I can mock Mr. B since he still peels my oranges for me,) we are moving (back) to Philadelphia.
Mr. B and I are stressed out right now, for a multitude of reasons. The amount of decisions we’ve had to make recently are overwhelming us and they’re something I’ve thought about every day, for at least the past six months. When we’re done, I’m sure I’ll feel 10 lbs lighter.
Yesterday, my parents came to visit us and we took them to see cherry blossoms. Not the ones in the Tidal Basin, because that’s where all the tourists cause congested arteries, but the ones in a nearby Maryland neighborhood that local relatives tipped us off to last year.
There’s something about cherry blossoms that, when you see them, you relax.
Because, when it’s sunny and cherry blossom petals are falling all around you, the world can’t be all that bad.
“It’s like snow,” my mom said. And it was.
