ALMOST CARRIE ~ Almost Losing It

For the past month, my apartment has been undergoing renovations, which means that all my stuff—everything from unpaid bills to wet towels to those damned Manolo Blahniks I bought for my wedding—are on the floor in one crazy heap. My internet connection, through some phenomenon completely unrelated to the construction, has been out for two weeks, which has led to hours of on-hold time with the marvelous Time Warner Cable. On top of my tours, I’m working three other jobs in an attempt to strike some tenuous balance between furthering my career and paying the bills (all three of which require home internet access). I spend early mornings and late nights at Starbucks catching up on computer time, and in between I dash off to one job or another with dirty hair and my L.L. Bean backpack. I can barely find my kitchen, let alone the time to cook, so I’ve been surviving on coffee and potato chips, and I’m blaming my recent neck spasms on the lack of nutrients. In addition, I manage to devote at least 20 minutes a day to losing, finding, and then losing again my keys, cell phone, glasses, and/or the mouthguard I’m supposed to wear at night to prevent myself from grinding my teeth into oblivion. Almost Carrie is almost losing it.

Everyone experiences overwhelming stretches, times when everything seems to pile up at once, weeks when grace and sanity are put to the test. Based on what I’m wearing right now, I’d say I’m failing on both accounts. I’m out in public in a pair of red striped flannel pajama bottoms that I purchased for $6.99 at Ocean State Job Lot the last time I visited my parents in Maine; a tank top with the Jack Daniels logo which fit me about ten pounds ago; hiking socks; fleece-lined Crocs; and a filthy knit hat which I’ve worn every single day for the past three weeks to hide the monstrosity that is my hair. The good news is that I’m taking it all in stride. This too shall pass.

In the meantime, I’m particularly grateful for the one and only Sex and the City moment I’ve had in a long time. On Monday night, my husband and I went to the opening of an Off-Broadway show.  Because the playwright is one of our dearest friends, we also went to the after-party.  I ran home from work that afternoon with 40 minutes to pull myself together. I threw two frozen Morning Star barbecue soy ribs in the oven and then dove into the aforementioned crazy heap. I pulled out a black dress I haven’t worn for a year, scrubbed the armpits with cold water to get rid of the deodorant stains, zipped it very slowly, and hoped to God it still fit. I dug further and found that my $18 black tights—the ones I’ve only worn once—had a big old hole and had to be scrapped. I then used half a bottle of dry shampoo, buckled my highest heels, and shoved one of the soy ribs down my throat while standing over the trash can. In the 2 minutes I had left, I did 30 push-ups in an attempt to transform my upper arms (which I’ve been neglecting along with everything else).

The night was fabulous.  The play was excellent, the wine was free, and I got a full serving of vegetables by stocking up on mini spring-rolls.  I even got a little dose of celebrity—Ethan Hawke put in an appearance, still working the old Reality Bites charm. I was a total fraud, of course, exhausted and disheveled beneath my layer of dry shampoo, but it was so lovely to at least pretend to be lovely for the night.

The next morning, I woke up hung-over, my glasses nowhere to be found, my patient husband inquiring about the second barbecue soy rib still sitting out on the kitchen counter.

Carrie also loses it when the shit piles up

Emily Sproch is a writer and a Sex and the City tour guide. Each Friday, she chronicles the fine line between reality and fiction in her column “Almost Carrie.”