It's dead. I killed it. The corpse of my social life rots on the curb. That's where I kicked it sometime in the last year. I've been getting better, so now when the weekends roll around, I actually want to get out of my house. But my list of people I can call is very short. By my own fault. I stopped calling them and no one calls me anymore because I said 'No' so many times.

Then last night I heard something unpleasant. Walking the third to last length of my last commute of my 12 hour Thursday, I was tired. Here's a rundown of my day. In the morning, at 10:30-45ish--filled with the fear that I may miss my train, I ran/walked 4 blocks to catch the bus to the city. I left late and then traffic in the tunnel was really really bad. Not only did I miss the last train to the village in Long Island where I teach, I almost missed the last train to the town within taxi distance to the campus. But I was lucky that I didn't have to wait for the subway or I would have had to cancel class. But after rushing through the underground tunnel, I caught the backup train. Arriving in BFE L.I. some 90 minutes later, I then had to pay $50 for a cab ride; knowing I drew it out of an account that would have a negative balance when my rent check was deposited. But, I had to get to work.

After I gave my 85 minute lecture and dawdled to fill the hour before the train left, I walked the half hour to the station. A walk in the humidity and full sunlight with a very heavy totebag carrying books and a gymbag with my swimming gear and other personal affects that went unused. I found out that day that people are required to take a tour of the athletic center before they can use it. But people are required to make an appointment for a tour. I have one on Tuesday. From there, it's the 90-100 minute train ride, with a change and wait in Jamaica then to Penn Station. And a push through the hundreds of people up the skinny stairs to speedwalk to my school where I will be 10 minutes late for a 2 hour seminar. After those 2 hours, I passed up the chance to go out with classmates because of the negative state of my bank account. Which meant it was time to go home. And walk to the Port Authority because I pay for my subway by the ride now.

I let down my hair because it had become a disaster anyway, it was 8:45 pm and trudged towards the Port Authority. The walk is 3.5 Avenues by 8 blocks, and usually takes 20 minutes when there is no traffic. Worried that I was rude to my friend when she was asking if I would join them, I typed out a text message apologizing. As I concentrated on my phone and walked, I got to 40th and 9th, The Port Authority. Walking along the front, crossing the 41st Street chasm dividing the P.A., I heard a voice echoing.

"There is a girl in desperate need of a man." Well that's not a nice thing to say. I stealthily glanced from side to side and see that I am the only one walking by. Could he mean me? No. That's ridiculous. "I mean, DESPERATELY. Look at her!" Ugh. I think he did mean me. I hit the SEND button on the phone, sighed and pondered the bruising, harsh comment. What about me would make someone say that? First of all, it aint true. I can't even take care of myself, what would I do with a man? Ah, perhaps that's it...am I visibly not taking care of myself now?

So I picture myself in my head to work it out. My hair surely had gone to frizz. It needs a cut. I was wearing Birkinstocks--but femme ones, you would too if you had to walk almost 2 hours that day! My skirt was all rumpled and stretched out. Ok, maybe he had reason. My blouse was a loose one,untucked--I have no waist so I can't tuck shirts in, it makes me look like a freak with boobs sitting on my hips! I know I wasn't smiling. I certainly wasn't excited about going home. I was tired. My make up had melted off hours ago. Does all that equal 'looking like she desperately needs a man'?

Well, anyone who has spent even one hour in Manhattan knows how sickeningly beautiful and put together the women in my age bracket are. They get fancy haircuts with coloring, wear tight and skimpy clothes, jewelry, sexy shoes, cute bags...it's very expensive to look that way! Midtown looks like a real-life fashion magazine. With frumpy tourists and cops thrown in for "authenticity". But the truth is, no Wall Street Suit or Hipster guy will look at a woman who's not a walking ad for Vogue. Except, of course, to pity them.

Regardless, have I let myself go? I thought I looked nice when I left in the morning. I was late because I ironed my skirt. (A VERY new thing, this ironing. It used to be a once a year event.) I put makeup on in the taxi on the way to work. My hair is a wreck. Fabulous. But because I've seen myself looking good I like to carry that image in my head. It helps with confidence. But maybe I'm clinging to that picture while getting slovenly with the reality? Crap. That's not good.

Whatever. I climbed into the short bus to wait for it to fill so we could all go back to Jersey. I found myself wishing I had stopped and confronted the Jerk. Clearly he has issues to be so interested in my "needy" state. Maybe he was attracted to me and then repulsed? We'll never know.

I look forward to the day when such ridiculous things don't even register with me, let alone occupy half an hour of thinking time. One day I'll have real things to worry about. (money isn't worth worrying about because there is nothing I can do until the friggin school distributes our student loans. NJ is way too expensive, I may have to go back to NYC and roommate life.) So, this blog is my Friday night entertainment because I didn't have the energy or the money to do anything else. For which I take full responsibility and expect no sympathy. There's a show about papermaking artists on PBS now. I hate television.