27

Hi, my name is Jersey, and I'm twenty-seven. 27.
I keep rolling the number around in my mouth, not comprehending the fact that I really am getting older.
Should I have done more by now? I doubt it. Judging by the past few years entries, I would imagine i've lived through quite a bit.
Should I be more mature? Perhaps. Sometimes I think I was more mature in college than I am now. I was still living in dreams, planning a stumbling forward performing career, and drinking in the possibilities of life.


Perhaps my last entry seemed entirely cynical. My thoughts on love and life do not exactly lie in the same path five years ago. Instead, I am learning to live differently. To excel in what I KNOW i can- and at least trying to hold a little bit of love in my hands, for once. After all, I cannot remember the last time I felt that kind of love. It has nothing to do with readiness, boundaries, cynicism, or letting my heart go again. It has everything to do with letting go of my past. stepping forward, even if I am truly stumbling.


I need to stop being afraid of what has happened to me. I will never allow that to happen again. And so here I am.

27 with new possibilities.

It's time to grasp a few dreams, again.

Ankles swallowed by metro doors.

Last night was fantastic. I mean, a completely necessary girls only danceyourassoff sort of fantastic. Scarlett and I began the evening watching the new Angelina movie, Salt. This is a great action flick if you can suspend your belief system temporarily. Anorexic women looking like skin and bones couldn't possibly kick that much booty, but I'll admit it was a perfect beginning to our ladies' evening.

After such an exciting, heartpounding "woah, did she just take down three dozen Russian spies!?" movie, we promptly decided to have a few and catch up at our favorite Irish pub, Fado's in Chinatown. Spotting two empty seats at the end of the bar, Scarlett and I spent hours catching up on life - you know, the usual (i.e. men, dating, drama, more men). Oh, and by the way- Magner's is cider for the soul.

Meanwhile, the currentboyinmylife (007) began the persistent texting ritual called "where are you can I come and join you please?". I was unamused. This is a girls night! Never crash this sort of night, boys. It's just not a good idea. Back and forth we texted, me hinting in my usual subtle way NO DON'T YOU DARE COME HERE and his oh ok fine, then i guess i'll just go home. the perpetual dance got old quickly, and i caved in to the guilt trip. You know what's crazy? I didn't even KNOW he was guilt tripping me at first! Of course I figured it out and the Jersey in me surfaced immediately.



Here's one thing I won't do. I will not apologize for my decisions. I will not apologize for what I choose to do, and with whom I choose to do it. Especially, above all- to men. It's just not worth the sacrifice.



Anyway, he chose to arrive two ciders and a douchebag comeon later. I chose to not attack the guilt tripping issue. Instead, I grabbed my girlfriend's hand and started dancing. Of course, 007 danced along behind me, doing the typically unattractive bump and grind, hands on hips and violently swaying to and fro. I didn't mind, though. His dance was of a completely unaware, goofball nature that made me laugh the rest of the night. Besides, my dear friend found herself a fabulous dance partner, so what could spoil the night?



2 a.m. and I was ready and rarin' to catch the metro home. I said my goodbyes and walked with 007, allowing his arm to wrap around my waist with the promise of seeing me home safe and sound.



You know, I always end up injured when my clumsiness and the metro mix. I've broken my foot twice running for the metro in flip flops. However, I never miss my metro stop- no matter how tired I am, I always recognize when it's time to jump the platform. However, this time was an exception. It took me several seconds too long to walk through those metro doors and guess what? My ankle was nearly severed by the heavy crush of those doors. Luckily, I was able to pull my ankle out with a mere bruise and alas! A broken sandal.





So, the moral of the story is this.



Men, never crash a ladies night.



And women, unless you want to lose a perfectly good sandal, don't run for those metro doors. they will not stay open. Just wait for the next metro stop and your limbs are more likely to survive.