It’s a rainy Sunday and I’m up early. I’m meeting my aunt and grandma at MOMA at 9am because I fucked up yesterday. It’s the very least I could do.
I stop for coffee and feel confident for a minute. The autonomy of grabbing a coffee and bagel to-go in New York City is a glorious feeling. It briefly connects you to all of the other lonely folks who come in, shake their umbrella off and order an espresso.
MOMA was ok. The main exhibit was a fashion setup on the 6th floor, where I learned Champion made the first-ever hooded sweatshirt. Go figure Champion is one of the main brands at Urban Outfitters nowadays.
A Louise Bourgeois exhibit was the second main attraction. I love art, I really do, but I can’t get into the art of picture as much as the art of words. I’ve tried. I find myself captivated by a piece of work where small poems accompany each of the sketches. That’s my favorite series of the day.
As I walk out of the hall I see this giant photograph of Louise Bourgeois. She’s a woman. I didn’t expect that. There were several kid-like sketches of women with huge breasts in her gallery. I guess since I thought a man drew them I didn’t pay any mind. Now that I know a woman was behind the pencil I have a soft spot for what I saw today. I think of walking back through with my newfound respect but don’t.
My grandma, aunt and I wander the rainy streets of Midtown with no set plan. Since I live here I was supposed to come up with a few fun things to do. I take them to Top of the Rock, but we can’t buy tickets cause there’s no visibility due to the weather.
We only have a few hours before they have to make their way to JFK. Not enough time to get out of Midtown, which I loathe, so I don’t have much to show them. I take them to a Mexican restaurant off of Third Avenue I used to get drunk at every Friday during lunch when I worked at the law firm after I first moved here.
I love my aunt. We have lively conversations about politics, current events, feminism, the environment and also less controversial stuff like dealing with loss, mental health, international travel and the inner dynamics of our family. She’s supported me a lot from afar since before I went to college. She tells me multiple times today that she’s proud of me. I believe her, but I don’t know why.
I go home and turn on Netflix. I pick an inappropriate show where a little boy fucks his pillow. I don’t care, it’s just running in the background while I swipe left on OKCupid and browse Reddit.
My room’s a mess. I should get ready for the week — I need to pack my gym bag for the morning. I don’t. I stay up late doing nothing and fall asleep without plugging my phone in. I might call in sick tomorrow, but probably not.
Brand None 