older than i was

In celebration of our fifth anniversary, MSP and I set out to do something very adult – we ate in an authentic Italian restaurant and had rare cheeses and wine.



This is actually the second leg of our three-month-long celebration. In the first month we also tried to be adults by eating foie gras. Nothing special, I tell you. I’m glad some states have banned it.



At $50 a pop (at least), the foie gras is simply a status symbol. It tastes like cardboard paper but it’s certainly fashionable to “like” it. Puke.


SPLURGING

We’ve been spending a lot in the last week. At least MSP’s purchases were sensible – even profitable. He got a new kickass laptop for work, plus a swiss knife.

Meanwhile I harassed him into buying me a new collectible Dior bag. I made him feel so guilty about buying something he needed anyway and he ended up paying for my latest conquest.

I still feel guilty about having expensive things. I know that it makes sense for me to “invest” in key accessories like bags, shoes, and watches which I will use for a lifetime, but once I realize that some of them are worth more than what most people earn, I feel awkward.

And then I see Paris Hilton, and I realize I’m just a hardworking girl and I deserve my designer shit.

trapped in my body

I am prematurely old.

Maybe my life has peaked at 25 and it’s all downhill from here?

****

I’m having one of those panic attacks again. It’s not as bad as THE ONE I had when I could not breathe and my heart was jumping out of my chest the whole day, though. This time my panic attack is more…well, calm. It’s a mature panic attack. The one you know will pass.

****

This happens whenever I am unsure of something, whenever I am starting something over. We are expanding the company yet again and I am feeling the pressure. I have so many questions, such as:

1. What if the new project does not sustain and I have to let some people go? I have never fired anyone before.

2. What if this project really does succeed – will I then have to expand? Will I have another panic attack?

3. Why am I doing this?

My logic tells me that all I have to think of is the bottom line – we need new people, and the company can make money with new projects that they will handle. When the project goes down, I simply have to let them go. I will not lose a penny. But do I see things this way? No.

I still can’t seem to think like a businessman. My mojo, it’s all gone. It’s been replaced with people skills. I actually care about our team and I want them to grow with the company, give them what they deserve, etcetera etcetera.

I could just make the most money I could from this stint and then walk away happy, right? But no. I actually care. IT’S DISGUSTING.

****
If the old dictator me talked to this new prematurely old me, it would say:

Retain as much profit and you will be retiring by 30, you overanalyzing fucker. Your employees probably don't care about your fucking company, so why should you care for them? You deserve it all, so don’t bother sharing. Buy the fucking Mercedes. NOW.

****
(six hours later)

The panic attack has somehow subsided and I am thinking clearly again. I’m in my box now and I feel so much better.

You see, I value my box. I know it isn’t much to most people, but it is to me – I’m cat and I love small spaces. I bought it with my own money. I keep it clean. I control the temperature.

It’s very important for me to have a box I could come home to. Somewhere where I could be by myself, away from the pressures of running a company. I watch my DVDs, read, clean my bags, all while wearing Mickey Mouse socks.

I’m just silly and simple, I think. But I am somehow lostinambition.

sloppy joe

As some of you know, I own an 86-square-foot “box.” I take my box very seriously. I scrub the floors every other day so I can safely put comfortable floor pillows. I have devised ingenious vertical storage for things I own. Everything is color-coded.

My box is a small but very orderly fascist colony – germs are afraid to even go near it. I behead them and make sure their friends and relatives find out.


Parts of the totalitarian box and some pretend-art

When my box is tampered with, I get very frustrated.

Yesterday MSP came over with his PlayStation, which he put on the floor (gasp!) and hooked up to my TV. He parked his Sunday-sluggish self on my perfectly assembled sofa and played his video games for what seemed like an eternity, eating samosas (with sauce!) and drinking from a big tumbler of fruit juice.


He was there from sunrise to sundown. I pushed him into at least taking a shower by the 7th hour.

Unacceptable. But how do I tell him to be neater? Are men really this messy?