Read Online It's Okay to Laugh by Nora McInerny Purmort - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Nora McInerny Purmort
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shivering, but hoping for a tan. Iâd sweet-talked my orthodontist into taking off my braces after just a year, promising to wear my retainer every night. I got highlights and let the bob Iâd been wearing for the past twelve years or so grow out past my shoulders. I spent the summer learning how to wear makeup and scouring the racks at T.J.Maxx and Marshallâs for padded bras to make it look like Iâd actually developed. And then I just hung around incessantly and broke down his defenses until he had no choice but to kiss me on the front steps of my parentsâ house on a snowy November evening. It was Friday the thirteenth. I was the luckiest girl in the world.
We spent the next eight years or so perfecting the art of breaking each otherâs hearts, then reuniting and finding new ways to hurt each other. Another girl, another boy, another big fight in an age when texting didnât yet exist, so the best way to wake up soaked in regret was to leave a message on the answering machine he shared with his three roommates after slamming eight beers on a Saturday night off campus. I picked lots of fights. I liked the way it felt, casting him away and reeling him back in like some deranged fisherman. I liked it even better when he did it to me, when I could lie in my twin bed in southern Ohio, crying over a boy who had dared to kiss another girl in his lifetime, sure heâd never speak to me again.
You know the scene in The Shawshank Redemption where they let that really old guy out of prison after decades behind bars, and heâs so mystified by the free world that he wants to kill his boss just to get back inside? That was us after every breakup, so unable to navigate the casual-hookup culture of college that weâd just flee back to each other and the safety of our long-distance prison. I mean, relationship.
At twenty-two, I was sure that no man would ever love me aside from him, but I had a small inkling, somewhere under layers of low self-esteem, that I could, possibly, perhaps, maybe . . . be wrong? But I hushed that little voice, packed my two suitcases, and arrived in New York City with $400 in my checking account and no job.
My dad had given me $20 for cab fare from LaGuardia, and I watched in horror as the meter passed the $20 mark and asked whether the driver took credit cards. He did not, so Jacob had to run to the cash machine in the grocery store up the street to bail me out when I arrived at our apartment on a sticky September night.
I knew when I dropped my bags in that small studio in a run-down walkup in Astoria, Queens, with a malfunctioning lock on the front door, that we had made a terrible mistake rushing into grown-up life. But weâd signed a lease, so we spent ten months devolving from lovers to friends to resentful roommates who did things like throw out muscle shirts (me) and scream because our neighborhoodâs power has been out for five days (him).
On a hot summer day, just before our lease was up, my best friend, Dave, and our buddy Jimmy walked over to our apartment from their place a few blocks away. Iâd gathered up a few empty boxes from the CTown on the corner, but most of my things were stuffed into garbage bags and the two suitcases Iâd brought with me nearly a year ago. Jimmy and Dave and I grabbed what we could carry in our arms and I left Jacob behind, ready to start over with a new apartment with some new girls in a new borough: Brooklyn.
ITâS A TESTAMENT TO HOW lonely and isolating New York City can be that I spent some of my prettiest, coolest years browsing the Internet for human males who lived within ten miles of me and my mattress on the floor. When I found one, Graham and I agreed, immediately, to lie about how we had met, which is always a great sign that youâre embarking on a healthy relationship.
For a while, we had fun . We went to every show in Brooklyn, we smoked pot and drank 40s on his rooftop every night. He
We spent the next eight years or so perfecting the art of breaking each otherâs hearts, then reuniting and finding new ways to hurt each other. Another girl, another boy, another big fight in an age when texting didnât yet exist, so the best way to wake up soaked in regret was to leave a message on the answering machine he shared with his three roommates after slamming eight beers on a Saturday night off campus. I picked lots of fights. I liked the way it felt, casting him away and reeling him back in like some deranged fisherman. I liked it even better when he did it to me, when I could lie in my twin bed in southern Ohio, crying over a boy who had dared to kiss another girl in his lifetime, sure heâd never speak to me again.
You know the scene in The Shawshank Redemption where they let that really old guy out of prison after decades behind bars, and heâs so mystified by the free world that he wants to kill his boss just to get back inside? That was us after every breakup, so unable to navigate the casual-hookup culture of college that weâd just flee back to each other and the safety of our long-distance prison. I mean, relationship.
At twenty-two, I was sure that no man would ever love me aside from him, but I had a small inkling, somewhere under layers of low self-esteem, that I could, possibly, perhaps, maybe . . . be wrong? But I hushed that little voice, packed my two suitcases, and arrived in New York City with $400 in my checking account and no job.
My dad had given me $20 for cab fare from LaGuardia, and I watched in horror as the meter passed the $20 mark and asked whether the driver took credit cards. He did not, so Jacob had to run to the cash machine in the grocery store up the street to bail me out when I arrived at our apartment on a sticky September night.
I knew when I dropped my bags in that small studio in a run-down walkup in Astoria, Queens, with a malfunctioning lock on the front door, that we had made a terrible mistake rushing into grown-up life. But weâd signed a lease, so we spent ten months devolving from lovers to friends to resentful roommates who did things like throw out muscle shirts (me) and scream because our neighborhoodâs power has been out for five days (him).
On a hot summer day, just before our lease was up, my best friend, Dave, and our buddy Jimmy walked over to our apartment from their place a few blocks away. Iâd gathered up a few empty boxes from the CTown on the corner, but most of my things were stuffed into garbage bags and the two suitcases Iâd brought with me nearly a year ago. Jimmy and Dave and I grabbed what we could carry in our arms and I left Jacob behind, ready to start over with a new apartment with some new girls in a new borough: Brooklyn.
ITâS A TESTAMENT TO HOW lonely and isolating New York City can be that I spent some of my prettiest, coolest years browsing the Internet for human males who lived within ten miles of me and my mattress on the floor. When I found one, Graham and I agreed, immediately, to lie about how we had met, which is always a great sign that youâre embarking on a healthy relationship.
For a while, we had fun . We went to every show in Brooklyn, we smoked pot and drank 40s on his rooftop every night. He
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