I’ve Been Thinking About…
Monica: Oh, that’s Nana, right there in the middle. [Reads the back] ‘Me and the gang at Java Joe’s’.
Rachel: Wow, Monica, you look just like your grandmother. How old was she there?
Monica: Let’s see, 1939… yeah, 24, 25?
Ross: Looks like a fun gang.
-“The One When Nana Dies Twice”, Friends
I haven’t been writing much lately for various reasons. It’s been a strong cocktail of a slump, mentally not feeling it, enjoying the moments that have been given to me, and not feeling the need to write about it. My writing documents on my Google Drive are full of unfinished pieces with me really having no motivation to finish them. But a lot of things have been on my mind in unorganized pieces sprawled out in front of me with me really not knowing how to sort them or caring enough too.
But I have been thinking about a lot of things and one of those various, random things has been Friends season one and all it brings. The faded jeans, the group poker games, the cozy nights at Central Perk, the giant mugs of steaming coffee, the unsureness and uncertainty that young adult life brings, being twenty-five, and realizing your past self didn’t know as much as they thought they did. Rachel clutching the pot of coffee in her tights, small heels, black skirts, and denim tops. Monica, Phoebe, Joey, Chandler, and Ross are in their routine of twentysomethings who have lived in the city for a while and got their beats down. They show Rachel the ones while they are still figuring their own lives out. The night after the squad has returned to the city after Monica and Ross’s nana’s funeral, in the episode, “The One When Nana Dies Twice,” they are huddled on the orange couch looking at old photos and find one of Nana when she is twenty-four or twenty-five at what we are assuming was a coffeehouse called Java Joe’s. The picture is of three girls and three guys similar to the Friends squad. A capture of a moment in time of six young people finding their way as six other young almost sixties years later look at the photo as they are finding their ways. I self-obsessively wonder if a twenty-five year old in the future will look at a picture of me when I was twenty-five drenched in euphoria and cheap jewelry and sequins laughing with my friends drinking an overpriced drink.
I’ve been thinking about how I love writing narrative fiction, but I’m too self-conscious to make myself a character as many other narrative fiction writers do. I thoroughly read narrative fiction admiring the writer’s way of making themselves a character exposing the good, bad, and ugly. They’ll tell the story of the time they climbed into an Uber when the sun was still rising in a sundress and no underwear and texting their still sleeping friends of the one night stand they had the night before. I wish I could do that as well, but things feel too exposing and I can’t bring myself to expose the gritty, specific details of the time I was laying in a cold bed exhausted and uncomfortably buzzed while hearing one of my best friends throwing up in the bathroom after sleepily mumbling to me she didn’t feel good. I pulled the old comforter over my head feeling bad that she didn’t feel so good and wishing I could take her pain away. Or the time I was way too drunk in the club, and I don’t think anyone knew which was what I wanted. One was dancing with a guy, and the other was sitting next to me sipping her drink. I kept chugging water and smearing my lipstick every chance I got to and hoping my eyes would steady themselves out any minute. Or the time a guy stood in front of me on the sidewalk in Hell’s Kitchen smoking a cigarette as the spring air danced around us. I remember feeling puffy and bloated that night and pulled my jean jacket closer around my body. Or the time I was having the best of time my twenty-two old self would have had, but in the moment, I was twenty-six and everything felt off and outgrown and nail in the coffin of the thoughts that maybe I didn’t belong here anymore. And maybe the whole experience proved that all along, I was trying too hard to make something the time of my life. Crumbs of the night felt as they were the best and others felt off and awkward. I climbed up onto a bench in my heeled boots and tight dress to shout jokingly at my friend, and I felt on the top of the world, but I was mature and sober enough to realize one moment isn’t always enough. Or of the time I was standing in my friend’s mom’s garage as he had a debate with her inside as I stood in the garage still damp from jumping into the lake earlier and buzzed from all the seltzers and warm wine that baked in the backseat of the car all day. He walked out and climbed into the driver’s seat of the car because he was sober, and I was not as I slid into the passenger seat and told him I was hungry. He started ranting about various situations as he drove me to Taco Bell even though he knew I didn’t like Taco Bell, but I ate my quesadilla with limited complaints.
I’ve been thinking about how dating is so freaking weird. Recently, I went on a date at a bar that is spacious for New York City, and I’m standing in line with the Hinge Manzz behind a group of twentysomething guys and twentysomething girls wishing I was out with friends and not on a date. The Hinge Manzz ordered two margaritas, and I gripped mine with my ringed fingers, the condensation already dripping off the sides. He suggested we play a game at the bar and games are just a failed conversation to me so I say we sit down and talk since I only met him a couple minutes ago. I scanned the bar looking at everyone with their friends, and again the pit in my stomach came thinking I wish I was out with friends. I guess going on a date feels so intimate and as if I’m terrified of the feeling that it’s only me and this person in the world even though I know that’s not true. I went on a wild hunt for the bathroom, and the cool air starting to cut through my tights as I walked up to a group of guys my age and asked them where the bathroom was. One of them touched my arm and warmly smiled at me, “What did you say?” If I’m being honest, that was the highlight of my night as I smiled back at him and repeated myself. He told me where it was and I thanked him, still flirtatiously smiling and scampered off to the dark porter potties that I had to use my phone flashlight to see. Eventually, I get back to the picnic table I was sitting at with Hinge Manzz, and he goes to the bathroom, so I take a selfie and send it to one of my best friends. I’m feeling hot and buzzed and a little bit bothered as I drain the rest of my margarita. When I’m out with friends, I’m witnessing others’ actions and interactions while other people are witnessing mine. On dates, it’s just you and the other person. No one else is invited nor would I want anyone to be invited, but sometimes everything feels too overwhelming intimate for a stranger I just met.
I’ve been thinking about how I want to host a Friendgiving when I have enough friends in the vicinity and capacity for it. Queue when Monica says in, “The One with The Football,” “All right people listen, I’ve got exactly twenty-eight minutes before I have to baste again.” I want to watch a bunch of Youtube videos on how to cook a turkey and walk to the local grocery store in my hoodie and my sweats and pull one out of the freezer. I want friends to come over where I’m living with bags containing wine and more food because let’s be honest, I’m not the best cook in the world. I want to look around the room and see people sipping prosecco from their coupe glasses and thinking how I brought people together as I’ve always wanted to. I want to think about how we met and how it worked out that they ended up here.
And I think about how the Friends Thanksgiving episodes are never going anywhere and how they’ll always feel as if they are a warm hug. And how I’ll always be thankful for that. I’ll update you when I have my own Friends Thanksgiving episode story to tell. Tysm for reading and much love.❤
