I love that my older brother kiddingly (but totally kind of) thought that I wanted his guest house to throw some fantabulous 4th of July party. Never having been to one of my parties, he doesn’t know that they’re bereft of guests, save Saskia (who already made plans for this evening). Also, I’m 32 and a cranky 32, at that. I don’t like people or change or happiness. And I certainly don’t like the idea of a hundred acquaintances with a couple of kegs and assorted explosives descending on a house which I’m in charge of, but isn’t mine. I was told recently by my 25-year old fashionista co-worker that I am “not cool”. As I sit here, hunched over a bowl of reduced-fat macaroni and cheese, watching the weekly Big Bang Theory marathon on TBS, I’m realizing there may be merit to her assessment. What happened to me? I used to be cool. I’m positive I was. I’m pretty sure I was. I might have been. I probably wasn’t. My feet hurt.
julie warshaw 