everywhere you go, there you are

what utter hell

Hey, stranger.

Everywhere you go, there you are is the type of thing people say that makes my blood boil and my eyes roll. I think, unfortunately, it’s true.

On Monday I woke up feeling hungover from the Sunday Scaries the night before. I reluctantly rolled out of bed and stomped down the stairs and onto the street, a scowl fixed on my face that did not relent even in the morning air. As I walked, the weather became a sort of stifling, wet blanket and the sun disappeared. I grit my teeth and thought great, just what I needed today and scowled at the group with 15 suitcases blocking the crosswalk and at the man who passed on my right and the woman talking too loud on her phone. When I looked at my reflection in a passing mirror I scowled even deeper because my arms were crossed and my hair was wind blown and my skin was dry and there was nothing romantic about any of it.

My pilates class smelt like mildew and I couldn’t for the life of me stop thinking and just let my body take over, so I blamed the instructor and the mildew and stomped back to my apartment. By the time I got back I was sweaty and more frustrated than when I left and my coffee burnt my tongue on the first sip.

I was having a rotten day. The kind where I immediately understood that I was a danger to be around. For the preciousness of my new life and new friends, I bolted the door and sat inside for the rest of the day. I sat on the couch and seethed at my laptop and then sat on my bed on the floor and seethed at the man outside yelling obscenities, per his 8pm routine. I didn’t feel any of the fondness I felt for the woman who yelled similar things directly below my apartment in Seattle that barely fit a bed. She used to yell at 1am. I sulked and slunk around the apartment, aware that the frown lines between my eyebrows were only deepening, which made me frown harder. The sun came out mid afternoon and I slammed my curtains closed, gritting my teeth at the still, damp air that was now heating up. I sweat through my tank top and ignored every call that came through and ate my oatmeal angrily.

It was, as the saying goes, just one of those days.

Everywhere you go, there you are kept ringing through my head— I can’t stand that no amount of change in your environment will somehow change you as you are. What utter hell. I am prone to these sort of sulk-around-and-pout days every so often, usually due to some form of overdoing it. I wish I had some form of coping with overwhelm that didn’t involve glaring and a desire to isolate and an urge to shake my fist angrily at the sky. On Monday I resembled more of an 80 year old Scrooge than a 24 year old woman, both in mannerism and looks.

When the sun went down and all the energy I had put towards being angry subsided into a vague sort of sadness, I thought about how earlier that weekend I met an old friend for a drink, the type of friend that seen all the variations of past me’s. I took a wrong turn on the way there and when I realized I had accidentally turned left instead of right, I wanted to slam my phone on the ground and jump on it until it scattered and slid into a nearby drain. Instead, I calmly opened our messages and sent sorry, running a bit behind! and turned around. I knew right then and there that I was gearing up for a tantrum in a few days time. But when we finally sat down, our knees knocking together in a cramped corner, we looked at eachother and laughed.

“You have no idea what I was just doing before I came here,” she told me, her eyes wide.

“Oh girl, me too.”

She was right— I was not prepared by the story I was in for and when it was my turn to share, I launched into a tirade that the bartender was careful to not look like he was obviously eavesdropping. The nice thing about an old friend is that everywhere you go, they’ll still know who you are. I ranted and raged and we stomped around Chinatown and into a jazz club where we had to shout to hear eachother which made us rage even more. She walked me to my train station and we held eachother’s hands and jumped up and down with joy that we would now be able to talk shoulder to shoulder instead of on the phone. On the train there was a man playing Unforgettable by Nat King Cole on his saxophone and I wanted to cry because that song will always make me want to cry. Everywhere you go, there you are.

It’s Thursday now and I woke up feeling well rested and pleasant. My walk to the gym this morning was sunny and I didn’t scowl at the people blocking the sidewalk. I thought about Saturday, standing on the platform listening to a song that I’ve loved for years, no twinge of the snarly feelings I had just a few days prior. There is a specific sort of comfort in knowing that you’re prone to scowling and kicking rocks sometimes. Yes, I know I take too long to text back and am too obsessed with my independence and don’t like when people walk slow on the sidewalk. I also try really hard to be a good friend and keep people’s secrets and will help pick up someone’s dropped groceries. Those are things that have weathered the storm through different cities and schools and relationships and hair styles and jobs. I may get angry that I can’t escape my own shortcomings with a drastic change of environment but it’s not so bad, I think, to be who you are no matter where you are.