Le Point Vierge (1) - Crying at the Jazz Club

I sobbed. Absolutely broke down. “I’ve gotten so fat,” I told her. “I’m healthy, but I’ve gotten so fat. I’m the ugliest Vike sister.”

            My sister held me. “You’re a Vike,” she told me. “There’s no such thing as ugly. You are so beautiful. You look more and more like Mom every time I see you.” I continued to cry. Maybe it was the Malbec, the hunger pangs, or the pent-up emotion from holding everything in, everything together, and preparing to let it all loose in Colombia this weekend. Nevertheless, this Wednesday, at this tiny jazz spot in the upstairs speakeasy by the old movie theatre turned bowling alley, I cried. I finally allowed myself to admit my insecurities. At work, I have to pretend I am confident in my career. That I like being a paralegal. At home, I have to pretend I am confident in my career, that I am a good journalist and I can do this full-time. With my friends and sisters, I have to smile and laugh and pretend like I am not mentally preparing waist sizes. In the grand scheme of things, I am not fat. But over the past six weeks, new medication, depression, and numerous Aperol spritzes and trips to the candy bowl later, I am feeling this unbearable insecurity sitting on my chest at all times. I eat one meal a day (I know, awful). I drink often (I know, awful). I still smoke (I know, awful). I am buying pants two sizes too big, which I actually highly recommend. And yet, despite the body dysmorphia and disorder and all the other ways my life is falling apart, I realized at the Balcony Club with my sister that I have made it. And that’s the key, as my friend Crocodile John taught me, knowing when you’ve made it, when it is time to relax and enjoy the victory. Sit back and keep doing what you are doing. Somehow through all the chaos of my early twenties and crying and kissing in dive bars and spending my life’s savings and blacking out drunk in foreign countries, I am here, financially secure, about to spend the weekend in Bogota where I won’t speak a word of English. I paid an obscene amount of money for a tank of gas because the Strait of Hormuz is still closed, but didn’t bat an eye because I can still pay my credit card bill. My car battery died and I told my dad, “C’est la vie, I guess I’ll get another,” and turns out, I didn’t have to. Life is so strange, so crazy, and it doesn’t do you any favors. But one day, you wake up and suddenly you’ve grown. I wish I could stress that to my younger siblings. They’re in the thick of it now, maybe not even the worst of it. But it gets better.

            So here I am, at work in my cinched-up two-size too-big jeans. I arrived slightly hungover and very happy about my work on my car battery. I feel funky-fresh after my good cry and honored that I look like my mom. It is weird, I think I look so much like my dad. But my mom was such an incredible person. Beautiful, too; both my parents never aged a day. It is a very big compliment to me. I am starting this column to catalogue my adventures in the world, mostly alone at bars each week. A little bit Sex and the City-style, perhaps not as glamorous, but hopefully with some fun zeitgeist-y tidbits for you to enjoy fresh off the streets of Deep Ellum. There is always something going on here in downtown Dallas, always someone to kiss or cry to, and always a friend to make. That is what makes going out even when dangerously lonely and capable of any disastrous thing so tantalizing and wonderful… you never know who you might be sitting next to. He could be a neuroscientist. Or a hot Latino. Or someone about to start a fight over an overcooked burger. She could be Irish, here to see about cowboy culture. Everything is bigger in Texas—attitudes, drinks, and opportunities. Sit down, light a cigarette, and enjoy reading. This is Le Point Vierge, or Virginal Point, inspired by that brief moment in time, that split second decision, where you decide, “Fuck it,” it’s time to go have some fun.