The Finger

Dear Friends,

I hurt my finger this weekend at a holiday party. No, I was not giving someone the finger. Although, it is that middle finger. I was tipsy and aggressively going through a huge pile of coats and sprained my finger. I guess I thought I was Wonder Woman and took 100 coats by the jaws of three of my (weakest) fingers on my right hand. Woops. They call it liquid courage and my target demographic is a stack of coats, apparently.

It was on this night that I was subjected to colossal amounts of mistletoe (but I’m Jewish so it’s never had the same effect on me as everyone else) and very loud Christmas music. Actually, I could not tell you what was playing in the background, maybe nothing? I was dancing to the beat of my own drum. But I wasn’t in much of party mode. I was more in giving the finger mode. Which is exactly what happened.

I had recently broken off something with a quite selfish person. I couldn’t call it a relationship and my mother used to say if you have nothing nice to say, don’t say anything at all. Although she never really followed her own rule. So, for purposes of this note, I will call it something. Nearing my mid-twenties (vomit) I am definitely soul-searching. I’d be lying if I said this very blog wasn’t a great outlet to do so. And on Saturday night, everything down to the baked ham and the mistletoe was making me contemplate and self-reflect. It was at this point that I knew I had to leave. I was mad that since the last holiday season, I hadn’t dated anyone remotely nice, or remotely kind. I was mad at that I wanted to give the finger to all of the fools I have shared dinner or a bed with. It shouldn’t be that way. But for 2011, it was that way. I didn’t realize all of this as I was meandering through the sea of cheery drunkards at the party. I only realized later that evening when I let my body tell me what I was feeling. The coat pile had caught onto it more quickly than I had.

I was giving 2011 the finger (I’m serious – I can barely bend it). I’m saying, F off dating in 2011. I never liked odd numbers anyways. Even numbers sit way better with me. Although I guess I was born in an odd numbered year. My propensity for accepting dates with odd people might be heightened. That might explain a lot, actually.

It was actually funny because this selfish something I said goodbye to that night said to me something very telling several months ago. You really have to listen to men and not be afraid to look into what they say because they talk so infrequently, you have to figure some of it might be true. I once told him he looked “mainstream” because he was wearing a Polo shirt. He didn’t know what it meant (a banker, who has a very poor lexicon – so contrary to my good friend who’s also a banker and quite articulate), and I told him it means following social norms. And then I said, “Like me, I’m really normal.” To which he replied, “No, you’re not – you hang out with me.” Hit the nail on the head. I knew he was right when he said it and never, ever thought he was the right person for me. But I did think he respected me. So imagine how many times I wanted to give him the finger after I found out that he didn’t. I think that’s what this injury is about – forever flicking off the general direction of Madison Square Park. Or at least for the next 5 to 7 days, the doctor tells me.

Happy holidays. I wish you a merry season full of not flicking people off (verbally or physically). But if you have to do it, steer clear of the coat rack. It’s more dangerous than it appears.

Kisses,

Jessica

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