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I found the reality of boys to be slightly disappointing. Not as funny as the girls I had met there, not nearly as interesting or kind. And, for some reason, I could never quite relax around any of them.
The girl who was sober was riddled with anxieties, convinced everyone she loved was going to die, fretting about what everyone thought of her. The girl who was drunk smoked a cigarette with her toes “for a laugh” and cartwheeled on dance floors.
Nearly everything I know about love, I’ve learned in my long-term friendships with women.
“Is this it? Is this all life is? Fucking . . . Tottenham Court Road and ordering shit off Amazon?”
That’s all I’ve ever wanted. Good humor and good friends. Wisdom and humility. Confidence. Bravery. An unlabored sense of self. So why was I freaking out now that I’d finally started making some of it real?
