135JournalsTime Travel: September 13, 1981, Sunday

13 Sep

An excerpt from Volume 51 of the journals of young Alexandra Hanson, 35 years ago today:

The building I work in doesn’t have a 13th floor. Maybe I should try walking up some of the flights for exercise. Hah! I would have to walk up 12 flights of stairs to get up to the second bank of elevators .That’s a little too much exercise for a girl, I’m afraid.

It was a nice day today—going out to the street fair, shopping with Laura and John Flansburgh, and watching him question a woman about why she uses Pampers and not a diaper service.  I got money out of the bank and cleaned up the apt. a little while Brian was out in South Orange, NJ, looking at the place where he’s going to live. He’s very happy about the place; it’s convenient, it’s beautiful, it’s $150 a month, it’s with a woman who’s middle-aged who always has guests over and he likes that kind of thing—guests and friends and visitors . Only, he has some sad thoughts about it, about moving away. He’s glad to get out of this dilapidated apartment building and leave the mice. I saw one today when I opened the cupboard door, leaping over some plates and staying very still in the hole behind the cabinet, only its little tail sticking out. I yelled “BOO” at it and it still wouldn’t move. I wish it would do a better job of hiding if it has to be there. I felt less able to take care of it without Brian hanging around oohing and aahing with admiration at my competence in mouse disposal. Anyway; he not all that happy about moving away from me. He’s very nice. This weekend was happy in a lot of ways. I spend it mostly with Brian and we spent a lot of satisfying time together in a way we haven’t in months. I know he’s finally relaxed about teaching and a place to live. I know he appreciated my weird sense of humor and rambling monologues this weekend.

Before I write anything else I want to say that I hope I write less slavishly in the future. I’m hoping I can break through to deeper, truer writing than I can now. I am afraid of myself. Afraid of writing even the most trivial things.

 

 

 

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