Spent the day having the most annoyingly low-key panic attack ever. I realize the low-key bit makes it sound relatively benign, but you try spending the day with your heart racing and what feels like a bowling ball on your chest and let me know how productive you are. Or don’t, since you’ll probably be all yeah, that panic attack was a piece of cake and cranky mama is just a big wuss and then I’ll be sad and feel like a loser. So keep it to yourself.

This all started because I lost my photo album. It’s probably been lost for a while, but I only realized it was lost today, when I tore apart the house looking for it. It’s like the best-of photo album, the one with all my favorite pictures of all time (I started it in high school and we all know how long ago that was). How is it that I still have things like my old keychain with the (admittedly very cool) X-Files keyring but not my photo album? Not So insists that it’s got to be here somewhere but I of course am convinced it’s gone forever and all is lost. That’s why they call it an anxiety disorder, folks.

In other news, I miss people.

I’ve decided to end my streak of bitter misanthropy and actually get out and socialize every now and again. Luckily this coincided with one of my oldest and prettiest* friends moving to Portland, where it is much easier to convince her to while away one evening a week passing judgment on everyone who is not us. Well, and drinking beer. I guess I like beer now. This is weird, y’all – I’ve never liked beer, not even a little, and now here I go drinking it on purpose. More than once! And in quantities of two or more!

So, whatev, apparently my big midlife crisis involves an appreciation for hops. This is encouraging, if only because it means I can go out to a bar and not end up either a) bored, b) trashed or c) spending the next 24 hours puking my guts out and swearing off all forms of alcohol including cough syrup and vanilla extract. IN FACT, the last time I had a drink that was not a beer I got such righteous alcohol poisoning that I had to cancel my flight home the next day. And you know how many drinks I had? ONE AND A HALF.

I do not make these things up.

*Seriously, she still looks exactly like she did in high school, and in high school she was what one would objectively call a knockout. Of course this does not make me feel like an elderly bag lady, why do you ask?

For years I’ve been searching for the perfect red lipstick. Not too orange, not too fuchsia. You’d think this would involve a single trip to the makeup counters at Macy’s, but you’d be so, so wrong. I’ve been on the lookout for YEARS, people. Quests have been undertaken, and failed. I’d begun to think the perfect red was a mere legend, a story told to round-eyed children at the campfire. “And the princess’ lips were the ideal shade of red, with not a hint of fuchsia to be found.”

(I’d just like to note that, much as I would love it if they did, neither Sephora, DuWop or the campfire-story industry contributed any products, gifts or suggestions to the author of this piece, who is fully capable of waxing lyrical about lipstick all on her own.)