Coördinating Brunch with My Mid-Thirties Friends: The Oregon Trail Diaries

Dearest Christie,

It is my hope that this log will contain my truth, should I never arrive at the Promised Land of Sunday Brunch. In this Moleskine, I shall recount the arduous task of navigating Kayla’s, Ashlee’s, and Josh’s overbooked calendars. But take comfort, my love, for I embark on this perilous journey with my trusty tools: a color-coded Google Calendar, basic administrative skills, hope.

May the Lord grant me the presence of mind to accept my mid-thirties friends’ hectic lives and the nerve to ask them to be just slightly flexible but, like, no worries if not.

Day One

Ah, how the spring breeze rejuvenates my soul! Oh, Christie, I yet remain hopeful that I shall see my friends in the West Village over some overpriced frittatas. I texted Kayla, Josh, and Ashlee and humbly asked if they might be free for “mimosas and mischief.” I even included the fun cocktail-umbrella emoji. Alas, nobody replied! Is it because I used alliteration? Papa always told me not to do that, as it painfully reminds him that I majored in English.

Day Two

A reply from Josh! Josh has declared that he’s “super down but also super swamped for the next few weeks with work and LIFE UGH.” How flooded with confusion I am because Josh is an unemployed aromatherapist! I comfort myself by assuming that he must be busy picking out an earth-toned Squarespace template for S.E.O. optimization. Ashlee and Kayla replied immediately after and circled the wagons with their own noncommittal notes. Oh, Christie, the world is a cruel place!

Day Three

Kayla has again texted to say that she’s actually booked for the next few months with bachelorette parties, a destination wedding in Bali and another one in Bakersfield, her niece’s christening “even though she’s not really religious hahaha,” her own wedding and bachelorette, a two-month silent-meditation couples retreat in Nepal to “unlearn internalized capitalism,” a “last-minute college-besties trip to Nashville,” and bi-weekly puppy playdates. Ashlee replied “same same.” I threw my phone into the Hudson and now fantasize about dying of dysentery.

Day One Hundred and Sixteen

I haven’t opened this Moleskine for months because we’re still nailing down a date. I can no longer feel my texting thumbs. I can no longer feel anything. My only news for you is that I have grown a beard, which I cannot wait to show off at brunch.

Day One Hundred and Twenty

Today, I ate five Costco Chicken Bakes. They are so good because I am so sad. Please tell Papa that I’m sorry for everything. Please tell Papa that I’m signing up for a coding boot camp.

Day One Hundred and Forty-five

Egad! My iOS screen report has informed me that I’ve spent a total of seven hundred and thirty-six hours using Google Calendar. In my heart of hearts, I cannot believe that this is what my forebears wanted for me.

Day Two Hundred and Fifty-six

The group chat has long been silent. I sense that Kayla, Josh, and Ashlee are also exhausted by this needless suffering. Oh, how I fear that our future children will inherit our trauma.

Day Three Hundred and Seven

I saw a woodpecker outside my window. I named him Jedidiah.

Day Three Hundred and Seventy-six

Today is Sunday. Today, I could have been in the West Village with Ashlee, Kayla, and Josh, savoring eggs that cost twenty-nine dollars. But alas. I visited Josh’s Web site, and it still says “under construction.” Christie, how could that be? After all these months—no, a year!—of being a super-swamped aromatherapist!

Day Four Hundred and Nineteen

I shaved my sad beard and finally finished building a to-scale covered wagon from my Chicken Bake paper sleeves.

Day Five Hundred and Thirty-three

Christie! We have finally found a date on which we’re all available! Oh, blessèd be we! I see the Promised Land, Christie! I see it! Oh, and you may tell Papa that I have an interview for a data-analyst position at a Silicon Valley startup! With free Popchips, no less!

Day Five Hundred and Thirty-four

Tomorrow is the appointed day. My lips can taste that sweet West Village salvation and that thirty-two-dollar frittata (inflation). Oh, Christie, I wish you were here! If you could only bear witness to how beautiful this big red rectangle looks on my Google Calendar.

Day Five Hundred and Thirty-five

I cancelled. ♦