I Know What I'm Doing by Jen Kirkman Read Free Book Online

secrets. It makes me feel like a monster.
    The only thing I knew how to do was lie facedown on my bed and weep. I wanted out. Out of everything. In the morning, I cried through breakfast I with my parents. I told them that I was feeling bummed out with my life and I didn’t know what to do. I could never tell them the truth about why I was so sick over my missing phone. My mother tried to offer comfort by saying, “This is why I don’t like all of that texting, Jennifah. It takes you out of the moment. And you were doing so well on that slot machine until you put your nose in the phone. Always, always keep your eye out for those bonus spins.”
----
    I . Free croissants at the Players Club.

5
    MAKE NEW FRIENDS BUT KEEP THE OLD. ONE IS SOME GUY YOU BARELY KNOW, THE OTHER WAS ONE OF YOUR BRIDESMAIDS.
It’s the friends you can call up at four a.m. that matter.
—MARLENE DIETRICH
    O nce I got to my friend Allison’s office in New York City, I told her the whole crazy missing-BlackBerry-with-text-messages-that-could-end-up-on- TMZ story. At the time, Allison worked at a television network situated in a Midtown Manhattan building guarded by a doorman who was a retired undercover cop. Like most doormen, in between signing for Amazon packages what he really wants to do is hear some gossip. Allison gave him an earful when she told him about my dilemma. He immediately called two of his buddies who were currently “on the force” and told them that he needed them for about an hour for an undercover sting. I got no further details from Allison, as she got no further details from the doormen. All I knew was that an hour earlier I was exiting a train from Penn Station and now—shit was going down.
    Allison, a friend since my first day moving to New York City in 1998, was a bridesmaid in my 2009 wedding. She delighted in being a part of my wedding but I don’t remember us ever talking about it from the perspective of “Jen, you have met the man of your dreams and I can’t imagine your life without him.” It was more like, “Check us out! I’ve known you since we used to traipse around the Lower East Side doing open mic shows and now you’re doing this very normal wedding thing and I’m wearing a pink dress of my choice from J.Crew and carrying flowers with your kooky family whom I’ve adopted as my own.”
    Allison took a long lunch and we went somewhere to talk over a cheese plate and lots of wine. We have our own version of saying grace before we sit down to eat and drink. We take a moment and she’ll ask, “Do you want advice or do you want me to just listen?” And I knew that this was going to be one of those talks where I would say, “Just listen. But then, yes, please, tell me what to fucking do because nobody has been answering my prayers.” I told Allison that I’d even been rolling up little pieces of paper that have the question “What should I do, angels?” and putting them in this little dream box under my pillow every night.
    “Well,” Allison pointed out, “what do angels know about marriage? They’re just flying around without any genitals playing harps all day. But honestly, if the only box in your bed getting filled is your dream box, there’s your answer.”
    We were looking at a two-cheese-board, two-glass-of-wine situation. I was overcome with guilt, shame, and embarrassment. I don’t know why people call it a “shame spiral.” I feel it’s more of a shame X-ray—a situation where you feel so transparent, like everyone can see through your chest and into the horrible person you really are.
    I felt I was about to let everybody down. I got married in front of family and friends, and some friends had to participate in the ceremony. It feels like we all made a promise to each other. I made a promise to be the married friend. I made a promise to not make Allison fly to Boston, rent a car, put herself up in a hotel, and pay for her own pastel bridesmaid dress, only to look at her seventeen