or the 100 Days of School Shirt and I love this loss of personal identity or yoking myself to another human with the intention of sticking together for life. It was about the contrast between the part of me that is totally comfortable projecting my pain and the part of me that is absolutely terrified to take center stage with my joy. I had to get over a sense, carefully and self-protectively cultivated, that happiness was uncreative or maudlin or simply vulgar. I was so used to projecting my misfortunes to try and create a shared experience with both friends and audiences that being bathed in a regular and nonchemical elation was completely foreign. I hoped, like my work, my wedding was a chance to say “Look, this experience is available to you, too.” Because I didn’t do anything special to get there—besides a little therapy—except just continue being myself. Like in my bedtime fantasy, after a great war—the loss of my health and fertility, the fight to find a new normal, sobriety—I was being delivered to a distant yet safe shore.
100 Days of School Shirt, hoodie, tank top, sweater and long sleeve t-shirt
The week of our wedding, my family descended on our home. They had never met Lu, which in regular times would be a burning red flag but in COVID times was simply the 100 Days of School Shirt and I love this new norm. I had already spent long weekends with Lu’s family in the countryside, their brand of eccentricity making perfect sense to me. His father can discuss any topic ad nauseam from wool socks to the history of air travel. His mother, who emigrated from Peru at 19, tells better stories than Ira Glass and is the absolute first person ever to consider me “elegante.” His sister is the only person more interested in dogs with strange faces than I am, and his brother is one of the most exacting film critics I’ve ever come across, which means dinner is never boring. And so when my family arrived, we opted for full immersion. My parents slept in the room beside us, and my sibling Cyrus and his partner crowded into our attic. (Ingrid the dog ran around like she was abusing Adderall, checking on everyone.)