I get home from work and decide that instead of the training session I had in mind, I’m going to forgo all self-discipline and open up Instacart and have Prosecco and snacks delivered. I shower and intermittently check my phone, just in case the shopper needs me. I get beautiful because even in a self-indulgent state, I can’t slovenly exist. I have to do it ethereally.
When the delivery comes, I meet the shopper outside with my ID. She makes a joke: “Here’s the most important bag.” When I don’t laugh right away, she repeats it, and I laugh for her. It is the most important bag, but I want to hurry up my stairs and freeze it.
Upstairs, I stand at the kitchen counter, dipping pita in hummus, popping pitted cherries, grabbing handfuls of vegan dark chocolate chips, waiting for the Prosecco to chill. I turn on Ginny and Georgia and quickly adopt Georgia’s personality.
“Come on, ya lunatic,” I say to Gigi, “Ya best pee outside this time.”
I unabashedly have loved this silly show (meant for teens?!) since it came out in 2021, and I also love this loud departure from my normal weekday. I sink into my velvety couch with a cool glass of Prosecco on my left and a foot bath heating up on my right. Outside, the summer evening sky is as soft as my skin. I wait for you to come home and laugh at the unexpectedness of my state.
When you do, you sit and watch the show in-between phone glances and say, “This really is awful.”
“Peach,” I call you, my accent still intact as I ruffle your hair. “I think I love this show because I wish I coulda been the Ginny that found her way in high school and didn’t just hide.”
“Pretty sure it’s okay to have not found your way in high school.” You say.
I know you’re right, but there are so many things I missed out on.
I love that you watch every minute of it. I ask you to pour me another glass, knowing I’m not usually a girl who asks for anything, and for a moment I believe I am Georgia: charming, wounded, unapologetic and making comfort out of chaos.
(Daily Writing 061)