There are few things that someone in their twenties will really search for. And I mean search... possible Internet search engine involvement, physical movement and moments of inner monologue kind of searching.
The first of course being the coveted 2-for-1 happy hour special at a bar that is centrally located between the participant's workplaces and their homes. While the 2-for-1 is a no-brainer in any major city, and the location is easy enough to find, it's the combination of the two that puts google into a state of complete exhaustion.
The second thing that a 20-something will search high and low for, and I mean this very literally, is the television remote control. In today's world with DVR saving the lives of all boob tube addicts the search and rescue is more of an annoyance than an urgent emergency recovery. But I think you will all agree with me when I say that when you have spent your day crunching numbers -- or whatever it is that you do -- you want to come home and be comforted immediately by the world's best babysitter, your television. After removing the couch cushions and looking in the obvious hiding spots, which include but are not limited to under the couch, in every drawer of the living room and next to all the other televisions in your home, you stop and really think about the last time you saw it. You rack your brain harder than you have in weeks, months even, and you come up blank with no direction whatsoever. Thats when the terror sets in. Sure, you could stand by the television and manually press the buttons to find your favorite housewives, but these days people are living in space and computers are the size of your palm, and standing up to switch the channel is just not going to happen. Thus, it is time to get physical. During this portion terror has turned to determination and you are willing to jump, crawl, crouch and slither in order to end this terrible nightmare. And just as your body is wriggling itself free from underneath the loveseat, you remember that the clicker in question ran out of batteries last night so of course it is sitting on the kitchen counter next to your knives and olive oil! My mom told me that batteries stay longer when refrigerated, the refrigerator is in the kitchen, and now the mystery is solved. Watching Parks and Rec has never felt so rewarding.
The final thing that a "recent" graduate, and I use the term recent very lightly, will set out on a quest to find is him or herself. Many of us have packed our bags, boarded planes and set out in search of something that is not tangible, but rather, something we think we can find by escaping our hometowns and beginning anew. The funny thing is that even if you venture as far as teaching English in South Korea, your past, your roots and most of the time even a few familiar faces follow.
I have come to terms with a very harsh reality recently. That reality being the fact that I am not lost. I'm just not. I came to New York to better myself, to experience new things and to meet people that are not familiar with the Publix on Wellington Trace, however I also figured that in doing so I would "find myself." And now I realize that it is hard to find something that is not technically lost. This city has evoked growth, no doubt, it has taught me and humbled me like I never thought possible, but enabling me to find myself, it has not. And I think the big secret here, the one that has soothed me many sleepless nights is that I was never missing. You are who you are, and no amount of googling, wriggling or contemplating is going to change that completely. So, I have decided to stop finding myself. I am not missing or lost. I do believe that the best of myself is sometimes hiding though, so remind me to look next to the refrigerator when I get home.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Rejection: It's What I Eat For Breakfast
Growing up in my community was safe, to say the least. I'm talking bubble boy, wrapped in cotton, surrounded by safety nets safe. So when the "real world" just happened one day and I was unwrapped and thrown onto the hard ground without a safety net in sight, I was a tad bit ill-prepared.
It seems the first thing that occurred after the initial shock and awe of being exposed to the sights, sounds and terrible smells outside of my bubble was the rejection. So much rejection. It was everywhere. When I opened the mailbox: rejection. When I clicked through my e-mail: rejection. When I answered my phone: rejection. And least shocking of all, when I made eyes at the boy across the bar: you guessed it... cold, hard rejection. It was the new norm. It took me about a month to realize that experiencing your twenties and hearing the words, "no," "sorry, but" and "we went with another..." go hand in hand.
I know I said that I grew up in a safe place (remember bubble boy), but I also grew up lucky. My mom used to call me Midas. I had that Midas touch that everyone around me wanted, and was no doubt confused about. I'm no brainiac, but the grades came easy. I'm the farthest thing from a star athlete, but I made every team I went out for. My biggest Midas achievement was born out of a serious lack of effort and a lot of wasted time when I unbelievably was accepted to my first-choice college. The golden touch followed me throughout my time at school, and I figured this was just the way it was. I was lucky, and everything I touched would, metaphorically, of course, turn to gold.
When things go your way for a very long time, it is a slap in the face when they don't. Actually, it is more like running face first into a glass door when everyone you know and love is waiting for you on the other side, but I guess that's going overboard. Simply put, use whatever analogy you want, it stinks.
So what does one do when it looks like he or she is about to be picked dead last in the adult game of kickball we call life? Well, I did what every twenty-something should get used to doing as soon as possible, I lowered my expectations. It's basic math, really, as you grow older, your expectations grow smaller. When you're 25 this means taking the first job that is offered and possibly working there for 26 more months than you had planned -- and accepting it. When you're 45 it means, for most women who have experienced the, um, magic of child birth, that laughing, sneezing and most sudden movements will end in peeing your pants -- and accepting it. My generation has a lot to look forward to.
Life has handed me some lemons, and no I will not be making lemonade, but a vodka-infused lemony slushy drink that does the job. The job of the fancy beverage is to allow me, even for a short time, to forget all the rejection that has seemed to move in next door like a pesky neighbor. No matter how loud you make your television or what kind of ear plugs you buy, there is that constant drone next door reminding you that they are there to stay, possibly forever.
I might never get my Midas touch back, and the fact is that I think, eventually, I might be able to accept that fate. I just wish it could make a short-lived appearance from time to time. Hell, at this point, I'd be more than thrilled to turn into whatever mythical character turns things to bronze.
It seems the first thing that occurred after the initial shock and awe of being exposed to the sights, sounds and terrible smells outside of my bubble was the rejection. So much rejection. It was everywhere. When I opened the mailbox: rejection. When I clicked through my e-mail: rejection. When I answered my phone: rejection. And least shocking of all, when I made eyes at the boy across the bar: you guessed it... cold, hard rejection. It was the new norm. It took me about a month to realize that experiencing your twenties and hearing the words, "no," "sorry, but" and "we went with another..." go hand in hand.
I know I said that I grew up in a safe place (remember bubble boy), but I also grew up lucky. My mom used to call me Midas. I had that Midas touch that everyone around me wanted, and was no doubt confused about. I'm no brainiac, but the grades came easy. I'm the farthest thing from a star athlete, but I made every team I went out for. My biggest Midas achievement was born out of a serious lack of effort and a lot of wasted time when I unbelievably was accepted to my first-choice college. The golden touch followed me throughout my time at school, and I figured this was just the way it was. I was lucky, and everything I touched would, metaphorically, of course, turn to gold.
When things go your way for a very long time, it is a slap in the face when they don't. Actually, it is more like running face first into a glass door when everyone you know and love is waiting for you on the other side, but I guess that's going overboard. Simply put, use whatever analogy you want, it stinks.
So what does one do when it looks like he or she is about to be picked dead last in the adult game of kickball we call life? Well, I did what every twenty-something should get used to doing as soon as possible, I lowered my expectations. It's basic math, really, as you grow older, your expectations grow smaller. When you're 25 this means taking the first job that is offered and possibly working there for 26 more months than you had planned -- and accepting it. When you're 45 it means, for most women who have experienced the, um, magic of child birth, that laughing, sneezing and most sudden movements will end in peeing your pants -- and accepting it. My generation has a lot to look forward to.
Life has handed me some lemons, and no I will not be making lemonade, but a vodka-infused lemony slushy drink that does the job. The job of the fancy beverage is to allow me, even for a short time, to forget all the rejection that has seemed to move in next door like a pesky neighbor. No matter how loud you make your television or what kind of ear plugs you buy, there is that constant drone next door reminding you that they are there to stay, possibly forever.
I might never get my Midas touch back, and the fact is that I think, eventually, I might be able to accept that fate. I just wish it could make a short-lived appearance from time to time. Hell, at this point, I'd be more than thrilled to turn into whatever mythical character turns things to bronze.
Tuesday, June 26, 2012
Where Are The Words Of Wisdom?
Confusion. Regret. Discontent.
In a nutshell this has been my twenties. I am not depressed, I am just 25. Sure, there are a sprinkle of days here and there when the sun shine is able to find me through the 40-story buildings and the breeze brings the scent of tulips instead of the pile of sizzling garbage that has taken up residence on my corner. But, most of the time, my day is gray skied and trash scented.
First, I want to tackle the confusion portion of my twenties. The only sure things in my life right now are that I am female, I am single, and I have no idea what I want to do with my future. The female part is easy—I've been dealing with that ever since I can remember. The single part is a little tougher to deal with. I have friends with giant rocks on their left hands, and I have other friends that have never been in a serious relationship, so it's a little all over the place to say the least. As far as my situation goes, let's just say I am far from someone putting a ring on it. But, in time, I keep telling myself that will shift, the world will smile down on me and some hunk with half a brain and a decent income will fall madly in love with me. Now, on to the question that fills my day and haunts my dreams... "What do you want to do, you know, career wise?" It's the worst question ever, because the answer is nowhere to be found. I wish everyone that has ever asked someone in their mid-tweties this question would jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. Ask a college student, sure, they are full of unrealistic hopes and dreams. I wrote for my college newspaper, which I figured would immediately lead to a writing job at Rolling Stone magazine. It did not. Ask a 30-something and they probably want to start a family soon. They can clearly envision a family with 2.4 children and the puppy that makes those Christmas cards just irresistible. But in your twenties, you realize your hopes and dreams suck and having a baby right now could possibly be life-ending. Dramatic, I know, I'm 25. Anyway, the answer is I don't know, so stop asking.
The regret I feel for my past is starting to wear off. It's one of the perks of the twenties. That frat party I didn't go to and that academic club I didn't join are now becoming distant memories, and bon voyage to them! However, every now and then when I'm sitting in my cramped office space or downing a Diet Coke along Park Avenue, something is triggered and my college days come flooding back to me. I wish I had stuck to that diet sophomore year. Maybe then I would have gotten that date. He would definitely be my fiance by now. I wish I had stayed friends with that hilarious girl in my reporting class. She now works for Time Out Magazine, which, by the way would be my dream job—if a gun was pointed to my head and I had to choose. I wish I had stayed that 5th year in my college town. The real world is frightening.
Discontent is the name of the game in your mid-twenties. Where do I want to be? Who do I want to be? When will I get that interview that changes my life? How am I supposed to pay all these bills? These questions are magnified in New York City. Living here is a constant battle, but living anywhere else would be ridiculous. I can be anyone I want to be here, but the reinvention process takes time I can't give and money I don't have. Chasing that interview is a catch-22. You need a job to survive, but applying to jobs is a full-time career in itself. As far as those bills go, keep them low and call home often. It's not exactly glamorous, but for the past three years I've been able to keep my head above water—right now it is currently lapping at my nose.
Some say the daunting third decade is a time for exploration, while others are still living in that back room in the house they were raised in. There is no right and wrong in your twenties. There are no words of wisdom to get you through this time. For as long as I can remember, my dad always told me that these years were terrifying, and I laughed it off. At the time I was 18 and had four blissful years of parent-paid schooling in a college town bubble to enjoy. Upon graduation, I convinced myself that I was armed with the greatest weapon of all, a bachelors degree... in journalism. People will be knocking down my door to have me work at their corporations, help brand their internet start-ups, and edit their publications, right? Wrong, so so wrong. His words of warning are starting to sink in. I don't need warning though, I need wisdom, and those words are no where to be found. As for now, I'll depend on a strong drink and my fellow floundering friends. Hopefully we can all flail our arms, shed our tears and pinch our pennies through the twenties together.
In a nutshell this has been my twenties. I am not depressed, I am just 25. Sure, there are a sprinkle of days here and there when the sun shine is able to find me through the 40-story buildings and the breeze brings the scent of tulips instead of the pile of sizzling garbage that has taken up residence on my corner. But, most of the time, my day is gray skied and trash scented.
First, I want to tackle the confusion portion of my twenties. The only sure things in my life right now are that I am female, I am single, and I have no idea what I want to do with my future. The female part is easy—I've been dealing with that ever since I can remember. The single part is a little tougher to deal with. I have friends with giant rocks on their left hands, and I have other friends that have never been in a serious relationship, so it's a little all over the place to say the least. As far as my situation goes, let's just say I am far from someone putting a ring on it. But, in time, I keep telling myself that will shift, the world will smile down on me and some hunk with half a brain and a decent income will fall madly in love with me. Now, on to the question that fills my day and haunts my dreams... "What do you want to do, you know, career wise?" It's the worst question ever, because the answer is nowhere to be found. I wish everyone that has ever asked someone in their mid-tweties this question would jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. Ask a college student, sure, they are full of unrealistic hopes and dreams. I wrote for my college newspaper, which I figured would immediately lead to a writing job at Rolling Stone magazine. It did not. Ask a 30-something and they probably want to start a family soon. They can clearly envision a family with 2.4 children and the puppy that makes those Christmas cards just irresistible. But in your twenties, you realize your hopes and dreams suck and having a baby right now could possibly be life-ending. Dramatic, I know, I'm 25. Anyway, the answer is I don't know, so stop asking.
The regret I feel for my past is starting to wear off. It's one of the perks of the twenties. That frat party I didn't go to and that academic club I didn't join are now becoming distant memories, and bon voyage to them! However, every now and then when I'm sitting in my cramped office space or downing a Diet Coke along Park Avenue, something is triggered and my college days come flooding back to me. I wish I had stuck to that diet sophomore year. Maybe then I would have gotten that date. He would definitely be my fiance by now. I wish I had stayed friends with that hilarious girl in my reporting class. She now works for Time Out Magazine, which, by the way would be my dream job—if a gun was pointed to my head and I had to choose. I wish I had stayed that 5th year in my college town. The real world is frightening.
Discontent is the name of the game in your mid-twenties. Where do I want to be? Who do I want to be? When will I get that interview that changes my life? How am I supposed to pay all these bills? These questions are magnified in New York City. Living here is a constant battle, but living anywhere else would be ridiculous. I can be anyone I want to be here, but the reinvention process takes time I can't give and money I don't have. Chasing that interview is a catch-22. You need a job to survive, but applying to jobs is a full-time career in itself. As far as those bills go, keep them low and call home often. It's not exactly glamorous, but for the past three years I've been able to keep my head above water—right now it is currently lapping at my nose.
Some say the daunting third decade is a time for exploration, while others are still living in that back room in the house they were raised in. There is no right and wrong in your twenties. There are no words of wisdom to get you through this time. For as long as I can remember, my dad always told me that these years were terrifying, and I laughed it off. At the time I was 18 and had four blissful years of parent-paid schooling in a college town bubble to enjoy. Upon graduation, I convinced myself that I was armed with the greatest weapon of all, a bachelors degree... in journalism. People will be knocking down my door to have me work at their corporations, help brand their internet start-ups, and edit their publications, right? Wrong, so so wrong. His words of warning are starting to sink in. I don't need warning though, I need wisdom, and those words are no where to be found. As for now, I'll depend on a strong drink and my fellow floundering friends. Hopefully we can all flail our arms, shed our tears and pinch our pennies through the twenties together.
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