I am not good with change. Change is scary and unpredictable and I prefer to live by my most favorite of sayings, even if it does bother me grammatically... "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." The logic behind this is so simple, and yet, people seem to want to go against the grain and take life-changing risks. I, of course, prefer to play it safe. I cross at crosswalks, keep a full-time job with benefits, and never wear the dreaded, albeit very summer-appropriate, white jean. Concerning the white jean... it seems like a great idea in the wee hours when you are dressing in the slightly darkened facade of your natural-light-free bedroom, but let us be honest with one another, walking out the door in those blinders is like begging for mid-day embarrassment of some kind. In this case, the risk is just not worth the reward. The reward, I'm assuming, is being in style for the season, which has never really been much of a personal concern.
Unfortunately in your mid-twenties change is everywhere. People are changing at an alarming rate. Those you thought would always be in your delicate inner circle are suddenly just another status update on your Facebook page. And, quite frankly, in most cases I think I made it out just in time. That "summertime high 2012" photo album is not exactly my idea of a magical few months. Not only are your peers changing, but it seems to be a critical time in the lives of those you have looked up to for so long. Grandparents seem to be fading away, and because the circle of life is relentless, our parent's generation is becoming the metaphoric top of the totem pole. My parents recently sold the beloved house in which I grew up, and moved to a more economically responsible, and thus, smaller residence. While it was not the downgrade that tugged at me emotionally, it was the very straightforward idea that my childhood was really over and that they were moving on to their next stage of life, even if I think they are the youngest 50-somethings this side of the Mississippi. Change causes everyone involved to stop, think and ponder about the past and the future, and this does not sit well with most.
Recently, I fooled myself into thinking that I had it pinned down. Big changes had come in the previous years, and I figured it was now time to sit back and ride it out. That's almost laughable, I know. One day I will remember that life doesn't work that way. Times are precious because they never stay the way you want them to for long. Opportunities arise and those closest to you are whisked out of your everyday life all the time. And even though these friends and relatives are the ones buckling up to face these jolting changes head-on, the ripple effect is felt by all.
I'm not naive, I understand that no one is living their life for me. But each time a friend is uprooted my ego-centric self wants to throw a tantrum. My life is so good right now! By you bettering yourself and following your dreams I am being VERY affected here! Then after my mental (well most of the time it is mental) hissy fit I realize that this change is inevitable. Those of us that were fed a steady diet of 90's grunge-rock growing up knows the lyric "every new beginning comes from some other beginnings end," all too well. If things just stayed the same, life would not be the exciting roll of the dice that it is. There would be no evolving. I'm not talking about Darwin-level evolution, I'm talking about the fact that if everything stayed as it was, I would still want to wear neon bike shorts while creating dance routines to New Kids On The Block's number one hits album. And that would just not be good for anyone. Change in this life is a non-neon wearing must.
I so clearly need to work on accepting change. In an obvious ironic statement, I suppose that I have to change in order to accept change. I feel as though it is worth mentioning that this is a clear catch-22, and is going to be much harder than I thought. The thing about change, however, is that it's not really concerned about you. It comes uninvited, and leaves everything in a mess of unfamiliarity. So I guess change is really just an exercise in figuring it all out. Does this sound just like the rest of your twenties to anyone else? There are no preventative measures that can be taken to stop it, so my words of comfort are as follows: grin and bear it until it actually starts to work for you.
In other words...Ready or not, here it comes.
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
Monday, July 16, 2012
30,000 Terrifying Feet Up
Please stop coming at me with statistics. I don't care that you have committed tragic facts to your memory just in case someone like me comes roaming into your life one day. I do not want to hear it. I am a fully functional adult, and I understand that my incredible fear of flying is statistically irrational, ridiculous even. However, what I can not, for the life of me, understand is why everyone else seems so pissed about it.
This is not a problem that only 20-somethings face, I am very aware of that. I have been dealing with this insane and honestly life-altering fear since my very first memory of being forced into one of those inescapable tubed-shaped death traps. The thing is, in your twenties traveling is cool, traveling is the thing to do, and everyone seems to be purchasing their coach tickets by the dozen. Honeymooners and adventurers alike are jet-setting off to explore the jungles of Costa Rica and to learn the native ways of Thailand. I am, however, dreading my next trip home to Florida, which is not happening for four months. As you can see, it is not just physically settling into my fabric coffin that passes for a seat that fills me with angst, it is the time leading up to the unnatural take-off that also leaves me riddled with anxiety. Now, I'm not asking you to pity me. I am unworldly, I have missed out on once-in-a-lifetime opportunities that others continue to rave about, I have turned down jobs due to the travel clause on page 4 of the contract, but I am aware and dealing with it, and to be frank, I am just fine.
So now, if I am just fine, why is everyone else so up in arms about this? In no way, shape or form has my flying phobia ever stopped anyone from getting his or her passport stamped. I most certainly am not mad at you because the thought of spiders and snakes crawling and slithering around renders you paralyzed. I promise I will never lug a box of these creepy crawlers to your house, ring your doorbell and make you sit in said box for eleven hours, so please stop trying to convince me to buy that plane ticket to Israel. I am so flattered that you think I will make or break your trip, but I can say with an exorbitant amount of confidence that I will most certainly not. Leave me stateside and enjoy, really.
To continue my rant, I would like to make the following known. You can't fix me. I know this bothers you to no end, you love to fly and just can't wrap your mind around it! But I am beyond broken. Remember what happened to Humpty Dumpty (they couldn't put him back together again), that is me with a slightly more human shape. You volunteering to be my plane partner is the first misconception. I'm glad we are friends, but once I step foot onto that toothpaste tube made of metal and held together by nuts and bolts, and most recently discovered, super glue, you are a stranger to me. We have probably faced some challenges together before and seen each other through thick and thin, but when it comes to this you might as well be my neighbor that I have been living next to for three years and still have yet to see. Your presence will not save me when we plummet to our fiery death, so in the nicest way possible back off.
The next solution that the non-fearful flier always comes up with is taking anti-anxiety drugs. Not only do they tell me this with fervor like they are certain this is the solution, but they seem to think that I have neither thought of nor tried this little secret. I have tried different medications and various doses, but when you have as much adrenaline pumping through your veins as one of those mothers that can lift a van off her baby, the little white pills just end up being useless. I know what you're thinking and, no, drinking doesn't help. It actually exacerbates the nerves, and I'm speaking for the good of my fellow passengers when I say we don't want that. Also, if you are feeling the need to find my contact information and suggest a sleeping pill, you clearly have not been paying attention. If you think I can ease into slumber 30,000 feet about the ground, I no longer want you to even have a way to get ahold of me. And just to nip this in the bud, for all you fans of alternative homeopathic remedies... hypnosis, well, been there, done that.
It is now time for my formal apology that is so obviously dripping with sarcasm. I am so so sorry that my fear of falling out of the sky is somehow inconveniencing you. When you ask me why I have never been backpacking around Europe, please hold in that chuckle and refrain from sending your eyes on a trip around your sockets when I tell you that I am scared to fly. Remember I will not judge you if you choose to rely on a nightlight, for I understand that you think the dark is terrifying. For the very few people that I actually might be affecting (mom, dad, sister, about six very close friends), I actually do apologize. But, I can assure you that I am not choosing to purposely make my life, or yours, less fun. If I could trade this in for a fear of snakes, which, I don't think, has ever stopped someone from experiencing another culture or kept someone from visiting their family, I would do so in a heartbeat.
So, I know you are all wondering about that little stat. How crazy am I exactly to go against these facts? Lets see here, according to USA TODAY, "...it calculated the odds of dying in a motor vehicle accident to be 1 in 98 for a lifetime. For air and space transport (including air taxis and private flights), the odds were 1 in 7,178 for a lifetime." By these odds, I should be scared you-know-what-less to strap into a car, but isn't the world funny, I'm just not. I guess I never have been much of a math whiz.
I think I speak for all horrified fliers everywhere when I say that even though most of us are adults, we love getting grounded.
This is not a problem that only 20-somethings face, I am very aware of that. I have been dealing with this insane and honestly life-altering fear since my very first memory of being forced into one of those inescapable tubed-shaped death traps. The thing is, in your twenties traveling is cool, traveling is the thing to do, and everyone seems to be purchasing their coach tickets by the dozen. Honeymooners and adventurers alike are jet-setting off to explore the jungles of Costa Rica and to learn the native ways of Thailand. I am, however, dreading my next trip home to Florida, which is not happening for four months. As you can see, it is not just physically settling into my fabric coffin that passes for a seat that fills me with angst, it is the time leading up to the unnatural take-off that also leaves me riddled with anxiety. Now, I'm not asking you to pity me. I am unworldly, I have missed out on once-in-a-lifetime opportunities that others continue to rave about, I have turned down jobs due to the travel clause on page 4 of the contract, but I am aware and dealing with it, and to be frank, I am just fine.
So now, if I am just fine, why is everyone else so up in arms about this? In no way, shape or form has my flying phobia ever stopped anyone from getting his or her passport stamped. I most certainly am not mad at you because the thought of spiders and snakes crawling and slithering around renders you paralyzed. I promise I will never lug a box of these creepy crawlers to your house, ring your doorbell and make you sit in said box for eleven hours, so please stop trying to convince me to buy that plane ticket to Israel. I am so flattered that you think I will make or break your trip, but I can say with an exorbitant amount of confidence that I will most certainly not. Leave me stateside and enjoy, really.
To continue my rant, I would like to make the following known. You can't fix me. I know this bothers you to no end, you love to fly and just can't wrap your mind around it! But I am beyond broken. Remember what happened to Humpty Dumpty (they couldn't put him back together again), that is me with a slightly more human shape. You volunteering to be my plane partner is the first misconception. I'm glad we are friends, but once I step foot onto that toothpaste tube made of metal and held together by nuts and bolts, and most recently discovered, super glue, you are a stranger to me. We have probably faced some challenges together before and seen each other through thick and thin, but when it comes to this you might as well be my neighbor that I have been living next to for three years and still have yet to see. Your presence will not save me when we plummet to our fiery death, so in the nicest way possible back off.
The next solution that the non-fearful flier always comes up with is taking anti-anxiety drugs. Not only do they tell me this with fervor like they are certain this is the solution, but they seem to think that I have neither thought of nor tried this little secret. I have tried different medications and various doses, but when you have as much adrenaline pumping through your veins as one of those mothers that can lift a van off her baby, the little white pills just end up being useless. I know what you're thinking and, no, drinking doesn't help. It actually exacerbates the nerves, and I'm speaking for the good of my fellow passengers when I say we don't want that. Also, if you are feeling the need to find my contact information and suggest a sleeping pill, you clearly have not been paying attention. If you think I can ease into slumber 30,000 feet about the ground, I no longer want you to even have a way to get ahold of me. And just to nip this in the bud, for all you fans of alternative homeopathic remedies... hypnosis, well, been there, done that.
It is now time for my formal apology that is so obviously dripping with sarcasm. I am so so sorry that my fear of falling out of the sky is somehow inconveniencing you. When you ask me why I have never been backpacking around Europe, please hold in that chuckle and refrain from sending your eyes on a trip around your sockets when I tell you that I am scared to fly. Remember I will not judge you if you choose to rely on a nightlight, for I understand that you think the dark is terrifying. For the very few people that I actually might be affecting (mom, dad, sister, about six very close friends), I actually do apologize. But, I can assure you that I am not choosing to purposely make my life, or yours, less fun. If I could trade this in for a fear of snakes, which, I don't think, has ever stopped someone from experiencing another culture or kept someone from visiting their family, I would do so in a heartbeat.
So, I know you are all wondering about that little stat. How crazy am I exactly to go against these facts? Lets see here, according to USA TODAY, "...it calculated the odds of dying in a motor vehicle accident to be 1 in 98 for a lifetime. For air and space transport (including air taxis and private flights), the odds were 1 in 7,178 for a lifetime." By these odds, I should be scared you-know-what-less to strap into a car, but isn't the world funny, I'm just not. I guess I never have been much of a math whiz.
I think I speak for all horrified fliers everywhere when I say that even though most of us are adults, we love getting grounded.
Friday, July 13, 2012
The Fantasy World of Turkey Sandwiches
I have a problem. Well, I have many problems. Actually, I have been told by multiple people that I would be a therapists dream, but this problem is serious. And only since reaching my twenties has it truly exploded into a daily issue that I just can't seem to shake. At first glance this delinquent behavior seems like just a frivolous pastime to take part in while waiting for the 6 train, but, if it is a habit of mine, it is more than likely completely destructive. The demon ritual, of course, is allowing my imagination to run wild.
Like I said, at first glance it is practically benign. Most with an active imagination are able to create and invent. People now live in in elaborately beautiful tree houses because of an over-active imagination. The streets of New York City are littered with interpretive art both tangible and metaphysical, and the reason being because of great fabrications that are born directly out of one's imagination.
This is fantastic. My life is enriched every single day because of these innovators, and it is in large part due to their existence that I continue to reside in this eccentric and exciting city. However, my mind is not helping to develop the next kid-friendly greenspace or being used to conjure up gorgeous patterns that will soon be found on pillows, blouses and lamp-shades that belong to the trendy. No, my mind is working against me. My imagination is running too wild, and there is no way to reign it back in.
Every few hours or so it happens. I start to drift into that daydreamer state of being and it's all over from there. I fantasize about moving back to Florida, for example. But, this time I envision something that simply will never materialize. I picture myself waking up in the morning to jog along the intercoastal as the sun rises. Not only am I jogging, but I'm finally in year-round bikini season shape that plagues Floridians day after day. I get home to my apartment that has been immaculately decorated and, with a dopey grin plastered across my mug, I take in the breathtaking views from my balcony. Then, of course I get ready to go to my amazingly rewarding job. I obviously bike there since that is the most eco-minded and healthy way to do things. After work, all of my new friends and I head over to the local outdoor bar and have a fantastic night of drinking just enough and twirling to the tunes. The next day we go out on the boat and the day after that we head to the beach for a bonfire and barbecue. The magical Florida sunshine coats each and every one of us in constant happiness.
Did you gag yet? Is your mouth gaping open? I know, it's delusional. And this is just one elaborate example; I could fill a Crime and Punishment-size book with all of my crazy hallucinations. So, here in lies the issue. How am I ever ever ever supposed to live up to the expectations that my imagination is setting! I can't, for that life doesn't exist for anyone. Nope, no one. Because even with all of the money in the world, the forecast will inevitably show thunderstorms from Friday night until Monday morning, and it will literally be raining all over your parade. I lived in Florida for 22 years. I was not tan, I did not own a bikini (you are all very welcome), and I can count the number of times I have been on a boat on two hands. Twenty-two years of the Florida lifestyle led me to eventually move to a place where I am donning a coat and snow boots 8 months a year. Why would this time be any different?
Maybe things could change for the better. Maybe at my older and wiser age of 25 I would take advantage of all those things I neglected to do during my "angst" teen years living in the tropics. But more than likely, I will snooze my alarm and wake up frantic with 20 minutes to get ready. I'll hop in my gas-guzzling SUV and head off to a job that is just barely paying the bills and then at the end of the day head home to catch that new reality series about real estate moguls, or obese veterans or gay nannies who fall in love with each other. I know this is so negative Nancy of me, but most of the time people are who they are. While I'd love to turn into an early morning riser who drinks their egg whites before running off into the sunset, the reality is that I hate the act of running and the thought of eggs in the morning turns me a Kermit the Frog shade of green.
The best cure I can think of is to force myself to just live in the now. It's the only way to avoid these thoughts of grandeur that have about a zero percent chance of happening. I struggle emensely with this, as I think all 20-somethings do. Living in the now is hard because that now is not always you at your best. I know I'm constantly ready for that next step, that next job, in short the next ladder rung of life. So, from now on, I only want to imagine about simple, obtainable things as to not disappoint my future self. I will close my eyes and see myself laughing at a movie, which seems completely doable if it's during the holiday season. I can clearly daydream about that turkey sandwich with mustard and lettuce that I will be lunching with later because I know with complete certainty it will be happening, hell, it might be happening for dinner as well. That's living. Sure, these seem mundane, but with an imagination like this, I will be in constant amazement of myself achieving my daydreams. If something greater comes along it will be an exciting bonus.
In order to keep my big problem at bay, "living in the now" is my new mantra. Being happy exactly where you are is not easy, but then again, who wants to do all that bathing suit shopping, anyway...
Like I said, at first glance it is practically benign. Most with an active imagination are able to create and invent. People now live in in elaborately beautiful tree houses because of an over-active imagination. The streets of New York City are littered with interpretive art both tangible and metaphysical, and the reason being because of great fabrications that are born directly out of one's imagination.
This is fantastic. My life is enriched every single day because of these innovators, and it is in large part due to their existence that I continue to reside in this eccentric and exciting city. However, my mind is not helping to develop the next kid-friendly greenspace or being used to conjure up gorgeous patterns that will soon be found on pillows, blouses and lamp-shades that belong to the trendy. No, my mind is working against me. My imagination is running too wild, and there is no way to reign it back in.
Every few hours or so it happens. I start to drift into that daydreamer state of being and it's all over from there. I fantasize about moving back to Florida, for example. But, this time I envision something that simply will never materialize. I picture myself waking up in the morning to jog along the intercoastal as the sun rises. Not only am I jogging, but I'm finally in year-round bikini season shape that plagues Floridians day after day. I get home to my apartment that has been immaculately decorated and, with a dopey grin plastered across my mug, I take in the breathtaking views from my balcony. Then, of course I get ready to go to my amazingly rewarding job. I obviously bike there since that is the most eco-minded and healthy way to do things. After work, all of my new friends and I head over to the local outdoor bar and have a fantastic night of drinking just enough and twirling to the tunes. The next day we go out on the boat and the day after that we head to the beach for a bonfire and barbecue. The magical Florida sunshine coats each and every one of us in constant happiness.
Did you gag yet? Is your mouth gaping open? I know, it's delusional. And this is just one elaborate example; I could fill a Crime and Punishment-size book with all of my crazy hallucinations. So, here in lies the issue. How am I ever ever ever supposed to live up to the expectations that my imagination is setting! I can't, for that life doesn't exist for anyone. Nope, no one. Because even with all of the money in the world, the forecast will inevitably show thunderstorms from Friday night until Monday morning, and it will literally be raining all over your parade. I lived in Florida for 22 years. I was not tan, I did not own a bikini (you are all very welcome), and I can count the number of times I have been on a boat on two hands. Twenty-two years of the Florida lifestyle led me to eventually move to a place where I am donning a coat and snow boots 8 months a year. Why would this time be any different?
Maybe things could change for the better. Maybe at my older and wiser age of 25 I would take advantage of all those things I neglected to do during my "angst" teen years living in the tropics. But more than likely, I will snooze my alarm and wake up frantic with 20 minutes to get ready. I'll hop in my gas-guzzling SUV and head off to a job that is just barely paying the bills and then at the end of the day head home to catch that new reality series about real estate moguls, or obese veterans or gay nannies who fall in love with each other. I know this is so negative Nancy of me, but most of the time people are who they are. While I'd love to turn into an early morning riser who drinks their egg whites before running off into the sunset, the reality is that I hate the act of running and the thought of eggs in the morning turns me a Kermit the Frog shade of green.
The best cure I can think of is to force myself to just live in the now. It's the only way to avoid these thoughts of grandeur that have about a zero percent chance of happening. I struggle emensely with this, as I think all 20-somethings do. Living in the now is hard because that now is not always you at your best. I know I'm constantly ready for that next step, that next job, in short the next ladder rung of life. So, from now on, I only want to imagine about simple, obtainable things as to not disappoint my future self. I will close my eyes and see myself laughing at a movie, which seems completely doable if it's during the holiday season. I can clearly daydream about that turkey sandwich with mustard and lettuce that I will be lunching with later because I know with complete certainty it will be happening, hell, it might be happening for dinner as well. That's living. Sure, these seem mundane, but with an imagination like this, I will be in constant amazement of myself achieving my daydreams. If something greater comes along it will be an exciting bonus.
In order to keep my big problem at bay, "living in the now" is my new mantra. Being happy exactly where you are is not easy, but then again, who wants to do all that bathing suit shopping, anyway...
Monday, July 9, 2012
Desperately Seeking And Promptly Forgetting Advice
Almost every important decision I make -- notice I said important, I need to get this point across so I don't come off as an adult baby who can't do anything without a constant conversation with mommy and daddy -- goes through the ringer. I start by calling my parents. They are the most grounded, solid advice-givers in my life, and I take what they say very seriously. Well, until I don't, but we'll get to that.
Next I open the conversation to those friends closest to me. I stop by my best friend's apartment, and we chat about nonsense for a while before getting down to brass tacks. This is my issue, these are my options, now what in the world should my next move be? Usually, this conversation is interrupted every few minutes or so with a "oh, before you go on," by her or a "wait, this is totally off topic, but," from me before resuming the discussion about the pressing matter at hand. I usually leave her place happier and fuller then I arrived, but none the wiser.
The next stage in seeking-out-advice-from-anyone-who-will listen is just that. It's the stage in which I have become so all-consumed with a decision I need to make or a problem that I am currently battling that I will literally -- and I can not be more clear about how literal I am meaning to be -- talk to anyone within a five-foot proximity. My waitress just needs to know the details of my upcoming job interview, right? And isn't it obvious that my new co-worker should weigh in on the issue I am having with my very very very non rent controlled apartment?
It's an epidemic. A true-to-life disease, and when it hits, it hits hard. The most obvious symptom of this insufferable sickness being the word vomit. I talk and talk and talk, forcing all those in my path to listen, and then I get a giant dose of reality medicine, which is able to cure me instantaneously. I didn't get the job, the rent predictably goes up, and no amount of discussion or advice will change these outcomes. You can prepare and discuss and practice and stress about it all, but in the end, the scary thing is that life just happens.
Sure, when I went into the interview I was wearing the pressed black pants my mom told me would be a great investment. I was armed with witty, yet spontaneous answers to the typical, what is your biggest flaw-type questions thanks to my slightly craftier and more experienced friends. One quick word about that question. I have always hated it, my flaws are so expansive and vast that if I was to actually tell you one of them, I would probably end up in the nut house at the end of the interview instead of that windowed office that could have been mine. But I digress, for in the end the pants were too tight and that dreadful, twisted question was never put on the table for me to lie about, I mean answer.
When it comes down to it, advice can be great. It personally comforts me to know that others are aware of my big challenges and have helped me sort out my feelings. But, more often than not, the sound advice that has been bestowed upon me hasn't exactly been worth its weight in syllables. All the advice in the world isn't going to make my dream job seek me out, and it certainly isn't going to make me awkward-free around the opposite sex. So while I thank all of you that have listened to me, and listened to me and then listened to me a little bit more, I also need to confess that from now on, when it comes down to it, I will consider your advice, I really will, but then I will just go ahead and do what I want to do anyway.
Now, don't think this means that I will stop approaching you at all hours of the day. No, no, it simply means that we now have a mutual understanding that when things are discussed I listen, I take in what you have to say and then I simply forget most of what has been offered up to me. Lets get honest with each other right here and now... I know most of you are already culprits of the listen, nod and forget, I am just classier and have decided to come clean in a very public way. I for one believe I am a great advice giver, but my secret friend dream couple is still not together, and my sister is still on the 8-year Ph. D. track to too much school, so I know you're politely nodding and smiling when it's my turn to impart knowledge and that you will leave my presence and do what you want.
However, this charade is never allowed to stop, ever. It can't. The world will screech to a halt right on its axis. I need to keep talking about myself as do others. Here I will use my dad's most favorite and ambiguous words of wisdom... it is what it is. And in this case, he could not be more right. I talk, you listen, you talk, I listen... it is what it is. Advice is offered and accepted and then promptly forgotten about, so that the advicee can go about his or her business in the exact way they were going to no matter what the advicer has said. This works for the advicer as well, since people need to feel, well, needed. You want to offer your advice just as much as I want to tell you about the situation that has landed us here in the first place. This is how people are, deal with it, in fact embrace it. Seeking and handing out advice is a necessity, even if it is immediately forgotten.
Now, what should my next blog post be about, any advice?
Next I open the conversation to those friends closest to me. I stop by my best friend's apartment, and we chat about nonsense for a while before getting down to brass tacks. This is my issue, these are my options, now what in the world should my next move be? Usually, this conversation is interrupted every few minutes or so with a "oh, before you go on," by her or a "wait, this is totally off topic, but," from me before resuming the discussion about the pressing matter at hand. I usually leave her place happier and fuller then I arrived, but none the wiser.
The next stage in seeking-out-advice-from-anyone-who-will listen is just that. It's the stage in which I have become so all-consumed with a decision I need to make or a problem that I am currently battling that I will literally -- and I can not be more clear about how literal I am meaning to be -- talk to anyone within a five-foot proximity. My waitress just needs to know the details of my upcoming job interview, right? And isn't it obvious that my new co-worker should weigh in on the issue I am having with my very very very non rent controlled apartment?
It's an epidemic. A true-to-life disease, and when it hits, it hits hard. The most obvious symptom of this insufferable sickness being the word vomit. I talk and talk and talk, forcing all those in my path to listen, and then I get a giant dose of reality medicine, which is able to cure me instantaneously. I didn't get the job, the rent predictably goes up, and no amount of discussion or advice will change these outcomes. You can prepare and discuss and practice and stress about it all, but in the end, the scary thing is that life just happens.
Sure, when I went into the interview I was wearing the pressed black pants my mom told me would be a great investment. I was armed with witty, yet spontaneous answers to the typical, what is your biggest flaw-type questions thanks to my slightly craftier and more experienced friends. One quick word about that question. I have always hated it, my flaws are so expansive and vast that if I was to actually tell you one of them, I would probably end up in the nut house at the end of the interview instead of that windowed office that could have been mine. But I digress, for in the end the pants were too tight and that dreadful, twisted question was never put on the table for me to lie about, I mean answer.
When it comes down to it, advice can be great. It personally comforts me to know that others are aware of my big challenges and have helped me sort out my feelings. But, more often than not, the sound advice that has been bestowed upon me hasn't exactly been worth its weight in syllables. All the advice in the world isn't going to make my dream job seek me out, and it certainly isn't going to make me awkward-free around the opposite sex. So while I thank all of you that have listened to me, and listened to me and then listened to me a little bit more, I also need to confess that from now on, when it comes down to it, I will consider your advice, I really will, but then I will just go ahead and do what I want to do anyway.
Now, don't think this means that I will stop approaching you at all hours of the day. No, no, it simply means that we now have a mutual understanding that when things are discussed I listen, I take in what you have to say and then I simply forget most of what has been offered up to me. Lets get honest with each other right here and now... I know most of you are already culprits of the listen, nod and forget, I am just classier and have decided to come clean in a very public way. I for one believe I am a great advice giver, but my secret friend dream couple is still not together, and my sister is still on the 8-year Ph. D. track to too much school, so I know you're politely nodding and smiling when it's my turn to impart knowledge and that you will leave my presence and do what you want.
However, this charade is never allowed to stop, ever. It can't. The world will screech to a halt right on its axis. I need to keep talking about myself as do others. Here I will use my dad's most favorite and ambiguous words of wisdom... it is what it is. And in this case, he could not be more right. I talk, you listen, you talk, I listen... it is what it is. Advice is offered and accepted and then promptly forgotten about, so that the advicee can go about his or her business in the exact way they were going to no matter what the advicer has said. This works for the advicer as well, since people need to feel, well, needed. You want to offer your advice just as much as I want to tell you about the situation that has landed us here in the first place. This is how people are, deal with it, in fact embrace it. Seeking and handing out advice is a necessity, even if it is immediately forgotten.
Now, what should my next blog post be about, any advice?
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Foresight is 20/400
I have found that the mid-twenties spur some habitual behaviors that are almost impossible to avoid. The constant sending of our resumes being the most stressful. The need to make every Friday, Saturday and Sunday epic, which usually turns out to be the most disappointing. And the insane dependency we all have on our magical hand-held devices seems the most inescapable. However, most recently, it is not my job search or the incessant buzzing of technology that is bothering me, it is the nagging feeling that the past is really over. I mean, dead, done, finished and buried.
In most ways the burial of my past should be highly celebrated. I'm suggesting a parade down 5th Avenue for those that were around to witness my past and have made it into my present. I give them full permission to rejoice the end of tie-dye band shirts and peace sign everything. It was a time of exploration that went wrong, so completely wrong. But, and I think you will all agree, that embarrassing yourself in the halls of high school is a right of passage. Each and every one of us that has survived the growing-up process has something to look back on and cringe about. My cringe-worthy moments were just a bit louder and slightly more imaginative than your average high school survivor.
I felt an incredibly strong connection to the jam-bands of the 60s (it was 2002) and chose to make that love obvious through my "fashion" and lifestyle choices. Not only did I adorn multi-colored beads and questionable footwear, but there were vibrant, in-your-face stickers that peppered that outside of my car announcing to the world that music was everything and unless Grateful Dead or Phish was blasting through my speakers, I might, very literally, die of uncoolness. Are you cringing yet?
Of course I ignored my mother's pleas for me to dress more current and remove those flashy symbols of peace and grooviness from my vehicle! I had never felt so alive and free! Hindsight wasn't threatening to smack me upside the head just yet and those days, well months, actually years of exploration were necessary... even if now, they make me want to crawl into Doc Brown's DeLorean and hit 88 at warp speed. And although my past is mostly filled with moments that make me want to jump up and scream from sheer humiliation, there are those moments that shine through and make sixteen seem like the pinnacle of my happiness. The awkward dateless prom, the summertime parties and the home-cooked meals that awaited me every evening are moments that I know are long-gone, but sometimes I desperately want back. But then, I remind myself how far I have come in the last decade and decide that going back and doing it all over again seems downright exhausting.
So as I sit here at 25, isn't it obvious that I'm doing something wrong? I'm wearing something that I, myself, will consider hideous in the next five years. I'm friends with some that will not make it into my next chapter. I'm writing a post for the whole world to see that will seem ridiculous and menial in the near future. If hindsight is 20/20 then foresight is just the opposite. I understand that making mistakes is part of the adventure, but a few flashes of future clarity would be helpful. Just subtle hints here and there is all I'm asking. There are the little things -- Will I regret those side swept bangs? Should I buy another pair of gladiator sandals? And then, of course, there are the bigger life issues -- Is going back to school the smartest career move I can make? When is it the right time to leave New York City?
But, I guess those questions can only be answered once I have taken the leap forward to go through with them. In two years I could be toting a masters degree while showing off my killer hair style. Or I could be bored to death in some lifeless city while rockin' last seasons styles. Either way, these are risks I have to take. As for today, I don't need to make any life-altering decisions. I'm going to sit back, relax, and let the sounds of Jerry Garcia ease my mind... cringe.
In most ways the burial of my past should be highly celebrated. I'm suggesting a parade down 5th Avenue for those that were around to witness my past and have made it into my present. I give them full permission to rejoice the end of tie-dye band shirts and peace sign everything. It was a time of exploration that went wrong, so completely wrong. But, and I think you will all agree, that embarrassing yourself in the halls of high school is a right of passage. Each and every one of us that has survived the growing-up process has something to look back on and cringe about. My cringe-worthy moments were just a bit louder and slightly more imaginative than your average high school survivor.
I felt an incredibly strong connection to the jam-bands of the 60s (it was 2002) and chose to make that love obvious through my "fashion" and lifestyle choices. Not only did I adorn multi-colored beads and questionable footwear, but there were vibrant, in-your-face stickers that peppered that outside of my car announcing to the world that music was everything and unless Grateful Dead or Phish was blasting through my speakers, I might, very literally, die of uncoolness. Are you cringing yet?
Of course I ignored my mother's pleas for me to dress more current and remove those flashy symbols of peace and grooviness from my vehicle! I had never felt so alive and free! Hindsight wasn't threatening to smack me upside the head just yet and those days, well months, actually years of exploration were necessary... even if now, they make me want to crawl into Doc Brown's DeLorean and hit 88 at warp speed. And although my past is mostly filled with moments that make me want to jump up and scream from sheer humiliation, there are those moments that shine through and make sixteen seem like the pinnacle of my happiness. The awkward dateless prom, the summertime parties and the home-cooked meals that awaited me every evening are moments that I know are long-gone, but sometimes I desperately want back. But then, I remind myself how far I have come in the last decade and decide that going back and doing it all over again seems downright exhausting.
So as I sit here at 25, isn't it obvious that I'm doing something wrong? I'm wearing something that I, myself, will consider hideous in the next five years. I'm friends with some that will not make it into my next chapter. I'm writing a post for the whole world to see that will seem ridiculous and menial in the near future. If hindsight is 20/20 then foresight is just the opposite. I understand that making mistakes is part of the adventure, but a few flashes of future clarity would be helpful. Just subtle hints here and there is all I'm asking. There are the little things -- Will I regret those side swept bangs? Should I buy another pair of gladiator sandals? And then, of course, there are the bigger life issues -- Is going back to school the smartest career move I can make? When is it the right time to leave New York City?
But, I guess those questions can only be answered once I have taken the leap forward to go through with them. In two years I could be toting a masters degree while showing off my killer hair style. Or I could be bored to death in some lifeless city while rockin' last seasons styles. Either way, these are risks I have to take. As for today, I don't need to make any life-altering decisions. I'm going to sit back, relax, and let the sounds of Jerry Garcia ease my mind... cringe.
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