Yesterday I sat, sipping Jasmine tea, relaxing my muscles, relaxing my mind, prepping for another evening of Bikram yoga. Sean, a friend from college, enters the teahouse, ready to try Bikram…for the first time.
Looking at him I realized how different he appeared since the last time I had seen him. It was such a strange feeling; wondering where the time had gone, wondering what it was that we were supposed to being doing with our lives.
Last July, six weeks after college graduation, we met up in Copenhagen. We lay out in the park, drank beer, and smoked Kings cigarettes.
It felt like life was upon us. We were embracing the unknown, the dreams everyone had told us we could accomplish. We were becoming “what I want to be when I’m grown up.” Or at least we thought we were. Eleven very long months later we sit in this teahouse and realize that nothing much as changed. Yes we have this piece of paper stating that we did our time, accrued debt, and are prepared for this thing everyone calls the “real world.”
I’m not sure what or where the “real world” is. All I know is that I spent five years getting into $20K of debt, only to get a job making about the same a year after taxes. “Welcome to the real world.”
So we salivate over our dreams and jasmine. We (I) think about the next five to ten years. Where will we be? What will we be doing? Will I ever pay off all that money?
It’s daunting, a quandary. “When will we get there?” I have to remind myself, daily almost, that we’ll next get there. It’s all a journey and trying to get “there” is fruitless.
We’re supposed to enjoy, I guess, between our nine-to-fives, daily commutes, and other mundane activities.
The thing is sometimes I don’t know how to do that. I don’t know how to separate myself from my job, my money, and my clothes. It all seems to mesh together. Alas is the life of a young and broke girl.
She sits daydreaming and pricing plane tickets to places she can’t pronounce. She dreams about Italy and expensive shoes she can’t afford… Silly girl.
4.17.2008
3.27.2008
03.27.08: Without the leash
Yesterday afternoon my phone died. For a moment I felt this horror, this anxiety, this fear of not being connected to the whole world at any given moment. I felt… I felt… Well actually all of the sudden I felt free.
A couple years ago, when I had just returned from a one-year stint in Europe, I returned home sans leash. It was a couple weeks before I pulled together the funds to get a new phone, and those weeks were some of the freest of my life. I’d lived abroad and been absolutely free from everyone. If I didn’t want to talk, I didn’t respond to emails or call home. Maybe this was wrong and maybe I worried people, but at the time I wasn’t really thinking about it.
At home and cell free I would make plans with people in advance, they wouldn’t be able to contact the minute of so the likelihood of them actually showing up was much greater. But then after a few weeks I caved and got a phone. I proverbially waved my independence adieu.
Years later I’ve stumbled again on this desire to be free of the leash. My phone died and yes for a moment I felt that fear. But you know what it was okay.
The phone was off and I didn’t worry about it. I went about my day. I laid in bed and read, I enjoyed silence. It was savory.
Savory until I checked my voice mail to hear seven frantic messages from my friends and family, “Where the hell are you?” Silly me, I was going about my day thinking nothing about worrying people, but nevertheless I had. I started to think about this idea of instant communication. (This really isn’t a unique thought, but one that should be touched upon every now and then.) Before the cell phone, or the Internet, or even the landline, communication was far from instant. We wrote and mailed letters that sometimes never even arrived. There was nothing instant about it. Maybe it was frustrating at times, but there had to of been a lovely freedom about it.
I don’t know which is better. I love my cell phone. We have a great relationship, but sometimes we do fight. And sometimes I want to throw it out of my car window. I know that I own it, but sometimes I feel like it owns me.
A couple years ago, when I had just returned from a one-year stint in Europe, I returned home sans leash. It was a couple weeks before I pulled together the funds to get a new phone, and those weeks were some of the freest of my life. I’d lived abroad and been absolutely free from everyone. If I didn’t want to talk, I didn’t respond to emails or call home. Maybe this was wrong and maybe I worried people, but at the time I wasn’t really thinking about it.
At home and cell free I would make plans with people in advance, they wouldn’t be able to contact the minute of so the likelihood of them actually showing up was much greater. But then after a few weeks I caved and got a phone. I proverbially waved my independence adieu.
Years later I’ve stumbled again on this desire to be free of the leash. My phone died and yes for a moment I felt that fear. But you know what it was okay.
The phone was off and I didn’t worry about it. I went about my day. I laid in bed and read, I enjoyed silence. It was savory.
Savory until I checked my voice mail to hear seven frantic messages from my friends and family, “Where the hell are you?” Silly me, I was going about my day thinking nothing about worrying people, but nevertheless I had. I started to think about this idea of instant communication. (This really isn’t a unique thought, but one that should be touched upon every now and then.) Before the cell phone, or the Internet, or even the landline, communication was far from instant. We wrote and mailed letters that sometimes never even arrived. There was nothing instant about it. Maybe it was frustrating at times, but there had to of been a lovely freedom about it.
I don’t know which is better. I love my cell phone. We have a great relationship, but sometimes we do fight. And sometimes I want to throw it out of my car window. I know that I own it, but sometimes I feel like it owns me.
2.14.2008
Reve 02.11.08
Fresh off an action packed weekend filled with surfing, snowboarding, exhaustion and subsequent fighting (lovers quarrels, down-right instigation on my part), I return to an iron and padded cube, vindicated. Freed from stress that formerly rested upon on shoulders, I come prepared to yet again hit the ground running. I check in with the bosses, prepare my workload… and yet only, 51 minutes after logging into my computer my mind wanders…
I glance over at the copy of Vogue sitting on my desk. It’s flipped open to page 178, Political Heartache, the Cecilia Sarkozy story.
It takes me back…
It was just over seven months ago that I rushed through the dimly lit streets of Paris seeking refuge from the rain. The sun set over La Tour D’Eiffel, a Parisian businessman, dressed-down in khakis snapped my picture. Him, my travel companion Y, and I sucked down beer after beer at a corner side bistrot, the name of which I cannot remember. We got lost translating between French and English—his English bad and my French worse.
I tromped around in tall stilettos from lounge to red-velvet-roped disco, Paris—a club appropriately named, one filled with smoke and sweaty dancers, two aromas which when mixed and in right context reminded me of my former sinful youth.
No we weren’t “sur la liste” but my broken French and pouty lips got us in nonetheless… for a night, a single night, I felt like I belonged. J’etais elle, mysterious, happy.
By car we took to the streets, speeding avec notre guide, through the tiny streets of Paris. Through the tinted windows of our new friends Audi I watched the lights of the official builds blur by. I wonder what it would be like to work there, to live here, to sit a corner bistro every evening, to watch the tourists flock by, to smoke, and drink red wine, to slow down and enjoy.
This is a feeling that remains with me; a question that lingers: Is it better to have a taste or to eat the whole cake?
I glance over at the copy of Vogue sitting on my desk. It’s flipped open to page 178, Political Heartache, the Cecilia Sarkozy story.
It takes me back…
It was just over seven months ago that I rushed through the dimly lit streets of Paris seeking refuge from the rain. The sun set over La Tour D’Eiffel, a Parisian businessman, dressed-down in khakis snapped my picture. Him, my travel companion Y, and I sucked down beer after beer at a corner side bistrot, the name of which I cannot remember. We got lost translating between French and English—his English bad and my French worse.
I tromped around in tall stilettos from lounge to red-velvet-roped disco, Paris—a club appropriately named, one filled with smoke and sweaty dancers, two aromas which when mixed and in right context reminded me of my former sinful youth.
No we weren’t “sur la liste” but my broken French and pouty lips got us in nonetheless… for a night, a single night, I felt like I belonged. J’etais elle, mysterious, happy.
By car we took to the streets, speeding avec notre guide, through the tiny streets of Paris. Through the tinted windows of our new friends Audi I watched the lights of the official builds blur by. I wonder what it would be like to work there, to live here, to sit a corner bistro every evening, to watch the tourists flock by, to smoke, and drink red wine, to slow down and enjoy.
This is a feeling that remains with me; a question that lingers: Is it better to have a taste or to eat the whole cake?
2.12.2008
A Fish 01.25.08
01.25.08
We could have a little Jerry Maguire—here comes the moving analogy—situation on our hands today. Sir X says he’s a ticking time bomb. At any moment he might throw all of his layouts and text up in the air, punch holes in the drywall, knock cubicles over, scream who’s coming with me (to which of course I’ll have to say me) and storm out of the office.
At this point in my budding career I’m not, eh, financially stable enough to storm out of the building hands in the air and fury fleeing my being. Considering the fact that a few car repairs amounting to $800 completely draining my savings I think wise to remain in the doldrums of 9-to-5, reading other peoples articles and checking to make sure there isn’t a hyphen in ‘Type R’.
Two nights ago I had a dream that that a rabies-diseased zombie child was attacking me, biting off my fingers and toes as I fought for my life (think I Am Legend). Over a quick Mexican lunch, I told Sir X about the dream, to which he said, “Maybe you feel like little pieces of your life are being taking away.”
Humm, maybe X is right, do I feel beaten down? Yes. Am I frustrated with the fact that as hard as I try I’ve yet to find a forum/job that will pay my bills, or even publish my work, or even write me back, or pay me once they have published my work? Yes. So do I feel like little bits of my dreams are being ripped right out of my clutched fists? You could say that.
Dreams and feelings aside, however, I’m not quite ready to storm out and create a revolution. So to appease X I explained to him that any over dramatic office revolt requires one key element, one item that has to be in-hand at the moment of revelation and subsequent revolution. That one item you ask… fish. Or better yet a fish, one beta fish that like X needs to be freed from its confines. The fish is X, and X is the fish.
I explained this to X, to which he said, “I’ll get the fish.”
We could have a little Jerry Maguire—here comes the moving analogy—situation on our hands today. Sir X says he’s a ticking time bomb. At any moment he might throw all of his layouts and text up in the air, punch holes in the drywall, knock cubicles over, scream who’s coming with me (to which of course I’ll have to say me) and storm out of the office.
At this point in my budding career I’m not, eh, financially stable enough to storm out of the building hands in the air and fury fleeing my being. Considering the fact that a few car repairs amounting to $800 completely draining my savings I think wise to remain in the doldrums of 9-to-5, reading other peoples articles and checking to make sure there isn’t a hyphen in ‘Type R’.
Two nights ago I had a dream that that a rabies-diseased zombie child was attacking me, biting off my fingers and toes as I fought for my life (think I Am Legend). Over a quick Mexican lunch, I told Sir X about the dream, to which he said, “Maybe you feel like little pieces of your life are being taking away.”
Humm, maybe X is right, do I feel beaten down? Yes. Am I frustrated with the fact that as hard as I try I’ve yet to find a forum/job that will pay my bills, or even publish my work, or even write me back, or pay me once they have published my work? Yes. So do I feel like little bits of my dreams are being ripped right out of my clutched fists? You could say that.
Dreams and feelings aside, however, I’m not quite ready to storm out and create a revolution. So to appease X I explained to him that any over dramatic office revolt requires one key element, one item that has to be in-hand at the moment of revelation and subsequent revolution. That one item you ask… fish. Or better yet a fish, one beta fish that like X needs to be freed from its confines. The fish is X, and X is the fish.
I explained this to X, to which he said, “I’ll get the fish.”
2.11.2008
01.22.08
I’m standing in my editor’s office when our boss, Y, walks in. She is a tall cute and always well-dressed blonde. I looked her up and down, admired her riding boats and fitted mustard yellow pea coat, the color a little last season but one that made her golden hair sparkle all the same. “Cute coat,” I compliment her. “Nordstrom, Brass Plum Rubbish,” I could even guess the size and Anniversary Sale price but wouldn’t dare.
She smiles, “Yeah Nordies.” The secret’s out, we both add junior items to our very Savvy (and I don’t just mean the department in Nordstroms) wardrobe.
Then it hit me, for the thousandth time this month, “What the heck I am doing working for a car magazine!”
I don’t love cars, I mean I love driving them, sliding into soft leather, strapping-in and feeling power and speed rush to my fingertips, but I don’t love them. I don’t wake up in the middle of the night excited about the new release of the Nissan GT-R, (although I do dream about the Audi R8) I don’t come to work dying to discover the style difference between ‘front-end’ (adj.), ‘front end’ (n.) and ‘frontend’ (differential), the vain of my editorial existence.
No, the highlight of my day is getting dressed, picking out my shoes, and hoping that some day, I’ll have a reason to wear half the items hanging in my closet. “Please let that someday be soon!”
I get to work; everyone is wearing jeans and sweatshirts, vans loafers and zero to no makeup. I look absolutely out of place. I settle in, read and reread articles explaining the modifications of engine types of the Audi A4 and the BMW whatever. Each article I finish is like my own little personal victory. I’m done… but I’m never really done.
During my lunch break I vacillate over Vogue, Instyle, Time, and whatever other publication I can pick up in the drug store.
Then back to reality, four more hours of car models, treads, and paint colors. But what about this seasons colors? What about threads and not treads? What about fashion models?
Epiphany, rather than attending car shows I should be attending fashion shows.
She smiles, “Yeah Nordies.” The secret’s out, we both add junior items to our very Savvy (and I don’t just mean the department in Nordstroms) wardrobe.
Then it hit me, for the thousandth time this month, “What the heck I am doing working for a car magazine!”
I don’t love cars, I mean I love driving them, sliding into soft leather, strapping-in and feeling power and speed rush to my fingertips, but I don’t love them. I don’t wake up in the middle of the night excited about the new release of the Nissan GT-R, (although I do dream about the Audi R8) I don’t come to work dying to discover the style difference between ‘front-end’ (adj.), ‘front end’ (n.) and ‘frontend’ (differential), the vain of my editorial existence.
No, the highlight of my day is getting dressed, picking out my shoes, and hoping that some day, I’ll have a reason to wear half the items hanging in my closet. “Please let that someday be soon!”
I get to work; everyone is wearing jeans and sweatshirts, vans loafers and zero to no makeup. I look absolutely out of place. I settle in, read and reread articles explaining the modifications of engine types of the Audi A4 and the BMW whatever. Each article I finish is like my own little personal victory. I’m done… but I’m never really done.
During my lunch break I vacillate over Vogue, Instyle, Time, and whatever other publication I can pick up in the drug store.
Then back to reality, four more hours of car models, treads, and paint colors. But what about this seasons colors? What about threads and not treads? What about fashion models?
Epiphany, rather than attending car shows I should be attending fashion shows.
2.01.2008
A Serving of First
We ate organically today. Took the yet to be released Audi R8 to the camp and ordered mole enchiladas. X's dish arrived with a long golden strand of hair in it. We flagged down the perpetrator, she giggled "Oops" and took it. Not a giggling matter missy, X looked weary, both of his food and of his hunger. I ate every bite off my plate, now, four hours later I too am practically savage with hunger.
I'm scooping up large chucks of goat cheese with mini pretzels because they are about the only thing I have in the fridge. I'm thinking about a little glass of wine but it's still early. On second thought...
It's pretty decent for cheap-o pino. It's friday, so why not. No getting up for work in the morning. Maybe up for a quick surf if the weather holds.
Anyway, this is my first, my first posting. I've always been weary of writing my thoughts on some forum where everyone and anyone can see them. But what do I have to lose?
Nothing.
I'm a writer. I have lots of stories for you. I won't dare to say what direction this will take. It could go anywhere. I'll start simply with the basics of my life, adventures, personal achievements, philosophies, goals, hopes, desires, faith, pain, personal tragedies and so forth.
Nice to meet you world I am Young and Broke...
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