All Grown Up Now

Recently, I’ve become obsessed with the idea of being an adult. I always kind of assumed that I would consider myself an adult after I graduated college, got a steady job, started paying my own bills and rent, and bought a salad spinner. I accomplished these things almost two years ago (though the acquisition of the salad spinner was more recent), but even though I’m 24, I still feel quite trapped in a childlike state.

My obsession with adulthood began with my quest to find a true, adult apartment. When I first moved to New York in October 2007, I lived with a young woman and her mother. I rented a room in their Queens apartment for $500. The room came furnished, which was nice seeing as I didn’t own any furniture. The only problem was, it was furnished with a twin bed and no dresser—just shelves in a closet and a large bookshelf. I made it work for six months but after I started dating someone who lived out of town, I realized sharing a twin bed and having to ask permission to have him stay over was no longer conducive to my preferred lifestyle. So, I moved.

I moved into the first apartment I could find that I could afford—about twenty minutes (walking) away from my first apartment. I shared the space with two other people—a girl and a guy in their early twenties. They had known each other from a previous job but had decided to move in together when they both moved from Long Island to New York. This new place had its faults—my bedroom had no windows and there was no air conditioning. Not to mention the fact that my room was sandwiched between the other two rooms and, due to the obscenely thin walls, I could hear everything my roommates did. I could even sometimes hear the other end of cell phone conversations. But, the place was also a bit cheaper, in a more convenient location (in terms of grocery stores and laundry services), and I could, in a certain sense, call it my own because I shared it with other people and could claim authority over the same amount of common space.

I stayed there for ten more months and then moved to my current place—an apartment I absolutely love that I share with Bridget, a girl I went to college with. Upon moving in, Bridget and I immediately began to furnish the place. She had brought a sofa and some other furniture from home; I bought a TV and wallpapered one of the living room walls with book jackets Bridget and I collected from work. (She also works in publishing). Little by little the place came together. I bought a desk, which was a very big deal seeing as I work a lot from home. Granted, the desk didn’t really match my dresser or the small bookshelf I brought from my mom’s storage unit upstate, but it functioned. I hung up some pictures, though we never got around to painting and, after a while, we admitted to ourselves that we would never have the energy to paint the apartment now that it was so lived in. After seven months of living here, I finally bought curtains, which arrived today (hence what brought this blog topic to mind). They are yellow and, I think, really complete the room.

When I ordered the curtains a week and a half ago, I was extremely excited for them to arrive. Grown-ups have curtains! This will make my apartment look like that of an adult!

Then, over the weekend, I attended a wedding for one of my boyfriend’s friends from high school. It was a lovely wedding and I had a lot of fun even though I only knew about four people there. The wedding was in New Jersey, and before the ceremony, I had to kill time at the best man’s girlfriend’s apartment while Claudio (my boyfriend) went to the groom’s house to take pictures (he was in the wedding party). The girl I stayed with, Leigh, is incredibly lovely and I’m very thankful that she didn’t think it was strange when I took a nap on her couch—her brand new couch.

You see, Leigh recently moved into her own apartment and had had to furnish the entire thing from the bottom up. So, as she told us, she went around town and bought a bunch of furniture including a bedroom set, a dining room set, a living room set, and a host of decorations. I have to say, she did a lovely job, and when I walked into her bedroom, I was immediately envious. First of all, it was spotless. If you walked into my room right now, you would see stuff strewn about my desk and dresser, a pile of bags on the floor, and books aligned on the windowsill because I don’t have any shelving in my room right now. You’d see that I don’t have a headboard for my bed, my nightstand is broken, and I use that tiny little bookshelf as a makeshift dresser using canvas drawers that barely fit. I still use the bedspread I used in college even though I have a full-size bed and the spread is twin. I haven’t been able to find a bed skirt I like, so you can see all of the boxes under my bed (though, to my credit I went to The Container Store and bought storage bins so that area wouldn’t look so tacky). But, hey! I have curtains!

Leigh’s room on the other hand was adult. All of her furniture matched, and she had selected curtains and decorations that matched the bedspread perfectly. She had one plastic storage unit, but she had placed it discreetly under her desk so it was barely noticeable—much more grown up than the stacks of files I have beneath my desk.

I made myself feel better by reminding myself that my apartment was small and that I didn’t make a lot of money and had been forced to purchase my furniture piece by piece—hence the hodgepodge of items I’d collected and why I still used bed sheets I had in high school.

But my reassurances became moot when I changed into my dress for the wedding. I had selected a black spring dress I’d purchased for $30 at New York and Company my senior year of high school. I’d worn the dress to my high school and college graduations (though you can’t tell from the pictures since the dress was hidden under my gown) and probably a handful of other times. The dress still fit and was in good condition and it hadn’t really gone out of style. Plus, it didn’t wrinkle, which made it perfect to shove in a bag for a weekend trip to Jersey. Low maintenance—very grown up.

Compared to what Leigh wore, it was a rag. She had purchased a brand new, black, strapless dress especially for the occasion (though she said she had to because everyone at the wedding had already seen all of her other clothes), and when she put it on, she was a knockout. I felt like the high school kid I had been when I first wore my silly little floral-print dress next to Leigh in that superb adult number. I reflected on my own wardrobe—I owned not a single piece of clothing remotely like that one in style or class. My wardrobe was completely juvenile.

I’d been thinking this for a while. I haven’t gained or lost any weight, essentially, since I stopped growing taller, so I rarely, if ever, outgrow clothes. Hence, I have a habit of keeping clothes in my closet because they still fit, are in good condition, and I may want to wear them again one day. The result? On most days, I look like a schoolgirl. Every morning when I pick out what I’m going to wear to work that day, I want to immediately rush out of my apartment, take the N train to 59th street, and buy out Bloomingdale’s. Though, let’s be honest, we all know I can’t afford to replenish my entire wardrobe with clothes from Bloomingdale’s.

My dress was fine. No one complimented it, and I ended up looking sort of fat in most of the pictures, but whatever. I’m never going to see 98% of those people again, so who cares? Of course, as soon as I arrived at the wedding, I was met with a whole new batch of insecurities.

I love weddings. I really do. I’m actually sorry my friends haven’t started getting married yet because I haven’t been able to go to many. Weddings are celebrations. You get to dress up, eat until you’re constipated, dance until you pass out, and drink until you vomit. All in the name of love. Of course, ever since the last wedding I attended (my cousin Jennifer’s in 2007, during which my older female relatives kept telling me how I was “next”) they’ve also been something else: a reminder that I have still not settled down.

I realize I’m 24. Twenty-four is too young to get married—at least for me. Granted, this probably has something to do with the fact that I’ve never been in a relationship that’s lasted longer than six months (though I’m about to be). Even so, when you’re surrounded by people who seem to have their lives planned out, you can’t help but feel a little immature.

And as lame as I think some adults are (must you become a homebody and a crappy dancer just because you’re married and have kids?), I still want to be like them. I want to have a husband, and a home to share with him. I want to have kids (I keep having dreams that I have a young son, though they’re super disturbing and perhaps more appropriate for another blog post where I examine my psyche), and I want to take pictures with them and send them out on Christmas cards (not really). I want to have a grown-up house, with a grown-up mortgage, and a grown-up dog. I want to have matching bedroom furniture. I want to paint the walls of my living room, and I want to paint them yellow. I want to worry about retirement and life insurance and my will. I want to lose my ability to hold my liquor. Screw Toys R Us! I want to grow up.

Growing Up Geeky

Twice in the past week I have been called a "geek" by superiors at work. I'm sure each of the men (yes, it was two different men) who said this to me meant it in an endearing way ("Oh, Brooke, you're such a geek. How adorable!"), but it got me thinking. I am a geek--a straight-up, straight-A, straight-laced geek.

And I'm not offended by this notion. First of all, I'm self-aware enough to know that even though I may harbor some geek-like sensibilities, I have never owned a pocket protector, I don't snort when I laugh (often), and I've never had any desire to learn Klingon (though I once had the desire to learn Welsh, as evident by past posts). I also know that I don't wear my glasses because I think they're sexy; they're just easier on my eyes.

In the past few weeks, I've had ample time to reflect on my geekiness. A few months ago, my boyfriend and I were hanging out with a couple of my girlfriends who were actively and eagerly discussing the upcoming release of Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince (the film). I, naturally, was also thoroughly engaged in this conversation, and I had more than a few words to say on the subject. ("I really never liked the whole Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley thing. Am I the only person who feels this plot line was just sloppily contrived?") Several hours later, after the conversation had waned and my friends had gone home, my ever-patient and mild-mannered boyfriend said, "So, those are your friends, huh? You guys are a bunch of nerds."

Thanks, sweetie. I'll consider that your version of a term of endearment.

A few weeks later, I went to Nashville for a week to visit the city I'd lived in for ten years as well as some old friends I hadn't seen since I moved away. I stayed with my friend Jana--one of my best friends since the sixth grade--and at one point, we began discussing high school.

A side note, if you will. My experience in high school was very similar to my experience visiting the Museum of Sex for the first time: it's fine while you're there, but once you leave, you never feel the need to do it again. I definitely was a nerd in high school--straight-A, AP, Honors student, valedictorian of my class, member of the drama club and the speech and debate team, and, to top it off, one of the lead violins in our school orchestra (as it happens, Jana was the other lead).

This was my existence in high school; it was all I knew. But that was perfectly fine because it was all my friends knew too. Our typical Friday nights consisted of a small group of us getting together for cheap Mexican food at Las Palmas (a place I visited a total of three times during my recent visit), a trip to the Starbucks across the street for a Frappucino and some girl talk (though occasionally our friend Tien, who also happened to be my junior prom date, attended), and occasionally, a late-night trip to Walgreens where we once bought a three-pack of condoms just for shits and giggles. (I ended up unwrapping one and placing it conspicuously in our bathroom trashcan so my mom would see it and think the worst. Of course, she knew me well enough to know that I was not getting laid and actually thought it was hilarious.)

I've heard urban legends about how kids nowadays get together and have "rainbow" parties (a concept that, I must say, I desperately hope is a mere myth) and have drunk sex with one another. I'm sure this happens somewhere, and I'm sure plenty of kids in my high school got together on weekends, drank, smoke, and copulated, but, as Jana and I both noted during our recent conversation, this lifestyle was completely foreign to us. In fact, it wasn't until I got to college and actually met people who had already lost their virginity that it dawned on me that, perhaps, my high school classmates had done just the same. I didn't have my first kiss until my senior year of high school. It had never even occurred to me that thousands of 17-year-olds had already "done it"--for realsies.

Sleepovers were particularly fun for my friends and me. In the eighth grade, my friend Stacy had a birthday party where the tradition of the traveling story was born. We had recently been given an in-class assignment where each person started a story and then passed it to the person who sat behind them. That person would add a few sentences and then pass it further down the row until it had reached the hands of about five or six people. The result was a full-blown nonsensical story that some students were asked to share. (I have vague memories of one involving a cheese man.) I found this whole thing fascinating.

So, I suggested we try it out at the party. We each took sheets of paper and developed some rules. Each person would start their own story and pass it to the next person. After every person had written something in each story, the person who started the story had to read it out loud to everyone. Just imagine what you might have to say!

For some reason, this caught on like wildfire among my friends and me, and we continued doing it at basically every sleepover until we graduated high school. As time went on, the stories got more and more raunchy, and my friends would often describe PG-13 sexual scenarios between one of the members of our group and some unsuspecting male peer whom we all pretended to hate but secretly had a crush on. The entire process could take hours depending on how many people were participating. At my 15th birthday party, about seven friends and I stayed up until the wee hours of the morning churning out stories, one of which generated the classic line, "There's always the horse." Trust me, it was funny in context.

If this wasn't geeky enough, I still have about 80 of those traveling stories stored in a Trapper Keeper somewhere. They really are timeless, let me tell you, though I have to say that all of those hours of free-writing gave me the preparation I needed to start this blog, which, I hope is a bit more articulate. You should consider yourselves so lucky.

My geekiness did not leave me upon entering college, mostly because I ended up attracting more geeks into my inner circle. My freshman year roommate watched so many Law and Order and Star Trek re-runs that, for a while, I thought she must be majoring in it. One of my closest friends initiated conversation with my roommate and me after he walked past our dorm room and heard that we were watching Lord of the Rings (my roommate had a Tolkien poster on her closet door and a shirt that said "I went to Middle Earth and all I got was this ring"--or something along those lines). My other best friend throughout college made the two following comments at different points during our freshman year: "The Economist is my favorite magazine" and "I want Tim Russert's job." Some of my favorite pastimes from college are lip synching to "Goodbye Horses" (the song in Silence of the Lambs that the serial killer sings to when he's dressing up in his skin costume) and doing an interpretive dance to "Under Pressure" by Queen and David Bowie at a campus bar. My senior year, I hosted a Golden Girls party, and the summer after graduation, my two friends and I made fake wands out of sticks and glitter and went to the midnight release party of Harry Potter and the Dealthy Hallows (see picture above).

Part of me wonders what it would've been like to have lived the more rambunctious teenage experience. Most of my peers who did turned out just fine and don't nurse any drug habits or venereal diseases that I'm aware of. But, to be honest, if that meant I would have to give up my life as a geek, I would say "No thanks," and go back to watching my DVDs of Quantum Leap (I own all five seasons!).

Eventually, no matter how tame our youth, we meet the real world where we all have to take the same responsibilities and suffer the same hardships as everyone else. We realize that our world isn't the only one out there and that loyalty is much more rare than it was in high school. Soon enough, we become disillusioned by the world (hopefully not completely) and we need copious amounts of caffeine to help us wake up in the morning. Knowing this, I see nothing wrong with occasionally escaping into a bubble where you get excited about things like a new book coming out or taking your weekly trip to Las Palmas with the same three girls you saw earlier that day. I hope that the day I stop deriving joy from these things is the day I die. Long live the geeks of the world, and God bless.

Camaraderie through Hate

I like a lot of popular things: Harry Potter, pop music, skinny jeans, The Office, and Barack Obama to name a few. But sometimes I find myself in the quite awkward position of deciding whether or not I want to admit to a group of people--generally comprised of a group of friends or people I want to impress--that I don't like something that they do or that is generally held in high-esteem in our culture at large.

For example, I don't like Seinfeld. In most cases, there's never any reason to admit this to anyone, but with this show (and also Family Guy since we're on the topic), I find that so many of my friends and acquaintances quote or reference it on a regular basis that I'm forced to admit that no, in fact, I have not seen that episode or, I'm sorry, but I don't know the name of George's friend to whom you are referring. With more avid fans, after I've fessed up to not particularly caring for the show, I'm met with wide-eyed stares and open-mouthed expressions followed by an exclamation of "What?!" Also, the people who do this tend to be taller than me, so it can be quite scary.

What I've found, however, is that, in general, friendships aren't busted or ruined just because one person admits to not loving the other person's FAVORITE THING EVER. And I've also found that great friendships can be formed when you discover that another person shares your distaste for something that everyone else seems to find appealing.

No one put the feeling of finding a new friend more succintly or accurately than C.S. Lewis who described the forming of friendship in his book The Four Loves:

Friendship arises out of mere Companionship when two or more of the companions discover that they have in common some insight or interest or even taste which the others do not share and which, till the moment, each believed to be his own unique treasure (or burden). The typical expression of opening Friendship would be something like, "What? You too? I thought I was the only one."...It is when two such persons discover one another, when, whether with immense difficulties and semi-articulate fumblings or with what would seem to us amazing and elliptical speed, they share their vision--it is then that Friendship is born. And instantly they stand together in an immense solitude.

Admittedly, Lewis is speaking here of friendships forming over a shared like or interest rather than a shared contempt or loathing, but I think the sentiment still applies. Now of course, long-lasting friendships are better formed through common likes instead of dislikes. Obviously, it's easier for two people who enjoy skiing to share a meaningful experience with one another by going skiing than it is for two people who hate skiing to share a meaningful experience by not skiing. That is, of course, unless a large group of companions is on a skiing trip, and the two non-skiers decide to spend their time together in the hot tub or getting drunk on hot toddies in the lodge.

Those of you who know me well and have spoken to me in, oh, the past nine months, might know that, since that time, I have been trying to read The Fountainhead by Ayn Rand. Okay, so that's a lie. When I say I've been "trying" to read it, what I really mean is that I read it diligently for a couple of weeks before realizing that I kept falling asleep while reading it on my morning commute and I would be better served by finding some material that would keep me awake. So I put it down for a while, and then after several people kept telling me how much Ayn Rand had changed their lives (The Fountainhead is my boyfriend's favorite book), I picked it back up with no such luck. This is an 800+ page novel that I do not like and find extremely pretentious and boring. I understand that a lot of people disagree with me and that these people tend to disagree with me strongly. When met with such people, I generally tell them that Rand would probably be proud of me (though she might think I'm an idiot) for refusing to pretend I like something just because other people do. Touché!

But I've also found that Rand is a rather polarizing figure and there are just as many people out there in the world who don't like her writing as there are people who love it. I can think of several people with whom I've been able to bond after finding out that they agreed with me on this issue. Sure, none of these people have become my best friends because we have this one thing in common, but it's nice to have something to share. It makes me feel like part of a team. Or, I guess, an anti-team.

The other night I had drinks with a man whom I've known since my junior year of college. Our relationship is strictly professional, though we do meet every so often just to catch up with what's going on in one another's lives. He's several years older than I am, so our conversations don't generally stray far from the general "What's new with you? How's the job? Where are you living now?" line of questioning.

The night began with the usual updates on each of our lives--what was going on at work and in our personal lives--the usual small talk. At one point we came around to the topic of books. Since we both work in the publishing industry to one degree our another, this wasn't too odd of a conversation to have, but, surprisingly, it was one we hadn't had before. I told him that I tend to read fiction in my spare time and that I tend to prefer contemporary fiction over classics. He was the opposite, saying he normally couldn't stand the stuff that was written today and opted for classics in most cases. We then discussed our favorite books--he gave me recommendations of classics I should read and I told him about some of my favorite, more modern novels.

I tend to enjoy plot- and character-driven narratives to more analytical or expository novels (hence why I still haven't made it through The Fountainhead). I enjoy thinking when I read, don't get me wrong, but I hate pretension and the feeling that the author is trying to be deep for the sake of being deep. Give me a good story, dammit! If I wanted an essay or a treatise, I'd read one. But I digress.

The gentleman I was with works with very prominent and very highbrow writers on a regular basis--it's part of his job, so I figured he was probably into that kind of stuff. So, it was with some hesitation that I admitted I didn't like Ian McEwan novels. Okay, I've never actually read a whole novel of his, but I tried reading Saturday and couldn't get through it. I ended up giving it away because I had resolved so strongly to never even attempt to read it again.

"Me neither!" he exclaimed to my sheer joy and amazement. "I can't stand his writing."

Oh thank god! I was afraid he would tell me that Ian McEwan was one of his oldest and dearest friends and that he considered him the greatest novelist that had ever lived. He told me that, in fact, he has met Mr. McEwan on a few occasions and that he was actually impressed by his eloquence and speaking ability. I have no doubt, but it was so nice to know that a man I respect and like immensely shares my distaste for a novelist whom most consider prolific and profound.

After that discovery, the evening's conversation flowed even more freely than it had before. He even high-fived me when I told him that American Psycho was one of my favorite books of all time. I had earned some street-cred. Nice! At the end of the night, we hugged goodbye and resolved to "Do this again soon sometime." He said he had had a pleasant evening, and I could tell by the exuberance in his voice and the wide grin on his face that he meant it, and I truly believe that the turning point in what had already been up to that point a very lovely evening, was the discover that Yes, he too felt that same way

Confessions of a Workaholic

In The Shining, one of my favorite films of all time, there's a classic scene in which Wendy, played by Shelley Duvall, discovers a stack of typed papers left on a desk by her husband, Jack, played by Jack Nicholson. Throughout the film, we have been led to believe that Jack has been working on his latest book, but instead, Wendy finds that the only thing written on the page is the phrase "All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy." This is a very frightening scene and is pivotal in the development of Jack's character. Although Jack starts out as a rather odd and unsettling character, this scene occurs just before he goes flat-out bat-shit crazy.

There's absolutely no point in me bringing that scene up except that I wanted to introduce the phrase "all work and no play" before I begin my examination of the topic at hand, which, if you haven't guessed by the title of this post, is workaholism.

For those of you who know me, you might be familiar with my deep-seated perfectionism and my inability to not overreact to the slightest stresses in my life. I will be the first to admit that this has posed some problems in my life--not any major ones, thankfully--but I'm not proud of it and sometimes I really wish there was something actually called a "chill pill."

My mother is probably more familiar with this side of me than anyone--mostly because I know I can freak out to her about the stupidest little thing and, not only will she make me feel better, but she'll still love me at the end of the day and won't seriously wonder about my sanity. My mother will be glad to know that yoga has done a good job of filling in for her since I've moved out on my own. But I digress.

Last weekend was the first weekend in several months where I haven't had any work to do. I'm not complaining about my workload. It's not like I'm the only one at my office who has to work on the weekend. In fact, it pretty much comes with the territory, and, in general, I enjoy the work, but it is kind of a pain in the ass to have to sit inside in front of your computer on a bright sunny day line-editing a book. But last weekend was perfect. The weather was gorgeous--highs in the mid-eighties on both Saturday and Sunday--and I really had not one ounce of work to do. I went to brunch on Saturday with some friends, lounged around Central Park in the afternoon, bought a box of strawberry popsicles at a Duane Reed and split them with three other girls, and later had dinner with my boyfriend. On Sunday, my boyfriend took me for a ride on his motorcycle outside of the city, and even though it was like 90 degrees or something, and I was dressed in a heavy jacket, jeans, and leather boots, I had a fantastic time. Later I came home and read for fun. I cannot complain.

Then Monday came. Monday's are fine. Today was rather busy, but nothing too crazy. I got everything done I needed to get done. But, one of my authors owed me a chapter of her book today and she never sent it to me. I emailed her to ask for an update, and even called her at the end of the day to ask her to send it to my personal email address if she was ready to send it that evening so I could start working on it tonight. I wanted to start working on it tonight so that way I could get it done by the end of the week so I could, maybe, if it's not to much to ask, have yet another work-free weekend. But I never got it, so now I'm left to NOT do work on a Monday night. This greatly disturbs me.

When I plan on having work to do, I want to have work to do. I want to get it over and done with so I don't have to worry about it anymore. When I think I should have work to do and I don't, I start to think of all of the other work-related things I might do to pass the time. Is this normal? I feel like most people in my situation would just say to themselves, "Oh well. One more free night. I'm going to watch a movie." Not me, instead, I feel the need to write about it. I haven't done work outside of the office in FOUR DAYS (I was sick on Friday, so I didn't go into the office). I feel unproductive. I feel lazy. I feel like I'm falling behind. Plus, I'm a little pissed off that the longer I wait, the more work I'll have to do this weekend. This, I believe, is a normal feeling.

So, in essence, I think that Jack and I are very different people. Where working all of the time makes him dull, playing all of the time makes me crazy. Lord knows what I'll do when I retire.

So, it's 10:16 p.m. It doesn't look like I'm getting this chapter tonight, which is fine because I'm kind of tired. I guess I'll take some deep breaths, read for a bit, and then go to bed. I'll just work some more tomorrow.

Oscar

The following piece was inspired by a conversation I heard while eating dinner at a restaurant in the Lower East Side last Saturday night. Enjoy.

“I just want to live somewhere beautiful. I want to wake up in the morning and be able to walk outside and down to the beach. I want to be able to wear sandals every day of the year, and I want to live somewhere that’s sunny and warm.”

We were in the middle of dinner. Oscar, my date, was telling me about his deep-seated desire to leave New York. He’d been at it for about twenty minutes.

“And I don’t want to live there in fifteen years. I don’t want to live there in ten. I want to live there tomorrow. As soon as I’m done with NYU, I’m getting out of here. The day I leave New York will be the happiest day of my life.”

My initial thought was to say “New York will be happy to see you go.” But instead I said, “What do you hate about New York so much?”

“It’s too much. It’s too dark. Everyone is so stressed out all the time. There’s no poetry. There’s no life. Everyone who lives in New York walks around like they’re dead inside.”

“I live in New York. Are you saying I’m dead inside?”

“Well what do you have here? You have a small apartment that you pay way too much for. You have a cat. You have a job you hate.”

“I don’t hate my job.”

“You work all the time.”

“So? That doesn’t mean I hate my job. Maybe that means I love my job.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Enlighten me.”

He sighed heavily and rolled his eyes as if I had said the dumbest thing he had ever heard. He was frustrated at my inability to understand him.

“Never mind.” He reached for his glass of cabernet and took a sip. “You don’t get it.”

“Please. I beg you. Enlighten me.”

He didn’t catch my sarcasm.

“You think that because you moved to New York so many people want to be you. That you’ve accomplished something. That this is it. That you’ve made it. If only everyone could be so lucky.”

“I don’t think that at all actually. I would love to live somewhere else.”

“Well then why don’t you. If you hate it here, why don’t you leave?”

“I never said I hated it here. If I hated it here, I’d leave. I love it here.”

“You just said you want to live somewhere else.”

“I said that I would like to live somewhere else, but unfortunately you can’t live two places at once, and so I have to choose, and for now I choose New York.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you choose New York?”

“Because my job is here and I love my job. And I like the city. I like the people here.”

“You came here to work in an office all day?”

“I came here to be a book editor. And that’s what I am.”

He scoffed and took another sip of wine as if that was supposed to communicate something to me.

“What?”

“You build your life around your job?” He obviously thought this was hilarious.

“No, but my job is important to me. It’s not my life, but it’s important to me. I don’t understand why that’s a bad thing.”

“You’ve made your job your identity.”

“No. Why are you chastising me for being paid to do something I love to do? If you could get paid for being pompous, wouldn’t you?” I didn’t say that last part. I should have.

“Forget it.”

“Okay.” I was still pissed but I just wanted the conversation to end. Maybe if he shut up long enough to eat his dinner, which had been sitting in front of him for a good half an hour, we could leave sooner. I started to eat my food—chicken parmesan—in silence. I was through promoting any more conversation with Oscar. I resolved to just smile and nod at anything he said. And if, after an hour, he still wasn’t through eating, I would lie and say I had to be somewhere.

“It’s so lovely being able to talk to you about things like this.” He smiled warmly at me and reached his hand across the table as if to suggest I should take it . I almost choked.

“What?”

“You’re just so easy to talk to.”

Was he kidding? I remembered my resolution.

“Thanks.”

“You’re the most honest person I've ever met.”

“Hmm.” I nodded and pretended to be examining my fork with great interest.

“I’m so glad I met you.”

“Yeah.” I continued nodding. “It’s just too bad you’ll be leaving in May.”

Shit.

“I never said I was leaving in May.”

I looked up and met his eyes. “You just said you wanted to leave New York as soon as you graduated. Aren’t you
graduating in May?”

“Yeah, but I might stick around for a bit. I mean, I’ll need to save some money obviously.” Apparently, I should’ve been able to figure that out for myself. I guess I was just being hopeful.

“Oh, that’s not what you said.”

He chuckled. “You’re funny.” He rubbed his foot against my shin underneath the table. I was immediately sorry I had worn a skirt.

“I might take a trip to Paris in the summer.”

“Oh, that’s nice.” I had gone back to examining my plate.

“You should come.”

“Maybe.”

“Have you ever been to Paris?”

“No.”

“Really?!” He seemed genuinely surprised. “Never?”

“Nope.” I shook my head.

“My family used to summer there. My great aunt has this beautiful villa about an hour outside the city. It’s
fabulous.”

“Sounds like it.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never been to Paris.”

“Why? A lot of people have never been to Paris.” Not everyone has a wealthy great aunt, asshole.

“Yeah, but you pretend to be so cultured.”

“I’m sorry?” I looked at him again. Direct eye contact was the only defense I could muster that wouldn’t cause a scene in the middle of the restaurant.

“Well, I mean, you work in publishing, and you talk about literature all the time. Paris is a writers’ city.”

“So is New York.”

“Yeah, but New York is so…” he picked up his glass of wine and made a sweeping gesture with his hands before he took another sip. Once again, this was supposed to mean something to me.

“So what?”

“You know.” He smiled. I guess he actually thought I knew.

“American?”

“Exactly!”

“Ahh.”

I took the last bite of my meal. I officially had no excuse to avoid conversation or eye contact anymore. I drank some more wine.

“How’s your food?”

“It’s good.” He had still barely eaten any.

“Mind if I try some? I love salmon.” My new tactic was to just try to clear his plate as quickly as possible.

“Sure.”

I took a bite. “Wow. That’s really good.” It was okay.

“Yeah, it’s not bad. Of course, it’s not like wild Alaskan salmon. I grew up eating that.”

“Are you from Alaska?”

“Ha! No. I’m from Boston.”

“Naturally.”

“But my uncle lives in Alaska so we used to visit, and he used to take me fishing.”

I realized that my strategy of making mindless small talk had backfired.

“That’s cool.” I reached into my pocket for my phone. “Oh shit. My grandma is calling me. Do you mind if I answer it? I want to make sure nothing is wrong.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll be right back.” I grabbed my purse and headed outside. My phone had not rung. I put it in my pocket and walked down the street. This was tactic number three: stand Oscar up in the middle of our date so he would have just one more reason to hate New York and leave as soon as possible.

Writing Exercise Number 1

Tonight I attended a free fiction writing workshop at the Lincoln Center Barnes and Noble, presented by the Gotham Writers Workshop. I've been toying with the idea of taking a writing class for some time now, and I think I'm finally going to do it. I've been saving up all of this money, but I still haven't figured out what I'm saving it for, so I think I'm going to spend a little. Huzzah. It's time.

But, to get to the point of this post, I wanted to share the writing exercise I did for the workshop tonight (well, one of them) because I was actually sort of proud of it--seeing as I came up with it on the spot and had about five minutes to write it. The prompt was to write a scene in which a character we had created in an earlier exercise enters a waiting room at a therapist's office (the type of therapist was left up to us). So, here it is. It feels good to get this down.

Karen entered the room and immediately noticed how sterile it all seemed. Not sterile because it was clean, but sterile because despite the other patients in the room, it seemed lifeless.

She was out of breath by this point. She had run here from her office. She never wanted to be late--not even for an appointment with her shrink. She pulled off her scarf and wool coat, allowing her pink, hot skin to breath. She motioned toward the receptionist's desk, anxious and hesitant at the same time. She composed herself quickly and cleared her throat as she walked up to the window where a lady whose nametag read "Felicia" greeted her warmly.

"May I help you?" Felicia asked.

"Yes. I have an appointment with Dr. Schwartz for one o'clock."

"Sure. I just need you to fill out some paperwork for me," Felicia said as she handed her a clipboard. "You can sit right there."

Karen thanked Felicia and walked to the chair she had indicated. She sat down and began to write her name on the top of the first page, but instead she wrote her mother's.

"Fuck," she thought. "I'm turning into her."

Why I Am Still Awake Right Now

It's almost midnight. I wanted to go to bed early tonight. Of course, I say that to myself every night and I still end up going to bed at the same time. So why? Why am I still awake right now? I am tired. I went to bed at one this morning after staying out all night to watch the Oscars, which I don't regret. But, when the alarm went off at 6:30 this morning and the guy on NPR said the high was going to be in the lower 30s today and there would be winds up to 40 mph, I wanted to cry. Seriously I wanted to cry.

So, why am I still up right now. For several reasons.

I'm blogging. I feel compelled to write as much as possible. I can't stand myself when I make excuses for why I don't write more. "One day I'll write that book." No. Shut up. You won't. You'll just keep saying that until the day you die. "One day I'll go back to Italy." When? WHEN? So I'm up right now because I'm tired of making excuses for myself. Maybe I'll buy a ticket to Florence before the night is out.

I've been online shopping. This sounds lame, but I've been shopping for things for our apartment. I'm tired of living like a refugee or like I'm still in college. I am an adult and I want my apartment to be my home. I'm desperate for home. This little apartment in Queens is the only home I have. I want it to feel like the home I knew growing up. I want to put pictures of Italy (in frames!) on my walls. I want to have proper storage for things. I want to have a salad spinner and a flour sifter. I want to have a DESK! Though I won't. Not here. My room is too small.

I had to edit tonight. I asked my boss to shadow edit a manuscript, so he gave me one. It's just what I asked for. He gave me three chapters. I read the first one. It was good. The writing was a little clunky, but overall it was good. I work at home a lot. This is what I asked for. Sometimes people look at me with pity when I tell them that. They look at me like I'm overworked or like I'm making poor work-life balance choices. But I tell them that, in life you only have time to do certain things. You can't do everything, and you can only do a few things well. You have to figure out what your priorities are. Work just happens to be one of my priorities. Don't pity me for it, damn you. Don't act like I didn't make this choice.

I'm terrified about bed bugs. One of the things we need to acquire for our apartment is a step stool so we can utilize all of the above-the-cabinet storage space we have. I was walking down my block last night and found a small, splintered wooden step stool that someone had left on the side of the street as garbage. I grabbed it and brought it upstairs to my apartment. But I left in in the hallway for two reasons: 1) it was wet and 2) I'm terrified of bed bugs and bed bugs can live in wood. So, I decided to leave it outside of the apartment so I had some time to think it over. I went online today and learned that bed bugs can live in wood. In fact, they love to live in wood. And bed bugs are impossible to kill. Well, pretty much impossible. Plus, they're disgusting. Do you know how they procreate? It's revolting. So after reading that, I immediately started to feel itchy, and I had to keep telling myself that I was only itchy because my skin was dry and I was wearing a wool sweater. Needless to say, I put that stool right back on the curb as soon as I got home.

I feel unattractive. This happens a lot. I got my hair cut on Saturday. It's shorter than I intended it to be, but it's my own damn fault because I was so eager to chop off the stringy mess that had become my hair, that I didn't give a second thought to just how short I was asking her to go. People keep saying they like it. But I feel like I look either five years older than I am or like a pre-pubescent boy. Plus, I'm wearing my glasses again. I don't feel feminine. I feel completely undesirable. And I can't help but wonder whether or not he would have liked it. And I hate myself for that. I hate that his opinion would still matter to me if he ever decided to give it. I hate the fact that I need anyone's opinion to validate me, especially his.

So I'm still up, but I'm going to bed now. Hopefully not to dream about him. Not again, not tonight. I need to rest.

So, good night. Sleep tight. And for heaven's sake, don't let the bed bugs bite.