My parents are interesting. If you've ever met me, you would know that I had to be raised by lunatics. They aren't conventionally crazy, but more like black sitcom crazy. When I was born my mother wanted to name me Stephanie (among other things, don't even get me started on my middle name) but my father refused. He didn't want people calling me Fanny or some other hideous nickname. So they settled on Stephane. It's of French origin and is the equivalent of Steven in the states. Apparently the name comes from the Bible. Stephane was a believer that got stoned to death for proclaiming his beliefs. Again, my parents are crazy.
Growing up, no one in my family ever called me Stephane; they all called me by my nickname (which I won't disclose here). But when school started and my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Weitz, pronounced my name Stephanie, I had no idea how to correct her. By that point, I had barely heard my government name said aloud and because my parents were immigrants, I assumed that that's how you say Stephane in English. So from kindergarten to high school, I was always known as Stephanie. It never really bothered me and most people called me Steph anyways.
But the summer before college, I decided I wasn't going to let other people dictate my identity. A name is an important characteristic of one's self. A Veronica will never act like an Annie. A Cynthia is treated differently than a Melissa. People act like their names. Think about it. If someone behaves differently than their name, they always develop a nickname that suits them better. I always knew that I was living a lie as a Stephanie because deep down I was definitely a Stephane.
Unfortunately New York University didn't feel the same way and changed my name on the school roster to Stephanie. Now maybe they assumed I made a spelling mistake on my application, but then why would you accept a student that couldn't even spell their own name? One word: Diversity. Even the SATs give you 200 bonus points just for getting your alias correct.
So throughout college, I had to correct every professor who pronounced my name Stephanie, further simplifying the stereotype of the "black girl with an attitude". You should have seen it. I would go "Actually it's pronounced Stephane". The professor would reply "Oh it's spelled Stephanie on the roster" and I would have to say "Yeah well NYU spelled my name wrong. I know how my name is pronounced". Usually I would add a head roll and finger snaps just for emphasis sake. Classy.
Usually I never had a problem with my name, but having a boy's name can be tricky at times. I get a lot of call backs for interviews because people assume I'm a guy. Plus it's a good icebreaker when meeting someone new for the first time. Yet there have also been times when it's done more harm than good. Like when I studied abroad in Paris. When I met with my homestay family for the first time and she asked my name. After I said "Stephane" in my faux-Parisian accent, she turned to her daughter in horror and I realized I committed a faux-pas. She begged me to tell her that my name was actually Stephanie, but after I spelled it out for her, she resigned to accept her fate. Turns out her ex-boyfriend's name was also Stephane and he was a complete and utter douchebag. So having me in the house everyday became a constant reminder of her heart being ripped out. Don't worry, me and my surrogate mother are besties now, but that first week was a little rough.
Another strange example of how my name has affected people happened just last week. I was in the laundromat with my mother at the buttcrack of dawn and this man came up to me to tell me how beautiful I am. I don't want you to think I'm being cocky. People that roam the laundromat and have no laundry are clinically insane. Especially the ones that do it before 9am. He kept pestering me for my name and I wouldn't tell him. After five minutes of this and realizing he was one of those persistent types (my least favorite of the male hookup species. After that is the guys who compliment you and then after recognizing your dismissal proceed to let you know they weren't interested in you. "You wuz mad ugly anywayz" Really? Then why are you hitting on me? But I digress) I let him know my moniker. You should have seen his reaction. His body got tense and one of his eyes started to bulge. It was like he was turning into the Incredible Hulk, but the hood version. I asked him if he was okay and he started to stammer out nonsensical garbage. "Are you....I can't believe this...I can't...there's no real nice way...Oh my gosh...Really though?..." I couldn't make out what he was trying to ask me and I asked him if he needed help.
Finally he blurts out in a quiet whisper "Are you a woman?"
"What do you mean?"
Clearly frustrated he responds "Were you born a woman?"
"Huh?"
"ARE YOU A TRANNY?" He yelled.
Seeing that I was trying his patience, I finally let him know that I was indeed born a woman and that there was no sausage in my pants. He seemed relieved and let me know that he "had been caught before" and that the "prettiest ones be the trannies". The most incredible part of this story is that after my admission, he proceeded to still get my number. After I laughed him off and told him I'm not interested, he informed me that I shouldn't be offended by his comments because I'm not a tranny. Good to know. Ladies if a man suggests that you're a transgender and you actually aren't, then you shouldn't be appalled. He's just investigating before he ends up on a Maury episode. I should inform you that during this whole ordeal, my mother was standing right next to me, laughing hysterically and looking like a crazy person. Only I know that she named me Stephane so she could enjoy moments like that.
Showing posts with label adulthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label adulthood. Show all posts
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
cause my alma mater hates me...
Friday, January 21, 2011
a case of boys and women....
Yesterday was weird. I was at work, trying to actually do work. But that's not the weird part. For most of January, my office has been completely empty. With most of the faculty on vacation or on winter session trips abroad (India and Bangladesh), NYU becomes a ghost town. I don't really mind it at all. A little solitude works for me. I play my youtube playlist, eat my homemade lunch, and gchat for the majority of the day. The only sour note is when one of my several stalkers come to visit (I'm referring to you, Mailman, who has decided to call me "Love" and "Sweetie" and the lesbian security guard who mistakes my politeness as a desire to get it on). But yesterday, people decided to show up.
Now one the graduate students in the program, Cindy, came to meet with one of the professors. Cindy is chill, a little too bubbly for my distinct taste, but has a good heart and doesn't tolerate bullshit. Cindy is a young, attractive, smart blonde who desires to be married by 30. She's basically the Elle Woods of NYU Graduate scene. She's from the Midwest and has certain ideals about love, relationships, and marriage. She wants the whole package and is tired of New York boys (And yes all males in New York are boys. Men are a very rare species here). She's constantly complaining that all the guys she goes out with are douche bags and the ones that like her, she doesn't feel any physical attraction for. I understand that this must be aggravating, but I can't really offer any solace. I was raised in the NYC dating fiasco. No one in New York wants a real relationship. We juggle several people at once and are striving to succeed at our careers. A lot of the time we put intimacy on the back burner--especially the men here. They don't have a biological clock. When they're ready to settle down (at around age 40), they'll hook up with a young, ripe, 22 year old (like me!). This seems to infuriate Cindy, and I don't blame her. But we can't change society.
Look at The Millionaire Matchmaker. Several of my friends received casting emails to be on the show. No one I knew actually went to the casting but six month later, I was at home, watching television, when I saw my friend Carolyn on the fucking show. It blew my fucking mind. Not only was Carolyn on the show, but she got picked to go on the super exclusive mixer date, where Patti, the show's host, only allowed four females to attend. Now it wasn't that I don't like Carolyn (I actually think she's a sweetheart), but she's only 22 years old. She just graduated college when she was picked for the show and now you want to marry her off to some 35 year old millionaire. That seems crazy to me. What would they talk about? College Bars and dorm room fires? Get the fuck out of here. I don't believe in marriage at a young age, especially when you don't know yourself sufficiently to make a decision to stay with someone for the rest of your life! What's the rush? At 22 years old, I don't think the biological clock is ticking. I don't even think there are batteries in it. So calm the fuck down, young girls. Live a little. Don't let a man put you away in a big house to keep you as a trophy. Sure you can have a sugar daddy (and if you find one, let me know if he's interested in a group rate. I have bills that need to be paid), but don't limit yourself just yet.
Granted I'm devastated at the image of the 20 year old bride, but how will I feel when I'm the forty year old spinster with my cats. I'm not sure. Somehow in all my Gloria Steinem pride, I still envision myself getting married and having a family (but then again Gloria got married too--to Christian Bale's father). However my current actions aren't really helping that image become a reality. So I'm reminded of Cindy, who brought up the point that if you're not actively searching for Mr. Right right now, who's to blame when you don't find him? If Cindy, the prototype for all things girly can't find a man that wants to settle down with her, what hope does the ball buster, who wears oxfords and button downs have? Fuck it, I'm moving to the South. I hear there are real men out there.
Now one the graduate students in the program, Cindy, came to meet with one of the professors. Cindy is chill, a little too bubbly for my distinct taste, but has a good heart and doesn't tolerate bullshit. Cindy is a young, attractive, smart blonde who desires to be married by 30. She's basically the Elle Woods of NYU Graduate scene. She's from the Midwest and has certain ideals about love, relationships, and marriage. She wants the whole package and is tired of New York boys (And yes all males in New York are boys. Men are a very rare species here). She's constantly complaining that all the guys she goes out with are douche bags and the ones that like her, she doesn't feel any physical attraction for. I understand that this must be aggravating, but I can't really offer any solace. I was raised in the NYC dating fiasco. No one in New York wants a real relationship. We juggle several people at once and are striving to succeed at our careers. A lot of the time we put intimacy on the back burner--especially the men here. They don't have a biological clock. When they're ready to settle down (at around age 40), they'll hook up with a young, ripe, 22 year old (like me!). This seems to infuriate Cindy, and I don't blame her. But we can't change society.
Look at The Millionaire Matchmaker. Several of my friends received casting emails to be on the show. No one I knew actually went to the casting but six month later, I was at home, watching television, when I saw my friend Carolyn on the fucking show. It blew my fucking mind. Not only was Carolyn on the show, but she got picked to go on the super exclusive mixer date, where Patti, the show's host, only allowed four females to attend. Now it wasn't that I don't like Carolyn (I actually think she's a sweetheart), but she's only 22 years old. She just graduated college when she was picked for the show and now you want to marry her off to some 35 year old millionaire. That seems crazy to me. What would they talk about? College Bars and dorm room fires? Get the fuck out of here. I don't believe in marriage at a young age, especially when you don't know yourself sufficiently to make a decision to stay with someone for the rest of your life! What's the rush? At 22 years old, I don't think the biological clock is ticking. I don't even think there are batteries in it. So calm the fuck down, young girls. Live a little. Don't let a man put you away in a big house to keep you as a trophy. Sure you can have a sugar daddy (and if you find one, let me know if he's interested in a group rate. I have bills that need to be paid), but don't limit yourself just yet.
Granted I'm devastated at the image of the 20 year old bride, but how will I feel when I'm the forty year old spinster with my cats. I'm not sure. Somehow in all my Gloria Steinem pride, I still envision myself getting married and having a family (but then again Gloria got married too--to Christian Bale's father). However my current actions aren't really helping that image become a reality. So I'm reminded of Cindy, who brought up the point that if you're not actively searching for Mr. Right right now, who's to blame when you don't find him? If Cindy, the prototype for all things girly can't find a man that wants to settle down with her, what hope does the ball buster, who wears oxfords and button downs have? Fuck it, I'm moving to the South. I hear there are real men out there.
Wednesday, January 19, 2011
hump day...
I'm sitting at my desk at work, bored beyond belief. The Internet holds nothing for me and I've already posted like 6 things to my facebook wall. I'm contemplating cracking open a bottle of vino but I don't want to be the only one drunk at work. Although it wouldn't be a first. The saddest part is that I was on craigslist looking for job opportunity. Note to self, when looking for jobs online, don't use craigslist. If you're in the tv/film category usually all they're ever looking for are extras, porn models, and weird "Are you fat and proud of it" applicants.
I'm just so over being stuck. I've been in the same place for eight months and I thought things would move on a little quicker. After graduating college, I thought things would just fall into place. Sure I don't have a "plan" per say, but I assumed I would rub elbows with the right people and then I would be successful. I look at bitches like Lena Dunham who has the life I want right now. She's a writer/actor/director and won the highest award at SouthxSouthwest. She's developing a series for HBO with Judd Apatow, adapting a screenplay, and working on her own projects. Did I mention this harlot is only two years older than me? While I don't actually think she's a bitch (the jury is still out whether she's a harlot), I'm supremely jealous. What does she have that I don't have? Possibly talent, but that's besides the point. Why can't I lead her life?
The most aggravating aspect of my life at this stage is the lack of a blueprint. It seems for every other career, there's a certain pathway that one should follow in order to end up at a desired destination. But when your goal is to be a filmmaker, the road ahead of you is blocked by wild vines, poisonous trees, and unpaved stones. It's fucked up. I've gone from the life of being an aspiring doctor where I knew where my life was going for the next six years, to be a slacker. I hate it. I want to be making moves. I want to Fuck Bitches and Get Money, but I don't have the tools.
I guess I can't rely on the kindness of strangers and I'm going to have to pull myself up by my over-the-knee boots. It's not that I'm adverse to hard work, but I'm terrified of failing--especially if I have no one else to blame but myself. The worst part of this "hard labour" is that it doesn't pay well. I get that I have to "pay my dues" but damn why is the interest rate so high. Being broke doesn't look good on me.
I know I'm whining and simply looking for the easy way out, but you shouldn't judge me. It's hard to suddenly know where your life is going and then to realize that it was all an illusion. The worst part is that I'm contemplating the corporate path. When they say benefits, it isn't just the health insurance (which as most kids may age know, isn't something to scoff at), the the knowledge that your life is stable. You can plan vacations and dinners because you have a fixed income. I'm afraid to buy shoes cause what if that freelance check doesn't arrive this month. Alright, enough of this complaining. Tomorrow I'm going to be rejuvenated and start kicking ass. But tonight will be a movie night and nail painting.
I'm just so over being stuck. I've been in the same place for eight months and I thought things would move on a little quicker. After graduating college, I thought things would just fall into place. Sure I don't have a "plan" per say, but I assumed I would rub elbows with the right people and then I would be successful. I look at bitches like Lena Dunham who has the life I want right now. She's a writer/actor/director and won the highest award at SouthxSouthwest. She's developing a series for HBO with Judd Apatow, adapting a screenplay, and working on her own projects. Did I mention this harlot is only two years older than me? While I don't actually think she's a bitch (the jury is still out whether she's a harlot), I'm supremely jealous. What does she have that I don't have? Possibly talent, but that's besides the point. Why can't I lead her life?
The most aggravating aspect of my life at this stage is the lack of a blueprint. It seems for every other career, there's a certain pathway that one should follow in order to end up at a desired destination. But when your goal is to be a filmmaker, the road ahead of you is blocked by wild vines, poisonous trees, and unpaved stones. It's fucked up. I've gone from the life of being an aspiring doctor where I knew where my life was going for the next six years, to be a slacker. I hate it. I want to be making moves. I want to Fuck Bitches and Get Money, but I don't have the tools.
I guess I can't rely on the kindness of strangers and I'm going to have to pull myself up by my over-the-knee boots. It's not that I'm adverse to hard work, but I'm terrified of failing--especially if I have no one else to blame but myself. The worst part of this "hard labour" is that it doesn't pay well. I get that I have to "pay my dues" but damn why is the interest rate so high. Being broke doesn't look good on me.
I know I'm whining and simply looking for the easy way out, but you shouldn't judge me. It's hard to suddenly know where your life is going and then to realize that it was all an illusion. The worst part is that I'm contemplating the corporate path. When they say benefits, it isn't just the health insurance (which as most kids may age know, isn't something to scoff at), the the knowledge that your life is stable. You can plan vacations and dinners because you have a fixed income. I'm afraid to buy shoes cause what if that freelance check doesn't arrive this month. Alright, enough of this complaining. Tomorrow I'm going to be rejuvenated and start kicking ass. But tonight will be a movie night and nail painting.
Tuesday, December 28, 2010
watching the ball drop
We are vastly approaching a new year and I'm going through the typical motions of deciding plans for new years and picking out outfits. After last night's blizzard, it looks like I'm going to be home-bound and snugged up tight with my hot chocolate and watching Dustin Hoffman movies (Totally just watched a marathon of Kramer Vs Kramer and Tootsie!). Even though I might not be partying it up until the ball drops, I have been thinking a lot about this upcoming year. Even though 2010 was filled with momentuous occassions, including graduating college, I feel that 2011 is going to be EPIC. Don't ask me why, it's just a feeling I have. Now I've probably already cursed myself and 2011 will most likely be a year I wish to erase from facebook, but I remain optimistic nonetheless.
Traditionally I don't make resolutions. I don't believe in waiting for a new year to better myself and I don't like the sense of defeat that takes over when I don't achieve my goals. However, I am adopting a certain motto that I believe is going to exemplify the year: GO HARD! I want to go hard at everything I do in the upcoming year. Regardless of what the task, I want to make sure I get exactly what I want out of it. This is the year where I start making progress in my life, and not just in my career. I want every aspect of my life to blossom. I want to be more culturally advanced and experience things I've never done before. I want to meet people that I wouldn't typically meet. I want take charge and make strides. I want it all in 2011. Will I get there? Maybe not in the full course of a year, but I will further along that yellow brick road and see the neon emerald lights in the distance.
I've spent so much of my short life anticipating this "time". I would always say "wait till I finish college". I got through so many of life's hiccups because I knew once I was 22, I would be able to live. Now almost 23 years old, I'm realizing that the idea of living terrifies me. It might possibly not be the idea of living, but the possibility of failure. I've spent so much time imagining my life from this moment onward, that the thought that I won't make it, rattles my weak bones and freezes me in place.
But with 2011, I'm going to Go Hard and accept all the setbacks and mishaps with open arms because with their arrival also comes knowledge and the understanding that at least I tried. So fuck it if I don't get the job of my dreams, at least I made enough contacts to get me there someday. And I'm not going to put all my energy solely into my career as I've done in the past. I'm going experience everything, good and bad. So while everyone is shitfaced, blowing streamers, watching the ball drop and anticipating their hangovers and bloodshot eyes that are bound to come the following morning, I'll be tucked in bed, getting a good night's sleep. I have a big year ahead of me and I intend to be prepared.
Traditionally I don't make resolutions. I don't believe in waiting for a new year to better myself and I don't like the sense of defeat that takes over when I don't achieve my goals. However, I am adopting a certain motto that I believe is going to exemplify the year: GO HARD! I want to go hard at everything I do in the upcoming year. Regardless of what the task, I want to make sure I get exactly what I want out of it. This is the year where I start making progress in my life, and not just in my career. I want every aspect of my life to blossom. I want to be more culturally advanced and experience things I've never done before. I want to meet people that I wouldn't typically meet. I want take charge and make strides. I want it all in 2011. Will I get there? Maybe not in the full course of a year, but I will further along that yellow brick road and see the neon emerald lights in the distance.
I've spent so much of my short life anticipating this "time". I would always say "wait till I finish college". I got through so many of life's hiccups because I knew once I was 22, I would be able to live. Now almost 23 years old, I'm realizing that the idea of living terrifies me. It might possibly not be the idea of living, but the possibility of failure. I've spent so much time imagining my life from this moment onward, that the thought that I won't make it, rattles my weak bones and freezes me in place.
But with 2011, I'm going to Go Hard and accept all the setbacks and mishaps with open arms because with their arrival also comes knowledge and the understanding that at least I tried. So fuck it if I don't get the job of my dreams, at least I made enough contacts to get me there someday. And I'm not going to put all my energy solely into my career as I've done in the past. I'm going experience everything, good and bad. So while everyone is shitfaced, blowing streamers, watching the ball drop and anticipating their hangovers and bloodshot eyes that are bound to come the following morning, I'll be tucked in bed, getting a good night's sleep. I have a big year ahead of me and I intend to be prepared.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
my personal motto...
Yesterday I read an article on cosmo.com that raised questions in my head all day. It was about the perfect age to get married. Apparently the experts at Cosmo feel that age 25 is the perfect age for a female to tie the knot. They didn't mention anything about the potential spouse's age, but they confirmed that a woman knows herself around age 25 and can handle pressures of a marriage. Now I don't really care when a chick decides to jump the broom. As long as none of my friends pops out a kid prior to 25, I'm good money. But I started evaluating my life after reading that article. Hey sometimes Cosmo can do that to a girl.
I'm realizing that my feminist attitude towards life may be a hindrance as well. In many ways my motto in life is "Fuck Bitches. Get Money". I don't really care for the icky entanglements of a relationship. I would much rather flirt with a bevy of boys until I get bored and then move onto another crop then to be tied down to boy that wants to divulge his mommy issues. Gross. However, the selection pool is getting slimmer and slimmer and realistically how much longer can I go on without a real relationship? When I look at my future, the most prevalently consistent theme is my career. I want to be an actor/direct/producer/philanthropist. But I do want to be a wife/mother/baker extraordinaire. Those two sides of myself don't reconcile very well with each other and I think the career side won out because I've had the most control over that particular area of my life. I can't choose when and with whom I fall in love. But I can choose which internship to apply for and where to send my resume.
I think the lack of control in a relationship is my biggest turn-off to the whole endeavor. Once you're in a relationship, you have to learn to compromise. My parents have been madly in love for over thirty years and it shows. They work extremely hard at their relationship and put in the time and effort to make it work. However, they both had to sacrifice some of their dreams to get there. If you ask either of them, they don't regret it, but they wish it could have worked out somewhat differently. I don't want to become a slave to my relationship and not be able to fulfill myself. However in my attempt to guard my heart and personal vision, I've built a wall so high and sturdy that even I couldn't climb over it. I've been so safe in terms of boys and have just chocked up every chink in my armor to a stupid boy who didn't mean anything and then I'm "on to the next one". I've even gone so far to sabotage futures with people I really cared about because I didn't want to risk falling in love.
In the past few days, I realized that I was crushing on this boy and I didn't know how to handle it. I care about him, but I can't see a future with him. I only see the potential heartbreak. I've never seen a future with anyone (well except for one kid, but I can't even go into that. I'm still upset with myself over that. And no amount of facebook stalking will relieve that). Maybe I'm not meant to fall "in love". Maybe I should remain content with falling "in lust".
The weirdest thing is that it doesn't make me upset. I've resigned to the fact that the world is ending before I have to deal with people wondering why I'm the old spinster.Yet even my dad told me the other day that I need to find a boyfriend. Thanks for the pressure dad. It used to be "Finish school!" and now it's "Find a husband". Everyone has these expectations of the trajectory that your life should take, especially as a female. First you finish college, then you find a husband and then you have kids. It's as if my college education was simply our new age form of a dowry. The more higher education, the better the prospects you can attract (the same can also be said for breasts).
I'm not sure that I'm ready to deal with this aspect of my life. I also need to stop becoming friends with people that I could like. I hate the thought of potentially ruining a friendship. I think our generation has also forgone dating, and now we're content with the facebooking and sending text messages in lieu of actual connection. Plus I don't like it when creepy guys facebook me. So where do I find this gentlemen of quality? The most consistent answer I get is "on the train". That sounds like a good idea in theory, and I've seen some hot tamales on the L, but if you know me, you also know that the weirdos love to attack me while I'm on public transit. I've got a story for stop on the L train.
All I know is that I need to figure out what I'm going to do soon. Till then, as always, Fuck Bitches. Get Money.
I'm realizing that my feminist attitude towards life may be a hindrance as well. In many ways my motto in life is "Fuck Bitches. Get Money". I don't really care for the icky entanglements of a relationship. I would much rather flirt with a bevy of boys until I get bored and then move onto another crop then to be tied down to boy that wants to divulge his mommy issues. Gross. However, the selection pool is getting slimmer and slimmer and realistically how much longer can I go on without a real relationship? When I look at my future, the most prevalently consistent theme is my career. I want to be an actor/direct/producer/philanthropist. But I do want to be a wife/mother/baker extraordinaire. Those two sides of myself don't reconcile very well with each other and I think the career side won out because I've had the most control over that particular area of my life. I can't choose when and with whom I fall in love. But I can choose which internship to apply for and where to send my resume.
I think the lack of control in a relationship is my biggest turn-off to the whole endeavor. Once you're in a relationship, you have to learn to compromise. My parents have been madly in love for over thirty years and it shows. They work extremely hard at their relationship and put in the time and effort to make it work. However, they both had to sacrifice some of their dreams to get there. If you ask either of them, they don't regret it, but they wish it could have worked out somewhat differently. I don't want to become a slave to my relationship and not be able to fulfill myself. However in my attempt to guard my heart and personal vision, I've built a wall so high and sturdy that even I couldn't climb over it. I've been so safe in terms of boys and have just chocked up every chink in my armor to a stupid boy who didn't mean anything and then I'm "on to the next one". I've even gone so far to sabotage futures with people I really cared about because I didn't want to risk falling in love.
In the past few days, I realized that I was crushing on this boy and I didn't know how to handle it. I care about him, but I can't see a future with him. I only see the potential heartbreak. I've never seen a future with anyone (well except for one kid, but I can't even go into that. I'm still upset with myself over that. And no amount of facebook stalking will relieve that). Maybe I'm not meant to fall "in love". Maybe I should remain content with falling "in lust".
The weirdest thing is that it doesn't make me upset. I've resigned to the fact that the world is ending before I have to deal with people wondering why I'm the old spinster.Yet even my dad told me the other day that I need to find a boyfriend. Thanks for the pressure dad. It used to be "Finish school!" and now it's "Find a husband". Everyone has these expectations of the trajectory that your life should take, especially as a female. First you finish college, then you find a husband and then you have kids. It's as if my college education was simply our new age form of a dowry. The more higher education, the better the prospects you can attract (the same can also be said for breasts).
I'm not sure that I'm ready to deal with this aspect of my life. I also need to stop becoming friends with people that I could like. I hate the thought of potentially ruining a friendship. I think our generation has also forgone dating, and now we're content with the facebooking and sending text messages in lieu of actual connection. Plus I don't like it when creepy guys facebook me. So where do I find this gentlemen of quality? The most consistent answer I get is "on the train". That sounds like a good idea in theory, and I've seen some hot tamales on the L, but if you know me, you also know that the weirdos love to attack me while I'm on public transit. I've got a story for stop on the L train.
All I know is that I need to figure out what I'm going to do soon. Till then, as always, Fuck Bitches. Get Money.
runaway love
It's the middle of december. I haven't bought Christmas presents yet and I'm banking on overnight shipping to get it done. I always say that I'm going to be the early bird, but in reality, even though I plan very well, I don't have enough time to actually put those plans into motion. Take for instance, this past week. I finished up at my internship, I worked at my part-time office job and then I freelance for 5 days. And while those five days were fun, I was on my feet for fourteen hour days taking lunch orders and being treated like a minion. I know that I shouldn't complain. I have very little experience and any opportunity to learn is amazing. I'm willing to work my way from the bottom to the top, my only question is what do I see at the top? I feel like I ended up in production when my real goal was acting. Now I'm on the track to becoming a producer, which is still one of my goals, but I'm not getting any closer to becoming an actor (or director or writer). Sometimes I feel so lost.
I'm starting to realize that this feeling isn't exactly unique to me. I saw my bestie Josephine this weekend and we ended up on the topic of our immeadiate futures. She's in production too and landed herself a full-time job as an office PA. Jo and I probably have similar goals. She has such a bubbly, vivacious personality and people are just immeadiatly drawn to her. Sometimes I think that she should be in front of the camera instead of behind it. She would be an amazing on-air interviewer or even a entertainment journalist (as proven by her short-lived college radio show called E-buzz). But instead she's milling along the office trail like me. At least she's getting paid for it.
During the talk about our futures, she brought up an interesting note. She said to me "I'm so impressed by your optimism". Optimism? I've always considered myself a pessimist and I'm never surprised when shit hits the fan. The universe has a tricky way of fucking with me, so I'm rarely surprised by the dilemmas that I deal with on a regular basis. When Jo referred to my optimism, I had to ask her what she meant by that. She said that she knows so many people whose lives aren't going the way that they intended and have become so depressed, but somehow, I've managed to keep it from getting me down. It was in that moment that I realized two things. 1. Every postgraduate feels a sense of darkness. Whether it's because you're unemployed or you have the job of your dreams, becoming an adult has this looming sense of finality. It's as if we're supposed to be adults overnight.
My friend Jason, whom I've become serious texting buddies with, sent me a bbm that read "ive been struggling with the whole thing, i feel like my whole existence is a big joke". This was after I made fun of him for contemplating becoming on the enemy: a banker. But I see why he would consider it. Why not work a soul-less job and make lots of cash, when you feel empty inside now and aren't making the big bucks. If money can't buy you happiness, then what can? We're all struggling with the reality of ourselves and the dream of ourselves. When they don't align, the sense of failure is almost unbearable.
The other thing I learned was that I was unhappy. I hadn't really realized it until Jo pointed it out, but there's a definite sense of unhappiness that is flooding through my veins. I think I hadn't realized earlier was because of the immense fatigue I've been experiencing. Without time to actually sit and gather my thoughts, I never realized that I was on a course that wasn't going to lead me to the Emerald City. This is how it happens. THis is how someone remains an office assistant for forty years. This is how a college graduate with a Ph.D ends up being a personal assistant to some big name executive. When you don't have the time to reflect, you never see what's really there.
This thought has terrified me since leaving Jo. I'm starting to see the cracks in everyone's life. One of our friends just moved to China because she needed a break from the post-college depression. It can be overwhelming at times. Although I don't think I'll go that far, I can see the temptation. Running away from my problems sounds amazing right now. The only real issue is that I'll have to run back to them at one point. I can't run away from growing up.
And now I've been offered this job and I'm hesitant to take it. It would be a wonderful opportunity for me to the side the business side of production and to be more hands-on in the process, but if I do this, will it be me giving up on my other goals? Will I be settling and just following the structured path? I want it all, I just don't know how to get there. That's probably the root of all depression. The acknowledgment that you don't know how to save yourself.
I'm starting to realize that this feeling isn't exactly unique to me. I saw my bestie Josephine this weekend and we ended up on the topic of our immeadiate futures. She's in production too and landed herself a full-time job as an office PA. Jo and I probably have similar goals. She has such a bubbly, vivacious personality and people are just immeadiatly drawn to her. Sometimes I think that she should be in front of the camera instead of behind it. She would be an amazing on-air interviewer or even a entertainment journalist (as proven by her short-lived college radio show called E-buzz). But instead she's milling along the office trail like me. At least she's getting paid for it.
During the talk about our futures, she brought up an interesting note. She said to me "I'm so impressed by your optimism". Optimism? I've always considered myself a pessimist and I'm never surprised when shit hits the fan. The universe has a tricky way of fucking with me, so I'm rarely surprised by the dilemmas that I deal with on a regular basis. When Jo referred to my optimism, I had to ask her what she meant by that. She said that she knows so many people whose lives aren't going the way that they intended and have become so depressed, but somehow, I've managed to keep it from getting me down. It was in that moment that I realized two things. 1. Every postgraduate feels a sense of darkness. Whether it's because you're unemployed or you have the job of your dreams, becoming an adult has this looming sense of finality. It's as if we're supposed to be adults overnight.
My friend Jason, whom I've become serious texting buddies with, sent me a bbm that read "ive been struggling with the whole thing, i feel like my whole existence is a big joke". This was after I made fun of him for contemplating becoming on the enemy: a banker. But I see why he would consider it. Why not work a soul-less job and make lots of cash, when you feel empty inside now and aren't making the big bucks. If money can't buy you happiness, then what can? We're all struggling with the reality of ourselves and the dream of ourselves. When they don't align, the sense of failure is almost unbearable.
The other thing I learned was that I was unhappy. I hadn't really realized it until Jo pointed it out, but there's a definite sense of unhappiness that is flooding through my veins. I think I hadn't realized earlier was because of the immense fatigue I've been experiencing. Without time to actually sit and gather my thoughts, I never realized that I was on a course that wasn't going to lead me to the Emerald City. This is how it happens. THis is how someone remains an office assistant for forty years. This is how a college graduate with a Ph.D ends up being a personal assistant to some big name executive. When you don't have the time to reflect, you never see what's really there.
This thought has terrified me since leaving Jo. I'm starting to see the cracks in everyone's life. One of our friends just moved to China because she needed a break from the post-college depression. It can be overwhelming at times. Although I don't think I'll go that far, I can see the temptation. Running away from my problems sounds amazing right now. The only real issue is that I'll have to run back to them at one point. I can't run away from growing up.
And now I've been offered this job and I'm hesitant to take it. It would be a wonderful opportunity for me to the side the business side of production and to be more hands-on in the process, but if I do this, will it be me giving up on my other goals? Will I be settling and just following the structured path? I want it all, I just don't know how to get there. That's probably the root of all depression. The acknowledgment that you don't know how to save yourself.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
i miss who we used to be....
So I know it seems that all I do is party and somehow manage to squeeze in a couple of hours of sleep during my heavy libation-influenced schedule. For the majority of the summer, it was exactly that. Party Sleep Party was a motto that I had established to sum up exactly what I wanted my last real summer to be. After graduation, I knew that come Autumn, I would have to settle down and start living my life as a certified adult. Getting your diploma doesn't mean you're done. It's all about "commencing" your life and other stupid, dumbass phrases that valedictorian use to hide the shame and fear that all graduates experience. So before I embarked on the repetitive journey of boredom, fatigue, and nausea that is adulthood, I decided to have a farewell party that just happened to last four months.
And you better believe that those four months were awesome. Sure there were ups and downs, but when I look back on it, I think that I was living my life every second of every day. But once September rolled in, I decided I needed to re-evaluate my current predicament. I looked around and my fellow graduates were off to their fancy pants nine to fives or registering for classes at their graduate schools. Some were studying for GREs, MCATS, and other acronyms that I have no idea what they stand for. Bitches traded their Uggs for trousers! And where was I? I had not accomplished anything this summer, besides gain weight and get a tan. Neither of which were going to help me in the long run (Skin cancer is no joke kids. Layer that sunscreen). So I decided to be proactive. I got an internship at a film/television production company. I also started working more hours at my part-time job at a New York University office. I was finally planning for my future. Sure my grandiose goals of beings a screenwriter/actor/director/
For the first time in months, I had adopted a rigid schedule. There was no more "Hey, there's a party in DUMBO. Open Bar, you down?" I was a member of the party on weekends club; the club I vehemently despised during my summertime high. Members of this group are so unhappy and are lacking of spunk during the weekdays, they muster up the small bit of energy they have left to come party on a Friday/Saturday night. These people can be easily identified by the flip flops they don, the stringy hair, and the lack of hygiene they seem to possess. I hate these people. During the summer, I never partied on weekends. I was the girl who was down for a Tuesday party session. I went out every Thursday and my Wednesdays would commence with trivia at 8pm at my favorite bar and end with me eating hard dough bread in my bed at 6am (that story I will save for another time, but let me warn you, it is EPIC).
Now if you asked me to catch a drink after work on a Wednesday, I would have to respond "Oh no, I have a pilates class". Oh yes, in my attempt to grow up, I got a gym membership. I've got to take care of my old, creaking bones. Soon I'll be taking vitamin supplements and carrying hard candies in my purse. Wait, I already do those things. I have officially crossed over to the dark side, where all my enjoyment will come from people giving me their seat on the bus and disciplining other people's children. What was supposed to be a graceful entrance into adulthood that should have spanned over two years, turned into a mental hijacking that developed in less than 3 months. It was this realization, coupled with a phone call from my bestie Bridget, whom I hadn't seen in months, that set me off. She basically said " I miss who we used to be. We used to go out every night". I miss who we used to be as well. I wanted to enjoy life again. The apocalypse is waiting in the wings and instead of carpe diem and other latin phrases that have been immortalized on t-shirts and mugs, I have been squandering my youth. I don't want to wake up and be forty with kids and realize I never lived to the fullest of my abilities. I want to get shit-faced. I want to make out with random guys and regret it the next morning. I want have that Sunday walk of shame, wearing hooker heels, and copious amounts of black lace, while my face is creased by the faux pillow I slept on the night before. I want to go home with make up running down my face and devouring a falafel, while children are on their way to school. Sure these things might not get me far in life. They probably would put me in a jail cell. But hey, that's why your best friend's mom is a police officer (Hey Bev! I need Bail money).
So in the spirit of regaining my summertime high, I decided to plan an awesome dance party. I wanted all my friends to come out and dance till the wee hours of the morning and be so elated that they'd be singing show tunes on the way home. I sent out the Facebook invites, the emails, and shitloads of text messages. It was supposed to be a girl's night out, but somehow the boys made it through. No worries though, because the more the merrier in this kind of scenario. I wanted to go to Arlo and Esme, because every time I've been there, I have had a good time. We pregamed at Julianne's place and we (Julianne, Kayla, Doreen, Sonia, Allen, and myself) tracked down two cabs and headed to the LES. However, when we got there, the bouncer said they weren't letting anyone in for another hour. Are you kidding? In another hour, I'll be sober. Fuck that. So we went to some weird hookah bar, where my gay night-life lover (again I'll save him for another story) got us in. Soon after arriving, the fumes and the seedy atmosphere got me and we had to bounce. Now I should mention, my entire party was pretty buzzed. I had been drinking with Sonia, my fellow intern, since 7pm, and I hadn't eaten since 3pm. A recipe for awesomeness. Seeing the momentum was slowing, I suggested we all head to Darkroom. On our way we ran into Melissa and Harold and our gang was almost complete. However when we got there, there was a muthafuckin line! WTF? This night was going to be disastrous.
Now usually in moments like this, if the universe sends me signs that the night is going to be a shitshow, I heed the commands of nature and get my ass home. This time, howbeit, I was too determined to beat Mother Nature at her own tricks. Here's a lesson to all you kiddies reading this at home: Nature always win. Why I forgot this principle can be attributed to the amount of ethanol coursing through my veins. Luckily, I knew one of the bouncers there. When I tell you I used to go out every night, I mean it. There are certain members of the night life community that I have built relationships with regardless of what bar they work at that specific night. So my dude let us in and skip the stupid line. Thank the heavens. We get in there but the DJ is whack. The sound system sounds like they boosted it straight out of an elementary school auditorium. Fuck it. As long as he plays my song, what do I care?
We start dancing and then Naimah calls me and tells me she's outside. So of course I go and get her so she doesn't have to wait on a stupid line. Once I'm back on the dancefloor, Doreen tells me her boo, Dave, is outside and if I could get him in. Sure, why not? I get out into the breezy, chill air and cannot find Dave. After playing hide and go seek for five minutes, I finally discover him and get him in as well. While I was gone apparently the interior dancefloor bouncer (as if they pay him) says they we can't put our jackets down. We either have to hold them or pay coat check. According to him, I can't even dance next to my jacket. So this prick, who doesn't realize that we're the reason anyone is in his club, is trying to tell us what to do. Party Foul Number One. At the same time when I'm giving him the brush off, Doreen tells me that Allen, Julianne's boyfriend, got kicked out of the bar. Apparently he had a conversation with the DJ and the bouncer felt that it was inappropriate. Yes I know that sounds farfetched but we were all drunk. If Doreen had told me that Allen farted chickens on the Bouncer's lap, I would've pulled out my barbecue sauce and bib that says "Where the beef?". So don't judge me!
Since I'm such a good friend, I hightailed it outside to be joined by Dave who is trying to debrief me on the situation. After talking to him for five minutes, I used my Sherlock skills to assess that he knew nothing. So we left Julianne to decipher the drama and returned into the bar to be greeted by several cops. And I mean several. Like at least seven. Now in my younger days, police officers showing up to your party meant hiding the liquor and sending out the most sober of the bunch to explain to the law enforcers their need for a warrant to search the premises. Basically, "party dun!" And apparently the DJ agreed because the music stopped and the crowd filtered out. Now my gang remained because 1) we're cool like that and 2) Allen was MIA. Julianne returned to the bar sans Allen, who apparently had been wearing my coat. Yes, folks, we were so inebriated that my frilly looking coat seemed appropriate for him to wear inside out. I can't blame him. This night was my idea. So in my frustration I asked the Popos what the problem seemed to be. The female copper replied "Nothing. We're waiting for the music to start again". Typical, even the police officers have more fun than me nowadays.
Eventually the music did start again and $3 shots were offered to the masses. Nonetheless, I was done. I wanted this night to be about regaining my youth and to be one for the history books. I wanted this to be the night when we're thirty and old, we would look back on this night and recall the days when we "lived". This was not that night. So I accepted defeat and took a cab home that cost me fifty bucks. I crawled into bed without food in my belly but enough alcohol to kill an elephant, or at least sedate him for two hours.
Maybe I can't go back to those blissful days of summer, but I don't think I have to start wearing muumuus, cleaning the dishes barefoot, while watching Maury. There has to be some middle ground where I can salvage my youth without destroying my future. There must be somewhere where I'm not at the starting point of nascency but I'm not yet at the finish line of decrepitude. It has to exist. And I think I know where it does. Somewhere between Sunday and Saturday---here I come Wednesday.
And you better believe that those four months were awesome. Sure there were ups and downs, but when I look back on it, I think that I was living my life every second of every day. But once September rolled in, I decided I needed to re-evaluate my current predicament. I looked around and my fellow graduates were off to their fancy pants nine to fives or registering for classes at their graduate schools. Some were studying for GREs, MCATS, and other acronyms that I have no idea what they stand for. Bitches traded their Uggs for trousers! And where was I? I had not accomplished anything this summer, besides gain weight and get a tan. Neither of which were going to help me in the long run (Skin cancer is no joke kids. Layer that sunscreen). So I decided to be proactive. I got an internship at a film/television production company. I also started working more hours at my part-time job at a New York University office. I was finally planning for my future. Sure my grandiose goals of beings a screenwriter/actor/director/
For the first time in months, I had adopted a rigid schedule. There was no more "Hey, there's a party in DUMBO. Open Bar, you down?" I was a member of the party on weekends club; the club I vehemently despised during my summertime high. Members of this group are so unhappy and are lacking of spunk during the weekdays, they muster up the small bit of energy they have left to come party on a Friday/Saturday night. These people can be easily identified by the flip flops they don, the stringy hair, and the lack of hygiene they seem to possess. I hate these people. During the summer, I never partied on weekends. I was the girl who was down for a Tuesday party session. I went out every Thursday and my Wednesdays would commence with trivia at 8pm at my favorite bar and end with me eating hard dough bread in my bed at 6am (that story I will save for another time, but let me warn you, it is EPIC).
Now if you asked me to catch a drink after work on a Wednesday, I would have to respond "Oh no, I have a pilates class". Oh yes, in my attempt to grow up, I got a gym membership. I've got to take care of my old, creaking bones. Soon I'll be taking vitamin supplements and carrying hard candies in my purse. Wait, I already do those things. I have officially crossed over to the dark side, where all my enjoyment will come from people giving me their seat on the bus and disciplining other people's children. What was supposed to be a graceful entrance into adulthood that should have spanned over two years, turned into a mental hijacking that developed in less than 3 months. It was this realization, coupled with a phone call from my bestie Bridget, whom I hadn't seen in months, that set me off. She basically said " I miss who we used to be. We used to go out every night". I miss who we used to be as well. I wanted to enjoy life again. The apocalypse is waiting in the wings and instead of carpe diem and other latin phrases that have been immortalized on t-shirts and mugs, I have been squandering my youth. I don't want to wake up and be forty with kids and realize I never lived to the fullest of my abilities. I want to get shit-faced. I want to make out with random guys and regret it the next morning. I want have that Sunday walk of shame, wearing hooker heels, and copious amounts of black lace, while my face is creased by the faux pillow I slept on the night before. I want to go home with make up running down my face and devouring a falafel, while children are on their way to school. Sure these things might not get me far in life. They probably would put me in a jail cell. But hey, that's why your best friend's mom is a police officer (Hey Bev! I need Bail money).
So in the spirit of regaining my summertime high, I decided to plan an awesome dance party. I wanted all my friends to come out and dance till the wee hours of the morning and be so elated that they'd be singing show tunes on the way home. I sent out the Facebook invites, the emails, and shitloads of text messages. It was supposed to be a girl's night out, but somehow the boys made it through. No worries though, because the more the merrier in this kind of scenario. I wanted to go to Arlo and Esme, because every time I've been there, I have had a good time. We pregamed at Julianne's place and we (Julianne, Kayla, Doreen, Sonia, Allen, and myself) tracked down two cabs and headed to the LES. However, when we got there, the bouncer said they weren't letting anyone in for another hour. Are you kidding? In another hour, I'll be sober. Fuck that. So we went to some weird hookah bar, where my gay night-life lover (again I'll save him for another story) got us in. Soon after arriving, the fumes and the seedy atmosphere got me and we had to bounce. Now I should mention, my entire party was pretty buzzed. I had been drinking with Sonia, my fellow intern, since 7pm, and I hadn't eaten since 3pm. A recipe for awesomeness. Seeing the momentum was slowing, I suggested we all head to Darkroom. On our way we ran into Melissa and Harold and our gang was almost complete. However when we got there, there was a muthafuckin line! WTF? This night was going to be disastrous.
Now usually in moments like this, if the universe sends me signs that the night is going to be a shitshow, I heed the commands of nature and get my ass home. This time, howbeit, I was too determined to beat Mother Nature at her own tricks. Here's a lesson to all you kiddies reading this at home: Nature always win. Why I forgot this principle can be attributed to the amount of ethanol coursing through my veins. Luckily, I knew one of the bouncers there. When I tell you I used to go out every night, I mean it. There are certain members of the night life community that I have built relationships with regardless of what bar they work at that specific night. So my dude let us in and skip the stupid line. Thank the heavens. We get in there but the DJ is whack. The sound system sounds like they boosted it straight out of an elementary school auditorium. Fuck it. As long as he plays my song, what do I care?
We start dancing and then Naimah calls me and tells me she's outside. So of course I go and get her so she doesn't have to wait on a stupid line. Once I'm back on the dancefloor, Doreen tells me her boo, Dave, is outside and if I could get him in. Sure, why not? I get out into the breezy, chill air and cannot find Dave. After playing hide and go seek for five minutes, I finally discover him and get him in as well. While I was gone apparently the interior dancefloor bouncer (as if they pay him) says they we can't put our jackets down. We either have to hold them or pay coat check. According to him, I can't even dance next to my jacket. So this prick, who doesn't realize that we're the reason anyone is in his club, is trying to tell us what to do. Party Foul Number One. At the same time when I'm giving him the brush off, Doreen tells me that Allen, Julianne's boyfriend, got kicked out of the bar. Apparently he had a conversation with the DJ and the bouncer felt that it was inappropriate. Yes I know that sounds farfetched but we were all drunk. If Doreen had told me that Allen farted chickens on the Bouncer's lap, I would've pulled out my barbecue sauce and bib that says "Where the beef?". So don't judge me!
Since I'm such a good friend, I hightailed it outside to be joined by Dave who is trying to debrief me on the situation. After talking to him for five minutes, I used my Sherlock skills to assess that he knew nothing. So we left Julianne to decipher the drama and returned into the bar to be greeted by several cops. And I mean several. Like at least seven. Now in my younger days, police officers showing up to your party meant hiding the liquor and sending out the most sober of the bunch to explain to the law enforcers their need for a warrant to search the premises. Basically, "party dun!" And apparently the DJ agreed because the music stopped and the crowd filtered out. Now my gang remained because 1) we're cool like that and 2) Allen was MIA. Julianne returned to the bar sans Allen, who apparently had been wearing my coat. Yes, folks, we were so inebriated that my frilly looking coat seemed appropriate for him to wear inside out. I can't blame him. This night was my idea. So in my frustration I asked the Popos what the problem seemed to be. The female copper replied "Nothing. We're waiting for the music to start again". Typical, even the police officers have more fun than me nowadays.
Eventually the music did start again and $3 shots were offered to the masses. Nonetheless, I was done. I wanted this night to be about regaining my youth and to be one for the history books. I wanted this to be the night when we're thirty and old, we would look back on this night and recall the days when we "lived". This was not that night. So I accepted defeat and took a cab home that cost me fifty bucks. I crawled into bed without food in my belly but enough alcohol to kill an elephant, or at least sedate him for two hours.
Maybe I can't go back to those blissful days of summer, but I don't think I have to start wearing muumuus, cleaning the dishes barefoot, while watching Maury. There has to be some middle ground where I can salvage my youth without destroying my future. There must be somewhere where I'm not at the starting point of nascency but I'm not yet at the finish line of decrepitude. It has to exist. And I think I know where it does. Somewhere between Sunday and Saturday---here I come Wednesday.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Party Sleep Party: The schedule of the Toys R Us Adult
Today is supposed to be the first day of the rest of my life. I'm officially a grown-up, by most people's standards (definitely not by my own nor by my mother's). I'm seated in the nosebleed section of Yankees Stadium betwixt my best friend Krystal and the freezing,wet hand rail. I'm decked out in my purple robe and matching baseball cap, while trying to arrange my clear poncho over my head, so my hair doesn't get wet. There's currently a torrential downpour attacking my graduating class and is threatening to flood the stadium and toss the flimsy tent that houses the honorees and prestigious members of faculty, as well as Alec Baldwin, our keynote speaker, who has decided to not to don any protective outer garments. I guess he's a real man. Or a dumbass. Sigh. While he's giving a speech that consists of the usual "Make a mark on the world!", "You can do anything!" and "Tisch is awesome!" bullshit that you can expect from any commencement address, I'm clutching my cup of cocoa that seems to have gone from scalding hot to slushy Haagen Daz by the time I've reached my seat. Sadly, it's still warmer than me and I'm inhaling it at an attempt for heat based diffusion.
It is in moments like these that I realize I'm rarely appropriately dressed for anything. Despite the meteorologist's assertion that today's forecast would consist of a monsoon occurring at forty-degree weather, I'm wearing a mini dress and gorgeous open-toe heels, freezing off my delicate appendages. I hadn't even bothered to wear tights because I got a banging pedicure the day before and needed to show off the hot hue my toes were rocking. It was a fluorescent pink that bordered on vomit-inducing neon. Just my steez. As I look at the giant screen, enlarging Mr. Baldwin's face, I realize that no one's going to be checking out my toe game, when they're too busy trying to stay alive in this frigid weather. Is it sad that that's what I'm most upset about? That no one will see how cute I look at graduation. Never mind the fact that I won't be able to take pictures because it's too cold to stand. I won't be able to rejoice in the last few moments that is college and look back at all I've accomplished with my peers that help me get through it. Nah. I just want someone to comment on my dress with a "Steph, you look slamming" and I'd respond, "this old thing, I picked it up yesterday" with a kind of nonchalance that would make me seem sophisticated. The truth is that I did pick up the dress the night before. I'm the queen of procrastination, especially with events like this. I think it's my subconscious way of trying to delay the inevitable--growing up.
When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the Toys R Us catalog. Between that and the catchy theme song, every trip to the mega-store was an epic event of traipsing through the aisles, picking out toys that I coveted. I would watch on the television screen that monstrous giraffe, Geoffrey, surround himself with kids playing t-ball, having the time of their young lives. No wonder they didn't want to grow up. What's better than being a kid? Nothing really. Spending your days with your playmates and getting ice cream on your new shirt is the pinnacle of our existence.We were the images on the screen. With a simple change of costume, you could be a firemen, a ballerina or an astronaut. With a limitless imagination, none of your remarks will ever be considered "stupid", but instead "refreshing" and "honest". So every time that booklet came in the mail, it was a simple reminder of the endless possibilities that the world possessed and the community that all children share. I would scan over the pages for hours, but surprisingly I wasn't at all interested in playing with toys; I just liked coveting.
That's the idea behind retail therapy, isn't it? Sometimes you just need to feel special. So what, if you don't need those shoes? Get them and feel great about yourself for a couple of days. If you have buyer's remorse, return them and feel good about yourself that you made a responsible decision; A true sign of growing up.
I guess the saddest thing about my crossing over into adulthood is the fact that I've never truly felt like a kid. As a youngster, I perceived myself as suffering from the "Jodie Foster" complex. You know, when there's a child that has too much wisdom, or is just too sure of themselves. It's actually a terrifying affliction, which has made me scared of Jodie (although I've warmed up to her in her adult age; But when I watch even Freaky Friday, I'm biting fingernails and scrunching my face at the sight of her). I was that random third grader that was reading The Hobbit and watching foreign films. The first time I ever saw Nightmare on Elm Street was in french. It's one thing to see a pie-faced murderer attacking you in your dreams, but it's downright sadistic when he's doing it in a romance language.
Being mature had its advantages. I was treated differently by the adults I was surrounded by. I was allowed certain privileges and was always deemed the one in charge--even of my older cousins. Yet that sort of delineation marks you. Immediately you become one of them--one of the grown-ups; not to be trusted. It was as if I was branded on the forehead with the terms "Square Loser" and had my cool card revoked. To this day the relationship with my brother is tenuous because how could he ever really trust a sister that was more of a parent rather than a playmate. However, I had to play the hand I was dealt and it was definitely more advantageous to be one of the privileged adults than a child with a bedtime.
Looking back I wish I would've rebelled more and not been so afraid of falling off my elite pedestal. I look at my brother and even though he's a pain in the ass, I do respect him for one thing--his defiance. Sure at times it's his least appealing characteristic, but there are other times, moments when he refuses to be pressured into feeling, saying or doing something that he doesn't want to. Maybe he'll grow out of it, but I doubt it. My dad hasn't and it seemed to work out for him. I forced myself to bite my tongue so I could retain the crown upon my head. I was definitely an obedient child. I had times of rebellion but they were more the silent kind. I would smile to your face and then plot your punishment. It was if I was doing karma's work. I was that sly little bitch's helper. If I ever got caught, I was always set free because who would believe the angelic Steph would ever do anything like that.
I'm okay with my less than reckless childhood because now I have adulthood to look forward to. I've decided to make up for lost time and isn't it better to be a reckless twenty-something than a bratty tween? I've got the freedom to do whatever I want (particularly drink whatever I want) and the means to do it. Sure I've only got a part-time job but that's way better than having my mom foot the bill for my partying ways. She would try to limit me to one drink a night. What fun is that? I've adopted a new mantra. I'm living my life according to the new hedonism. I'm going to be the modern Dorian Gray sans icky murders and boring dinner parties. To live life without fear is a goal that we all strive to accomplish, but I'm convinced by the pained expressions and weary eyes of most middle-aged adults I see, that few have ever made it. That's the mark I want to make. Forget trying to end wars and promote peace.Let's just all take shots. I'm much happier when I'm drunk. I dance with everyone and spend shit loads of money I don't have. But it's worth it for that feeling of elation, knowing that everyone around you is just happy to be alive and dancing to the music. We spend all day worrying about tomorrow, but we fail to realize we missed our chance for today. Thankfully the apocalypse is on it's way and 2012 is truly a godsend. No longer do we have to worry about 401ks and retirement. This bitch is about to blow up. So let's dance the night away. Put down the palm pilots. Party Sleep Party is the only schedule you need.
It is in moments like these that I realize I'm rarely appropriately dressed for anything. Despite the meteorologist's assertion that today's forecast would consist of a monsoon occurring at forty-degree weather, I'm wearing a mini dress and gorgeous open-toe heels, freezing off my delicate appendages. I hadn't even bothered to wear tights because I got a banging pedicure the day before and needed to show off the hot hue my toes were rocking. It was a fluorescent pink that bordered on vomit-inducing neon. Just my steez. As I look at the giant screen, enlarging Mr. Baldwin's face, I realize that no one's going to be checking out my toe game, when they're too busy trying to stay alive in this frigid weather. Is it sad that that's what I'm most upset about? That no one will see how cute I look at graduation. Never mind the fact that I won't be able to take pictures because it's too cold to stand. I won't be able to rejoice in the last few moments that is college and look back at all I've accomplished with my peers that help me get through it. Nah. I just want someone to comment on my dress with a "Steph, you look slamming" and I'd respond, "this old thing, I picked it up yesterday" with a kind of nonchalance that would make me seem sophisticated. The truth is that I did pick up the dress the night before. I'm the queen of procrastination, especially with events like this. I think it's my subconscious way of trying to delay the inevitable--growing up.
When I was a kid, I was obsessed with the Toys R Us catalog. Between that and the catchy theme song, every trip to the mega-store was an epic event of traipsing through the aisles, picking out toys that I coveted. I would watch on the television screen that monstrous giraffe, Geoffrey, surround himself with kids playing t-ball, having the time of their young lives. No wonder they didn't want to grow up. What's better than being a kid? Nothing really. Spending your days with your playmates and getting ice cream on your new shirt is the pinnacle of our existence.We were the images on the screen. With a simple change of costume, you could be a firemen, a ballerina or an astronaut. With a limitless imagination, none of your remarks will ever be considered "stupid", but instead "refreshing" and "honest". So every time that booklet came in the mail, it was a simple reminder of the endless possibilities that the world possessed and the community that all children share. I would scan over the pages for hours, but surprisingly I wasn't at all interested in playing with toys; I just liked coveting.
That's the idea behind retail therapy, isn't it? Sometimes you just need to feel special. So what, if you don't need those shoes? Get them and feel great about yourself for a couple of days. If you have buyer's remorse, return them and feel good about yourself that you made a responsible decision; A true sign of growing up.
I guess the saddest thing about my crossing over into adulthood is the fact that I've never truly felt like a kid. As a youngster, I perceived myself as suffering from the "Jodie Foster" complex. You know, when there's a child that has too much wisdom, or is just too sure of themselves. It's actually a terrifying affliction, which has made me scared of Jodie (although I've warmed up to her in her adult age; But when I watch even Freaky Friday, I'm biting fingernails and scrunching my face at the sight of her). I was that random third grader that was reading The Hobbit and watching foreign films. The first time I ever saw Nightmare on Elm Street was in french. It's one thing to see a pie-faced murderer attacking you in your dreams, but it's downright sadistic when he's doing it in a romance language.
Being mature had its advantages. I was treated differently by the adults I was surrounded by. I was allowed certain privileges and was always deemed the one in charge--even of my older cousins. Yet that sort of delineation marks you. Immediately you become one of them--one of the grown-ups; not to be trusted. It was as if I was branded on the forehead with the terms "Square Loser" and had my cool card revoked. To this day the relationship with my brother is tenuous because how could he ever really trust a sister that was more of a parent rather than a playmate. However, I had to play the hand I was dealt and it was definitely more advantageous to be one of the privileged adults than a child with a bedtime.
Looking back I wish I would've rebelled more and not been so afraid of falling off my elite pedestal. I look at my brother and even though he's a pain in the ass, I do respect him for one thing--his defiance. Sure at times it's his least appealing characteristic, but there are other times, moments when he refuses to be pressured into feeling, saying or doing something that he doesn't want to. Maybe he'll grow out of it, but I doubt it. My dad hasn't and it seemed to work out for him. I forced myself to bite my tongue so I could retain the crown upon my head. I was definitely an obedient child. I had times of rebellion but they were more the silent kind. I would smile to your face and then plot your punishment. It was if I was doing karma's work. I was that sly little bitch's helper. If I ever got caught, I was always set free because who would believe the angelic Steph would ever do anything like that.
I'm okay with my less than reckless childhood because now I have adulthood to look forward to. I've decided to make up for lost time and isn't it better to be a reckless twenty-something than a bratty tween? I've got the freedom to do whatever I want (particularly drink whatever I want) and the means to do it. Sure I've only got a part-time job but that's way better than having my mom foot the bill for my partying ways. She would try to limit me to one drink a night. What fun is that? I've adopted a new mantra. I'm living my life according to the new hedonism. I'm going to be the modern Dorian Gray sans icky murders and boring dinner parties. To live life without fear is a goal that we all strive to accomplish, but I'm convinced by the pained expressions and weary eyes of most middle-aged adults I see, that few have ever made it. That's the mark I want to make. Forget trying to end wars and promote peace.Let's just all take shots. I'm much happier when I'm drunk. I dance with everyone and spend shit loads of money I don't have. But it's worth it for that feeling of elation, knowing that everyone around you is just happy to be alive and dancing to the music. We spend all day worrying about tomorrow, but we fail to realize we missed our chance for today. Thankfully the apocalypse is on it's way and 2012 is truly a godsend. No longer do we have to worry about 401ks and retirement. This bitch is about to blow up. So let's dance the night away. Put down the palm pilots. Party Sleep Party is the only schedule you need.
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