6:45-7:00 am: jolt awake and start to strategize my daily job search
8:00 am: get lulled back to sleep by the ocean sounds on my alarm clock
8:30 am: cereal, shower, Today Show
9:30-2:30 am: Starbucks - apply for jobs, read blogs, check e-mail obsessively, manage to make a grande iced coffee last for 5 hours
2:30 - evening: reading, crossword, yoga, the park
My nightly social schedule is suprirsingly full, but I don't see how that's very helpful in allleviating my paranoia regarding my job search...
In light of her comments, I'd like to dedicate this post to my two new best friends:
I have stories, people. In fact, I might even say that I have Stories. Such as:
- The Fainting Lady who passed out in line to the Borgata Buffet, only to be loaded into a wheelchair by security, pushed past everyone still waiting in line and into the restaurant, where she was promptly seated. I need to learn to faint on command, apparently.
- 5 Puking Girls, who were way too drunk, way too early.
- A bazillion Bachelorettes, in requisite cheesy veils and garters, being egged on by their friends to perform ridiculous tasks like body shots and obtaining a stranger's underwear.
- Hatchet-faced Banana Clip lady, yelling at her family, also on the buffet line.
- Angry Omelet Woman, yelling at someone for requesting cheese. (We spent a lot of time at the buffet.)
- Dysfunctional Married Couple at the Depeche Mode concert who battled to determine who could be the most passive-aggressive. (The woman won when she thrust her purse at her husband and he ended up holding it for the remainder of the concert while she danced).
- Crazy Dancer at the B Bar who was dancing and rubbing against anyone who would indulge him, also, dragging chairs over to groups of people so he could gyrate more effectively in front of them.
Of course, I'm including the three of us in the cast of characters. After the concert, we played some slots, downed 4 drinks and headed to a bar on the casino floor. I lost The Lawyer and LP for a while since the bar was playing 'Wild Things' and 'Showgirls' on their televisions, and they were entranced. Who said there were no gay bars at The Borgata?
LP left to gamble more, while The Lawyer donned her homo-invisibility cloak which allowed her to obtain free shots and drinks from a one of the guys who was talking to us. She was also dancing with him, offering him marital advice, and gave him her number at the end of the night. LP and I handled this in a mature way, by bringing her a plate full of sausage at the buffet the next morning, and suggesting that she was permanently changing teams.
And as for me? Well, I might have been hanging out with a cute guy. And then I might have been seen kissing him at the bar. Yes, I might have been That Drunk Girl.
Last night, MM and I downed several margaritas at El Centro and then continued on to her apartment, where we ate Nutter Butters, drank the hell out of a bottle of white wine, played Trivial Pursuit, attempted to find the saddest songs on our iPods, and purchased concert tickets (I completely forgot about the tickets until I checked my bank balance this morning).
Tomorrow night, I'm heading down to AC with The Lawyer to see Depeche Mode (which I also completely forgot about until I was talking with The Lawyer and asking her when I was going to see her this weekend, and she called me an asshole and reminded me about the concert).
JP and I are in the midst of attempting to arrange a weekend trip to Ireland this summer. We're anticipating drinking Guinness at the source and flirting with my favorite Irish bartender. Actually, the flirting part is just me - JP will most likely have no part of that.
I also need to: apply for the licensing exam, start doing yoga every day, and find a job. With all of this going on, is it any wonder that I've decided to cloister myself in my apartment tonight? My goal is to be in my pajamas by 7:00 pm.
Graduation was yesterday. The reading of the names took forever. My class had 400+ people, and the deans were very concerned with reading everyone's name correctly. It was so...social worky ('Is this the right pronounciation?' 'How do you feel about me reading your name this way?' Do you want to talk about me reading your name?' 'Are you ready to graduate?' 'Are you feeling okay about graduation?').
I had a slight wardrobe malfunction (the strap on my dress broke while I was hugging a friend after the ceremony) which was thankfully covered by my gown.
And now, I'm off to a job interview...degree in hand.
I am just beginning to understand how lucky I am to have an extraordinary support system. I've created a family of my own who picks me up when I fall down, listens to me, pushes me to make the difficult choices, and does not question me when I decide to jump. And I know that the picture will look the same at every stage in my life.
Thank you to all my wonderful, beautiful friends!!!
The art of losing isn't hard to master. I'll miss you, but I care about me more.
I had an interview for a side project on Monday that has nothing to do with my degree. I don't think it's going to go anywhere, and I'm not sure I want it to, and I can't really say more than that because of something that I signed. Anyway...during the interview, I was asked why I live in New York. Well.
New York expects you to give as it takes from you. It's never as simple as just living here. It's loud and rude and lonely and everyone seems to be looking you over and deciding that you're not something enough. It's competitive and rushed and hard. On some days, you might feel like you're stepping out of your front door into a war zone, where you'll encounter the $20 bill monster who lurks on your sidewalk; a slow, crowded, dirty subway car; various micro-aggressions; and overpriced coffee. But if you look closely enough, the city gives in little ways. The teenager who gives up his seat on the subway for a tired mother carrying her toddler. A stranger who takes the time to return a cell phone. The community garden nestled between the craziness of 9th and 10th Avenues that you can access for $5 per year. A woman who stops to ask you about your nose ring and tells you how perfect it looks on you.
I love and hate New York. I don't think I'll ever live anywhere else.
I get out of bed at 6:00 am and run along the Hudson, letting the wind dry the tears from my face, hoping for exhaustion, a blessing, some relief. I ignore my phone and my doorbell. I sit at my window ledge and look down at you. I let the night into my apartment, leaving the lights off and watching the shadows grow longer on the floor. I wrap myself in a blanket and curl into a ball.
I can't control the world, other than this place I carve out for myself.
Everyone around me seems to be feeling celebratory. I just want to hole up in my apartment and process everything. Alone.
My friend Megan put it perfectly. When she was in my position, leaving graduate school, "I felt like the madwoman in the attic, and everyone else wanted to be out on the lawn..."
She's just stopped crying, and her sunglasses hide her swollen eyes.
I check one last time to make sure she is ok, and hail her a cab. As she hugs me goodbye, I notice that she's applied mascara and lipstick. The bruises around her neck can't be covered; they are the visible reminders that her boyfriend (a martial arts expert) tried to choke her to death in the early dawn hours. When that didn't work, he slammed her into the ground and kicked her. He loses, though, because she's beautifully alive.
She adjusts her jacket, checks for her house keys, and steps into the cab with a last wave in my direction. I offer a silent prayer that she'll be safe, and start my walk home.