Lack of Adulthood

Recently, I've found myself getting terribly anxious at the most inopportune times.

Tonight, while enjoying a lovely, queso-filled dinner with Zachnomary, Meghanom, and Jenny Andersonom, I received a truly hurtful and upsetting phone call, which jilted me and removed me from my happiness, which these days can be very short-lived. The purpose of this phone call was to cut me down, break me apart, and hit me below-the-belt. It was intentional and undeserved. Congratulations, you succeeded. In set my anxiety-- my stomach started turning, twisting itself into a writhing ball. My chest tightened, and as my heart began racing, I started thinking of all the bad in my life, and the good was suddenly blocked out, not to return until tomorrow, if I'm lucky.

I was told that I need to "grow up."

So here is my response to you, person who will remain anonymous, only to protect feelings, I suppose. Although, there comes a point when you aren't sure why you're trying to protect feelings anymore, as it has become apparent that your feelings are never protected...

I am 23 years old. No, I am 23 years young. I have a college degree, I am well-read, focused and smart. I am motivated and talented in my own respects. I do not give myself away too easily (in more ways than one), I do not hold any substance dependencies that could potentially harm my future. Yes, I am a smoker. Yes, I drink, but I drink for fun, not necessity. I steer-clear of drugs and my mind is in the right place.

I am unemployed and doing the best I can in an economy and a world that is harsh and unforgiving. I am trying my best, and my best is all I can give.

I followed my dream and got the fuck out of Dodge. I moved to a mysterious and intimidating city, scared out of my mind, and I didn't give up. I won't give up. I strayed away from the "norm" of small-town America-- go to college, find a boyfriend, marry him, have kids, work a job that you hate because you're trapped. Live in a home that you hate because you're a prisoner. Live a life that you are unhappy with because it's all you know, and all you care to know.

So I am thankful that I am not a teacher, since that was not the path I was supposed to take right now. I am thankful I am not married. I am thankful I am not tied-down to anything or anyone. I am thankful that I live a life that is never boring in a city where opportunities and possibilities are endless.

I've recently learned that it doesn't matter how other people see you. It matters how you see yourself. If I can find positivity within me, and not let others dictate and judge who I am, that will radiate into security and confidence to others. I find that people are incredibly drawn to those who are comfortable with themselves.

Tonight when I was walking back to the train, feeling broken and bummed, and being guided by Bon Iver's beautiful yet daunting voice, it suddenly hit me-- everything really, truly will work itself out. So maybe this doesn't seem like much of a realization to you, but it's so easy to get down in this city. It's so easy to let this city take you in and spit you out. Sometimes it feels as though you're swimming downstream when everyone else is making their way up. Angst and hatred and despair sets in... why is it that everyone else is climbing the proverbial ladder, and you're getting left behind? This wasn't how it was supposed to be... this isn't where life was supposed to lead you.

And then, for a second, everything stops moving. The cabs cease in their place. The suits in the Financial District pause their Heinekeins, the scenesters in Williamsburg stop dancing, and the socialites in the Upper East Side halt the clack-clack-clack of their heels on marble, penthouse apartment floors. And just before you lose control, and just before you fall to pieces, by yourself, alone, on 2nd and 15th, you look to your left, and see a man playing the guitar. A "Hallelujah" cover streams past your ear buds, and you stop and listen. And when you do, he looks up, and he smiles as he sings, as he strums the guitar, and he catches your eye. He stares at you. He doesn't stop staring as he sings. He doesn't stop smiling. He doesn't skip a beat, and at that moment, you remember why you are here.

I woke up this morning, and my room mate wished me luck as she fixed her hair for her audition today. She doesn't usually expect to get the part, but she tries anyway. Over and over again, she keeps her spirit strong. Maybe it's the support she receives, no matter what. Maybe it's the positivity in her life that she holds on to tightly. Maybe it's her strong-will. Regardless, many people could learn a lesson from her, if they'd look a little further.

I left my apartment this morning, and I went to my 2nd interview, which I was called back for because I charmed them in the first round. By myself. Without help. Without guidance. And even if that job doesn't work out, then something else will, eventually. The CEO of the company told me she liked my earrings, and commented that they compliment my face well. The company I was interviewing with is a high-end jewlery showroom.

I walked to the train this morning, and a guy about my age, wearing a plaid shirt and cut-off jean shorts stopped me on the street just to tell me he thinks I'm pretty. He apologized if it sounded strange to say, and I smiled and thanked him. He gave me a friendly wink, and we both continued on our ways.

I walked through SoHo after the interview, and a man tried to sell me a "great deal" to a hair salon in the east side. He said he thought I was beautiful, and my smile captivated him. After I told him I was unemployed and could not afford a haircut right now, he said he didn't want my money, and handed me two free tickets to his comedy show next week in the Lower East Side. He told me there was a two-drink minimum, but to ask for him when I got there, and he'd take care of it. He also warned me not to come on Tuesday or Wednesday, because those are the amateur nights, and he didn't want me to waste my time.

Today, I walked into H&M to find a new pair of leggings, fingers-crossed they were on sale. I was captured on camera, and asked if I wanted to sign a waiver for an MTV reality television show, so that my face could appear on the screen. I told them it was fine and I wouldn't take legal action against them if I wasn't blurred out. The camera man and producer both laughed and told me to "take care" and "have a great evening."

As the R train arrived today, a man stopped to let me on before him. Then another man gave me his seat. A girl complimented my shoes in Union Square, and a cavasser talked to me for 15 minutes about Lollapalooza (after educating me on the children I should be saving), and he gave me his phone number and a hug before I walked away. He told me that most people are so mean to him, and that he hoped for good things in my future. His name is Sam. I like him.

Then I sat down in the park, I took out The Picture of Dorian Gray, and I happily read while listening to a Jazz band play behind me. I met up with RJ, who never fails to put a smile on my face, even if just for a moment. He gave his normal greeting, followed by, "You look very pretty today." I ran into my friend Jocelyn, who I haven't seen in weeks, at the cafe RJ chose, since the one next door was a bit too crowded.

We enjoyed our beers, commented on people walking by and why living in this city is so different than visiting this city. It's a bond that only we can understand, and maybe this is why people hate New Yorkers. You don't know New York until you truly experience the highs and lows that give New York and the people a bad name. Maybe we are hardened by experiences. Maybe we are proud of where we live, what we have done, the things we have accomplished... why is that such a terrible thing? New York is a challenge. This is why I will struggle and complain and moan and loathe and question myself innumerable times. But this is why I love this city. This is why I'm supposed to be here.

Today, life really wasn't so bad.

So in response to the statement, "you need to grow up." I have this to say, and I will say it one time. I might be unemployed. I might be without a seemingly healthy relationship. I might be poor and struggling. I might make ill-fated decisions and spend too much time bothering with situations that will take me nowhere. People who mean nothing. Ideas and thoughts and dreams that will never come true.
But I have done more growing in the past year than you can possibly fathom, and maybe if you'd look a little deeper than material things and realize that money is not my definition of happiness even if it is yours, you would realize how grown I actually am, and how much growing I will continue to do. I thank you for all you've done, but I will not forgive you for what you've said.

Excuse me, I have to go enjoy my life and cherish my experiences now.


xxM

Shave.

I returned today with a mission. I was going to successfully shake his hand and walk away without being swayed to come back.

I failed.

He walked in sporting his comfortable smile and friendly gestures, as per usual. He seemed relaxed and at ease. He asked me where I'd been, as I have been putting off this appointment for a few weeks, knowing that I have about as much internal strength as a chicken when he's around. The way he speaks is gruelingly tempting. It isn't only his words that soothe my mind, but the actual way he asserts his voice -- his inflection and tone, the patience and kindness in his expression. It's like this incredible gift he doesn't even realize he possess.

As he stood in front of me, I mumbled under my breath that I would not be returning after this session. His smile turned to a look of annoyance, although I knew he wasn't upset, just concerned. He grabbed my hand and instructed me to get on the table.

"We'll figure it out. We can figure it out, don't worry."

The same response I've been given relentlessly for the past three months. So I give in. I succumb to the powers that are Dr. Hottie, and I take a deep breath, and let it out, as I am instructed.

I feel him place his hands on my back, and as he runs them up and down my spine, around the back of my body, over my neck, my frustrations ease away from me. For those minutes, everything in my little universe is alright.

He leans his legs against my side as he speaks to me, calms me. He stops to make a joke about my shirt being slippery. I laughed a little, and although I was listening to every word he said, all I could think about was how desperately I needed someone like him in my life. How desperately everyone needs someone like him in their lives.

My stress began to trickle away, and for a mere ten minutes, my thoughts were on him, his hands, his voice, his character. As he held my head in his hands, and brushed his thumbs over my cheeks repeatedly, I started to realize how unhealthy this healthy treatment really might be for me.

And then I stopped caring.

Tell me again how I look nice with a suntan. Tell me how you think I'm wise beyond my years, how I'm one of the most down-to-earth people you've ever met. Tell me how you think I'm funny, and how you'll kick the other doctor's ass if he hurts me again when you're on vacation. Tell me about your little dog and how it loves people, but not other dogs. Tell me how the people from my former job seem very lifeless compared to me, and how I didn't belong there anyway. Tell me how I'm going to be so successful, because you can "just feel it." Tell me about how you don't like your in-laws, and how this wedding is just getting to be really expensive. Show me again how trapped you feel in your engagement. In your ideal life.

I opened my eyes and looked up at him, and he looked down at me with a smile. He cracked a joke about how I should just think about retirement at my age. Then with a sudden jerk, my neck cracked left, then right, and it was over.

He holds my hands as he pulls me up as he always does. He lets his voice linger as he reassures me that something can be worked out.

We said our goodbyes, and I ventured towards the exit to reality-- the concrete jungle of lights and sirens that we New Yorkers call Midtown. He disappeared to the back, bounding towards his next victim.

I left the office feeling renewed and rejuvenated, as I always do. The rush he provides might not be because of his chiropractic expertise, but if something makes you feel good, why make it stop?


xxM

Heat is Temporarily Infinite

Summer in the city.

Supposedly, this is the best thing about living in New York. Street fairs, free events and cute little dogs without their sweaters. Hidden swimming pools are discovered and, all of the sudden, we are shocked by the realization: "Hey, there are numerous beaches surrounding the burroughs." Let's get a tan!
Hipster boys sport their undeniably trendy bermuda shorts and Jersey girls show their indisputably teeny minis. We rediscover our love for Pink Berry, Mr. Softee, or the organic ice cream truck on Bedford, which never fails to have a line of over-heated scenesters anticipating their single-scoop and blocking my Northbound path to Greenpoint. We laugh and we hold hands and we sit in the park and we exclaim over and over, "I LOVE SUMMER IN THE CITY."

But it's fucking hot.

For some reason, New York landlords refuse to believe that we do not live in a. 1912 and b. Sicily. I would compare the heat to the American South. But I'm from the American South, and down there, we all have central A/C. We also all own a cow, drink water from the community well, and I didn't even own my first pair of shoes until I hitchhiked my way to the big city! I'll save those stories (lies) for my future posts.

In New York, it is not uncommon to walk into a clothing store, already over-heated and soaked from your brisk 1/2 mile stroll in the 90 degree heat, only to find that this particular store is not only over-priced and under-whelming, but employees and customers alike are passing out left and right from exhaustion and heat strokes. Their faces are literally becoming burned from the reflection of the sun rays off the windows. Is it morally acceptable to make employees work on their feet for 8 hours a day, without even the meagerest, window-installed 5,000 wat unit?

I'm exaggerating. Guilty.

But it's fucking hot.

You look at your iChat, and notice that boy (who just didn't work out). His status is, "it's fucking hot in here. this sux." HA! Hate it for you, boy-who-just-didn't-work-out. Because I'm feeling rather content right now, lying on my bed, window open, cigarette in hand. The buses are loud, but comforting. The roar of the G train below me is almost dulcet, and I've gotten used to the lady who rummages through the recycling. She needs to eat too, you know. The breeze is slow but consistent, and the rain makes everything delightfully bearable. Even lovely.

Sorry boy-who-just-didn't-work-out, because although I'm hot, I'm not miserable. Like you.

I think on Sunday I'd like to go to the Brooklyn Pool Party and listen to Dan Deacon and Deerhunter play-- for free. Maybe I'll even grab a 1.00 penny-lick ice cream cone. I'll invite my friends, and we'll kiss each others cheeks and hold hands and drink cold, over-priced beer. We'll tease the cute hipster boys and label them "delicious" or "unclean". We'll scour the hoards of trendy girls and secretly wish we were wearing that dress. We'll judge the judgmental. We'll judge each other. We'll sweat and and acquire a new tan-line. Our noses will become pink in the sun. We'll dance.

At the end of the day, we'll sit down with a brown-bagged tall boy in the park. We'll complain about sunburns and landlords and various wrong-doings. We'll make headbands out of clover flowers. I'll smoke a cigarette, and lay down on the grass, and watch the kickball game which will undoubtedly be played 20 feet from my head.

And then I'll talk about how much I love summer in the city.

xxM