Paperthin Hymns

If there's one thing I learned from no-longer-underground band Anberlin, it's that "youth fades and glory days deceive".

The sad but relevant truth of my current status as a non-entity has caused me to launch headlong into a solo-listening party of Anberlin's 2005 album "Never Take Friendship Personal", a throwback to my not-so-long-ago college years. Living in the city has taught me a few things, first and foremost that I am only as cool as my friends and what I do. In school, it was how quickly you typed an essay the day it was due or the amount of people you slept with (who am I kidding, that still happens now). I've slowly been transitioning from quirky, live out loud, say what I'm thinking gal to "yes, I can finish that before I sleep" gal. I have dreams about talking to PR reps and ordering products. I wake up wondering how many emails I've gotten to my Blackberry. My weekends are spent calculating how my upcoming week is going to turn out.

I could extend the list to include vacations that are not vacations, merely trips out to the Midwest for weddings that are lightly masquerading as breaks. They are the Lady Gaga of time outs. And not to be bested by that is my raging (suspected) ulcer, which threatens to make every meal I eat a test of will. The Catch 22 of this whole thing? I can't even afford to go to the doctor.

God Bless the current situation in the American Economy. Please, feel free to rob me of any youthful thoughts and dreams and suspend me in a fat-free hell of my own making. And there is no fun in no fat, lemme tell ya.

Facebook Feed Me

As per my job description, I spend an inordinate amount of time on Facebook, absorbing the latest trends in social media. I'm also taking a close look at the personal lives of many people I'm surprised I'm even friends with. Said perusing has led me to a startling revelation: I have no life.

This is, of course, merely relevant if you define your life based on a.) being so freaking cool you spit Popsicles, b.) spend your evenings attending event after event after event or c.) know lots of super neat people and take oodles of pictures with them. And I am none of these things.

Living in New York has turned me cynical; I revel in the fact that I do attend a great deal of food related night time extravaganzas (as press, sure, but yeah) and have met no shortage of famous chefs/mixologists, had enough cocktails to quench the thirst of Beijing and eaten delicacies above and beyond epic. I don't always advertise it. Perhaps out of laziness but mostly just because I enjoy it on a level that is purely my own.

That being said, I work very, very hard at what I do with no shortage of extra bondage taped on at the end of the night after I've consumed a hastily slapped together meal. I'm tired, people. My mother thinks I have an ulcer. I am not meant for a stressful life. Truthfully, I just want to open a used bookstore in the middle of nowhere and raise a brat or two. It's better than spending half my life reading/visualizing the lives of people who don't exist in my outside social realm.

I have been toying over the idea that Facebook is merely a sounding board for good intentions; those that want to seem important or interesting will retain the bad and bask in the glory of their decent, fully functional ridiculousness through pictures, quirky comments and odd, yet hilarious, "likes".

For example, as I'm watching Buffy in my pjs, Dim Sum stuffed in my mouth, I notice on Erik's laptop that my feed is being bombarded by pictures of friends at the Manhattan Cocktail Classic. Or talking about something in the New York Times. Or tweeting about the coolest ever techy stuff that they obviously have a "very funny" pun about.

And here's the double sided sword: if I complain that it's just a stupid, vapid way of gaining attention, I will receive responses of "turn of the #@!(%&* computer". But if I keep quiet, I'll only wallow in the self-misery of the humble. And god knows that'll probably give me an ulcer, too. Only one way to find out...

Wanna Be a Billionaire

When I was 10, I wanted to be a famous singer. Not like Britney, mind you, as her shimmying hips and huge ass had not entered my childhood mainframe. When I equate famous and singer, they usually come up with Tina Turner or Whitney Houston...I do not dabble in slutty teenage girl mentality.

Of course, when I say famous I mean rich, because what kid doesn't want to roll around in a pool of Benjamins? Yes, that's right, I wanted to be a billionaire.

Thinking back on it now, I'm sort of glad I'm not. Life would be easier: I'd probably be thinner because I could afford a gym and time to use it and I wouldn't need to worry that last month's paycheck would barely be enough to cover my student loans. The government would be coming to me, baby.

Despite the ups, I'd probably learn zero life lessons, feel invincible and fall deep into drug addiction or alcoholism. Bad? Most likely. Which would make me a bit like Tony Stark. But probably not.

Why push it? In any case, I'm settled living life in Queens and adopting to the fact that English is definitely a second language in my building. I adore my discounted sun dresses and the occasional cheap Chinese from the corner restaurant. Suffering builds character; if so I'm the Mickey Mouse of the lower-middle class masses.

At least this will make a great What Not To Do 101 entry. "How not to completely f*ck up your life if you have loads of money".

Live free or die quick, kids.

The Steel Walls of Life

Since I'm now partially involved in the World of the Employed, I find that my days are longly spent in one position: seated. My butt aches, my back screams from the tension and my small cube closes in on me like the walls in an Indiana Jones movie. I booby-trap myself into thinking that I'm fine, but in reality the sitting starts to drain my mental capacity.

My escape is the bathroom. This is where I'd usually make a joke about "I shit you not, it's true", but let's move on to the real reason behind the...behind. Ha, already I'm off to a great start.

My boss has written about former FirstMark co-workers who would nap in the bathroom or do jumping jacks in the stalls. I'm not nearly so edgy. Mostly I just escape to the bathroom to work out my already sore posterior muscles (gosh that sounds gross, but is just a fancy way of saying "my rear end is numb from all the sitting"). The walk over is enough to have my dead feet tingle with the need to get the hell out of the office and into the Summer weather...April, you're a cruel mistress.

There's nothing wrong with escaping to the toilet, really. Unless you're taking colossal time away from the company by composing your memoirs or baking a cake. The solace one can find is almost re-invigorating: I'm almost always in the mood to get back to the grind after 5 minutes fixing my face or just standing in a stall for awhile. I find I can work for longer periods with that small rest! Quite lovely, I must say.

And much better than cruising your ex on Facebook.

Sick Days

Sick days are very dangerous days.

Example being today, this very morning. My head is pounding harder than bread dough on a counter. My nose feels like it's stuffed up to my temporal lobe and my body feels as if a UFC fighter took me down in the ring. Hard. No Mercy.

Game. Set. Dayquil.

It's been an hour and a half and already I'm done with the whole mess. Being sick is my Achilles' Heel; I hate feeling gross. I turn into a dripping, slimy, runny nosed adolescent who's been rejected one too many times by the school's hottest football player. Erik could mention that perhaps I could change out of the clothes I've been wearing for two days because it might make me feel better. He leaves for work with part of his ear chewed off after I verbally and physically abuse him in my weakened state for even mentioning something that might possibly be good for me. Of course, I know what's good for me. Y'know, watching Netflix, cuddling with my cat and not moving for seven straight hours.

Not always a good thing, lemme tell ya.

What I don't always like about sickness is having to tell my boss that I'm under the weather and then having to make up the day the next week. Working for a startup means there's really no down time, which I don't mind except I suffer from ridiculous anxiety whatever and need to take various steps to chill out. Such a buying a coloring book with Disney Princesses and shading in hopeless dreams. Or doing yoga...the only way I could even do the pretzel is by accident. And even then I imagine I'd get stuck. And without health insurance I'd most likely stay that way.

I guess I should just avoid the subway...but it's a long walk to work.

The Final Touch

There's nothing us semi-unemployed peons adore more than recognition. We crave it like the latest gadgets or vajazzling. Each mention of our name in newsletters, Team tabs on websites or on business cards is thrilling, an exhilaration short of mind boggling. When I took hold of my box of business cards it was akin to holding my first born (a feeling I'll have to imagine for the time being).

What brought me to this rather obviously conclusion was a coup. After two months of arguing, pleading, nagging and finally a few quietly shed tears I'm up on the Team page of our site. I had been nursing this puppy since infancy; the cradle's been rocked so hard I still have the bruises from holding on. I have ulcers from the stress, sleepless nights and under-eye circles the size of peaches to prove how hard I've been working. I deserved my picture and a blurb! I DID! It happened. And I almost cried I was so grateful.

I've gone through four years of college and prior to that four years of high school. Those horribly brain rendering years left me with little more than a desire to move on...so why am I clinging so hard to the recognition a single piece of card can afford? I've only been here a year; why the sudden craving?

Perhaps this is the onslaught of a years worth of friends parading their employment in front of my face; throwing business cards at me to prove how important they are. Like a piece of meat, I'm tenderized by the fact that someone cares enough about my work to make me an integeral part of their team. And it's something to wave in the face of nay-saying acquaintances who thought they were so cool because their name was tied to a corporation.

And inside my head I'm using my whole college-sized dictionary of useful, choice words to prove myself better. God Bless the American Dream.

Next thing to trump? Weddings.

...though for now I am willing to accept defeat. Kudos, Weddings, for being something this girl does not want to touch (at least for the next ten years).

Vanity is Fair

There are few things I regard above others...personal hygiene, chocolate hazelnut pudding, kittens...but it is just this that poses the problem.

Like almost every woman, I suffer from this terrible disease I like to refer to as "a diet seemed like a good idea but I really like to eat" or, "low self-esteem". When I go into the bathroom to wash my face, instead of noting my sharp eyes and full lips, I tend to count the number of times the skin from my neck folds over itself, or the roundness of my chin. These insignificant features are sadly the drawing point of many a judgement in New York; it makes me miss the comfortable bars of Champaign and the restaurants of Savannah. There's something about the East; a desire to be the best even if the best is quite far from it.

I propose a bit of vanity; when I walk into the bathroom I am to find one good part of myself to praise so that in time I hope to love the whole package. The first step to finding a great job is to have the confidence in yourself to do so. I have lacked that from the get-go, resuming my usual internal pout as my boyfriend buys the groceries again. Never have I been a fan of being supported, choosing instead to live apart from my parents, attempt to pay for things on my own. Last week my mom sent me a twenty in a card and I put it towards that weeks consumables. The downside to working with well dressed, high powered women is the dream to have it, but to live in the Target induced coma I've been reduced to.

I should learn to regard myself as myself with no regards to things...my clothes are just as good because no one knows where they're really from.

And can someone explain those big fake framed glasses? I don't seem to understand the point unless you're truly blind.

Vanity is fair, a given right of all women (and some men), but like caffeine, cheeseburgers and wine (psh, who am I kidding) it's much better in moderation.