Actual conversation about birthdays that commenced at midnight on Tuesday in Stout on 33rd Street:
Violetta: “My birthday was the other day, I’m a Gemini – extremely curious, that’s me.”
Me: “Virgo. Perfectionist. Completely Type-A.”
Really sweet kid, poor guy who couldn’t find his way home with a map: “July 8. I’m a cancer. O-negative.”
Swear. To. God. Has nothing to do with this post. But how can I not repeat this story? I just can’t make this stuff up.
Anyway, onto heavier topics…today I bought a ticket to my reunion. That would be my (cough, cough) ten year college reunion. Ah yes, we were the cool class of 2000. Girls wanted to date us, men wanted to be us. Wait a minute. Strike that. Reverse it. (and ten points to Willy Wonka fans).
So, again, another thing in my life whose plan has pulled a fast one. I bought one ticket, for starters. And not every one of my fellow Eagles can go…we’re not staying in the dorms, reliving the good old days when we’d wake up to C’s chocolate chip cookies or come back to random people watching 90210 in our living room. Alas, it will be great. No, I’m can’t say I’m living the dream… and would not shout from the mountain tops the sheer joy of living the life of moi at present. I didn’t anticipate being single, in a job that is not a career, and more than a little pissed at the world. I actually used the word “douchebag” in two different meetings at work today. It’s come to this. I’m Peter Gibbons from Office Space.
I’m more than aware that something, one big SOMETHING needs to happen. Whether it’s a new city, a great new opportunity…something needs to fall in my lap…or better yet, balance the risk-reward, thank you very much… and right quick. While at my second job last night, I looked around, and just asked myself “When?” When will the stars align, when will the hard work pay off, when will I get what I so desperately want from this life…
I’m trying to remember that we should never compromise a dream, but there is no shame in compromising how it will come true. Things change. Doesn’t mean they disappear. But the other day, I began a sentence: “My therapist said…” and then I realized what words just formed that fragment, and I dissolved into laughter. It’s come to this. I’m now THAT girl.
Six hours after I got home from job #2 at 1am, I was in Central Park playing tennis for the first time since the summer. My instructor with a heart of gold said to me “You still have it! We will bring it out in you again.” I’m sure he defined “it” as being my not-so-shabby forehand. But I hope that the rest of “it” comes back soon, too.