Tonight, at around 6 PM, I decided to go shopping. I hate shopping. I buy a lot of my clothing online...everything online is organized, you don't have to dig for size or search for color, and a lot of the time the website will recommend stuff to go with pieces you like. Mostly I hate shopping because I detest going to malls. Everything I wrote about in this post seems to have gotten worse. However, I'm moving to the big bad city and haven't really bought myself a good deal of clothing in a long time. I'm talking I own one pair of jeans, three pairs of flip flops, a pair of sperrys, a few sweaters and lots of t-shirts.Comfort, comfort, comfort.
So I drove off in my mom's car and I wasn't a mile from my house when I was struck with this awful, horrible, crushing feeling that I was never going to get back home. Like I was going to get in some sort of freak car accident and DIE.
I wish I was kidding. Then my mind, being my mind, extrapolated that pinch of anxiety to a near panic attack: I imagined what the evening news would say and the phone calls my mom would have to make to my siblings and my poor roommate stranded in an expensive apartment on the upper east side. I thought about the last half hour I spent with my mother, helping her make a buffalo chicken dip for her book club tonight. If I died, surely it would go to waste and book club would be canceled. The whole town would come out for my wake. It would be terrible. But worst of all, I would be dead.
By the time I pulled onto I-95 on my way to Providence, it was all I could do to stay on the road. I turned up the radio and just told myself to concentrate, concentrate. Luckily, the panicky feelings passed, though I was a little sensitive to anyone driving rather speedily within my sight range. I had made it to the mall and parked the car and entered the perfumed doorways before I started to feel panicky again.
Now this is a panicky feeling I cannot explain as readily as the death by fire-y car accident example, because no one was ever killed because they were shopping for sweaters. Shopping gives me an unexplainable anxiety. I feel perfectly fine in bookstores, could spend hours and hours perusing to my hearts content. There's something about clothing, like you have to get in and out as fast as humanly possible OR ELSE. But whats the or else? I can't quite put my finger on it.
I tried to ease myself into my sojourn by going to J. Crew first. I love J. Crew, but do most of my shopping there online. The store was so quiet. I could barely look at a couple of t-shirts (all of which had stunningly high price tags) before I felt a lump rising. I didn't want to dig around for my size, and I didn't want to cart anything around to a dressing room. I didn't want that nice girl folding corduroys to ask me if I needed any help. I didn't want to make anything match, or spend money on necessary accessories (because all of them are so cute, but so expensive!). Needless to say, I hightailed it.
It was down to the wire. I needed a pep talk or I was never going to buy anything. "Stephanie," I told myself, "you need some new clothes. This is not frivolity, you actually need to go into an office and look like a human being. Do you want to end up on What Not to Wear?" So I took a deep breath and ducked into Banana Republic. Still a little angst-ridden, I tried to calm down as I looked at some pretty skirts. I tried a skirt on, with a poorly matched (on my part) sweater thing, a cardigan and some jeggings. Bad. All bad. I wanted to cry, and leave. Instead, I forced myself to look more. Look for outfits. Stop looking at prices, I needed stuff anyway. And I succeeded! I felt a little better, and bought three (yes, three!) outfits.
On my way out of the mall I stopped at Borders. I deserved a little reward, after all, for surviving my near panic attack(s). Baby steps.
Showing posts with label the sky is falling. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the sky is falling. Show all posts
Friday, October 1, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
I AM ALIVE, yet lamenting
Just in case you were wondering.
Also, I'm a little discouraged. CMG showed me an article from the Wall Street Journal, and it has me shaking in my little waitressing sneakers. "A Lament for the Class of 2010" is honest and forthright, but downright scary. It puts forth the truth that even Ivy-Leaguers among us, even the kids with the best resumes on the market, are "entering a workforce that neither wants them nor needs them...They will enter a world where they will compete tooth and nail for jobs as waitresses, pizza delivery men, file clerks, bouncers, trainee busboys, assistant baristas, interns at bodegas." In essence: holy shit. What are the rest of us supposed to do?
We, "Gen-Y" in this article, will bear the brunt of the mistakes of the generations before us, look on while the Baby Boomers greedily consume what is left of social security, facing the prospect of working well into our seventies. We will have to solve the problems of the environment, national debt, health care and other various crises. The author of this article claims that even the children of the Plimoth pilgrims of the seventeenth century had brighter prospects than we do as a generation.
I think the hardest part of this prospect is the fact that, as children, we were told that we could be anything we wanted. Until a few years ago, this seemed pretty true within reason and with enough hard work. A cousin who graduated a mere four years ago was looking at starting salaries between 50 and 80 grand a year. We're happy to settle for 30, not even enough to pay for a year at many of the colleges we graduated from. Our parents worked incredibly hard and brought home fruits that we will probably never be able to bring home, even if we work just as hard.
Perhaps we are simply too selfish. There are more college grads on the market now than ever before. By sheer math, we can't all be making six figures within the next ten to fifteen years; there simply isn't enough money or space. In fact, there's no room for us, seemingly anywhere: perhaps the most innovative if given and chance, perhaps the brightest if given a chance, perhaps the most motivated if given the chance. Problem is, everyone is too innovative, creative, bright and motivated. But let's face facts: the baby boomers and the following generations will get tired, and old, and will retire. But does that mean we will have to wait a decade for a promotion? More and more of my friends are interning: they must work for no money to prove themselves worthy to be hired for salary. Here is a Times article for more interesting reading on the internship phenomenon.
I guess for now we'll all just have to pound the pavement, keep knocking until someone hears us, wait tables until we have varicose veins (which might be by the age of 27).
Oh, crap.
Also, I'm a little discouraged. CMG showed me an article from the Wall Street Journal, and it has me shaking in my little waitressing sneakers. "A Lament for the Class of 2010" is honest and forthright, but downright scary. It puts forth the truth that even Ivy-Leaguers among us, even the kids with the best resumes on the market, are "entering a workforce that neither wants them nor needs them...They will enter a world where they will compete tooth and nail for jobs as waitresses, pizza delivery men, file clerks, bouncers, trainee busboys, assistant baristas, interns at bodegas." In essence: holy shit. What are the rest of us supposed to do?
We, "Gen-Y" in this article, will bear the brunt of the mistakes of the generations before us, look on while the Baby Boomers greedily consume what is left of social security, facing the prospect of working well into our seventies. We will have to solve the problems of the environment, national debt, health care and other various crises. The author of this article claims that even the children of the Plimoth pilgrims of the seventeenth century had brighter prospects than we do as a generation.
I think the hardest part of this prospect is the fact that, as children, we were told that we could be anything we wanted. Until a few years ago, this seemed pretty true within reason and with enough hard work. A cousin who graduated a mere four years ago was looking at starting salaries between 50 and 80 grand a year. We're happy to settle for 30, not even enough to pay for a year at many of the colleges we graduated from. Our parents worked incredibly hard and brought home fruits that we will probably never be able to bring home, even if we work just as hard.
Perhaps we are simply too selfish. There are more college grads on the market now than ever before. By sheer math, we can't all be making six figures within the next ten to fifteen years; there simply isn't enough money or space. In fact, there's no room for us, seemingly anywhere: perhaps the most innovative if given and chance, perhaps the brightest if given a chance, perhaps the most motivated if given the chance. Problem is, everyone is too innovative, creative, bright and motivated. But let's face facts: the baby boomers and the following generations will get tired, and old, and will retire. But does that mean we will have to wait a decade for a promotion? More and more of my friends are interning: they must work for no money to prove themselves worthy to be hired for salary. Here is a Times article for more interesting reading on the internship phenomenon.
I guess for now we'll all just have to pound the pavement, keep knocking until someone hears us, wait tables until we have varicose veins (which might be by the age of 27).
Oh, crap.
Sunday, May 2, 2010
on being poor
Well that was quite the hiatus. I apologize. Academia, for perhaps the last time in my life, has been making my life nearly unlivable. But, on the same token, it is all so bittersweet. The "real world" will be more difficult than college--right? Alas, this weekend marked the last spring weekend at school ever. Tear. Today my whole body hurts. I magically came down with a cold overnight...though it is quite possible it is simply allergies. I'm going to hope for the allergies, because if I'm actually sick that will be so not fun.
What's on my mind today? Being poor. I am broke. Broke as a joke. Over Easter I looked at my checking account and actually burst out laughing because I had $43. Yup. I thought I was ok and requested a check from my savings until the other day I realized that check also dwindled and I don't have much left in my savings. On Wednesday there was a reception held in the ballroom for graduating seniors and alums. Appetizers, open bar. My friends and I were so there! Upon trying to get ready I realized that I did not a. have appropriate dress pants, or b. have shoes besides my sperrys and my junky Caro St. heels I bought at Payless specifically to wear to off-campus parties (No, Caro St. is not a brand. It's the colloquial name for the off-campus neighborhood surrounding HC). Also, most of the jewelry I own is from Target because I tend to lose nice jewelry...my parents learned early on. THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS.
Walking up to the networking event, I cringed with every step I took because the metal posts of my high heels are poking out of the bottom, making a lovely squeaky, metal-on-pavement sound. I reflected upon my wardrobe and realized the full extent of my poverty. My jeans have holes in the crotch (which I have patched, I'm not trying to look homeless), the treads of all of my footwear (sperrys, sandals, you name it) are worn smooth, all of my unmentionables are actually falling apart, and I save all of my laundry to do at home because I don't want to spend the money to wash it at school.
And yet, I have no trouble going to the liquor store. Time to reevaluate.
What's on my mind today? Being poor. I am broke. Broke as a joke. Over Easter I looked at my checking account and actually burst out laughing because I had $43. Yup. I thought I was ok and requested a check from my savings until the other day I realized that check also dwindled and I don't have much left in my savings. On Wednesday there was a reception held in the ballroom for graduating seniors and alums. Appetizers, open bar. My friends and I were so there! Upon trying to get ready I realized that I did not a. have appropriate dress pants, or b. have shoes besides my sperrys and my junky Caro St. heels I bought at Payless specifically to wear to off-campus parties (No, Caro St. is not a brand. It's the colloquial name for the off-campus neighborhood surrounding HC). Also, most of the jewelry I own is from Target because I tend to lose nice jewelry...my parents learned early on. THIS IS WHY WE CAN'T HAVE NICE THINGS.
Walking up to the networking event, I cringed with every step I took because the metal posts of my high heels are poking out of the bottom, making a lovely squeaky, metal-on-pavement sound. I reflected upon my wardrobe and realized the full extent of my poverty. My jeans have holes in the crotch (which I have patched, I'm not trying to look homeless), the treads of all of my footwear (sperrys, sandals, you name it) are worn smooth, all of my unmentionables are actually falling apart, and I save all of my laundry to do at home because I don't want to spend the money to wash it at school.
And yet, I have no trouble going to the liquor store. Time to reevaluate.
Monday, April 19, 2010
All the single ladies: the fear that Bridget Jones and Sex and the City have given us
The other day I was surfing the internet (probably while I was procrastinating, let's be real here) and I came across this op-ed from and online women's publication The Lemon Drop aptly titled "Are Bridget Jones and Liz Lemon Making Us Afraid to Die Alone?" Eff. Of course, like a car wreck or seeing old people at a nude beach, I couldn't look away. Basically, the article chronicled single women's fear of being alone. Seemingly, this is only a problem for women; you never hear about men being alone and miserable in their thirties, but more on that lovely double standard later. At the end of the article was a wonderful, pour salt in the wounds, face-it-you'll-be-alone-forever poll that asked: 'What do you think of Liz-Lemon syndrome?' In case any of you don't know, Liz Lemon is Tina Fey's character from 30-Rock. She scheduled a root canal on Valentine's Day because she didn't want to be conscious. Yeah. The options for answering were:
1. I admit it--I'm scared of being single in my thirties
2. being single in your 30s is normal and doesn't mean you binge eat and can't get laid
3. I'm not really scared to be single in my 30s AND I love a good joke about getting poundcake on my cat.
Well, shit. I kept replaying in my head that one episode of Sex and the City when Miranda first buys her apartment and calls Carrie in the middle of the night, convinced she was going to choke on some chicken and die alone and be eaten by her beloved cat, Fatty. I was starting to palpitate and instead of answering, I exed out of the article. Then, when I watched Bridget Jones's diary last night, the scene with her drunk in her P.J.s belting out "All By Myself" nearly brought me to tears.
Today I got to thinking about why, at the tender age of 22, I am so so so afraid of being alone. It's been awhile, admittedly, since my last relationship (enough time for many of my other friends, who were single for less time than me, to already have significant others), but why have a heart attack over it? Then I realized that we're conditioned to feel this way. And you know whose fault it is? Those chicks from Sex and the City, Bridget Jones, Liz Lemon, Elaine Bettis (her only foil being George Costanza), and just about every other pathetic single female on both big and small screens. While Sex and the City tries to make its women seem strong and independent, all four have their downfalls. Charlotte is marriage obsessed. Carrie has no money (and really is irresponsible with the little she has). Samantha is a slut. Miranda fears being eaten by her cat. Seeing such beautiful, smart women unmarried and unattached and lamenting it at every turn is enough to give an entire generation of girls the shivers.
For men, it's different. They have the cool dudes of Entourage, where wives and girlfriends are often such pains-in-the-asses, that they're gotten rid of. And don't worry! If you get rid of one, more will follow! Single men in all movies (and, seemingly, in life) never have worries about getting married or being alone. There will always be some young thing naive enough to be duped into a relationship.
Why is single 30-dom such a touchy thing for me? Because I can easily see myself as Bridget Jones; sad, drunk, desperate. Thankfully, I'm as far from 32 as I am from 12. I've got a lot of growing, learning, and time left to do it in.
Should I sign up for match.com yet? Ugh.
1. I admit it--I'm scared of being single in my thirties
2. being single in your 30s is normal and doesn't mean you binge eat and can't get laid
3. I'm not really scared to be single in my 30s AND I love a good joke about getting poundcake on my cat.
Well, shit. I kept replaying in my head that one episode of Sex and the City when Miranda first buys her apartment and calls Carrie in the middle of the night, convinced she was going to choke on some chicken and die alone and be eaten by her beloved cat, Fatty. I was starting to palpitate and instead of answering, I exed out of the article. Then, when I watched Bridget Jones's diary last night, the scene with her drunk in her P.J.s belting out "All By Myself" nearly brought me to tears.
Today I got to thinking about why, at the tender age of 22, I am so so so afraid of being alone. It's been awhile, admittedly, since my last relationship (enough time for many of my other friends, who were single for less time than me, to already have significant others), but why have a heart attack over it? Then I realized that we're conditioned to feel this way. And you know whose fault it is? Those chicks from Sex and the City, Bridget Jones, Liz Lemon, Elaine Bettis (her only foil being George Costanza), and just about every other pathetic single female on both big and small screens. While Sex and the City tries to make its women seem strong and independent, all four have their downfalls. Charlotte is marriage obsessed. Carrie has no money (and really is irresponsible with the little she has). Samantha is a slut. Miranda fears being eaten by her cat. Seeing such beautiful, smart women unmarried and unattached and lamenting it at every turn is enough to give an entire generation of girls the shivers.
For men, it's different. They have the cool dudes of Entourage, where wives and girlfriends are often such pains-in-the-asses, that they're gotten rid of. And don't worry! If you get rid of one, more will follow! Single men in all movies (and, seemingly, in life) never have worries about getting married or being alone. There will always be some young thing naive enough to be duped into a relationship.
Why is single 30-dom such a touchy thing for me? Because I can easily see myself as Bridget Jones; sad, drunk, desperate. Thankfully, I'm as far from 32 as I am from 12. I've got a lot of growing, learning, and time left to do it in.
Should I sign up for match.com yet? Ugh.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Gloom and Doom
The print industry is dying. And its partly my fault...and blogger's faults around the world. I started this blog as a way to get my writing out there, but now I see that I was a little misguided. This doesn't mean that I'll stop blogging, but it does mean that in my generation, there will be, sadly, less of a market for good writers, because anyone and everyone can blog if they want to, and anyone in the world can read them....for free.
English majors and blossoming writers all over the world, you best love your craft enough to keep at it, because there's slim to no chance that we'll ever be getting paid. The saddest thing is that I don't know how its fixable, other than people having to pay for access to websites. Of course, this must start at the top (and hopefully trickle down) with huge publications like the New York Times. I've already seen my favorite newspaper, The Boston Globe, flounder and nearly tank. How are writers and journalists supposed to make any money? They spend countless hours, their LIVES to research and write thoughtful and informative articles and stories, only to be distributed for free on the internet, while the math and science brains cash in doing more lucrative jobs (not because they love them, but because they will make money). Can I not do something I love and get paid for it? To quote The Devil Wears Prada, "is that so much to ask? and i reaching for the stars?"
Sweet Sea and I have been on the job hunt for a little while now, and something that is hard is people suggesting to work for online publications. No! I want my name in glossy print! I won't settle for internet because a.) internet does not (and probably should not) get taken seriously and b.) THERE IS NO MONEY. I want to love my job, and I want to write. Seemingly, I cannot have both. And its partially my fault, because I'm here, publishing my work for free.
English majors and blossoming writers all over the world, you best love your craft enough to keep at it, because there's slim to no chance that we'll ever be getting paid. The saddest thing is that I don't know how its fixable, other than people having to pay for access to websites. Of course, this must start at the top (and hopefully trickle down) with huge publications like the New York Times. I've already seen my favorite newspaper, The Boston Globe, flounder and nearly tank. How are writers and journalists supposed to make any money? They spend countless hours, their LIVES to research and write thoughtful and informative articles and stories, only to be distributed for free on the internet, while the math and science brains cash in doing more lucrative jobs (not because they love them, but because they will make money). Can I not do something I love and get paid for it? To quote The Devil Wears Prada, "is that so much to ask? and i reaching for the stars?"
Sweet Sea and I have been on the job hunt for a little while now, and something that is hard is people suggesting to work for online publications. No! I want my name in glossy print! I won't settle for internet because a.) internet does not (and probably should not) get taken seriously and b.) THERE IS NO MONEY. I want to love my job, and I want to write. Seemingly, I cannot have both. And its partially my fault, because I'm here, publishing my work for free.
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