i want to be your what's happening

It’s funny how quickly things change. My life has been so crazy ridiculous that I can only share the highlights of all these changes in list form:

1. It’s cold in New York, and I don’t like it
2. I thought I would have enough money to fly home to Miami for Christmas, but I don’t
3. I do not live in Bushwick
4. I do live on the Lower East Side
5. I really like my coffeeshop job, surprisingly enough
6. I really hate my babysitting job, but that’s no surprise to me
7. Where the fuck have I been that I haven’t been listening to LCD Soundsystem all the fucking time?
8. I may or may not have cut my dad off. I’m not sure, but he definitely hasn’t called me in a couple of weeks
9. I met a boy
10. I told him I needed a place to live
11. He let me stay with him
12. I moved in a couple of weeks ago
13. And I fell completely and utterly, head over heals, any other expressions you can use to describe something that is ridiculous and all-consuming and yet amazing and awe-defying, in love with him.

Woah. What the fuck happened to my life? How did it become so much more awesome?

this is why you're fat.

i poked one of my coworkers at the coffeeshop this morning, and felt his hipbones jutting through his skin. i said, "fuck you're skinny," and he goes, "no, i'm poor skinny."

is it bad that my first thought after that was, "so jealous! maybe another couple of months of this and i will be too!"

ugh. living in new york makes me feel fat. this is probably the first time and only time i miss the plump comfort of the midwest.

currently more awesome at life.

Once, I went out with my teacher friend, Reggie, and we were talking about taking risks. It was right in the middle of the year, and I felt particularly down about my performance at school and about my life in general. I felt so unhappy with my life and with the choices I’d made up to that point, and I kept asking him, “How did I get here? And what have I done with my life?” Of course, like a reasonable person would, he reminded me that I’m only 23 and haven’t exactly written out the course of my life just yet. He then took out a pen and grabbed the napkin my drink was on, and wrote this:

I had dinner with Reggie a couple of days ago, and reminded him of that night. He asked me if I kept the napkin, and I told him that I’ve been carrying it in my wallet ever since that night. He asked to see it, so I took it out and gave it to him. He stared at it for a minute, and then ripped it up. He said, “I don’t think you need this anymore.”

I think I'm officially a badass.

too legit.

Ummm. So I thought about writing some bullshit about how people run off to college with the thought that their degree will get them everywhere in life and help them change the world and that no one sees themselves getting a job doing something completely menial and stupid after they graduate and blah blah blah. But I think one of my goals for this whole 'fucking up my life and doing a bunch of new shit with myself,' is to try not to be pretentious and convoluted for no fucking reason. Not build up some stupid bullshit story for the sake of making a pretty entry that follows some structural arc or whatever. Because let's face it--I'm not a very good writer. I'm sort of banking on being honest.

So, three things:

1. I got a job last week. Two, in fact. One is at a coffeeshop.

My boss told me I finally 'earned' a hat. Clearly, I'm very enthused.

The other is babysitting for a family on the Upper West Side.

The two girls I babysit, ages 5 and 6.

And there goes my sociology degree.

I thought about riding the unemployment wave for a little bit longer, especially since I had just enough money to live and couch surf for another month, but the idea of not having a job was too overwhelming, so I decided to send out a bunch of resumes and hopefully take on a part-time job. However, I'm just about the best interviewer/resume writer there is, and I had two jobs lined up in about three days. Hopefully they won't realize that I'm about 1,000 times better on paper than I am in person. Only just 500 times.

2. I may or may not have found an apartment. However, the apartment may or may not be the sketchiest apartment I've ever been to. After working three days in the coffeeshop, I happened to mention that I was looking for a place, and this dude named Terry said that he was looking for a third roommate. His place is in Bushwick, which is where I've been looking, so we agreed that I should come see the room. I go, I see it, and it's in sort of a shitty neighborhood, but the room is nice and his other roommate, Aaron, seems nice enough, and I think, "Ok, this could work for me." Then Terry goes,

"Have you ever heard of the Basement in Brooklyn?"

No, I say.

"It's this underground music venue that plays shows once every two weeks or so in a basement. Different acts and stuff, but a good vibe always." He then begins to drift ominously in front of a door near the back of the apartment that I assumed was a storage closet.

Ok, sounds cool...

"Well, the basement is our basement."

The somewhat sketchy, and by somewhat I mean totally, 'fake' bar.

He opens up the door, which leads down to a dimly-lit open space, with artwork and doodles all over the walls. In the corner, there's a drumset, amp, and microphone set up, and Terry continues to talk about all the different acts that have been in and out of the basement and how he makes a couple of extra bucks by bartending the gigs.

At first I mentally flipped the fuck out. The idea of weirdo musicians and their groupies hovering in and out of my apartment at all hours was not something I was looking for. Not to mention that I'm definitely that person on the subway who is making nasty faces at the douchebags who play their iPods just slightly too loud so that I hear their trashy Kesha songs, so having to listen to what I'm sure would be a string of God-awful local bands would drive me up a wall.

But then I gave it a think. And I thought, "Isn't this exactly what I've been looking for? Won't this apartment be filled with crazy adventures, new people, and fun stories?" After freaking out for about three minutes, I realized that I couldn't have had a better apartment situation land in my lap if I tried. So after sitting in their backyard, drinking some sort of strawberry concoction that Aaron made and planning with Terry to put up a white sheet so we can screen movies outside, I told the boys that I'd be down to live with them. All I have to do is sign the lease and I will no longer be homeless.

3. This is the bottle of wine I bought last night.

At least it's a Spanish wine. Or at least a blend of Spanish wines...

I finished about 3/4 of it yesterday. Didn't recork it, didn't refrigerate it, nothing. What am I doing with it now, at 6:00 pm on a Monday? Taking swigs from it, of course.

Sometimes I tell myself that now my life is super cool, but I'm pretty sure it's secretly the opposite of what is cool.

the deets and wax inquisitiveness

My coffee cup, which my co-worker drew a house on to wish me luck in my apartment search. If only I were miniature-size and could move in.

One of the first things that occurred to me when I quit was that I would no longer have a regular paycheck. Which was fine and not a huge surprise. I was lying in bed, thinking about my finances, and decided that, yes, I could live on the cheap for a couple of months and maybe get some cheap-o jobs and I would be fine. Then I stood up, looked around my $1,000/month apartment, and quickly realized that a lack of a paycheck might soon become a bigger problem than I had anticipated.

Although it sounds crazy expensive, I actually consider my apartment to be a complete steal. Not only is it an amazing deal for the Upper West Side, but I had a free gym in the penthouse, an amazing roof deck, and a 24-hour doorman who was totally chill with me sneaking in a grill that I was not supposed to use on the aforementioned roof deck. But I was already struggling to pay for the place even with a consistent salary, and knew that the minute I quit my job, I would immediately have to let go of my place.

The second I put up the craigslist ad for my place, I got a slew of e-mails and inquiries. I couldn't keep track of all the people that were interested, and showed my apartment to at least 25 or more females, who were all smart, well-spoken, and successful, and all immediately let me know that they were very interested in the apartment and would be willing to move in as soon as possible. Lucky for me, my former roommates loved a girl named Talia, and I was able to move out of my apartment quickly.

This all sounds great, yes? However, although I have moved out of my apartment, I hadn't found a new one to move into. I moved out of my apartment almost two weeks ago, and I still haven't found a new place to live.

Saying goodbye to my old life and hello to homelessness.

Luckily, I have some excellent friends, who have offered me their sometimes comfortable, but always free, couches to sleep on in the meantime. I thought that my friends might be hesitant to let me live in their apartments rent-free for some undetermined period of time, but I've been surprised, and almost overwhelmed, with how supportive my friends have been about all my crazy life changes and their willingness to help me figure out my shit in the meantime. For the most part, the most vocal proponents of my move to vagabond-ness are my fellow teachers. Trying to talk me off the ledge, which was also surprising, were my parents. In a way, these opposing reactions sort of convinced me that I was making the right decision for the correct reasons.

My fellows teachers agreeing with me showed me that I wasn't making a rash decision. They have all felt the frustrations and struggles that I felt throughout my first year of teaching, and know that if those were the things that dictated my decision, that they could probably talk me out of it by reminding me that I'll get through it. But I think that they were able to see that this wasn't what I was looking to escape. Instead, I'm looking to escape a predetermined career path--to escape stability and find some nebulous 20-something experience that maybe doesn't exist, but hell I might as well try (by the way, did you read the New York Times article about being 20-something and a fuckup, because I hadn't? I swear that this was the first thing 90% of my friends said when I told them about what I was doing. Clearly all my friends are much smarter and well-read than I am. I also can't, after a bajillion people telling me I need to read it, claim that I've actually read the entire article. It's soooo long. Although I do enjoy the fact that all the pictures seem to have been taken with the Hiptamatic iPhone app because 20-somethings are just toooooo cool to have clear photos taken of them. Ergo, my homage to the NYT article in this post's pictures).

My parents, on the other hand, were the originals authors of, "What the hell are you doing teaching, you should quit your job immediately!" My mother spoke for the side of reason, pointing out that, "you don't even like children!" My father, on the other hand, spoke for tradition, and felt that at the ripe old age of 23, I should be getting married, staying at home, and producing droves of tiny Cuban children. However, I could hear my mother's jaw drop when I told her, especially when I prefaced the news with, "I did what you told me to do," which, apparently, she did not actually tell me to do. Eventually my mother came around, but I think her biggest worry was the lack of stability and assurance I would have in my life (ie - health insurance, which is fun to run around without!) which is sort of the point. After talking to my mom more about this, she began to see my point, and is cool with my decision, although she is still perpetually fearful that I will break all my limbs and be in medical debt for the rest of my life. Cross your fingers for me, for her sake.

My father...well, I haven't actually told him yet. I know that the minute he hears about this, he'll demand that I come back home and that there's no way I could possibly live in New York without a) a man, b) law school, or c) some silly ambition to help poor kids learn to read that he seems to believe I'll get over eventually. Since I have neither of those things (or at least his definition of them), he'll get into his head that I'm living a sinful life of debauchery and delinquency and that no man will ever want to marry me after that. Especially since I'm so old already and all.

Will I tell him? Perhaps. In the end, it's not like he can do anything about it. My relationship with my dad, though, hasn't been a great one, although it has been more positive the past couple of months. However, I think this is because we keep the subject light, and I specifically avoid certain subjects, like moving back to Miami or having a boyfriend or voting for Obama. Basically, I lie to him. Which is fine with me.

All in all, I know I made the right decision, partially because my friends and family quelled any doubts I had about the underlying reasons why I chose to quit. The first day of school came and went, and I remember turning to my friend, Terry, and telling him, "Yep...definitely glad I'm not at school."

Now to find an apartment...

gap year explained.

Sitting on stupid benches in Greenpoint

Two weeks ago, I decided to quit my job.

For the past year, I've been working as a teacher at a school in the Bronx. Prior to that, I was a student at school in Chicago, and before I even picked up my diploma, I was in teacher boot camp, without a moment to breathe. I was thrown into a middle school classroom full of students who were years behind where they needed to be, and not only was it a challenge to bring them at least somewhere close to grade level, but I had no clue about how to make a bunch of 12 year olds listen to their ill-equipped and inexperienced new teacher. Without a doubt, this year was the hardest, most depressing, and exhausting year of my life. I would come home almost every night, too tired to even cry about the horrible day I'd had. And for a long time, I thought that this was the way my life post-college was meant to look. Work long hours, come home, fall asleep, wake up and do it all over again.

But then summer came, and something magical happened. I realized, "Holy shit, I live in New York now," and I made the city mine. I made new friends, I went out to bars, I explored all sorts of neighborhoods, and I was, for the first time since I'd moved to New York, and quite possibly the first time since first starting college, truly happy.

But part of me knew that this happiness was only temporary. In the back of my head, I kept reminding myself that summer would end and I would have to go back to teaching and being miserable. As the summer went on, this nagging feeling grew worse and worse, and eventually I realized that I didn't want to go back into the classroom.

That didn't seem possible to me, at first. I mean, what else would I do? I came to New York to be a teacher, and I had it in my head that if I quit, then I'm failing at my goal. But then that idea started to unravel--what were my goals? What did I want from my life? Do I want to be a teacher forever? What else could I do with my life?

I remember going to meet my friend, Ollie, at El Beit in Williamsburg, with all these questions in my head. After sitting quietly for a couple of minutes, I blurted out to him, "I don't think I want to teach anymore." And once I said that, it suddenly occurred to me that this was the only thing, right now, that I was sure of, and that's ok. I didn't need to know where my life was going or what to do next. I knew enough in that teaching was making me miserable, and the rest would sort of figure itself out. So I walked into my principal's office later that week, and told him that I would not be coming back for the next schoolyear. I can say with the utmost confidence that quitting was the best decision I've made in my life.

I had some reservations about this decision. Although I'm confident now that I made the right decision, I did go into my principal's office only about 60% sure that I was doing the right thing. I think the biggest issue I had to contend with was the fact that I felt like I was somehow failing at something. I told all my friends and family that I was going to move to New York, and take my shiny new college degree and use it to help teach inner-city students. And that just didn't work out, and that somehow translated to me failing. Eventually, and I'm still working on coming to terms with this one, I think it's the exact opposite. At 23 years old, I don't need to have my shit figured out. I don't need to be miserable in order to fulfill some vision of what I believed success to be. Success, I think at this stage in my life, is realizing that I have so much freedom now to do whatever the hell I want, and I don't have to be embarking on some crazy career path so early in my life. For some reason, I believed success to mean that I should have my shit completely figured out. That I should already be on some career track that was definite and would take me from now until retirement. That success meant knowing where I would live, who my friends were, and what I would do for the rest of my life. But why? Why can't I just fuck around? Who says I need to know where my life is going? Who says I'm ready for my career to define me? These were all questions I continued to ask myself when weighing the decision about quitting, and it occurred to me that my life doesn't need to be so...defined, I guess you could say. I'm totally ok with just doing the things that make me happy and not worrying about the future.

So this is what this blog is meant to chronicle. I call it a belated gap year since I think most people take the time to be in their weird transient phase either right after high school or right out of college. However, I took a little more time to realize that I needed a period of time to fuck around and not be so stable. I want to make sure that I remember why I'm doing what I'm doing. I feel like it's easy to get caught up in this idea that you have to be on a career track and your life has to be completely figured out, and I know I need to remind myself that being a homeless vagabond for a couple of years is ok. I don't know that this blog will really have any unifying theme, either. But that's ok, too. Lots of things make me happy, and all I really want is to remember those things and share them with others. This summer has been the best summer of my life, and I hope this blog will come to represent the best couple of months, or even years of my life.