Dear Social People,
I've often been accused of being a homebody. When I go out, it's not for long, and it's often to the same places. But I didn't realize how ridiculous I was until I fell asleep at 9pm on H's couch. Like, literally curled up and snoozed while other people were socializing. On a Friday. AT NINE.
Love,
So cool that I actually make the party stop.
P.S. This OBVIOUSLY means I will partake in the fabulousness of Avalon tomorrow night.
I've had a pretty good attitude recently. It's summer, I've had time off, HP is over, and we've been in the slight pre-rush lull.
I'm closing the store and a woman comes up to the register with a bunch of bargain books. We've been having trouble in this area recently--certain register procedures have been causing "shrink," which is a bad, bad thing.
The books aren't ringing up properly. Of course. I void the transaction and reset the register. This takes all of ten seconds and I explain what I'm doing to the woman. She sighs. TEN SECONDS.
I scan the book again and it's incorrect. I pause, look down at the register, and run through the options I have, trying to figure out which will register as shrink and which won't.
"That price isn't correct," she snaps.
Duh. I'm not standing here staring down at the register, fingers poised over the keys, clearly thinking about something, for NO reason. Obviously I have paused this lovely transaction for a purpose.
"Yup, I know," I say distractedly. Should I take a discount allowance or use a price override--no, NO price override, price override causes shrink...oh, wait, I could type in the ISBN and THEN use 199 to capture the number--does that really work?--hmm...that might work best....
My decision made, which took all of five seconds, I finally look up--and find the woman glaring at me. In fact, I'm surprised I'm still alive, because her eyes are crazy eyes.
"You don't need to be hostile."
I don't think I've heard her correctly because...well, hostile is not a way I'd describe myself at that moment. I was in a wonderful mood, I had only a few minutes left at the store, everything was neat and tidy, but I just couldn't understand why the damn bargain stickers hadn't been scanning. Not something I was mad or even irritated about, just curious. Sure, I didn't appreciate her pointing out something I was clearly aware of, but whatever.
"Sorry?" I say.
"Your attitude. You're being hostile."
"I'm sorry," I try to say, but she storms off, stops one of the cafe workers, points me out, and says I should be reported. For what, I have no idea, since ALL I've said is "Yup I know" and "Do you have any discount cards with us?"
Now, a lot of times when stuff like this happens, I have no witnesses. Luckily I had called M down to help me close, and she was standing right there throughout the interaction. And when I turn to her with a WTF look on my face, hers has a similar expression, confirming the fact that this woman was, indeed, ridiculous.
I'm so glad when someone else can confirm an event because some days I literally would believe I was losing my mind. Hostile? Honestly? I might be a bit flip, sometimes possibly monotone, others perhaps a little disinterested, but I have never been hostile.
Now the Red Sox? They make me hostile. Bookstore? Not so much.
It's been one week since HP. Still collapsing into bed every night.
A bookstore should not make one so tired.
Although working extra waitressing shifts doesn't help.
But I wouldn't need to work the extra waitressing shifts if the bookstore paid me decently.
It's a catch-22.
(Had to get in a book reference somewhere...)
BL isn't mad at me anymore. I'm back in her will. And since she's receiving money VERY SOON, I'm pretty lucky.
Phew, I was super worried for a minute.
BL is mad at me. Like, she literally won't look at me. She's informed everyone that she's angry with me. She walks by me haughtily and won't come to the desk if I'm there.
All because, silly me, I made her PAY for her Bible. I mean really, the nerve of me.
"I don't have the money today, can I just pay for two tomorrow?"
Now, I admit I've let her do this because IT MAKES HER GO AWAY.
And if for some reason she didn't come back to pay for the 429th Bible that she's purchased since I've worked in the store? I would happily pay for it--that $3.50 would be joyously spent if it meant I never had to deal with her again.
However, she doesn't understand moderation (at a Bible a day, that's obvious) and soon pushed my generosity--which I could actually get fired for--to new limits while I was away. H was about to kill her. So when I returned, I firmly told her she was not to remove any merchandise without paying for it.
Thus the cold front.
I get a lot more work accomplished without having to listen to her ramble about the devil, but I also don't get nearly as many compliments.
Although Dwyer* told me I was looking lovely, and that? Coming from a crooked-nosed, no-teethed, loud-voiced porn-shop owner?
So the highlight of my day.
*Soon to have his own entry, but he makes me so angry that writing about him raises my blood pressure. And with HP, I'm stressed out enough, so we'll wait until after this weekend.
Literally.
I've been back a week and I'm just speechless.
1. Is changing a child's diaper in the middle of a clothing department standard practice? Because after catching whiff of an unpleasant smell, I peered across my floor to see just that. Which, um...NOT OKAY. (And, regarding the story below, this was a day when the restrooms were fully functional.)
2. We have two restrooms. Having restrooms is a courtesy to our customers. If said customers cannot have enough common sense to a) not smear shit on surfaces, b) not shoot up drugs for 45 minutes or c) take "showers" and a nap, these restrooms would be perfectly functional.
[Disclaimer: My store is in a very safe area. So safe, in fact, that I saw Assy, our resident homeless man, scalping Red Sox tickets. Yes, the scalpers hired a homeless man who grunts a lot and has his pants around his knees (thus the nickname) to help them out. I've never felt threatened and have, in fact, a friendly relationship with a couple of the men. So the fact that this is happening in our bathrooms is probably nothing compared to other areas of the city.]
3. When one restroom becomes disfunctional, the other is labeled as unisex. You might have to wait longer. We're sorry. Our building is 100 years old. My grandmother is 87 and people cut her slack all the time. Be gentle with our building. It's gone through a lot.
4. When the wait at the unisex restroom is too long, please don't come yell at me. There are two reasons this is stupid: a) I work on a different floor. Yes, it is the one you exit on, but when I'm puttering around inventorying cards, screeching at me about the toilets is the opposite way to win favor with me. b) This is a bookstore. We're not a mall.
5. When I am advised that the toilet--a floor above me, to which I have no access, as I'm chained to my desk by HP reservations these days--is not flushing and is overflowing, I say, "Okay, I'll let someone know." Which I totally won't, because duh, we know. We know that someone smeared crap everywhere, we know that someone decided to disengage the entire paper towel roll and spatter it with water and make a soggy mess of tissue, we know that the toilet is clogged and are trying to place a sign on the door but we keep getting interrupted. We. Know.
6. The thing to NOT say in these instances is, "Well, aren't you going to DO something about it?" Because you know what? No. I'm not. I'm wearing $80 linen pants and a cashmere shell. I am not going to walk into a watery bathroom to plunge an overflowing toilet. I mean, that's just me, and maybe I think too highly of myself, but seriously? At the rate I'm paid? When I'm dealing with HP and the "first floor crazies" (as I've taken to calling my regulars, because seriously?) and orientation and freshman parents and everything else? NO. I am NOT going to do something about it. I am here to help you find a book, to direct you around (apparently, as some people wish) the entire freaking STATE, to direct you to textbooks, to direct you to other books, to order books, to reserve FUCKING Harry Potter, to answer your question about when you can purchase HP, to mime our store policies, to tell people they can't return used books, to repeat and repeat and REPEAT without getting irritated.
I am not here to clean up shit. That's where I draw the line.
Today my former boss called the store to make sure I was still alive. Obviously, I was at lunch. I love being an enigma.
I was instructed to call him back because I "haven't posted on my blog or returned phone calls or proven that I am indeed alive and living in Boston."
I am, though. Alive. Living, yes, although the daily eye-roll count has mounted to such high numbers that one day an eyeball is going to lodge in my brain.
Although does having your soul sucked from you count as living? I just can't figure it out.
I'm back from the Outer Banks. It was a more glorious vacation than I ever could have imagined, although I did not, as BL predicted, meet a vacationing Boston boy and fall in love. She was disappointed to learn her prediction didn't come true.
I was disappointed that BL was still around to harass me when I returned. (WHAT? One can hope!)
So I'm back, everything is still the same, and within about three point five seconds I was in my closet about to tear my hair out.
Some guy comes down from the textbook floor. WITH THE SHELF TAG from text. That, oh, indicates the course number and book for the class.
"I need this book."
"Uh....you're really not supposed to take this tag."
"They didn't have the book."
"Well...you should then write down the book and bring it to me to see if we have it in trade. Not take the shelf tag."
"Well, now people won't be disappointed like me and find an empty shelf."
Yes, really, THAT was his rationalization.
"You can speak to someone on the text floor. They would be happy to tell you when the book is arriving."
"No one up there wants to help me."
Since I had JUST walked down the escalators and, from a limited vantage point, had seen at least three people on the text floor, I knew that he was full of shit.
"If you go up there, someone will help you. I'll call up to make sure."
"No. And you can take care of this." He hands me the shelf tag.
I'm all alone on the floor and VERY irritated by this point.
"No." I am livid. "You can return this because someone up there will be happy to help you." My voice drips with sweetness.
But my soul is rotting.
I AM NOT A SERVANT.
My boss takes our weekly recap sheet every Friday morning. My staff is very good about finishing the recaps by Thursday night so that she has time to write her own recap for the regional manger on Friday.
At 11am she had asked me to bring her the sheets. I always review them first to check for inconsistencies or errors.
The middle of the packet was incomplete--a simple error when five different people are flipping through paperwork during the day. Not a big deal, but something I needed to immediately tend to, as my boss was waiting for the numbers.
I'm sitting at the computer, quickly crunching numbers, when a customer walks up to me.
"Should I pay here...or somewhere else?"
"You can pay here!" I say. I pause to finish recording a number.
"You look bored," he says.
Which is such a weird statement. I mean, I'm bored at my job a lot. It's not stimulating or challenging or mind-bending in any sort of way. But when he approached me I was very engaged with the more interesting of the tasks that my job offers. I was anything but bored.
"Oh, no, not bored at all...just a little concerned with some tasks and stressed about getting everything accomplished..."
And then.
And then he says to me: "I can't really imagine that your job would be very stressful." A statement that sounds innocuous when written, but the tone he had...
I refrain myself from saying, "Customers like you."
Instead I say, "Well, we all have deadlines!"
I just...was he trying to make conversation? Reaching out to the poor folk? Because he made a completely irrelevant statement (You look bored) and then told me that I had no right being stressed out (meaning, I shouldn't be concerned about job performance) at said job.
He says, "Well, summer is a bit quieter around here."
I agree with him, but explain that, because it's quieter, we attend to a lot of projects during this time.
"Well," he says, picking up his bag, "hope you stop being so bored at work!"
DIDN'T WE JUST ESTABLISH THAT I'M NOT FROLICKING IN A FIELD SCATTERING WILD FLOWERS AND HUMMING NURSERY RHYMES ALL DAY?
I am not bored at work. I have a lot of things to do. Sure, it isn't finding the next cancer cure, but if you want to walk into a well-stocked fiction department, I suggest you come to me. It's unlikely that you'll leave disappointed.
I'm sitting at my computer reviewing sales. A woman comes up to me and asks, "Do you have 'Dreams of my Father' on tape? I don't know the author."
First of all, it's "Dreams FROM my Father" and if I weren't competent I wouldn't have been able to automatically know that, know that Barack wrote it, and locate it without any flustering about the difference between "of" and "from." Because sorry, but our computer isn't that smart.
But.
"It's actually not available in tape format, unfortunately," I say. "We do have it in CD, however."
"CD? What does that mean?"
My mouth opens and closes as I try to figure out how to explain this basic media format without sounding condescending.
"It's..a CD. Like a music one, but with a book on it?" I hate it when I talk like this, lifting the ends of my sentences as if I'm uncertain. It's the only way I can do this without sounding rude, because, as my bosses have noted, my voice is too flat otherwise.
"You mean they can listen to it in the car?" This woman peers down at me.
"Well, if they have a CD player they can..."
"But you said it wasn't available."
"I said it wasn't available on tape."
At this point I realize we're having a problem with semantics. Had she asked, "Do you have the book-on-tape version of ..." I would have probably assumed she was talking about audio books. But since she said, "Do you have...on tape" I thought she was specifically looking for it on tape.
"But it's on CD?"
"Yes, I'm sorry...I didn't realize you were looking for any audio version."
"Well, I asked for a book-on-tape." She's bitchy now, and this irritates me.
"But I told you that tapes aren't available...."
"It's a TERM. I didn't actually mean tape." She says this as if to imply that I am, in fact, retarded.
"I'm sorry," I say, my teeth grinding together. "I take things specifically and I thought you wanted a tape." SINCE YOU ASKED FOR ONE, SPECIFICALLY, I resist saying.
"Yeah, well, I obviously meant CD." She flounces away.
Well, I obviously meant to make your life more difficult by taking what you said at face value. Soooo sorry.
Haaaaaaaaaaaaate.
Oh Linny-Lin. She's curled up next to me, head and paw draped over the computer. This is us, every night. It's a quiet life we lead.
I just fully realized how much of my life has been shared with this little cat. I got her in fifth grade, when I was twelve. When I went away to camp for the summer after sixth grade, she moped at my door and ran, delighted, through the house when I came home for a visit.
She slept on my bed during high school, witnessing the awkward flirtations with my first boyfriend.
She was depressed when I left for college, constantly following my mother through the house, always looking somewhat confused.
She was always the smallest cat, getting bullied by Oliver, saved by Molly, and running away from my father's heavy tread. She never really got enough credit--Oliver was the cuddly one, Molly was the sweetheart, and Lin just chilled, happy to cuddle when Molly wasn't dominating a lap, or eager to munch on ham when Oliver wasn't begging for food.
Molly disappeared before I graduated from college, and Lin and Ollie led an uneasy life together. He no longer attacked, but still chased and irritated her.
As soon as I got settled in Boston, I brought her here. I wanted her with me, although I was concerned she'd miss the NH wilderness. She's made it clear that a window with a view is enough, especially at her her age.
She has been through my life--elementary school, middle school, high school, college, grad school. And now, the adult world. That's a lot of time, a lot of memories, a lot of crying and laughing and yelling and talking.
She's heard it all. She was there when the Colombian broke up with me for being too fat. She was there during countless Alias nights, chewing on her cardboard box. She was there when my sister moved in. And then left. And then moved in again. She was there when I yelled at the Red Sox, when I chucked a shoe at the wall, when I decided that I was totally capable of putting in an air conditioner by myself. She's been there when I couldn't leave my bed, when I slept for 17 hours straight, when I cried and cried and thought I couldn't go on.
She's witnessed way too much.
(Thankfully she can't talk.)
But thankfully she's been here, because having this little body in my life has given me more reason to figure everything out.
It's easy to take a cat for granted. Bea had Molly, I had Lin, we both doted on Oliver. The kitties played outside, wandered around the house, slept in their own rooms at night. That's how cats are in NH--they go on two-day quests, reappear for some food, trot off. It's hard to reign in free spirits, but if you're living in the woods, it's an unfortunate gamble. Cats don't require the constant attention that other pets do, and it's easy to just let them be their independent selves.
So I feel lucky that Lin stuck close to home, lived out her youth in the forest, and can retire here in Boston, a spoiled old lady, with canned food on tap.
Because seriously? She's seen it all. And she still loves me. It's nice having that little bit of security in my life.
H and I have done away with actual names, instead referring to each other as "Bird." This nickname evolved from a particularly interesting character we encountered together. For a while we referred to strange customers as "birdies," in the original woman's honor. Then H started calling me "Birdface." It was all downhill from there. Basically, Sammy changed our lives.
"Those stairs are moving DOWN!"
Why yes, yes they are. Because they are not stairs, "they" are an escalator. Stairs? They are solid. Not movable. You must use physical energy to ascend them. I am so sorry, I know you thought your bookstore journey would start with a large frappuccino which you would then meander about with. The broken escalator certainly throws a wrench into that fantasy!
My blog, which I started as a joke between Brian and I, has now become a year old. I've decided to revisit some of the more ridiculous encounters I've had, just in case you forgot...because I sure haven't.
Here we go:
"undereducated"
Unfortunately, today I was the bitch.
This day was just really unpleasant from the moment I was awakened at 8am by some noise that I thought was a chainsaw. It was loud, obnoxious, and shattered my delicate sleep on the one day I get to stay in bed and snooze. This noise continued for over two hours. I never figured out what, exactly, it was because the trees in front of my apartment have way too many leaves. I can spy so much better in the winter.
I got to work already irritated. I was tired, I have no clean clothes, and as much as I like the sleeping-in part of a closing shift, I hate closing. I just feel like I'm playing catch-up all day.
Twenty minutes before a meeting I ran to the PO to mail off some books. I have, in the past week, developed a serious dislike of my post office. It's really busy, there are only three counter people, and they are s o o o o s l o o o o o w. Most of them are nice enough, but that's part of their problem--they should stop chatting and get a move on. I just watch them gabbing away and I'm like, "There is no way someone can talk that much for an entire shift. What exactly IS their hiring process? Do they stick the person in a room and see how long they can carry on a conversation with themselves?"
So, I have twenty minutes. I am the second person in line. Two of the clerks are in transactions with people that take the ENTIRE TIME. Finally the guy in front of me heads to the third clerk. And, finally--after, mind you, TEN people have lined up behind me--the third window is clear. As I start to walk to it, the woman takes out a sign. Window Closed. The hell? I sigh, go back to line. Wait another minute before it becomes apparent that I'm going to be late if I stay any longer.
I mean, that's just ridiculous. But it's not like the PO is really a real business. It's not like I can be like, "I've had such bad service and had to wait 35 minutes, I'm not going there anymore." I have to go there. I suppose I could use UPS or FedEx, but that just wouldn't make sense for what I'm mailing (i.e. books). I mean, I've learned not to go after four or around noon, but 2:30 on a Tuesday shouldn't yield a twenty minute wait when I only had one person in front of me. GRRRR.
I get back for my meeting, go to lunch, and proceed to get in an entirely ridiculous argument with my sister because I'm so agitated that she's the easiest person to yell at.
I finally calm down by closing time. But that doesn't go easily and I'm stuck in the freaking basement for twenty minutes rebooting a computer that wasn't properly shut down. I finally leave quite late and decide to grab take-out from this cafe across the street.
And this is where I turn into a raging bitch.
This cafe--they are slow. They are SO slow that I rarely go there, never would order a cooked item, and god forbid someone in front of you wants one of their specialty frozen yogurts, where they mix it themselves. Since all I want is a salad, I figure I'm fine.
WRONG WRONG WRONG.
Three people in front of me order fro-yo.
I order salad with a side of hummus.
Two people behind me order fro-yo.
The woman just keeps taking people's orders without making any move to the kitchen. Finally another woman appears.
The first woman makes the LAST people's yogurts. Then starts on the first people's. I am doing the crossword, trying to ignore my grumbling stomach.
Finally I go stand by the counter, waiting for them to acknowledge me. More people come in for yogurt.
"Um....can I please get my salad?"
I would say at least fifteen minutes and six customers have gone by.
"Oh, this is yours?"
It's been sitting there, with the hummus, on the back counter.
"Yes..." I say through gritted teeth. I mean, really. Was I supposed to guess that it was ready? Is it really my part of this equation to have to ask my salad?
"Oh, do you want dressing?"
"No, I'll just take it, thank you."
She meanders over to the plasticware.
"I don't need that. Just the salad."
"Napkin? You sure you don't want dressing?"
"No. I just. want. my. salad."
I'm sure I look like a raging bitch, but seriously? I'm hungry. I've ordered dinner. It's ten o' fucking clock. I really think that the frozen yogurt could have waited a minute because those people have OBVIOUSLY ALREADY EATEN DINNER and were AFTER me.
I finally get home and flick on the kitchen light, which promptly blows out. Fabulous.
I turn on my living room light. Sit down, turn on the Sox game, and begin eating my salad, which I don't even want anymore because I'm so pissed off.
Three minutes later, my living room lamp blows out. I don't even make a move to find another source of light.
I just sit there, bathed in the glow of the TV, blindly stabbing my fork into the bowl of spinach until I start laughing at how ridiculous I must look.
And then I call my sister to apologize.
I feel guilty about my attitude toward the cafe lady, but seriously, they need a better system.
And the PO can just suck it.
[ETA: Coincidentally, two of the blogs I link to have recent posts about getting slightly irrationally bitchy. At least I'm not the only one. Thank god I'm not the only one.]
I don't make a big deal about being a vegetarian. It's a personal choice. I could care less if people eat meat, order meat, eat meat in front of me, like meat, etc etc. When I'm waitressing, I usually lie: "Our chicken parm is fabulous!" I don't feel like getting into a debate and usually people just want assurance that their meal will be good.
But some people are so freaking indecisive.
"I'll have the lasagna with meat."
"Okay," I say, "would you like it with meatballs or sausage?"
I'm semi-busy and taking the order for a table of 12. They're already late for their reservation, are taking their time making decisions, and I can hear the chefs yelling that I have food up.
"Hmmm...wellllll...which do you like better?"
I'm in my no-nonsense mood, so I say, (apologetically, at least), "Honestly, I haven't eaten meat in 17 years. I have no idea what the difference between meatballs and sausage actually is."
She vacillates for another minute, staring at the menu as if it will magically answer her.
"Is one better?"
"I think it's personal preference. Do you like Italian sausage? People seem to enjoy that version."
"Um...I don't know. If you were going to eat meat, which would you choose?"
Now I'm annoyed.
"Well, since I haven't eaten meat since I was ten and am unlikely to...well...EVER, I can't make that decision for you." Seriously? She just asked me that?
The people at her table are starting to look annoyed. The guy next to her nudges her shoulder and says, "It's not a life-or-death decision."
She peers at the menu, glances up at me, exhales and says, "Sausage. I guess."
I snap my book shut, smile, and RUN away before she can change her mind.
It's like, I take my food pretty seriously. I looove eating. I'm thinking about dinner while I eat breakfast. But there is NO need to take that long to decide on a meat type. And after I've explained that I don't eat meat, trying to force me to make your decision is pretty ridiculous.
Would she have stopped asking questions if I said, "Actually, the whole thing grosses me out. They're both products of ground-up meat that can't be used for other purposes, so I think you're in a real win-win situation. Although I do think one is pig and the other cow. Pick an animal, I'll make it work for you."
All with a smile, of course.
Even though we get a generous discount at the store, books are still expensive, especially when you read a few a week.
Which is why Bookmooch is my new favorite website. I've already unloaded a bunch of books that I no longer need or want and I have seven books on the way.
Since I'm all about ridding myself of clutter these days, I'm thrilled. And it's a better deal then selling used books to a store--I'd rather have another book than $2. Plus, there's the added thrill of getting something for free (postage being the only money involved).
And yes, I'm avoiding the irony involved with my employment=selling books and Bookmooch=receiving books without involving a bookstore or payment.
Shhhhh.
Facebook has taken it upon itself to tell everyone on your friend list about your life. You change a movie preference--facebook notes it. You list yourself as single--facebook shows a broken heart. You add a friend--facebook asks how you know each other.
I particularly like that, when I click on my sister's profile, it says, "Brooke is your sister." Duh. It would be much more fun if it said, "Brooke was a mistake" or "Brooke kicks your ass in sports" or "Brooke has more friends than you do" or "Brooke's cat sucks."
Regardless, the "newsfeed" is overkill. I don't need to know that one of my friends took a certain show off of her favorites.
Although that broken heart icon? Not going to lie. Kind of interesting when someone else is involved.
Today I had a man return a book.
And he DID NOT, under any circumstances, want to fill out the customer information portion of the return.
As in, he started quizzing me.
"Do they tell you why they're taking this information?"
I have a standard response. "We need this information in case there's a problem with the credit."
Since most people want their money back, they fill out the form.
This guy wasn't having it: "Is that what they tell you to say?"
Apparently he thinks "they" are up in some room, drumming "their" fingers together and thinking up schemes.
"I'm just following company policy, as we like to have full information when a return is involved."
I've been very careful recently to not become agitated when people over-question me. So I fall back on the "company policy" line, since I obviously don't make those rules.
"I'm NOT filling this out. Hand me back my card."
"Sir, I'm just following the rules. I'd appreciate it if you'd fill out the return receipt."
"I. Want. My. Card. NOW."
Okay Scary.
I calmly put his card on the counter. He grabs it and leaves.
The customer behind him in line shakes his head and laughs. "Crazy. So crazy." I smile back, thanking him for his confirmation that I was not being unreasonable. As he leaves, he says, "Good luck..."
I smile and roll my eyes, as if this sort of thing is funny, it happens all the time, oh silly people.
When really I want to bash my head into my desk and take a nice nap. That would be funny, too!
But since I already have a black eye, I'm done with the head bashing for a bit. It's just too visible...
So, "Lost" has been renewed until 2010. I'm a "Lost" fan, and I think that having a definitive ending point--not something a lot of TV shows have the luxury of knowing--will be important for such a sprawling storyline.
But it really freaks me out that I will be 30 when the show ends. THIRTY.
We have so many expectations of our lives. I remember long talks with friends where we'd work out a timeline: "I'd like to be married by 27. That seems like a good age. Have a career for a bit, have children around 32, maybe another at 35. Yes, that will do nicely. [Insert name here]'s parents are too young/old/etc and I definitely don't want to be that type of parent."
As if it were that easy. As if we could just pick an age to have our lives start. Or start again, if you thought high school or college or a job were really where things would take off. Like we can just choose those things. Like we can choose anything in our lives.
The fact that I have absolutely no idea where I will be or what I will be doing in three years is absolutely terrifying. I don't have a boyfriend that I expect to be engaged to or a job where I'm anticipating advancement. In fact--and I don't mean this to sound bleak, because I'm not at all upset about my current state of affairs--in fact, I kind of feel more free than I have in, well, forever--I have nothing to expect, right now, for my thirtieth year. Frightening, yes, especially when my friends are pairing up or having babies or moving to new places.
But I seriously cannot picture my life in three years. At all.
However, it is somehow strangely comforting to know that, wherever I am--and I'm expecting it to be pretty great, because I always had big plans for 30--I can at least go home from--or to-- whatever fabulous life I'm leading to watch "Lost."
I have always enjoyed routine.