Two weeks ago I was living in a big, gorgeous house with three beautiful roommates and three even more beautiful full sized bathrooms. I knew exactly who I was. I was shy but determined. "You know what you are? You're feisty." a professor told me in class one day. I wasn't joining Mensa anytime soon, but I wasn't an idiot, and I knew how to use the whole Dumb Blonde thing to my full advantage. Due to some particularly terrifying past experiences, I was afraid of big fish and honey. Honey, like the kind that comes in that bottle shaped like a bear. It's just not right. I had been in love twice and had my heart broken twice. I was upset when they recalled Airborne because I thought it tasted delicious, and I had an unnatural affinity towards Pat Sajak. And I could not for the life of me open an envelope. It was actually quite ridiculous.
Today, I am still trying to figure out how to fit everything form that big, gorgeous house of mine into my bedroom- the single space I can call my own- at my parents' place. It's not going well. All of my clothes are still in trash bags, and stacked next to the books on my desk are a spatula and pizza cutter from my old kitchen. I just spent four years of college claiming my independence and now I can't even walk out my front door without being asked where I'm going and when I'll be home, not the mention the constant reminder that boys just want sex and cigarettes will kill you on the first try. They say that to write well is to write what you know, but what if I just drove away from everything I know, my graduation cap nestled securely on top of the TV buckled into my front seat?
College is over and I'm back at home, about to turn 22 and never feeling younger in my life.
I gave myself a week. A week to come to terms with the fact that these past four years have in no way prepared me for this real world I'm being shoved into; in fact, if anything they were the most comfortable, secure years of my life. College is like some kind of post-pubescent pacifier that is brutally ripped away from you as the president of your school hands you your diploma. You're left in the fetal position, crying for your binky that cost 42 grand a year. So I gave myself this span of seven days to sleep late and drink an obscene amount of coffee during the day and an obscene amount of rum and cokes at night. I'm in the process of maybe one day thinking about unpacking all the way, and I've completely taken notice of the Job section in the newspaper. I haven't opened it yet, but I know it's there. Baby steps.
Fortunately for me, leaving college meant coming home to the loves of my life: my home friends. My friends are breathtaking inside and out and it drives me absolutely crazy just thinking about how lucky I am to have them. The group of people I fell into at college were nice enough but there was an overall concern about designer names and sushi on the weekends that I never really caught on to. The people I surround myself with back in this little Philly suburb I live in are raw and unapologetic and stunning. We still wear the same pair of jeans we bought in high school and our idea of an expensive night is ordering pancakes and French toast at iHop. I tried to keep my two lives, that is- my college life and home life- as separate as possible just because at college I found myself molding into my surroundings while at home I simply rolled with the rowdy flow. This of course is in no way putting down my college life. It was refreshing and eye-opening and I have it to thank for forcing me to become a person I'm content with.
So here I am, missing college, happy to be at home with my friends, exhausted by the process of moving back under my parents' roof, and in denial of the realization that due to my new "real person" rank, I must change the status of my Facebook account to "Alumni" and delete all of the incriminating pictures of myself that any future employer may peruse while scoping out my resume.
And what exactly am I going to do about this whole job situation? I want to be a writer. That has been the one constant in my life that has secured some sense of stability throughout everything. At school i write the "Love & Life" column, which was really just the PG name for what it really was: the sex column. When I was offered the position, I gladly accepted but held off on telling my mom. I was already the rebellious little artsy child, I was afraid adding College Sex Guru might kill her. When she finally found out, (during a visit to my school, my roommate announced to my parents that I was the next Carrie Bradshaw), she gave the expected sigh and sarcastic, "I'm so proud." Luckily, I come from a big, beautifully vulgar Italian family (the other half of me is a wonderfully un-jaded Russian crew that is blunt enough to blow a hole in the wall) that went cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs when they found out about my column. Last Thanksgiving was devoted completely to all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins sitting in a circle and passing around my columns. It was mortifying and heartwarming and fantastic. After that night my mom changed her "I'm so proud" to "Any publicity is good publicity."
I spend the majority of my college years taking writing classes, with one professor in particular who insisted that I only write about my experience with guys. I've been through every sort of relationship, fling, affair, and one night stand you can think of and apparently my narcissistic yet hopeful shredded little heart provided enough material to carry me through four years of personal essays and fictitious short stories. I was, still am I suppose, that girl that always has someone on deck but can never stop my wandering eyes, which has subsequently sabotaged the prospect of any steady relationship that I may or may not want. It's all been a little cloudy since my big, major, chick-flick worthy romance went down the tubes. Long story short? Given a ring on Christmas Eve, broken up with on Valentine's Day. The moral: I'm still broken by the person who promised he would spend the rest of his life keeping me together.
In order to trick myself into thinking that I could just as easily find someone new (as he did over and over again), I found myself quickly falling into an uncontrollably complicated situation with an attractive acquaintance that also happened to be in the Air Force. For a year and a half we dated, never putting the boyfriend/girlfriend title on it, and for a year and a half we went trough more than one intense situation, including a near fatal car accident, him going off to war, and me realizing that things were going nowhere resulting in me dating a perfectly nice guy who I ended up treating horrible because i was still in love with military boy who wasn't even close to being in love with me. So I dropped Mr. Nice and went back to Mr. I-Still-Don't-Know-Your-Birthday-But-I've-Memorized-Your-Bra-Size. Recently he told me he was finally ready to have a relationship, just not with me. So he's off canoodling someone else. Meanwhile, I'm surrounded by people who have been with their boyfriends for years and years and are constantly telling me that I just need to sit and wait until someone that's worth it comes along. As if I'm not aware of my current disastrously low standards. It doesn't help that my cousin is dating Air Force Boy's younger sister and my roommate/best friend from college is equally best friends with Ex-Fiancee. My life is surrounded by poisonous doses of unwanted testosterone.
My week was up yesterday. I woke up this morning, poured my coffee, grabbed my sunglasses and laptop, and went out on my front steps. It's beautiful and sunny, which almost makes me forget about the little kids screaming across the street and the irritating yapping dogs that seem to pop up on every corner around here. I have a date tonight with a guy, this time a Marine, who I've know for awhile and already know is quite the good kisser. I have no idea what trash bag full of clothes my clean underwear is in, and I think I may still be slightly hung-over from my cousin's wedding two days ago. I miss my house at school with its three bathrooms, especially since as we speak it is being torn down to build offices for the Sociology department. My week is up and to be quite honest, I wish I had that pacifier back.
