Thursday, October 28, 2010

My Soul-Searching Drive

So here I am, an outgoing, slightly spunky, typically confident young girl in a new city. This should be an easy adjustment. I will meet a few people, find instant kindred spirits, and develop lasting friendships; perhaps I will even find Bobby Joe, the toothless man of my dreams, and he will sweep me away with PBR in hand. Ahhh blissfully ignorant of reality. My overzealous outlook failed to consider various factors:

1) It has never taken me less than six months to develop close relationships, unless of course you consider those relationships kindled by intoxication, typically built on the foundations of a mutual passion for Taco Bell.
2) I was not moving to a remote county where cell phone service is scarce and David Allen Coe is every man's idol. In fact, I was surprised to find nearly every male in his early twenties to be married, engaged, or in a serious relationship. Apparently, the happy medium between asking me home at a bar and asking me to cook dinner as our three children scurry around the kitchen has been lost in this city. (As an uplifting side note, the PBR is plentiful.)

Unfortunately, these realizations hit me harder than I would have liked. I have always been certain that whatever life threw my way, if I tried hard enough, I would prevail. At times, however, it is not how hard you try, but how long you wait.

This entry is not about the numerous revelations I have had recently, but of one particular experience that lifted my spirits.

Earlier this week, I was feeling especially homesick, and adherent to the wise words of my brother, I went for a drive. When you are feeling low, apparently, driving helps. I am not sure that this is the wisest outlet for angst, as I can only see it leading to further distraction on the road, and the last thing Charlottesville needs is another driver who cannot merge properly. However, I got in my car, turned the volume up as I belted the Shins- which, incidentally, is not the best band for such purposes- and hit the road.

Where would it take me? I did not know. However, I realized my own shortcomings and knew the highway could only lead to me being pulled over and despite being on the verge of a break down, I would only manage a look of disgust as the cop approached my vehicle to give me my eleventh ticket. I drove along, hoping that perhaps I would end up in the city ghetto, add a little culture to my life, and move on. As I turned down a street, I saw a bar. This appealed to me on many levels. First, I like beer; I do not believe this statement demands explanation or justification. Second, I like bars. Third, I have a working theory that in order to truly be at peace with yourself, you must put yourself in the most pathetic situations and leave just as confident (the theory is still developing, obviously). Most importantly, Lebron James and the Heat were opening against the Celtics, and after his appalling commercial release that day, I wanted nothing more than to see him dethroned. It was as if Providence led me to this small Jerusalem, calling me to sacrifice self respect with the promise of witnessing the demoralization of a King. A bit dramatic, yes, but I kind of like the metaphor.

At any rate, I answered the call and walked toward the bar in my University of Virginia sweat pants and over-sized Bowling Green football t-shirt. When the bouncer demanded my ID, I wanted to ask: "Would I really be trying to sneak into a bar and drink illegally on a Tuesday night at nine o'clock in sweatpants by myself? And... why are you carding at nine o'clock on a Tuesday night?" As it was, I took the only seat at the bar, next to a creepy sixty year old man. Usually, I love conversation; however, I find I can only I feign interest in game 2 of the 1965 AL championship for so long. I ordered my water, making sure to avoid eye with said neighbor, focusing mainly on Lebron, who I was praying could feel my glare. Normally, I hate Boston, but for one night, they were the potential bearers of sweet justice.

The time at the bar was interesting, as I had apparently walked in on a trivial pursuit competition. My intelligence was insulted as I did not know the answer to simple questions like "How many sides does a octagon have?" I always did hate my high school Geometry teacher- absolutely worthless. I also found an answer to my previous question regarding males. The skipped intermediate step of male development is working for a corporation that sends you on all expense paid trips where you are able to act like a college student for two weeks, go out, and hit on random girls, despite a ten year age gap. I feel weird talking to any male who is between 10 and 15 years older than me; I realize they see me as a potential girlfriend/wife/one night stand, while I think about the fact that I was building forts and playing alisharks when they were my age. In their defense, they very well could have thought they were doing the girl in sweats a favor. Regardless, whether they were trying to take me home or just take pity, I did get a free beer.

As I sat, watching Lebron fail to rally the Heat, I was comforted, and though no one in the bar had a vested interest, I felt connected to the collaborative Cleveland spirit. The game came to a close, and while it was well past my bedtime, I was not ready for the night to be over; neither was the night done with me. A close friend from home called, and though the gentlemen had bought me another beer- I initially said no, but after three offers, I simply could not refuse- I sat on the curb to talk. The conversation was wonderful, but sitting on the street could have been the more interesting experience. During my talk, a homeless man kept pacing by. I imagine his conversation with the bouncer was something along the lines of:

Can I see your ID?

Really? Look at me, I am in a wife beater, my pants are nearly to my ankles, and I have not shaved since 2006. Do you really think I am doing anything illegal? And why are you carding on a Tuesday night?

Whatever the bouncer's response, it was not pleasing, for the bum stomped away, infuriated and cursing. It was after the fourth time he passed me that a cop pulled beside the curb and confronted the man. I desperately tried to focus on my own conversation, but this was too intriguing. I am sad to say that after ten minutes of heated discussion and a back-up cop car, the bum was sent on his way. No handcuffs, no gun shots, no shady exchange of drugs, only weird glances shot my way once in awhile, probably wondering why I was sitting on the sidewalk in the rain. I thought about asking the cops to breathalize me before I entered my car, just to be safe, or making friends with them so next time they pulled me over we could reminisce on this shared experience... after which, I would inevitably still receive a ticket. However, I simply observed, happy when they did leave that I could walk to my car in peace, leaving a beer and group of disappointed engineers behind.

The events of the evening led me to a satisfying conclusion: although transitioning can be difficult, one can sit at a bar in sweat pants, discuss what Presidency was doomed by the Financial Scare of the mid 19th century- I was insistent that it was the President between Woodrow Wilson and Teddy Roosevelt until I realized that the 19th century meant the 1800s- sit on the sidewalk during a storm as college students scurry past, and walk away with unscathed confidence. No one ever needs to know.

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Mucho gusto, mi amigo nuevo

The blogging world has always been both mysterious and intriguing to me. Yes, I was addicted to xanga at the age of sixteen, and I did post, hoping whoever I was so inconspicuously addressing would read, know it applied to them, and obey my subliminal commands. After a long hiatus, during which time I learned that simply asking is a much more effective way to approach situations, I have returned. So what brings me?

I am twenty-two and until graduating college, I had never been away from family and home for more than two weeks. Feeling the allure of adventure and experience, I moved to Virginia- and while its residents would insist that it is infinitely superior to Cleveland, I find myself skeptical. No, it is not across the world, but for a girl who loved nothing more than Sunday dinner at Grandma's, at times it feels like Jupiter.

Although there were many factors influencing my decision, the most obvious is that I was fortunate enough to get a job post-grad. Excited? Certainly. Prepared to leave a world where skipping class was routine and a midnight beer always an option? Not necessarily.

Thomas Jefferson's city of Charlottesville was completely foreign to me prior to interviewing, but we have become acquainted quite quickly. Still, I feel something is missing; as someone who typically spends her summers working three jobs, clocking 70 hours a week, the usual nine to five is simply not fulfilling. Sure, I play tennis. I have considered bartending- I actually applied once, but I feel this would negatively affect my performance as an analyst, and since I expect this to be a stepping stone in my illustrious career, my sensible side advised against it. Then. I thought about cooking. Two things prohibited me from pursuing this passion. While I love a good meal, I am perfectly content eating grilled chicken, and when no one is singing the praises of my hard work or paying for the ingredients, I lack motivation. I have been told I could volunteer, which sounds wonderful in theory, but if I followed every appealing theory, I would be collecting money from those working hard while I eat spoonfuls of peanut butter and pickles. I also attempted to teach myself piano, but promptly gave up when I could not find the power button- since when were pianos electric?

I do love to write, though. I am not a writer, nor do I aspire to be. Coming from a family of English majors, I stand proudly by the fact that I went through four years of college without taking a single English class. Please excuse my lack of metaphors or witty idioms and references to great literature, because the last book I read in its entirety was "O, the Places You Will Go" by Dr. Seuss at Pedro the bird's funeral.

I am not sure what will come of this relationship. My neglected journal can attest to my inconsistency. I can promise, though, that whatever and whenever I write, it will be honest. Perhaps it will be a humorous anecdote of my ridiculously awkward life (should I feel my life is temporarily stagnate, I can certainly pull from the overflowing archive); perhaps we will meet on a day when I have watched one too many romantic comedies and feel that Prince Charming is, in fact, the boy who had my exact Starbuck's order - coffee. Fear not, however, if this is the case, a week later I will be relaying our embarrassing love affair that inevitably ends with coffee all over me as I tried to make small talk at the condiment bar. Wherever this venture leads, I hope to make someone laugh.