Monday, September 18, 2006
I'm not a New York Woman anymore
Sorry, I disappeared for a long time. I was really busy trying to think of ways to stay in New York forever. Unfortunately, none of my plans worked out. The summer ended, and I had to leave. But! Here are the bright sides!
- I had the most wonderful summer ever. (Ok, it could have been slightly better if a certain scary experience hadn't happened. But the net summer experience was still overwhelmingly positive.) I met wonderful people, I liked my internship, my editors liked me, I learned so much about myself, and I figured out that New York is most definitely my home.
- I only have three months left of school, and then I can come to New York forever.
- I made a new blog, so I can continue to document my adventures. And, I promise I will very soon write parts 2 and 3 of Lion in the Jungle.
- Innovations such as cell phones and the Internet mean I can stay in touch with the people I miss. I can also satisfy my Manhattan cravings with daily Friends reruns and my Sex and the City DVD collection
- I'm still only 21. That means I have a lot of life left ahead of me.
Not a super impressive list, I know. But I tried really hard to think of positives, and this is what I was able to come up with. My new blog is www.lioninchicago.blogspot.com. I am not technically savvy, so it's not technically pretty right now.
Goodbye foreverrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr
(No, just kidding. This homesickness is making me melodramatic, sorry. Goodbye for three months.)
Labels: Lion
Tuesday, September 05, 2006
Seen in a Manhattan Starbucks:
Somewhere west of Union Square, outside a public (Starbucks) restroom, a line begins to form. As is so common among the full-bladdered, the queuers are irritable and impatient. Breaking from accepted New York code, the strangers converse (a little too loudly) amongst themselves. This split from convention is partly because they are close to Union Square and half the people in line are tourists, and partly because even Real New Yorkers get a little antsy when they have to pee.And the new friends wait.
With the camaraderie that comes only from the shared agony of a common crisis, they muse about what's going on behind the bathroom door. They talk about backing future legislation that will establish toilets on every corner. They cross their legs. One attempts to transform the mocking red 'occupied' sign above the knob into a green 'vacant' sign using the power behind her eyes. Another fantasizes about poking the constipated bastard in the eye once he emerges. At this, the heretofore silent member of the line finally speaks. (Beautiful and urbane, this mysterious queuer had been gripped in a battle between her two most primal urges: acting like a Real New Yorker and making a Clever Comment. At the aforementioned provocation, the latter claims triumph. This time.)
"If a paraplegic with one eye and eight fingers rolls out of that bathroom, you're going to feel pretty shitty."
The line falls silent, struck by the wisdom and truth behind the Enigmatic Stranger's Clever Comment. Considering their options, the group decides on a Soft Knock. No response. Good at it by now, they continue to wait. Another Soft(ish) Knock. And finally- 12 minutes (have they really only known each other for 12 minutes?) since the line began to form- a paper towel slides out under the door. Clever Real New Yorker (despite her youth and diminuitive side, the others sense her innate acumen and have wordlessly appointed her as their leader) delicately picks it up, and reads aloud:
'Washing My Feet.'
Like Stacey McGill's dad would say... OINY. The group scatters, each in a different direction, each in the direction of another Starbucks. The Bewitching Guru of Bathroom-Line Etiquette, if you are interested, finds her way to Wendy's (continuing her practice of deviating from the norm) and soon feels a lot better. And that's exactly how it happened.
Labels: Lion
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Shudder
Over here in men's magazine world, we're working on a story about sexual lubricants. The initial research is, of course, a job left to innocent little (and, apparently, somewhat squeamish) FEMALE intern.Yes, this is the same Lion of the recently documented editor-induced horniness. But I meant in the normal way! Hugs and cuddles and kisses! And maybe- maybe- missionary! None of this lubery.com-sweeten'd blow-pussy licker-anal ease business!
If I were just calling in product requests, it might be manageable. But no, I've had to fully entrench myself in the world of vaginal dryness and penile chafing. Your basic lubricant manufacturer's website is a far cry from, say, the Wall Street Journal. Lots of visual clarification and colorful language, and a few unexpected and unwelcome audio supplements. (A loud and quite humiliating reminder to quiet my computer's volume.)
Then my mother called. Part of me wanted to shield her from this crude world I've entered. But a bigger part wanted a mommy's comfort. I explained my research to her, and she was appropriately kind and sympathetic.
Then she called me back.
"Lion darling, let me know what your research turns up. Might as well get some practical use out of it."
Mommy?
Labels: Lion
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Lion (inadvertently) Enters The Jungle. Part One
Long and complicated story coming, and it starts at the beginning of the summer. That’s when I met The Editor. Some high-powered veteran magazine guy, between jobs and temporarily consulting at my publication. I talked to him a few times, offering to help in the eager (annoying) intern way. One day he wandered over to my beautiful corner cubicle, and we spent a few minutes enjoying the view together. (I really love my windows because they provide clear visual access into a whole variety of other offices, apartments and rooftop lounge areas, but that’s a different long and complicated story.) Pretty much the extent of our relationship.One day about two weeks into my internship, the newspaper vendor was out of the Times and The Wall Street Journal, so I picked up the Post. Turning to the media news section, I was startled to see The Editor’s name in bold. According to the article, though, he wasn’t just An Editor. He was A Star Of The Magazine Industry. A real Star, and we’d stared out my window together! The article told me all about the fabulous wonderful exciting new job he was about to start. And a little bit about how fabulous wonderful exciting The Editor himself was. (Something he’d later confirm for me, in his own words.) Annoying eager ambitious intern I am, I quickly realized that the next two days- The Editor’s last at my magazine- would be very important.
(I made up that thing about the Times and the Wall Street Journal. I like the Post. I bought it because I wanted to. Pretending to be a journalistic snob comes so naturally to me now that I have trouble turning it off, even as I write in relative anonymity. I blame it on my school.)
Those two days didn’t quite go as planned. His goodbye toast on Friday did not conclude as I’d anticipated, with him shocking the entire staff by announcing that he’d decided to bring me on his new endeavor, and that despite my lack of a college degree I’d hold the title of Little Executive. You know, because experience and education are no match for the energy, excitement and untainted imagination of the young ones. Now, while I clearly sensed him thinking those things, he managed to contain himself- to avoid sparking jealousy in the others, I’m sure- and part with a simple goodbye. Crushed, I was.
He did, however, send an e-mail. Just a few sentences, asking me to stay in touch. I am of course aware that ‘stay in touch’ is code for ‘I’d like to offer you a job, the contract is drawn up and your office furniture has been ordered, but before we sign I must convince you to accept a higher salary,’ but I played along and replied in a mature and professional manner. And then he told me he ‘liked my mind.’ (I like my mind, too. Coincidence? Perhaps not.) And then he mentioned that he was looking for ‘young talent.’
And then I fell off my chair. My imagination is highly developed. I’m quite skilled at believing whatever I want to. But influencing an outcome through my own mental powers? Or, alternatively, actually maybe being that intelligent and creative person I like to think I am? Unheard of, either one.
But I pretended. He asked for writing samples, and I sent them. He told me to write with more attitude, and I tried. I engaged in witty banter via e-mail. He asked for a link to my blog, and (against all better judgment! I know!) I gave it to him. He told me my writing was ‘sweet but harmless.’ I bristled. And then I wrote an entry about editors and how they make me horny. And he liked it. And then things got complicated…
**One may assume that, being a professed lover of editors and admittedly quite horny, I was as much interested in The Editor’s penis as I was in his potential career assistance. Not true. Perhaps, if I’d thought about it a little more, I’d have realized how that blog entry might come across to him. But I didn’t. And, if I’d thought even harder, I may have remembered that I like older men. Intelligent, funny, successful, powerful older men. Or, The Editor. And then I might have predicted where things were headed. Again… I didn’t.
Labels: Lion
Thursday, August 17, 2006
Here is where I write with wisdom
(kidding)So this story is getting old for me… trying to move from ‘it’s happening’ to ‘this happened,’ you know? But for the sake of updating, here’s where things are now: I went before the grand jury for the indictment hearing last Wednesday, and it wasn’t so bad. The assistant district attorney was really nice, and seemed to love the case… little Midwestern intern with big blue eyes comes to New York for the summer and gets attacked outside her Upper East Side building. Almost as cliché as I was two years ago- the sad little Big Ten cheerleader addicted to pills and alcohol, on top of the pyramid with her hair in a bow. Lifetime Movie Network, here I come.
I finally found out what happened to the other girl. She is fine, and he didn’t do anything worse to her, but he did pull a knife. That is apparently only a misdemeanor because he didn’t bring her anywhere, but the D.A. is trying the cases together to make a stronger case. He got charged with a few things including burglary (a felony) in my case, which just means entering a private dwelling place with the intent to commit a crime. (Don’t feel stupid, I didn’t know that either.) Opinions are split on whether he wanted to rob or rape, but we’re pretty confident he was planning to do something illegal. I didn’t get the feeling he wanted finger cakes and tea.
The jury did indict, so the next thing is whether it goes to trial or he pleads out. A trial wouldn’t be so much fun, but on the bright side, they’d fly me back and forth from school to New York for it. But I don’t need to worry about that until it happens.
The guy got out on bail last week, which is scary. But, the detective said there’s only a .1% chance he’ll come after me again. (He actually said that 99.9% of the time the bad guys stay away. I just heard it a little differently.) But I’m shaking less, and looking over my shoulder less. I’m still sitting in corners and I still keep thinking about my neck, but it’s getting better. It keeps getting better.
I have a new philosophy, and it came from the pouring rain last week.
Something I really love is control. I always want more. And after what happened- an overwhelming loss of control- the craving is even worse. When I’m not in control- when I can’t take action to affect an outcome- I worry. I play it over and over in my head, as if through my psychic powers I’ll be able to coax the forces of the universe towards the resolution I desire. Logic tells me this is futile, but I continue to try.
So I’m sitting on the bus last week, trying to read but distracted by my anxiety over the next day’s indictment hearing. (I won’t be in attendance and play no direct role in the outcome, so I am extremely busy ensuring his indictment through my worry.) I look outside for a moment, and see that the drizzle I walked through has turned into a full-blown downpour. I’m disturbed, suddenly, by the total lack of power I (or anyone else) have in relation to the weather. With our BlackBerries and Palm Pilots and stem cells, we’ve taken charge over almost everything. Yet, we still find ourselves entirely susceptible to the wind and rain and snow. It falls and blows however it pleases, and the best we can do is react.
As I ponder this further, though, it starts to seem more comforting than scary. With the weather, I have no responsibility. I’m not in charge of stopping it. I don’t bother trying to wish it away, because I understand the total futility of that endeavor. The rain comes down, so I open my umbrella. There seems to be some relief in releasing power- a feeling that someone else is taking care. And then I think, maybe I try out this technique on other things. The indictment, perhaps. I know by logic that I can’t control it. So maybe I remove the burden from myself. Maybe I let go. Maybe the indictment just falls like rain. And if it comes down too hard, I know there are people who love me. They’ll be my umbrella. And one way or another, I’ll be taken care of.
Aaaaand enough of that. Like I said, I’m moving to ‘it happened.’ More exciting things to tell next time. Including the editor I thought I might like to fuck.
Labels: Lion
Monday, August 07, 2006
Good News
They caught the guy.(This blog is super long. But writing it all down feels good.)
At work on Friday, my editor told me to 1. call 311, and 2. go home. Both good ideas. I went to the police station on the Upper East Side, and spent two hours looking at pictures of scary men with the detectives. Turns out there are 1,483 men in this city who resemble the guy. I looked at every one of them. On the bright side, the detectives were really cool. It was exactly how I pictured it on tv- thick New York accents, bad coffee with no milk, the one young blonde female detective who is apparently always at that time of month, and cigarettes and ashtrays everywhere. The best part was the sign that said Sexual Harrassment is Illegal*. Barry Bonds gets an asteriks in the hall of fame, and illegal gets one in the police station. At least when it refers to sexual harrassment. (Incidentally- and this is a whooooole other story- sexual harrassment is also illegal* in the media world, as I learned last week.)
Anyways, I looked at pictures for a long time, then sat in Barnes & Noble because it felt safe, and then went to a few AA meetings. My level of fear and general uneasiness continued to grow the whole day... it's funny, because I don't logically think I'm scared of the city, and I do know the likelihood of anything else happening is very low, but I still can't stop looking over my shoulder. A friend told me I should come stay at her apartment for a couple days, and I thought that sounded like a really good idea. I never though I'd ever be escaping the Upper East Side for the safety of Harlem. But, it did feel better there. Her two big male roommates made it really safe. Being gay helped even more than their muscles.
On Saturday, I went to more meetings and stayed around other people, and then in the evening the police called me to come back to the department and look at more pictures. They only showed me six this time, and I picked him right out. It turns out he'd done the same thing to another girl after me. When she called the police did show up, and they caught the guy. But, since they hadn't come for me, it took them a little while to realize the two incidents were related. The police were a little vague about what happened to the other girl... they kept saying it was "similar." I'm not sure if the vagueness is because of confidentiality, or because he did something worse to her and they don't want to scare me, or because he did something worse to her and they don't want me to feel guilty since maybe if I had called the police a third time, they would have come and found the guy before he got to her. All circular and useless thinking, I know. I'm trying hard not to let my head go there.
I went back to the police station again later that night to do a lineup. Luckily a friend was able to come with me this time... her dad is a police officer, and she was right when she told me their motto is "hurry up and wait." They put us in a random little hallway and we waited for a long time while they set it up. I didn't mind though, because I got to sit in the corner, and those have been my favorite thing these last few days. If you're in the corner, no one can sneak up behind you, and no one can get your neck, and you can see the whole rest of the room. Sounds a little crazy, I know, but that's just where I am right now.
It was funny, because at a meeting, some guy was talking about corners. His perspective, though, is that corners are where you get stuck. Maybe we are both right.
So I got the lineup right*. Things got tricky here, because I'd been planning to leave the next afternoon for a vacation with my extended family. They said that was probably not going to be a good idea, because if he was charged there'd be a grand jury within 72 hours, and I'd have to be there. I finally got a hold of my parents... I'd told them a little bit before about what happened, but not the whole thing because I didn't want to scare them. I kind of had to at this point though. My mom was fine, but my dad got mad because that's what he does when he is scared. He wanted to call the detective, and I felt bad that my dad was bugging him, but the detective said he understands because he has daughters too. Then on Sunday the detective called to tell me it is going to the grand jury, and he's been charged with burglary, robbery, false imprisonment (I think- whatever the one is where they won't let you go), and a few other things. Again, he was vague about the few other things, and again I wondered what he did to the other girl. Useless thinking. I guess he's an illegal alien, so they might deport him. I know I should be glad that he's getting off our streets, but it seems so silly to just toss him on someone else's. I started to think I felt a little bad for him, and my friend told me that was ridiculous, so I decided I'll feel bad about the system that created the whole situation instead.
Where I'm at right now: I'm still looking over my shoulder, and I'm still shaking a lot. It's still kind of hard for me to concentrate, and it's also hard to eat. I've always had a neck thing- I hate it when people touch it. It wasn't such a good thing that he was holding it the whole time. I've been wearing my hair down because it seems maybe a little less likely that someone else will grab my neck if it is covered. I stayed with a different friend last night, and I feel like I should go back to my apartment, but it's scary. We live on the first floor, and my room doesn't have doors- there are curtains to the rest of the apartment, and then big windows (without shades) in the back and a door to our backyard. My bed is right in the middle of the room which is also scary for me, because remember I like corners now. I have this urge to sleep on the floor next to my bed because then I'll be against something and not so out in the open, but it sounds so insane that I'm only writing it in a blog where I'm anonymous. A lot of times, people forget to lock the front door to the apartment. And more than that, when I walk in there my throat feels even tighter and I start to breath faster and the air is a little harder to get. A friend suggested just going back for a little while every day so I can start to feel more comfortable, and that seems like a good plan. My parents are in Canada, where they get horrible phone service. I'm thinking that is kind of a good thing. I love them, and I know they love me and want to help, but... they're parents.
And, while I was in the middle of writing this, the district attorney called. We're doing the indictment Wednesday morning. She said he wasn't going to be there, and that makes me feel good. And while I was talking to her, one of the fashion editors came over, and so she saw me kind of shaken as I hung up. I didn't feel like making up stories, so I told her the whole thing. It's a good thing I did, because it turns out she lives pretty close to me on the Upper East Side in a doorman building, and is leaving tomorrow morning to go out of town for the week. I wasn't even thinking in these terms, but she offered to let me stay there for the week. That will feel so safe. And alone is a little scary right now, but I think I can handle it. And also, I can sleep however I want and no one will say anything or think I'm crazy.
I'm actually feeling really blessed right now. Blessed for broken doorknobs, blessed for kind detectives, blessed that they found the guy, and blessed for my fashion editor and her doorman. I'm also feeling blessed because I think good is going to come out of this. When bad things happen, it kind of makes you wake up. It forces you to make changes and deal with the situation and take care of yourself. I'm scared and shaking and a little insane, but I'm taking action. I still don't think I'm a woman, but I also think I'm not a child. Acting like an adult feels good. (Oh and I also think I'm more of a Real New Yorker now. Real New Yorkers totally get attacked.)
And, thanks for all the comments. I'm taking a lot of the advice, and leaving work early to go talk to a therapist today. Because adults ask for help when they need it.
*According to the detectives, there is no right or wrong. It's just whether or not I recognized him. But it sure felt right to pick him out. And also, I loved all the detectives and I wanted to be cool like them and use an asteriks.
Labels: Lion
Friday, August 04, 2006
Sleepless
Another hazard of being 21, in Manhattan, and apparently very naive and stupid- sometimes, you get attacked.I'm sitting in front of my Upper East Side apartment at about 11 pm, talking to Sober on the phone. I don't get service in the apartment, and I normally talk in the backyard, but one of my roommates was out there, so I went in front this time. My head is down in my knees, and some guy comes up and asks if I'm ok. I say, "yeah, I'm fine," he goes away, and I keep talking. Then, about five or ten minutes later, he comes at me. He's basically on top of me, holding my arms and my neck, and my phone hangs up and goes flying away. He tells me not to talk, not to scream, and pulls me with him. I resist at first, and kind of see if I can get away, but I suddenly can't remember if Oprah tells you to fight as hard as you can, or to just go along. I keep hearing her say "don't let him take you to the second location," but that's totally not helpful right now. Then I think maybe he has a knife or a gun, and then it's hard to breathe and my legs aren't working, and then he's dragging me with him.
I'm terrified he's going to bring me to a car, but he brings me to the door of my apartment and tells me to open it. Then we're inside the little tiny area in front between the two doors, and he tells me to open the second one. It's actually not locked, but I don't tell him that. He's still holding me around the neck, and I can barely breathe. I keep moving my chin down to my chest because I think maybe that will keep him from totally choking me. He keeps telling me to open the door, and I really am trying, but I can't. The knob is all messed up, and I thought the landlady just fixed it, but apparently not, because suddenly it's off the door and in my hand. He keeps screaming at me to put my keys in the door and unlock it, and I try to be really polite and keep telling him, "sir, I just can't do it. The door is messed up." He keeps telling me to shut up, and I have five seconds, and then he starts counting backwards. I don't know what happens when he gets to zero. I just keep telling him that I'm trying. I try to hold up the knob and show him, but he's holding me so tight that I can't move. My arms are shaking, and if he wasn't squeezing me so tight, my legs would certainly give out. He keeps counting backwards, and finally he gets really mad and pushes me down to the ground. He tells me to stay there and not move. I don't think I could if I wanted to. I can't feel my body at all. He tells me to count backwards from five, and runs out the door.
I can't move. I'm shaking and I'm screaming. I still can't get the second door open, but I'm terrified to go outside. I stay there in a heap, and finally, I think maybe he's gone. I push and push and finally the door opens- the knob is still in my hand- and I stumble down the hall and into my apartment. My poor roommate has no idea what to do, because I can't even talk- I'm just crying in a ball on the floor. I finally manage to tell her what happened, and she asks me if we should call the police. I don't know. What can they do? But it seems safe. Maybe they can tell me if I should be scared or not. So we do. I want to call back Sober, but we can't find my phone. He must have picked it up when he was running away. We wait and wait, but the police don't come. She calls again, and they say they came and left, but will come back. I want them to get here, because a uniform sounds safe. They never end up coming.
My other roommates come home, and rub my back and give me water. I take a shower, because I smell like him. I take my stuffed dog and my stuffed cat and lay in my bed, but the room seems too big and sleep seems too scary. I can still feel his arm around my neck and it's hard to breathe and I feel like I'm going to throw up. But I think I probably shouldn't be upset, because really, nothing happened. I only lost my phone. I'm alive. I'm fine. I should be fine. I honestly have no idea- am I being melodramatic right now? Is this no big deal? I don't want to be a baby, and I don't want to overreact. I figure it's ok to write a blog about it, because I'm anonymous, so it's not like I'm trying to get attention or anything. But I'm really really scared. And I can still feel his arm around my neck.
**And while nothing about this is funny... even I can admit that I'm pretty damn lucky that I'm such a fucking klutz. Who ever heard of someone foiling an attacker because she is just too inept to open a door? I would.
Labels: Lion
Monday, July 31, 2006
Ohhh baby when you talk like that...
One hazard of being a 21-year-old female intern at a men’s magazine: the inability to stop interpreting every word/glance/gesture from my male colleagues (ok, superiors) as a clear attempt at flirtation, and probably also a preliminary marriage proposal. I would imagine this difficulty is exacerbated when one is, for the time being, avoiding bars (the traditional setting for such exchanges) and is thus feeling especially lonely for the opposite sex. (Horny.) And, the worst part: I can’t seem to stop reciprocating.Example 1: At our weekly meeting, the editor-in-chief tells the staff we’re all looking perky and well rested.
“Except,” he says suddenly, pointing across the room, “you.” Me.
Clearly, he loves me. No other reason for him to single me out like that. So I bend over a little further than necessary as I pick up a meeting agenda, thus allowing him to see a hint of my lovely breasts. You know, so he’ll see that I can provide a sweet resting place for his head after a long day of work. And to remind him of the (our) babies who will one day suckle at my bosom.
Problem 1: I have no breasts.
Problem 2: He’s not looking.
Example 2: As the deputy editor and I approach the office early one morning, he quickens his pace in order to arrive at the door first, so he can hold it open for me. That’s it. That’s the whole incident. Still, I’m convinced he wants to bring me home after work, rip off my clothes, and whisper naughty words as I caress his smooth bald head.
So I respond. “Gosh, it’s so hard to get used to chivalrous men like this. College boys just aren’t the same.” I touch my collarbone as I talk, wearing half a smile and looking up at him bashfully.
Problem 1: He’s happily married.
Problem 2: I’m beginning to cross into absolute joke territory.
Problem 3: I can’t stop myself.
Problem 4: I’m attracted to a bald man.
Example 3: An associate editor stops by my desk to talk about the upcoming sex page I’m working on. Our conversation includes the words penis, vagina, oral, lubricant, climax and clitoris.
A warm feeling starts to well up near my ears. My lips being to form a sultry pout. I reach under my skirt to take care of that itch on the inside of my upper thigh. My cardigan slips off one of my shoulders.
Problem 1: This editor happens to be a female.
Problem 2: She’s straight.
Problem 3: So am I.
So out of control. Fuck. Fuck.
Labels: Lion
Friday, July 28, 2006
Pacing
Suggestion:“What can you, Lion, tell me that nobody else can? Maybe… what these New Yorkers are really like? You know, from the perspective of a Midwestern girl, one spending the whole summer working and living with them. What can you tell me about them?”
A lot, I’m sure. I started thinking about it this morning, as I rode the subway to work. Well, tried to think about it, but this obnoxious couple- you know the type, white sneakers and matching visors- wouldn’t shut up. Pouring over their gigantic map of Manhattan, they seemed totally unaware that morning ride to work time is QUIET TIME. Shut your mouth, ignore the person whose body is pressed against yours, and keep those sunglasses on (to prevent any unintentional eye contact, of course).
I tried to think again as I walked to work, but this time was distracted by a cab driver. Don’t know why he has to honk so loud, I saw him. So I employ a loose interpretation of the walk signals… so I might inch off the curb as I wait to cross… whatever. I’ve got somewhere to be. I gave him my best steely glare, but I don’t think it scared him. One, because I’m not scary, and two, because my eyes were of course hidden by enormous sunglasses.
Continued to work, but still wasn't able to really think. Too busy plotting my route through the slow walker types clogging the streets. One good thing about being little in this city is, I’m the perfect size for weaving. I don’t know how the less agile stand it. Nothing worse than your pace being slowed by someone out for a leisurely stroll. Because sidewalks are made for a purpose, right? Get from point A to point B as quickly as possible. Really don’t have patience for those stop and smell the roses characters… go prance in Central Park or something. Let me walk. At my pace. Efficiently.
Started to think, at this point, that I might not actually have time to… think. I called my mom instead. She was in town visiting last weekend, and I thought she might have some insight on those crazy New Yorkers. She sent me a link to this article in response. (Might or not might not be interesting, I actually didn’t read the whole thing. Nine pages! I’ve got somewhere to be, remember? Seems like the gist of it is, New Yorkers aren’t serene. Or something.)
She added a PS: "Sweetheart, I just sent you a package with chamomile tea and your knitting needles and the tape of last week's Prairie Home Companion. I'm sure you have a lot going on, but maybe you could just take a minute and put on some Garrison Keillor, drink a cupt of tea, and work on that sweater. And try to think about what it's like here at home."
Very sweet, Mom. Quaint. And I promise, as soon as I can get around to it, I'll start decoding those hints you're dropping. Just as soon as I have time.
Labels: Lion
Monday, July 24, 2006
Give Suri a Break
I say that as another highly sought-after public figure. That's right, we journalists inspire just as much attention, gossip and creepy stalker-like activity as the potential children of weirdo scientologist movie stars. Our pursuer, however, is not the middle-aged woman dripping sweat on the latest US Weekly as she pedals towards her pre-childbirth (and fifteen years removed) body on the elliptical, nor is it the adolescent boy dripping saliva and other substances on the latest Maxim as he prays the lock on his bedroom door still works. No, it is the publicist- dripping only with feigned sweetness and enthusiasm- that we in the magazine industry fear.One called me last week.
"Lion! I LOVED speaking with you yesterday... I must have written your e-mail down wrong, because it wasn't working... did some Googling though... had no idea you went to Northwestern! And a pole vaulter, huh? Now that takes guts!"
Oy. What to say, what to say... how does one properly respond? "Googled you too, tiger. A little unimpressed with your education, to be frank, but can't believe how well you did in the Turkey Trot 5K of '04." Umm.
"So Li- it's ok I just call you Li, right? Anyways Li, I'll be in the Twin Cities later this year, and I'm sure you have some great tips on restaurants, eh?"
Ok, stop. First of all, you just employed the absolute WORST getting-to-know-a-Minnesotan technique. Nothing humorous about the accent. Don't ever touch it. Second, just because stalking is so convenient and easy these days doesn't mean it's socially acceptable. Googling someone is creepy! Of course I do it too, but I don't actually mention your prowess in college quiz bowl or participation in the 2003 Raspberry Festival Parade. I keep it to myself! Clearly! Third, you aren't my pal. Concerning restaurants and otherwise, I have no tips for you. Googling does not a girlfriend make. And finally, no you absolutely may not call me Li! In fact, I don't even think we're on a Lion basis right now. After that one, I'm bumping you back to Miss Tamer.
An e-mail later.
"Hey there Li... forgot to mention earlier, from my research on you, I see we have the same political beliefs. Yahoo!"
Directly quoted.
One. MISS TAMER. Two. Political beliefs?? I don't even have any political beliefs! Apathetic, I am. (Well, not really. But I am certainly not one to display them online for publicists and other sickos.) If you're going to Google, get the right Lion. The only think worse than being stalked is being stalked poorly. Three. If I did have political beliefs, and if you did share them, I wouldn't care! Promise!
Fucking lunatic.
Labels: Lion
Thursday, July 20, 2006
Amendments
I'm not liking the news these days. Bribery and binge drinking, bulimia and breakfast invasions... too much, too much, too much. But I tweaked the constitution a little- just spruced a few things up, really- and it looks like things are going to work out just fine.27. CNN.com is henceforth prohibited from mentioning American Idol (as well as all other reality television slash crap) on their home page.
One sad morning last week, my daily headline scan of cnn.com turned up no less than THREE American Idol references. With war brewing in the Middle East and Indian trains exploding, I probably could have passed on the breaking news of Katharine McPhee’s victory over bulimia (prompted, of course, by the realization that her little habit might hurt her chances of winning the show). This story was topped only by DJ Boyd’s grand jury indictment on child porn charges, and an assurance that Chris Daughtry is holding up ok after his fourth place finish. (Yes, that really was the front-page big important news. “Daughtry: Fourth place on ‘Idol’ not so bad.” That headline is real, too. Really.) This amendment is absolute. No gossip about Paula’s scandalous lovelife, no speculation on Simon’s next career move, no Kelly, no Clay, no Tyler. Not even an acknowledgment of the next lucky lucky winner. CNN, you used to have that privilege, but you abused it. You’ve demonstrated an inability to handle such freedom. No more.
28. No advertisements in my breakfast.
This month’s haha-that’s-a-good-one-wait-you-were-serious?????-holy-mother-of-fuck winner: CBS scrambled in with your breakfast. It’s nice being part of such a progressive and intelligent society. Especially when the latest research and advancements in laser technology leaves us with…sponsored eggs. The best thing about the egg concept was its intrusiveness. “You can’t avoid it.” –CBS’s president of marketing. I’m only 21. I think I was born after most of the good old days… but oy, do I long for them.
**I’m amending the amendment, because on second thought, I do enjoy the puzzles that decorate my Lucky Charms and Cinnamon Toast Crunch. An exemption is hereby granted to those advertisements that include a simple yet entertaining morning game that contributes to the pleasant beginning of my day. And if the prize in the bottom of the box is sponsored by a movie or toy… I’ll let that go, too. But my eggs are sacred. And that’s final.
29. Voting is a privilege. As such, any reward or other type of bribery for voting is hereby prohibited.
Our latest genius politician. As it turns out, it’s not enough that voting lets us participate in a democratic government, perform a civic duty, voice our opinions, and help decide America’s future. Because you know, that’s not really so important or meaningful. But hey- wouldn’t it be cool if voting also entered us to win free stuff? Like lots of money?
Another oy.
Partly I’m shuddering because of the principle thing. You know the argument- our forefathers shed blood for democracy… the foremothers and the suffrage... the people in other countries still dying for the vote… But also, there’s the common sense thing. I’m not so impressed with our country’s recent track record in the voting department, and I’m thinking the last thing we need is more ignorant people putting in their opinion. If the inherent benefits of voting aren’t enough to bring someone to the polls, let’s forget about bribing them to check some box on a glorified lottery ticket and concentrate on keeping them out of the voting booth. My modified proposal: Voting is not a right. Taking the voting test, however, is. Prove your knowledge of the candidates and the government, and then you are welcome to cast your vote. I’m actually serious with this one. Might seem a little preposterous at first, but just think about it for a while. Starts to sound pretty good.
30. No person under the height of four feet, ten inches shall be allowed to carry an umbrella.
This isn’t cruel. It’s practical. Walking down a puddly street clogged with soaking umbrellas is bad enough. We of normal stature should not have to deal with the additional vexation of repeated stabbing from umbrellas traveling below the normal range. This regulation is not unprecedented. Airplanes, which contribute to far fewer pierced torsos on a daily basis, also have a minimum flying height. Additionally, because I do consider dryness a basic human right, ponchos will be sold at a reduced price to those prohibited from umbrella possession. (This is diplomatic as well as economically viable. Outerwear for the short requires less material.)
31. No.
Responsible drinking is too tough a sell. Let’s change gears, and start inventing tools that let people enjoy their inebriated escapades without concern for the repercussions. No, that sounds really smart. I love the concept of easing the … ok, ok, fine. To be honest: I think it’s a great idea. I’m just feeling a little (lot) angry because I thought of it first. The drunk-dial blocker was MY idea, conceived no less than THREE YEARS ago. True story. And here’s how forward thinking I am: I’d barely started drinking at that point, yet I somehow had the foresight to realize that my future self would need some help controlling her drunken idiocy. But if I can’t patent and profit from this idea, nobody else can, either. So there.
Labels: Lion
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
An Observation
My all-time favorite NYC sign: the one at selected intersections that says "Don't Block The Box. Fine +2 Points."
+2 points? In what game? And can I play? It sounds like fun. For some reason my friends hate it when I deduct points from them for standing in front of the box. They pretend like they're too cool for the game, but I think they're just sore losers. What my friends don't know is that I actually have no idea what or where this "box" is. Whatever square-type thing they're blocking at the moment, though... we'll call that the box for now. (You could say I'm a cheater. But it's hard to play fair when you don't know the rules.)
Or, maybe it's not a game... Maybe the sign means +2 points, in LIFE. You know, like some kind of cumulative thing. I always picture myself standing at the gates of heaven while St. Peter (or whoever it is that greets us Jews) adds up my score.
"Well, I see here 26 incidents of box blocking... that'll put you down 52 points. But, you make up 12 of those for drinking calcium-rich orange juice every morning, and 10 more for your beautiful blue eyes. Add in the 18 for making dean's list, the 14 for being nice to your little sister, and the 6 for always carrying scissors with the sharp side down, and you come out on top. Lion, I think we can let you... Uh oh. Wait. What's this, favorite move 'Annie??' Ohhh, Lion, I don't know. That'll kick you down 10 points... yeah, you're not going to make it. So sorry. Have a good eternity though."
This is just what I think about while I'm waiting for the walk signal.
Labels: Lion
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Something Pretty
My mom called me yesterday to remind me about our car insurance premiums going up because of my little fender bender last summer. Angry as I am about the $400 coming out of my unpaid-intern salary, I feel somewhat better in the knowledge that at least it was (if such a thing exists) a noble car accident.
I was driving to work when I saw the three picketers, only a few blocks from my house. I don't remember the exact words, but it was something in the vein of "homosexual," "evil" and "sin." Surprising, because I live in a very liberal community. I didn't meet my first Republican until college. I was so caught up in my shock and disgust at these poor ignorant souls that I forgot I was driving and promptly ran into another car. Damn. Mad as I was about the ruined fender, though, it was something else making me still shake with anger as I lay in bed that night.
Last Sunday, trying to walk north from Soho up to Union Square (for a date with Sober!!! She had to come in from DC because she just missed me so much), I got stopped by people traffic. I can tell I'm getting closer to a Real New Yorker (caught up in my own mission without any thought or attention paid to the rest of the world), because it took me three blocks to notice all the rainbows and triangles. Duh, I'd stumbled onto the Pride Parade. Cloudy skies and a constant drizzle weren't enough to keep about ten hundred million people from their celebration. Last summer's three picketers seemed like nothing more than a tiny (albeit horribly obnoxious and unnecessary) mosquito in comparison with the strength and energy emanating from the masses lining Fifth Avenue. I tell you, the hope pulsing up and down the street that day carried me straight into sweet sleep come bedtime.
Labels: Lion
Wednesday, June 28, 2006
Just for today and tomorrow and the next day
Now I know I'm lucky. I know I'm blessed, I know I have a beautiful life, and I know that things are just fine fine fine. But still, today, I want to hide under the covers.I want a big comforter and a mug of hot chocolate. I want matzo ball soup just like my grandma makes. I want a declawed cat to snuggle next to me, and the teddy bear that I lost 13 years ago. I want Annie and Cool Runnings and Notting Hill and all ten seasons of Friends on DVD. I want my mom. I also want her not to call me eight times today. I want the rain to turn to snow and the temperature to drop 35 degrees. I want my roommates to clean the apartment and then disappear. I want to sleep without any dreams.
I want I want I want. Poor me poor me pour me another, I know. But today this is just how I feel.
Labels: Lion
Friday, June 23, 2006
Sweet Dreams
I went to Emmaus, Pennsylvania today. I know... Emmaus. I didn't think it was such a good idea, either. But, that's where my company is headquartered, and it was intern lunch with the CEO day. I'm still new to the working world, but I already know that saying yes to the big boss is generally a good practice. So, off to Emmaus I went.
After a two hour bus ride, the other New York interns and I finally got to meet our Emmaus counterparts. It's funny, because it's when I'm away from Manhattan that I feel most like a Real New Yorker. The other city interns and I were dressed up for our big visit to corporate headquarters and the CEO, clad in black pants, high heels and enormous sunglasses. The Emmaus interns, dressed in khaki shorts and polos, told us they'd also gotten dressed up. Quaint.
Our supervisor gave us a quick tour of Emmaus and the company campus. Barefoot kids ran around, chasing each other. And birds. Old couples shuffled arm in arm down the street, licking ice cream cones. We saw the stoplight, which is a pretty major attraction. It turned three whole different colors. We stopped for coffee in the company cafeteria, where the chefs offered us homemade cookies, fresh out of the oven. Per the CEO's policy, I got a ten cent discount on my coffee because I used a lid. You never know what might happen when hot beverages are left uncovered. The offices were covered in needlework wall hangings, embroidered by the CEO in her spare time. We went through an old farmhouse, which doubles as the corporate retreat and meeting center. In the backyard, sitting at a picnic table under a tent, was a hunched old woman in mismatched clothes. The CEO.
After she'd shaken each of our hands (shaking all the while- like I said, she's old), she got up to give us her wisdom. Most CEOs talk about bottom lines, company growth, plans for the future and maybe some resume advice. While we ate our organic salad (from the on-site garden) and free-range chicken (from the on-site farm), she talked about losing her son to AIDS, losing her husband in a car accident, and fighting three bouts of cancer. She told us about walking up each morning, standing in the light, and saying thanks for another day. She recounted her first days as CEO, when she visited her employees- in their offices- and asked for advice on how she could best help them. She told us to always find what can be learned from an experience, and to use that knowledge to inspire someone else. And, most importantly, she told us to never ever lose sight of our dreams.
Her daughter had some words, too. She told us how her father took up skeet shooting, and learned to find the goal... follow the goal... hit the goal. She told us about her grandfather, who thought in terms of decades and centuries, not financial quarters. She talked about the landscape architect, who told her the tree garden would be finished in about 100 years... but he didn't mind not seeing the final product, because "I can see it in my mind and it is beautiful." She told us to never let work become our lives, and to find some sort of passion that stirs us from the inside. She told us that life isn't fair day to day, but it might be over a lifetime.
The CEO and her daughter gave us a tour of the farm and garden. We saw the children's camp, and the CEO told us that on rainy days, she invites them to watch movies in her basement. We saw the moon garden, where executives can meet when they need a change of scenery. I traded my high heels for the flip flops in my bag, and rolled my pants up to my knees. We saw the house where a Kosovo refugee family (sponsored by the CEO) lives. We waded in the pool.
Now even though I'm new to Manhattan, I still consider myself a city girl. Through and through. The tall buildings, throngs of people and busy clip of life- that's what I consider Real. And in New York, I'm smack in the middle of Real Life. This is where everything important happens, I know. But today, in that giant farm in the middle of nowhere, I started having some funny thoughts. Maybe the rolling hills and the canopies of trees are Real. Maybe it's Real when as far as the eye can see in every direction, it's all green. Maybe Real is the kids who laugh and shout, and the old CEO who wakes up every morning and says thanks. And Manhattan... maybe Manhattan is just an enormous fantasy. A lot of distraction, a lot of excess, a lot of noise.
We hugged the CEO good-bye, and got back on the bus. I slept through the ride, and woke up as we pulled into Port Authority. As I rubbed my eyes and yawned, it took me a minute to seperate Emmaus from my dream. The green hills I'd dozed off to had turned into rows of buildings and lines of cars. I rolled down my pants, slipped on my heels, and stepped outside. It was loud and dirty and crowded, and I merged into the masses just fine. My dream journey was nice, but back in the city, I was sure it was just that- a dream. A nice fantasy, sure, but no Manhattan. The millions of other people, each absorbed in their own mission, assured me that right here is as Real as it gets. Right here is where I need to be.
I sort of wish a little bit, though, that Emmaus wasn't so easy to forget. That break from Real (or was it a trip to real Real?) was nice. A good dream.
Labels: Lion
Saturday, June 17, 2006
Stories
Life is being pretty good. I've been in the city for a week, and I already have about ten million stories. In a nutshell:1. Last night I had Korean barbecue at Woo Lae Oak with some new friends. One of them works there, so he knew exactly what to order. I've tried for 21 years to like salmon (what's a good Jewish girl if she can't eat lox?) with no success. Somehow, last night, I did. And, I also liked cod, coconut and scallops. Amazing. Then we got the bill- a roughly 300 course meal for five cost $160. My friend said it should have cost $600. I love having connections. (Of course, the $50 I paid- we left a huge tip- still made it the most expensive meal I've ever had. By far.) I really never understood before why people cared about having good food. I guess I'd never had any.
2. A cat named Horseshoe lives in our apartment. She loves me soooooo much. Everywhere I go, she follows. And, she gives me massages while I am falling asleep.
3. On my second day at work, I was researching for a column called sex shorts, summarizing recent study results. Picture the 40-year-old men I work with. Then picture the new little intern explaining to a group of them that penile-vaginal intercourse has been found to hold more health benefits than masturbation or other forms of intercourse. They wouldn't stop asking questions. I think they were enjoying it.
4. My temporary roommate fell asleep on the subway last night. He woke up at 4 a.m. in North Queens. He said there have definitely been times when he felt safer. When another subway didn't come, he called every taxi company he could find. No one would get him. After an hour, a subway finally came. He was scared of me, because I'd gotten angry with him earlier for staying out so late (he doesn't have keys, so I had to be awake to let him in), so he'd planned to go sleep at another friend's place. She'd fallen asleep and couldn't let him in. He went and sat a diner for a few hours, then came to my apartment and slept on the stairs outside. He was too scared to call me until 8:30 a.m. Moral of the story: I'm a lot tougher than I think. Totally a real lion.
5. We went to the Renegade Craft Fair yesterday, and with the purchase of a beautiful dress and a wonderful shirt I am now even more ridiculously stylish. I had to prepare, because the hot Manhattan summer thing is starting and I'm not sure how the Minnesota girl in me is going to handle it. High of 94 today. At least I missed the flash floods back home.
6. I'm writing this in my backyard rose garden. It's warm and sunny and my kitty cat is kissing me and giving me a shoulder massage. (I'm serious. She likes to walk on me.) In this city of two million people, for just a brief moment, I feel all alone.
7. I'm deciding to stay in Manhattan. At least for now.
Labels: Lion
Thursday, June 15, 2006
It's A Wonderful Town
I wake up at 4:46 a.m. to catch my plane to New York. My parents are out of town at my brother’s graduate school commencement (the second graduation of his I’m missing in a row) so I have to beg my best friend to drive me to the airport. I get there at 6:00, and am startled by the amount of people who have joined me in traveling at this painfully early hour. The lines are endless. They feel even longer due to the two Lion-sized bags I am carrying. I rack up $75 in overweight luggage fees and rip a nail off helping the ticket counter attendant throw my 83-pound suitcase onto the conveyor belt.I make it to New York. My cab gets held up by the Puerto Rico Day parade. Drunk people are everywhere, laughing and singing and having a grand time. I’m almost six months sober. It’s physically painful to watch their revelry. I make it to the apartment, where I find one of my roommates. Three of my roommates are friends from school, but this one is a total stranger. I’m glad this is the first time we’ve met, because I got to enjoy 21 good years without her. I spend two hours running errands and grocery shopping with her, and by the end have come up with six fairly creative plans for inducing an accidental death.
Two more roommates arrive. One of their parents brought a bottle of wine to christen our new place with. I’m still sober. It’s still painful. We explore the apartment, and find the previous tenants were not familiar with brooms, dust rags or garbage cans. We clean, and then pick rooms. After unpacking, I open the nightstand to put away a few last things. I find it filled with the landlord’s parents’ old prescription medications. I’m still sober. I’m also an addict and a former pill-popper. Painkillers, sleeping pills, anti-anxiety meds. All my best- and strictly forbidden- friends are sitting right in front of me. I politely ask the landlady to move the drugs. I tell her I sleepwalk sometimes, and am never sure what I will ingest during slumber. English is her second language. I think she buys it.
We cook dinner. I’m not allowed to touch hot things or sharp knives anymore (coordination issues, not mental stability issues), so I set the table. Or, I try to. There is no silverware. It’s hard to eat the pasta. It’s harder to eat the soup. One of my roommates and I try on our first day of work outfits for each other. She tells me I have to look professional. She makes me tuck in my shirt. I don’t want to tuck in my shirt. That’s what old wrinkly teachers do. It makes me look fat. I think I see my mother in the mirror.
My old landlord calls me and tells me the check I wrote her bounced. This is the second such phone call I’ve received in the last three days, and I’m baffled. My account is very full. I know there must be some mistake, but I still mentally age a few more years. I bounced a check. Those words sound ugly. I call the bank, and they can’t help me, because no checks have been deposited in my account for the last three weeks. I’m stumped. I look at my checkbook, and notice that it is for a LaSalle bank account. I closed my LaSalle account three years ago. Since running out of my old checks three weeks ago, I’ve written seven from this new checkbook. I don’t even recall owning LaSalle checks. I call everyone I’ve written bad checks to, and warn them that the check they just deposited will bounce, and I am sending them a new check in the mail. Plus the $15 returned check fee.
I go to an AA meeting. First day in a strange city, and I need to feel at home. But I don’t. Their meeting is different than the ones I’ve been attending for the last five months. I am confused, and forget to raise my hand when they ask for new attendees. I get scared and shy, and don’t introduce myself to anyone. My elbow is bleeding from where I scratched it on the luggage earlier, and the back of my knee itches in that spot which is impossible to satisfyingly scratch through denim. I’m lonely and I’m tired and my chin is trembling and I want to go home. But I don’t even know where home is because home home Minneapolis doesn’t really feel like home anymore and I spent the majority of the last three years in Chicago but I don’t even like that city and I thought New York felt like home last time I was here but I think maybe that was just a passing fancy and I think I may never ever feel at home again. And now I think maybe I’m going to cry.
I walk to another meeting because maybe that will make me feel better. I stub my toe on the way in. I blink hard and look at the ceiling untill the meeting is over. A little because my toe hurts, and a lot because my insides hurt. Someone grabs me on the way out. It’s a friend. A very good friend from the last time I was here. I haven’t spoken to her in months, and she didn’t know I was coming. She screams excitedly, smiles at me, hugs me, loves me. She’s happy to see me. I’m happy to see her. I hug her back. "Look at you," she says. "You're all grown up! You look like... like a Woman!" I am not lying, that is exactly what she said. Unprovoked. My friend is warm and fuzzy and it’s making me melt just a little. My mind slows down. I smile.
I get back on the subway to go home. I think about the rose garden in my new backyard. I think about what to wear on the second day of work when I can loosen up a little bit. I think about whether it’s appropriate to tell the guy in front of me that his fly is unzipped, and engage in an interesting internal debate. I decide yes. I walk to my apartment. It’s 9 p.m. but it’s bright and warm and people are still outside, running and shopping and talking. A little boy pees all over the outside of his car while his family laughs hysterically. I stop for a minute and laugh with them. My head is quiet. I go home and get in bed and close my eyes and close my brain and go to sleep and am glad that I have another day tomorrow.
Labels: Lion
Sunday, June 11, 2006
Packing Day, Part Two
That possible bout with serenity, it didn’t last long. I asked my best friend to help me figure out what to write about. She cut me off before I was able to finish my question"You’re writing for a blog called Three New York Women? I don’t know…”
Now that was one thought I did have.
“Lion- no offense, but you’re a journalist and I know you like to be accurate- do you really think it’s appropriate to call yourself a Woman?”
Another thought I had.
“Maybe you should talk to this Sober person, see if she'll rethink the title a little bit...”
We sat and pondered. Three New York Gals? Three New York Females? Two New York Women and One Almost A Woman But Kind of Still A Girl?
“Or maybe, Lion, maybe you are a Woman. And maybe you’re just really bad at it.”
Yeah, right. I’m no Woman. My best friend is right, and it’s just a matter of time before everyone else figures me out, too.
“Hey, no big deal. You’ll probably figure it out someday.”
Fuck. I’ll never figure it out. I’ll be the one in a short dress while all the Women are in elegant gowns. In social situations, I will have to poke my date under the table and ask him to explain the joke that everyone else is laughing at. I’ll never be comfortable with my feet crossed at the ankles, and everyone will stare as I sit Indian-style in chairs.
“Lion, don’t worry about it. Your mom and I will help you. I’m sure you’ll grow up soon.”
But at this point, it’s too late. I’m worrying. I’m back. My mind is running, and it’s familiar and comfortable. I notice, though, that my shoulders are a little tenser and my eyes are a little heavier. I long, a little, for that fleeting feeling I had- that momentary glimpse of serenity. Hopefully it will come back to me soon. I’m a little concerned, though. I’d like it to come back, but I’m not sure if it will. I’m getting worried.
Labels: Lion
Saturday, June 10, 2006
Packing Day
I’m still stuck, after about three days of intense thinking. It’s somewhat disconcerting, this inability to find something to worry about. I thought I’d be a great blogger, because I like to analyze and examine, turn things over in my head. Yet here I sit, stumped. Cat’s got my fingers.Generally, I’m not the kind of person who can sit, surrounded by mountains of crumpled clothes, stacks of books and magazines and three sadly empty suitcases, without a few thoughts. Some thoughts about where I’m going, and some thoughts about what I’m leaving. Thoughts about packing, thoughts about wrinkles, thoughts about unpacking. Thoughts about planes and thoughts about gravity, and then a few thoughts about crashes. But right now- and maybe it’s an environmental difference, maybe this is the first time the sun has shone and the birds have chirped and the flowers have bloomed and there have been other things to occupy my mind- I’m not having many thoughts. There’s just this unfamiliar feeling, a mood or something, and it’s distracting me from worrying.
I’m certainly not suffering from a lack of potential worry inducers. I leave tomorrow for Manhattan, and start a new summer job on Monday. If I do well over the next three months, there’s a chance they’ll offer me a permanent position. That alone should be enough for seven or eight big worries, easy. But I have this distracting voice in the back of my head. It’s saying, “Lion. You are a smart girl. You are educated and experienced, and they hired you for a reason. You will work as hard as you can, because you always do. If they like you, great. If not, it probably is not the right place for you anyways.” And the thing is, that little voice makes some sense. And it tells me nice things, things that are maybe true. I’m not so sure I should ignore it.
There are other things, though. Other possible worries. I’m moving to a new city! And not just any city, but New York! So I try to work myself up. It shouldn’t be hard- I’m a Midwestern girl, what do I know about living in the big city? I’ll feel suffocated and trapped without my ten thousand lakes. They’ll laugh at the way I say my vowels. I won’t be able to afford food, and I’ll develop a deadly disorder from living off Ramen and the hot cocoa mix at work, which I will mix with a splash of water to form a free and tasty chocolate treat. My tendency to smile at strangers will be misinterpreted as a prostitute’s greeting. The heat will be such a shock to my system that my glands will react by creating an odor so distinct that when my coworkers say my name, they will finish it under their breath with “more like lyin’… lyin’ in a pile of dog shit and rotten milk.” And I’ll get lost. Hopelessly lost.
But that voice… it’s still there. And this time, it says, “Honestly, Lion. Calm yourself. You did that city once, and you can do it again. You’ll go to Central Park when your throat starts to tighten. You’ll eat out less and cook your own meals, and you’ll wear deodorant. The streets are numbered, and you’ll swallow your pride and pull out a map when you need to. It’ll take a lot more than a smile to make yourself look like a hooker, and on the off chance that you are mistaken, at least you’ll be able to put some of the money worries aside. And yes, they’ll laugh at the way you say your vowels. But you’ll laugh with them, and secretly feel a little pleased that you have something to set yourself apart.”
Damn. Foiled again. That little voice, that weird feeling, it’s still there. And I’m starting to think maybe I like it. Maybe I don’t mind getting off the mental hamster wheel. Maybe I’m feeling a little… dare I say it… serene? Maybe.
Labels: Lion