At the ripe age of 23, I believe that life is extremely confusing. I’m a year fresh out of college, paying bills and Google-searching for the next great adventure. I like to call this stage of life “Development Limbo” – joyfully bouncing from one internship to another, living for karaoke Fridays with the girls and the innate ability to single-out the high school kids in a college setting. I challenge the ever-changing waves of life and I have collected a few shells of solid beliefs that every female in development limbo should recognize.
Money is a pain in the butt, especially when I’ve been financially independent since May 2003 (consequently my high school graduation date). I avoid credit cards and I collect loose change, but when it comes to that green stuff called cash, I secretly wish that it would reproduce itself in my wallet. After taking care of monthly expenses, I have to make tough personal money choices. Do I go for the five dollar ice cream after a break-up with Boyfriend #4 and hope that the girls take me out on Friday for break-up beer? Can I bum allergy medicine from a townhouse mate? How much was that spontaneous trip to the Newport Aquarium where we watched those two divers almost get attacked by sharks? Oh yeah – priceless.
Then there’s that whole after-college social scene thing. I would like to say right here and now that I don’t ever want to be referred to as “That Girl” at the following venues: a bar, a party, a club, or a bathroom stall at any of these locales. If I have been, my sincere apologies. I’ve been trying my darndest to be “that girl” buying her groceries at the local famer’s market, “that girl” reading Anne of Green Gables for the umpteenth time, and “that girl” laughing deeply while teaching the future artists of tomorrow.
Lastly, I’ve been noticing my toes tapping to Dad’s generational music. I’ve tried to make it stop, but the words and the rhythms and The Doors are really speaking to me. I’ve also noticed a passion for unexplained anger towards Ex-Boyfriend #3 whenever we’re on the phone. It’s eerily familiar to Mom’s projected feelings towards Dad 92% of the time. Oh no. It’s happening. I’m becoming THEM. Please don’t tell them. They’ll think they did a great job. This I truly believe.