Your Place or... my Parents'?

I'd go on record to say that living at home, in a suburb, where the closest thing to a night hotspot is the new Love's Yogurt that closes at a skanky 10 PM, would make anyone a special kind of desperate. I recently googled "word for someone who lives with their parents" and the first hit, via wikipedia, was Geek. Four down was "basement-dweller." Because all of the above pertains to me, I'd say I fall dangerously close to this desperation category. Last weekend I went to get gas and was strangely attracted to the attendant with a receding hairline. Today I returned a book to the Wilmette Public Library and was intrigued by a tall guy standing in the lobby. It was a cardboard cutout of George Washington.

Now I'm not dying to lock the next unsuspecting guy I see into a full-blown relationship. How would that even work? Dating a fellow suburbanite would consist of dodging parents and borrowing cars, and the alternative commute to the city almost makes that whole demographic of Chicagoans "long distance." But it's that I'm wondering whether or not I'm getting so out of practice, seeing people my age only on the weekends, that I've started to disregard anything that before that I held as a "standard."

I guess I began to question myself this past Saturday when I attended a Graduate Preview Day at a University in the city. I was late, having so standardly gotten lost, so I had to make my way to the front of the room to sit down, which was almost right up against the stage where a dozen student ambassadors sat. There was a student from every program represented, and not thirty seconds in I had already abandoned listening in favor of developing a crush. He rocked his trendy oversized nerd glasses well, but what really wooed me was his hairstyle a la Patrick Dempsey in "Can't Buy Me Love." After the program I caught sight of him leaving holding hands with another boy. Strike one for Chel.

But in the ill-fated words of Dane Cook, let's Tarantino it.

My jaunt into Dating in the Real World started, obviously, this summer, when I realized I would no longer be so nicely presented with 200 hand picked boys all conveniently within 1-2 years of my age. I spent my entire summer studying for the MCAT, which put a big ol' C-block on my romantic life. Even so, I managed to "meet" someone. Right when I got home from school I began studying, which required me to find a tutor. I googled, found someone compatible, and decided to meet her at a Starbucks near my house the following Tuesday. When that day arrived, I came a few minutes early so I could set out my things and order a coffee.

I want to quickly plug how much I like Starbucks (as if they need it). But seriously, how cute is their stuff? I'm so freaking girlie that I go nuts over their super expensy tumblers - right now I have my eye on the grande ceramic take-out cup and the-

"What can I get for you?"

I must have been day-dreaming, because apparently it was my turn to order and I had no idea what to get.

"Uhh... err... I... Yeah. Wait."

"Well, I was planning on leaving actually..." What? Who was this guy? I finally made eye contact with him, and noticed that he was tall, maybe about 25ish, and joking.

"I'llhaveatallskinnyvanillalattepleasethanks." And apparently, I also thought he was cute. He responded with something else, longer than a simple "that'll be $3 more than you'd like to pay", but I knew it was hopeless to try my witty reparte with him. This happens to me more often than I'd like. If I'm intimidated by, really, anyone, my face heats up, I make idiotic jokes that last way longer than they should and, worst of all, I become completely deaf. 

I've named it "The Magical Fluid."

It's pretty much one of the most evil handicaps. I'll be talking to someone, become mildly anxious, and by the time it's my turn to respond to whatever they've asked me my ears have closed up with the Magical Fluid and all I end up doing is standing there, wide-eyed, staring blankly, hoping they don't leave thinking I'm legitimately retarded.

So that's what happened that day with my Starbucks lover. And unfortunately, that's all that ever did. Things simply couldn't work out, as I wasn't able to respond to anything he said. Strike two.

Since then I've encountered guys who want to teach me how to dougie, guys who are too old and too far away, and guys who think it's cute to smash their hand in my face. REALLY?

Two weekends ago I went to a party at my friend's apartment in the city. I knew literally no one except for him, and noticing how awkward I felt he kindly chatted with me until he had introduced me to enough people that I could mingle on my own. This happened to occur coincidentally (or not?) when I found myself in a circle of people passing around a watermelon Four Loko. This shit was amazing, and as I passed it to the person on my right, I noticed across from me an Andrew Jenks look alike. Holler. We started chatting, but unfortunately my life with the dopple-ganger to the MTV D-List celebrity did not pan out either. A romantic three seconds into our conversation he casually mentioned to me that he would "not remember any of this tomorrow" because he was "rolling on so much E." Precious.

Attempting to date in the Real World mega-blows, but never giving up, I recently joined a soccer team on ChicagoSocial.com. I had to make a profile to do so and just received a friend request from a 42 year old italian man, "LAURENO." All caps. Super myspace-y. Super creepy.

Super accepted?

A Post as Aimless as my Life Right Now

What does it mean to follow your dream?

That wasn't supposed to rhyme, and I feel like the question almost loses its credibility in doing so. But really, when people make the blanket statement, when parents, teachers, society tell you to reach for the stars because you can be anything you desire, what does that ACTUALLY mean?


Since my recent decision to postpone medical school (or perhaps not go entirely), I've become increasingly worried about the lack of a path I now have to follow. I had held onto medicine for so long, I think, because it was safe: all I had to do was get into medical school and I was basically guaranteed a job and a salary for the rest of my life. But was I really as committed to medicine as I had always thought? Did I really want to give up my entire life, 24 hours a day and 7 days a week, to my career? Don't get me wrong, I'm all for working hard, but I firmly believe that you have to enjoy whatever it is you're doing as you do it. Instead, I found myself waiting for the "ends"- the acceptance to medical school, residency, getting a job at a hospital of my choice- with the belief that once these were attained, I could "start living". Then one day when I was running, it hit me: I'd be at least 35 by the time I could "start living," and who's to say that I'd give up this mentality at that point? I'd work myself incessantly for something I wasn't sure was my passion. So I decided to put the idea on the backburner for a while and explore my options.

My options, as it turns out, are nonexistent.

This past Sunday I went downtown to speak to one of my mother's close friends about her life in journalism - something I've always thought was an interesting career but never something I've seriously considered. She pretty much told me, in the kindest of words, that I couldn't even get an internship (I'm not even uttering the idea of trying to get a paid position) with my credentials. A major in Classics with a concentration in Ancient Literature in Translation: it may be trendy, but it sure as hell won't pay. And it won't get me anywhere near an internship at a magazine.

So I left Starbucks with no greater sense of direction or idea of what I'd truly like to do with my life. To be honest, I feel a little duped. I wish I could warn my naive little high school self, "Stay away from the Liberal Arts!! Get a degree that means something!" But then who's to say that I wouldn't graduate with a degree in petroleum engineering (..sure) and decide that, unfortunately, crude oil isn't so much my passion. Then I'd really be up the creek. At least I have a general degree in, well, for lack of a better term, "college."

This whole idea of "soul searching" and "finding your passion" is a lot less ideal and a lot more stressful than people make it out to be. If anything, I'm learning that I am, in fact, NOT someone who enjoys knowing their job is ending in nine months with no prospects on the horizon. Or that, as much as I love my friends and the people who I'm spending my time with in Chicago now, it still feels like a transition six months after graduation. It's like I'm waiting for something to start but with nothing definite to look forward to.

I guess this post, in all its wanderings, reflects the state of mind I'm in: I'm constantly thinking about what would ideally make me the happiest - coming to no sort of solution - trying to think about entirely different fields that I might consider - and interspersed within these A.D.D. thoughts are snippets of calm, usually brought upon by sleep.

A few weeks ago I was at Borders, spotted an O Magazine on the shelf, and sat down to read it (obv). In it was an article about finding the career you were born to do - with examples of women who have quit high powered corporate jobs to open Vegan bakeries, become dog trainers, or travel the world. Of course! How could I think otherwise? Oprah would without a doubt have my answers. I flipped to the article and read the first question, which asked me to think about the last time I was doing something where I was truly happy and totally engrossed.

...Nothin'.

Uhh. Okay. Let's dig a little deeper, Chels. I like to run. But hell if I'd ever be any sort of a personal trainer. I like to watch entire series of TV shows on my computer in a single sitting. I like to buy shoes. So basically I left Borders finding that I'd grow up to be an out of shape personal trainer with a detailed knowledge of television trivia and seriously hot footwear. This was a mess.

A few days later I was driving home from work on 94 and chose the "Annie (Original Broadway Cast)" Pandora station on my iPhone. The first few songs were unrecognizable to me (isn't that annoying how Pandora does that? It's like, I want to listen to the Glee Cast NOT REBA MCENTIRE OKAY THANK YOU.) But when "Tomorrow" came on, and that little belty voice faded in, I couldn't help but sing along. Except the weirdest thing happened - there, stopped at the intersection of the Edens and Lake Cook, getting stares from cars on either side (I'm sure), I started to cry. And not just tears-in-my-eyes-but-you-still-look-presentable crying, I'm talking all out, raccoon-face, you're-a-mess crying. I had had my "Aha!" moment, without being 55 and post-menopausal. The last time I felt truly, ecstatically, blissfully happy was as an 11-year-old child cast as Annie in my community's production of the show. Letting that realization sink in, I spent the rest of the ride home belting out loud to the rest of the songs I knew.

Now let's be real, we can't all be Lea Michele. I get that - I'm not totally delus. But I do think my highway breakdown was significant, and I know that it was helpful. Even if it doesn't mean that I want to drop everything and pursue my deeply tucked away desire to be on Broadway - honestly, I don't think that's what it is at all. I think it was remembering the feeling of raw euphoria and letting myself unabashedly want that, as outrageous and impossible as it is, for a 20 minute ride home.

And isn't that the goal? To want something so much that it literally tears you apart at the thought of not being able to do that thing that you believe drives you, makes you who you are?

I don't think you'll see me on Broadway, but that little red-headed girl is back, just waiting to break out when I find her something to do. You bet your bottom dollar. 

Party like a Post Grad

Above was how I ended my Halloween weekend. Now let's start from the (more social) beginning.

No surprise, this past weekend was Halloween. Or, as so many have cleverly put it over the internet, "Halloweekend."  I was curious as to how this weekend would play out, and by curious I mean desperate for any sort of social stimulation with people my age plus or minus 4 years. I was also worried I was losing my college going-out stamina, if you could call it that: the Saturday before I was so indecisive and apathetic that instead of choosing between one of two equally appealing social events I remained in my pajamas watching "Paranormal Activity 1" with a following showing of "Dear John". If that doesn't get you motivated to make better plans for the next weekend, I'm not sure what does.

I wasn't exactly sure what Halloween would be like after college, but apparently being a postgrad means returning to any sort of University-setting to celebrate. The general idea for our "Halloweekend" was to leave early in the afternoon on Saturday, travel down to Champaign to our friend's apartment to go to their Halloween party for the night, and then leave the following morning. Simple enough.

When we arrived the party prep was in full swing. People were hanging decorations on the ceiling, putting out loads of food, and clearing out the main areas of furniture. I was of minimal help in this set-up process and spent the majority of the pre-party pre-gaming pumpkin mellocremes.

The party proceded like any other college Halloween party. There was a plethora of too-soons: the Brett Favres and Jets Girls, as well as a Michael Jackson, a Rocky and Bullwinkle, and even the famous Ale-Alejandro.

A few hours into the party I found myself in the kitchen, the only place that wasn't pitch black and kept lit with glow in the dark cobwebs. After a few minutes of standing by myself and (I'm sure) looking out of place, someone presumably took pity on me and struck up a conversation.

"So, what are you?" I turned to look at who the question came from. A guy maybe my age or a year or two older stood in front of me in some sort of suit. He looked like an 80s businessman. Sweet. I love the 80s.

I responded how I had learned to all night,  "Do you watch 'It's Always Sunny'?" The guy immediately launched into his love for the show, especially his favorite character Charlie, when he stopped mid-thought,

"Are you okay?" He asked.

Apparently I didn't hide my feelings well. I really never have. A friend of mine once dubbed my inability to hide my disgust for things I don't like as the "Curry Curse."

"Oh - uhh - yeah. I'm fine. I gotta go to the bathroom sorry." I guess I could have used a better, if not less vulgar excuse. But the fact remained: this guy had Poo Breath. 

You know what I'm talking about. And in whatever the context, I think we can all pretty much agree it's a deal-breaker. What I find both puzzling and terrifying is that the offenders seem to have no idea they themselves have Poo Breath. They'll talk as much and as close to your face as they please, while you're concentrating on holding your breath and simultaneously not passing out from both the odor and asphyxiation. It's kind of funny, because in the last three weeks I've met three people with this exact hygienic handicap, and while I'm asking myself why they don't notice or do anything about it, I'm sure the majority of people who they've encountered do exactly what I did: leave awkwardly to avoid anymore time spent within the same three foot radius.

It was then I decided I needed to sleep. I couldn't risk running into Poo-Breath again and it was way past the time that I'd usually call it a night. However, the party didn't seem to be coming to an end at all. In fact, when it would slow for a few minutes, another wave of new people would enter and things would pick up again. I thought my best bet was to check out the host of the party's room, where he told me that I could sleep anywhere but his bed. Great, I thought. Except when I got to his room the only other piece of furniture was... a desk chair. What made perfect sense to me, then, was to lay on the wood floor in a pile of coats and bags.

 

The sleep I was trying to get never happened. Between the host of the party changing into six different costumes to me trying to take funny pictures of myself in a pile of coats to text to other people, I hardly settled down enough to sleep. At that time my friends returned and asked if I wanted to go to another apartment where there would be no party going on and where we would hopefully have places to crash.

And what a sight we were as we settled into bed that night: a passed out frog, two guys on a pull out couch, a couple on an air mattress, and myself in another pile of coats in a lazy boy chair. Three hours later I woke up to a still pitch black living room. It smelled like hot dogs and urine, and I held my breath as I made my way to the bathroom. Flicking on the light I looked in the mirror and thought about my previous Halloweens. Instead of Illinois, I would have been in California. Instead of an apartment, I would have been in a parking garage. (Yes, a parking garage). I had missed my college life before but never as intensely as this moment. I think partially it was the holiday I hadn't spent apart from my suitemates for the past four years, but also that it was finally sinking in that this wasn't just an extended summer vaca. This awkward postgrad thing was it, this was real life. It's sad to have to finally close the chapter where my biggest problem was "Room Draw" and where "Snack Concert" meant something. My college did a great job of sheltering us from what it meant to be an adult. And though I don't hold a grudge (very much on the contrary), standing in the bathroom and thinking about walking back to my pile-of-coats-bed strangely enough reminded me that I am, in fact, a graduate. 

The next morning we heard that a guy we drove down with woke up in a bathtub with pants.... sans boxers. And although most weekends I'd be just as happy staying in and watching Sex and the City 2 in my lazy bones pajama pants, it's good to know I still have a little bit of college-esque rally left in me.