Post Grad

Jamie, my younger sister, graduated from High School a few weeks ago. My boyfriend and I attended the ceremony, alongside several other members of my family. We sat patiently, quietly, as each dignitary droned on about the importance of "seizing life by the horns," and "embracing the roller coaster of opportunity" that was surely to be waiting outside the steel doors of CCRI.

It was somewhere between the valedictorian's praise for her generation's obvious inevitability to cure AIDS and the point in the ceremony when an officer from the Naval Academy personally recognized her significance as a human that I began to feel sad. It had been five years since I sat in that very auditorium and listened to speeches of hauntingly parallel sentiments. I counted the years to sure.*

This immediately made me feel old. I turned to the boyfriend, "does this make you feel old?" His response was tinged with empathy, "no, I feel bad for these idiots because they really think this is what it will be like after tonight." He and I are no foreigners to disappointment after graduation.

I watched all those pimply-faced brats squeal and cry for one another, as if they really "might never see each other again!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and for the first time that night, I wanted to laugh. Of course you'll see these ass-hats again. You'll see them at bars, at Kohl's, at school, at your job, with your ex-boyfriend, in the paper, even at your house. You'll see them everywhere, and you'll get very little peace from that. It's all part of that "roller coaster called life"--that never fucking stops, and is operated by the nose-picker you sat next to every day in homeroom.

However, there's always the slow creeping cliche to keep the human race motivated. Ten Year Reunion. I have exactly enough time to conceive, birth, and raise a Kindergartner, before every one from my graduating class will be doing that thing where they pretend to look just ahead of you at a friend, or prices at the bar, but really just want a look at your ass to make sure it's fat.

There are few remedies for crow's feet and cellulite in the eyes of a supercilious peer. The first, is an impressive job. If your career is worth the weight of your thighs, the fat becomes power. Sandy, will rethink that initial quick eyebrow raise of surprise, and think to herself "well, Danielle can't exercise if she's applying sunscreen for Brad Pitt on the set of his new movie, especially since she does that on her days off from being the most renowned neurosurgeon in America. I feel awful for misjudging her!" The second, if you're a woman, is kids. "Danielle can't help how gray her hair is, who has time to highlight when you're so busy tending to triplets! I really MUST send her a fruit basket."

Being that I can't afford children without a job, I've decided to look for one of those first. I graduated with a degree in English and Secondary Education. I taught for a year, and I would happily teach again if times were different but there is just something so undeniably alluring about writing and correcting my own work rather than my students'. At twenty-two years old, I sort of feel like I have to at least try a different avenue before signing my soul away to the salary steps of teaching. Especially, an avenue that I love so much.

That being said, applying for dream jobs is, as it turns out, the most progressive act of self-deprecation available to young adults. I believe this is for a number of reasons:

1. Your preliminary encounter with your future employer is virtual. You have to condense your personality, qualifications, and experience into size 12, Times New Roman font. This information must be two pages and you must fill out a series of opening and closing tabs, that ask additional vital information, and require a password.

2. The password must be eight characters in length, contain a number, a symbol, two capital letters, a blue italicized letter, preferably of Greek origin, your mother's maiden name, and the last four digits of your social, or it WILL be hacked. So naturally, you forget your password, and need to email the company six or seven times asking for new ones, and they weed you out of the masses because they honestly cannot believe you could forget something so simple. Fool.

3. You must provide your email, so that they can immediately send you a reply email, graciously thanking you for your application which will be viewed, and should your resume meet their qualifications they will call you for an interview. Should it not however, due to the high volume of applications coming in every day, they will be unable to contact you about your pending application. They hope you understand.
             3a. This is the corporate equivalent to flirting. Not only did they ask for your number, (which oh my god no one ever does anymore this must be serious!) but they called before you even left the venue. This email provides all kinds of false hope because it leaves you thinking that you stand a chance. Then a few days go by, a week, a month; that hope begins to fade. You fear what you've always known: there's someone else.

4. Experience. Experience is the college graduate's largest obstacle. It doesn't matter what the job is, or how good you would be, or how hard you would work, the unfortunate truth is that you do not have a reference backing you up. This in and of itself is enough to feel bad about, but it sneaks up on you when you're least expecting, when your hopes are high and your heart full. It is without a doubt, the very last tid-bit of information on the qualifications, every damn time. That way you can go down the list and think to yourself YES YES YES! That's me! This is perfect! And then you wince as the last line stabs your heart. It looks like this:

Peanut Butter and Jelly Maker Wanted:

Qualifications:
Must love PB&J
Must eat one a week
Must have BA in at least PB, preferably J
Full Time
Full Benefits
Must be friendly
Must be whimsical with a butter knife
Must have the drive and ambition to train others
3-5 years experience in PB&J making at a credible restaurant

5. Cover Letters. Cover letters are a trap. Everyone and their mother will tell you that your resume must be exactly one page or the proverbial "they" will write you off immediately, and yet everyone wants a cover letter. A cover letter is an opportunity for you to sell yourself in sentence form, as opposed to a bulleted list, while simultaneously conveying your unmatched love and loyalty for the organization you're applying to. It must dazzle, and excite, but you must not appear desperate or overbearing. It must outline your knowledge of the company, but also try to mention how handy you are with an iPad. It can be the same for everyone, just change it a little, but change it enough to include the philosophy of the present company in question, and also try to buff up how closely you align with their mission. I have to believe that I still do not have the exact science of this right, because I still don't have a job.

6. All of this, all of it, has taken place behind the screen of your computer. No one has even seen your face, heard your voice, sat you down! Therefore, you have nothing but time to question why that is. Was my font too big? Did I come across as arrogant? Did I put the wrong date on my cover letter? Do I call? Did I miss the call? Should I apply to more jobs? Did I apply to too many jobs? It goes on.

That is why you start to feel bad about yourself. Everyone you know says "you deserve this, you're so good" and yet you're still sitting behind the screen furiously typing in name, address, email, phone number, resume, cover letter, send. Over and over. No call. No nookie. Single again.

If you need me, I'll be here, applying to jobs.

*On a side note, I have two methods for counting. The first is for hours. I like to equate hours to television shows, or full length movies.
"It's a four hour drive? Okay, that's only one viewing of Titanic, or two of any normal movie, I can do that."
"Seriously, forty-five minutes for pizza? That's like an episode and a half of 30 Rock, or one of Dawson's Creek!"
The second is for months and years. I like to equate months and years to ages of children.
"I'm only leaving for nine months! That's barely time to conceive and have a baby; it'll be fine."
"I graduated five years ago? Holy Shit, that means if a baby was conceived on the night I graduated, he's going to Kindergarten this year."

And Baby Makes Three

Yoga proved to be trying on several different levels. Emotionally, physically, and even socially despite the fact that it is 90 minutes of disciplined silence. I owe you an explanation about all of this but it will have to wait for another time. Let's start today with just the social aspect of yoga. The Funky Buddha is a place of relaxation. People are generally friendly and helpful, and they swear often during instruction which makes me feel at home. It was at The Funky Buddha that I met Jacqueline. We hit it off instantly, she was wearing tie-dye and complaining loudly about the unnatural ways our bodies were being forced to bend. We bonded over this being our first month, how easy yoga seems but how difficult it truly is, music festivals, college, anything really. She divulged about her roommates, and I told her about the girls back home; we compared notes. She was apparently part of an eclectic mix of girls with different interests and personalities, who against all odds, became best friends. I knew that situation because I lived it. I assumed, if there are no limitations on personality, surely her friends would want to add one tiny, foul mouthed Greek girl to their clique. We arranged a date: coffee, that following week, before yoga. "Give me a call" she said, as we clumsily exchanged numbers. I couldn't believe it! A date! A date with a girl! It was all I had wanted for months, I had been living here since September and had failed to connect in any real way with someone, and here was this perfect opportunity to finally score a best friend.

Well, that week came and went. Unaware of how cruel and uncaring the dating world can be, I made excuses for her. She must be busy, college can be taxing, I understand. She stopped showing up to yoga. I stared at the door longingly, eyes wide and tail wagging. Nothing. It would be fair to say that I was damaged, gave up hope, whatever. I spent the next month eating my feelings and questioning this exploration all together. By March, I'd hit an all time fat. I had plans to go home in April and worried what people would think, nothing fit right, I felt sad and lonely. The frigid weather didn't help, it only reminded me of the coldness in Jacqueline's heart.

Jacqueline vs. Kara: A diagram

In mid-March I returned to Ladies Fit Zone, the gym I had half heartedly joined sometime in October, in a futile attempt to change my life. Ladies Fit Zone is a festering dump of disappointment. For every machine that works, another three are broken, the magazines are out of date, the scale works sixty percent of the time, there is never any staff around, the towels are dirty and overused, and the people are a sight for sore eyes. I don't mean that in the dazzling, perfect picture kind of way. I mean that as if you had massive pussing sores on your eye balls and sunlight had a tendency to irritate them. I'll describe them according to age.

There are the Powerhouse Geriatrics. Three to five women, well over sixty, who tough out the entire class, resting only to remove their glasses in order to wipe the sweat out of their eyes. They are pure muscle encased in wrinkles, it's both inspirational and terrifying.

Followed by the MILFabees, a group of overtly cheery cougars who attend the classes only to shout things like "TEN MORE BITCHES" and "FEEL THE BURN LADIES, YOU GOT THIS." They wear matching outfits, and sport a tan year round.

Ranking only slightly below, are the Mom/Daughter Duos. I know they're together because they stand only a body or two apart, look identical, and skip out during abs (because when you're with someone you love, you don't have anyone to impress.)

There is exactly one crazy Asian woman. She has jet black hair, a super fit bod, and perfect complexion. She is one hundred percent out of her tree. She teeters between intense and uncoordinated, and every once in a while, when the time is right, she will merge these two conditions together and jump around violently in a circle, shouting curses in tongues. 

Additionally, there is a group of girls my age, who believe they are too cool for class. They also occasionally whore themselves--I mean work out, in the boys gym. Once they told me that if I stopped eating garbage my sweat would smell better, I proceeded to give them the bird and stick the upper half of my body in the trash can. I'll be a smelly goat if I want to be a smelly goat, damn it.

Finally, there are my friends. My friends, consist of Kara, Bre and Hannah, and like three or four girls who rotate in and out, whose names I do not know. They took me under their wing, and taught me that Ladies Fit Zone can be a kind and caring place, despite the health hazards and out of date inspections. They are funny, nice, and we have been compared at least once to "women at a salon who bitch about everyone they've ever come in contact with." So, I love them. 

Kara, is where this story begins:

Kara, has become both my Grand Rapids Best Friend, and my honorary mother, all in a matter of months. It originally stemmed from a girl crush because Kara is essentially everything I am not. Tall, blonde, coordinated, light on her feet, giant boobed. Basically, my dream girl. Kara is sure to include me in everything, she feeds me dinner seveal nights a week, reminds me when I need to be at the gym, asks how my day was. Sometimes I forget to call my own mother because Kara has done such a good job filling her shoes. But perhaps the best part about Kara is that she's married. Because in inheriting Kara, I also inherited Christian. 

Christian is an enormous, unrefined Belizean man, with a voice louder than thunder. He may or may not eat bones for dinner, he's that scary. My relationship with Christian is ever changing. Sometimes, he says in a voice not dissimilar to Rafiki's, "I'm happy my wife has you." Other times, he makes more troublesome statements like "every time I look at you, I want to cook you for dinner." Perhaps the most confusing of all in when he says in a voice barely audible "you could go do yoga down by the dock, that's where I'm going to drown you" but then shouts cheerfully "have fun little wizard, how I'll miss you in a few weeks!" These constant shifts are disorienting. I am never sure whether he loves me or not, and that is why he is the perfect Dad.

Saturdays with the Chan's are my favorite. When we run in the morning, Kara leads like a mother duck. I follow her steps diligently, but eventually end up lagging behind, coughing up blood, and limping alone. Around 1.4 miles, Christian brings up the rear, and gives me a good lash with the crop to remind me that I must press on. He becomes very worried, but does not refrain from treating me like cattle. Christian often reminds Kara that she has to check on me, because I could be dead back there. She rarely denies this fact. Maybe this sounds harsh, but I'll tell ya, I have seen results.

After that we normally go to breakfast before Kara has to work. When the check comes, I usually fish around in my wallet, feigning effort, while Christian takes the bill. They say things like "we're doing this because you drive" or "we just want to" which I appreciate, because what they really mean is, "you can't afford your life."

I stole this from their facebook.... what's mine is yours?

Our biggest issue right now is the soon to be separation. Much like my own parents a year ago, we are starting to have the "go if you must, but you really don't have to" conversation more often than not. I don't know that without them I'll stay as healthy or active as I have been, and I don't know that I'm okay with missing them as much as I anticipate I will. It took me nearly seven months to feel welcome here, and suddenly it's over. I can't say that I've felt at home in Grand Rapids, but I can say that I've met family and for that I am truly thankful.

My Experimental Phase

Moving 800 some odd miles away has not made me thin, exciting, worldly, or interesting. In fact, I think it has made me simple. I washed Tupperware for twenty minutes today. The highlight of my week was buying a new toaster; it's red. When checking it out the Target cashier exclaimed "Hey you only live once!" in regards to it's vibrant color and I thought to myself "if this is me 'living', I might as well take a wet fork to this appliance when I go home and end the monotony."  I'm bored shitless people, and that is why there is nothing to write about. It's not because I don't like making you laugh, or enjoy your comments and text messages, it's not because I haven't heard your pleas, it's just because I'm a simpleton now, plain as the day is long. I assume that is something Laura Ingalls Wilder (my new lady hero would say) right?

Alas, one can only spend so much time with themselves before they begin to crave company. Supposedly, Grand Rapids has much to offer outside the confines of my four walled apartment but I have not ventured far to see it. Thus, when a coworker asked me if I would be interested in trying yoga, I eagerly agreed. Now, as with most things, I envisioned ultimate perfection with little to no practice when embarking on this journey to inner peace. I pictured myself waving freely, toes wiggling to the melodic sounds of Enya. I thought about how easy it would be to embrace relaxation when I had so few worries in my quiet care-free life. Additionally, this was the description I read ahead of time "Power yoga isn’t about bending you into a pretzel or forcing you to chant. It’s about challenging you to reach your fullest potential. Basically, you're a rock star. We'll help you realize it." And who wouldn't kick farm duties and cast iron skillets aside to be a rock star?

But, as with most things, my vision was wrong. Yoga is not for pussies. I arrived at my first class fifteen minutes early full of wonder and excitement. I was shortly thereafter stripped of those feelings only to be tucked into a square no larger than my body in a room that was a stagnant ninety-five degrees. That is when the terror began. A tiny woman, with the voice of an angel cooed out a brief overview of the next hour and a half. It sounded manageable though admittedly I was clinging to the promise of ten relaxing minutes to close our session. She gently asked if there were any beginners, assuring us that we would be fine, and to take "child's pose" as often as necessary. Outwardly I nodded my head in agreement but inside my pride had taken over.

I think the main problem is the infrequency with which I approach exercise. I do not build stamina over the course of several month long sessions but rather binge on it once or twice every 6-8 months. This was an example of this. I was entirely out of shape, and ready to "kick ass," which you probably know is impossible when you have the endurance of a bean bag chair. So, after about twenty minutes of up and down dogging, while holding a high to low plank in between, my limbs were shaking so forcibly I feared they would rocket off and hit my neighbor. Honestly, if you want to see your physical limitations on display, yoga is the sport for you.

 Sweat had begun to pool in every crevice, making it difficult to hold the cork block with my wet meaty palm, while simultaneously "maintaining balance and stability of the leg" as the other aims for parallelism of an unnatural degree. This idiotic pose is called "half moon" and there's nothing romantic about it. Meanwhile, the instructor, who I was cursing silently between moans, kept purring these condescending phrases like "focus on your breath" and "let all your toxins go." It was at this point that a vessel in my right eyeball popped and I had to leave the room to expel violent diarrhea in the patchouli scented bathroom down the hall, effectively ending my session. I think, out of everyone, I purged the most toxins that day.

Surprisingly enough, this did not conclude my exploration of body and mind unity, in fact it strengthened it. After the kindly receptionist pumped coconut water into my failing system and I regained the ability to breathe voluntarily, I decided I felt pretty good. Great even. And that I loved yoga. And these people. And this sweat box. And Grand Rapids. And my job. And my life. And what I'm saying is that basically I was high as a fuckin' kite off this near death experience but in my state of delirium I did sign up for a month of unlimited classes.  And that is where my story will begin.

Until next time friends.



All of my images were stolen from google.