Reality Check

I think part of me really wanted to believe that the world is just one big hedonistic playground, and my undergraduate days didn't help in dispelling my belief that this might, in fact, be true. By some miracle of financial aid, I managed to get my Bachelor's degree without any debt. What's more, my grant money allowed me to eat out and study in coffee shops basically whenever I wanted, and when I got a job, it was more the result of wanting work experience than financial necessity. I studied hard, sure, and sometimes stressed out to a considerable extent, but mostly I dabbled a lot in subjects I thought might be interesting without taking on the responsibility of focusing too heavily on one thing.

Now, though, I feel reality hitting, and it's hitting me hard.

The main thing I'm learning is that Money Is Real, and it doesn't just magically materialize in your bank account because the financial aid gods have decreed that it will be so. Moreover, evil extortionists (I'm looking at you, apartment company) will try their hardest to milk you for all you're worth. I mean, I don't have $100 to pay a fine for a parking tag that certainly never existed. Why wouldn't I have a parking tag? Well, because I DON'T HAVE A CAR. I don't even want a car. Shocker, I know. What kind of American am I?

Partly because I have absolutely no income and lots of things to pay for, partly because of the complete lack of action on the moving-to-London front, partly because I'm back to playing dozens of games of solitaire everyday, I can't shake the feeling that I'm not much good at real life. I remember the days when I used to consider myself a competent adult. I always showed up on time for work and class; I cooked my own food, did my own laundry, cleaned my apartment, worked out every day. And I know that I stopped being that person because summer happened and I moved home and I didn't have to be fully accountable for myself anymore.

Then I remind myself that some people have real problems, and I am not one of those people. I remind myself that everyone probably gets this life-isn't-a-game reality check at some point. Maybe mine just came so late that I was lulled into the delusion that it never would, that I could go on forever spending and spending and spending and having fun and never having to deal with any consequences and never having to take any real responsibility for my actions.

It's time, I suppose, to enter into actual reality - not the glamorous pseudo-reality of doing whatever I want whenever I want, not the teenager's version of what it means to be grown up - no, the reality of determining what you really want out of life and going for it, of doing things that are difficult and frustrating without complaint, of sucking it up and not acting like a child about every little setback. Yeah, I'm well overdue on that one.

A List of Uncertainties

1. Where specifically I will be living next year. In theory, I should be receiving pictures of potential flats so that I can give feedback, but this has not happened yet. These days I compulsively check my email, thinking each time that there will be something significant waiting in my inbox. Instead I find myself constantly sifting through (figurative) piles of spam.

2. Whether I can find a job in London. Seriously, I'll do anything just to have a source of income again. Wait, maybe not anything. Almost anything? No, that sounds dangerous, too. As a point of reference, though, a job in a coffee shop is currently my dream.

3. The extent to which I will have to decimate my beloved clothing collection when the time comes to fit everything into a surprisingly not-big-enough suitcase. You see, when I ask myself what I want to pack, my default answer is, "Everything." And then I remember that everything really isn't an option.

4. When exactly I will be leaving. Whether I can find a reasonably-priced plane ticket. What city I will be flying out of. Whether I will have any layovers (hopefully not - rushing through airports, filled with the nagging dread that I will miss my next flight absolutely terrifies me).

5. Whether I'll be happy in London. Whether I'll make friends easily. How intense the homesickness will be.
Whether I'll have an acceptable internet connection
What size my bed will be.
Where I'll do my grocery shopping.
Whether I'll be able to sustain my habit of eating excess Mexican food.

This is getting ridiculous. I'm going to stop worrying. Right now.

Wait, maybe now...

No, now. For real this time.

Move On Already!

My bed was like a taco in the sense that I was sleeping on nothing but a brown sheet folded in half like a taco shell. The problem with the taco was that, unlike actual tacos, it wasn't warm inside. Too much air conditioning. My body, I suppose was of normal temperature, but try as I might to radiate heat, I couldn't warm that sheet up. I missed my duvet like you wouldn't believe. Any bit of heat I managed to squeeze out my duvet would capture and hold prisoner for the rest of the night. It was a clever one, that duvet, but now I've relegated it to a shelf in my closet in my parents' house.

My Ann Arbor bedroom used to be a warm and welcoming place. Now it's the blank-walled, bare-bedded, empty-closeted shell of its former self. The rest of the apartment has likewise suffered from the lack of my ridiculous amounts of stuff. It is no longer the place of freshly baked scones...

And comically-named bottles of wine...

And walls covered with possibly too many pictures. 

No, it's not my apartment anymore. It's okay. Really. I haven't (yet) had even one emotional breakdown about this development. I just have to keep telling myself that I don't have to spend the rest of my life in this post-graduation, pre-grad school limbo.

In its infinite wisdom, my sister's college guide magazine says, "life changes. keep up with it." But what about those times when life keeps promising to change but then decides to take forever to get around to it? What about those times when life says, "Sure, you get to go to grad school in London, but you can only earn this privilege by spending four months in purgatory. If you don't lose your mind, you'll have the chance to do something cool. But, knowing you, you'll probably lose your mind."? What about those times?

What about the times when you hang out with your friends and realize that you really may not see some of them ever again?

What about the times when you don't even care that your bathroom counter is covered with makeup residue and hair and wet dust (seriously, gross) because it's not really your bathroom anymore?

What are you supposed to do when in all of your dreams you're on planes and trains, and when you pick up your phone to call your family or a friend, it shatters into tiny pieces?

What about those times?

What are we supposed to do?

My advice: don't emulate me and get all angsty. Teenage-esque angst is never the answer - at least not at the age of 22. But what if I've reverted to the age of 14 in terms of maturity? Because there's a distinct possibility that this has happened, probably because I moved back home after college. I think I need to work on re-growing up.

Social Anxiety: The Online Edition!

I can just imagine the response that an email from me must elicit. First vague excitement over having received an email, followed by vague exasperation upon realizing it's from me, followed by mocking of all of the stupid things I say. When I write to people over the internet, I invariably feel as though I'm making unsolicited demands on their time. It's like I'm saying, "Think about me! Me! I know you probably came on the internet to do other things, but I ask, nay, I demand that you take the time to read what I say and write a thoughtful and insightful response. But if you don't, I mean, that's fine. Whatever. I will, however, assume that you hate me if you never write back."

I think I really need to stop assuming that everyone hates me.

What terrifies me most about internet communication, though, is that I can't see people's reactions. So, unlike in the real world, I can't watch their facial expressions changing slowly to distaste or confusion, indicating that I should probably change the topic of conversation. If an internet conversation were a real-life conversation, it would probably be like talking at a completely expressionless face, then waiting a few minutes, maybe a few days, for a reaction. And the whole time, you're just staring at this blank face, waiting, wondering, hoping you haven't made some irredeemable social blunder. Knowing yourself, you probably have.

Creepy, isn't it?

As of a few weeks ago, the problems associated with internet communication have become a point of major concern. See, I began the process of London flathunting with the naive belief that I would engage in one exchange with the perfect future flatmates, we would quickly develop a mutual affection for each other and I would be done. Yeah, it wasn't quite like that. Instead, I had to send off at least 20 unsolicited emails to various people, trying to persuade them of my sanity and asking if they would like to meet with me during my brief upcoming visit to London. Fortunately, a few of them must have believed that I'm not one of those I'll-sneak-into-your-room-and-watch-you-while-you-sleep kind of people (which, thank you very much, I'm not), and they agreed to meet with me. Then, as luck would have it, I really liked the first people I met with, and they must have liked me too, since they offered to form a flathunting group with me. The only issue with all of this is that I haven't communicated with either of them since returning home from London a week ago.

I daresay there will be some awkward emails in my future.