Magazine . Hordes of rich men would line up and beg to whisk me away to London for the weekend. Of course, I wouldn’t accompany them because of my weekly performances at Carnegie Hall and the movie deal that would contractually forbid me from dating non-celebrities. My apartment in Washington Square would be an upscale, modern space but I would never be too good to slum it with my friends, Monica, Rachel, Phoebe, Ross, Joey and Chandler. Like, it totally made sense years ago. I even prepared a speech for my GrammyEmmyOscarTony.
Reality bites. Being twenty-four in New York City goes more like this . . .
Last night I wore overall shorts I found for three dollars at a vintage clothing store, and by that I mean the Salvation Army on the corner of 6 th and 7 th . I wear crappy clothes while waitressing at the bar because of all the vile shit that splatters on me throughout the night, but it also seems to give me the apathetic edge of I don’t give a fuck . I had a black tank underneath my dated denim and I thought I was rocking the Demi Moore-pottery-scene, but Natalie overtly pointed out that I looked like a Village hobo. (The Village is actually rather chic, so I took that as a compliment.) She is notorious for speaking her mind at the most inopportune moments, but I love her and she did manage to snag a pretty awesome apartment in TriBeCa.
If I told Nat I was actually three months overdue for a wax, she would disown me. I did find a rusty razor in the shower this morning, but it only managed to slightly scrape my legs. There was no way I was risking armpit hemorrhaging, so my appointment with Sue Ling will be more of a medical precaution rather than a luxury. My hair looks okay, if summer sweat can be considered the latest fad in glossy hair serum. The sun is normally good to me, leaving me with golden skin, but I still have the remnants of a farmer’s tan on my arms from wearing a Blue Jays t-shirt to a Yankees game – karma. Oh, and I don’t discuss my guitar-picking nails. Aesthetically, I’m a slob, but I look like the rest of the twenty-somethings.
My current place of employment is an understated bar located in TriBeCa. I can walk there, which is awesome, and the owner has a small crush on me, which makes it easy to get the best shifts. It’s near the Holland Tunnel, but ironically named The Bridge, provoking my need to hum Under the Bridge by the Chili Peppersevery single time I go to work. The bar has a steady stream of customers and the happy hour is very popular, mainly because it’s a nice place to hang before going to a real bar. My Tuesday through Saturday shift allows me to mingle with an eclectic crowd: underage NYU students, dating couples (or cheating couples) and a shitload of Uptown too scared to go all the way Downtown ( that’s what she said .) Rarely are there hordes of handsome men, and not once have I been asked to run away to Europe. And oddly, record moguls aren’t breaking down the bar door to sign a sarcastic, Canadian slacker wearing thrift-store jeans and concert t-shirts.
Honestly, it fucking sucks. I was raised as an only child and educated by television and aversion – aversion to anything realistic and uncomfortable. It’s embarrassing to admit that I feel like I’m owed something in this world; by just going to college I would eventually own my own applesauce empire. And simply traveling around in a van pouring out my emotions on a rickety stage would reward me with a record deal. Or by just being me, creative, pretty and unique, I would score a hot guy and live in Beverly Hills with awesome clothes and the Peach Pit.
But with each day struggling as an adult, the enchanting visions of my future start to implode. The world is faced with new problems now, bigger problems and relevant people with realistic ideas. The new millennium of plastic, technology and fear has distorted and mocked my teenaged fantasies, forcing me to hide in a bubble of the whatevers . But I’m not