Going places
I h a v e never been a very good driver. I failed the road test twice before I was given a license by an elderly DMV employee who I can only assume did the job for fun.
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I h a v e never been a very good driver. I failed the road test twice before I was given a license by an elderly DMV employee who I can only assume did the job for fun.
At my elementary school, there was an annual pop-up Christmas shop. I’m not sure where the merchandise came from — it was a mixed bag of dinky, unnecessary stuff. It was kind of like a dollar store, except for the fact that it was crammed into the school’s bathroom-sized library, and everything cost more than a dollar.
Last week, I went to a yoga studio where there weren’t any mirrors. This sounds plausible enough. Mirrors are less important to the design of a space than, say, windows or doors. But it was weird.
Last weekend, I signed up for a class on Herman Melville for the spring semester because I realized that, if I didn’t, it was unlikely that I’d ever read “Moby Dick.” I see a great many things in my future come graduation, but summoning the internal motivation to read a 2,000-page book about a whale isn’t one of those things.
This past Halloween, for the first time in my life, I didn’t wear a costume. There was a Spice Girls group costume planned for me and my roommates, but the logistics didn’t really work out. I had a paper due Thursday night, on the actual All Hallow’s Eve, and another one due Friday morning. So I dressed up as a procrastinator.
Earlier this week, a girl jogged past me and smiled — sunnily, fully — as we made eye contact. I felt myself make a small, confused expression in reply. I was taken aback, not feeling particularly grumpy or content myself.
I used to really love magazines. I have distinct memories of stealing issues of “Seventeen” and “YM” from my orthodontist’s waiting room. My sister and I would gesture to each other, wordlessly evaluating which ones were worth the risk — a “Teen People” was better than, say, a “Girl’s Life.” On our way out, we’d slip the glossies under our arms or acrylic school sweaters and scurry away, thrilled.
This long weekend, I tried to relax. I really did. I kept my phone out of sight most of the time, avoided emails, read a few short stories here and there. I resisted the urge to lift up the glossy white lid of my laptop and flip through my usual websites. I sent only one Snapchat, a few texts and made no calls.
There was a time when The WB, now The CW, was the go-to place for sentimental but entertaining teen dramas full of fleshy, interesting characters. But the days of “Dawson’s Creek,” “Felicity” and “7th Heaven” have come and gone. Now, the programming seems to mostly be about attractive, supernatural people.
According to my therapist, I have too many rules for myself.
The other day I was flipping through a notebook that I’ve had for a few years now. On one of the back pages was a list titled “Things to Pack for College.”
Real person” is a phrase I’ve heard — and used — a lot lately.
I am not a hugger. I never have been.
I always wanted to move to New York City. Growing up in Newark, N.J., just 30 minutes away from Manhattan, I felt like I was being constantly taunted.
I don’t keep a journal. I mean, not really. Every once in a while, I try to begin one, and I eagerly crack open the pages of a notebook — blank, wide, open. “This time will be different,” I think to myself. But it never is, invariably I forget about it and find myself dropping trivialities onto the page in order to fill space. Really, I just want the satisfaction of seeing my own scratchy handwriting across sheets and sheets of paper. It’s all very narcissistic.
College girls have been assigned a daunting task: Change the hook-up culture.
“A wolf whistle on a spring day can feel great,” Cathy Horyn, a style writer for The New York Times, says. To which I say, a spring day already feels great. I’m not wearing this dress for you.
Midwifery, urban education, historic preservation, psychiatry. Last Friday over lunch, my friend and I tossed career options across the table like a hockey puck.
Every once in a while, I plan a Saturday where I do absolutely nothing. I stay in my room, catch up on blogs, make a list of all the things I should (or, from a certain perspective, could) be doing and watch the time tick by.
Over spring break, a couple friends and I piled into a ’96 Honda Accord and headed for New Orleans. The drive from Philadelphia is about 18 hours, so we took a break on the second day, spending the night in Tuscaloosa, Ala. After settling in at the Comfort Suites, we made our way to a local dive bar, which felt like an oversized Applebee’s.