Lately, I've been noticing something about these happy hours. I jump on them with all of my friends. New friends, old friends, friends from college, friends from high school, friends from work...and I realized something. My friend groups are slowly growing apart.
In college, I got into a nasty habit with my sweatpants. Our relationship took a very public turn. Yep, my sweatpants relationship was all about the PDA and I went everywhere with them on. Grocery store, library, Target, the mall...we were attached at the hip (pun intended).
Fine, I'll admit it. I got the idea from a recent Cosmopolitan article, sue me. But also, please nod in approval for me finding the only semi-classy article in Cosmo. The article inspired my heart strings. French women live fabulously, non-apologetically, mysteriously, seductively....I couldn't pull my eyes away from it and obvi I have to share it with you.
In one week, I spent half a day in Jamaica (bought Roasted Ground coffee and coconut rum candies), I explored nearly every edge of New York City (found a killer pizza parlor, took mock pictures at Tiffany's and ate cookies from Bouchon Bakery) and I sunbathed next to a clear pool in Florida while sending Twit-Pics of the palm tree-clad view.
College was a large Biodome for easy mistakes, debauchery, learning and living. And now that I've been out of college for a while, a few things have become irresistibly harder to accomplish without this grand ol' biodome of easy living. I've dealt with the following combo platter of difficulties in the real world, and in every situation I contemplated ripping my hair out.
Before I get into the slipper business, I want to share my feelings with you. Since I'm a girl, I tend to have a big barrel of sparkly emotions in my closet. For a while I've been feeling...lost. That sounded super sad and lame in my head, but I can't think of any other way to explain it.
Me and a few girlfriends put on our highest heels and tightest jeans, teased out our hair, chugged a glass of wine and strut our stuff downtown. For the first time, I felt a hint of cougar status brew in my insides. I was only a year older than most of the people in the bar...aside from the 18-year-old freshman busting in with fake IDs. But we all promised ourselves that this was only an experiment -- to hands-on discover how much we'd grown up in the past year. Right?
My roommate and I can relate, we’ve both been single for a while, we both like to go out and have fun and we both like to dish about it. Naturally, our conversation led to something a little sacred in the dating world. Sexay time.
I can't believe I'm being this depressing on hump day! But, I'm being serious and honest. Even if you get a entry level job out of college, money is low, low, low, low (and you won't be buying boots wit dah fur, if you catch my drift).
The first indication that I am my mother happened when I was a freshman in college. I bought a bottle of instant Lysol wipes and casually cleaned by little dorm room every Sunday (my mom never goes a day without creating vacuum streaks on our family room carpet). The second indication was that I secretly began to think people weren't sincere if they weren't on time (my mom doesn't rely on people who are consistently late -- she's always told me it's a terrible shot to their character).
My failure to hang out with my girlfriends is an innocent mistake, but when me and my five college ladies planned a weekend (annual) getaway last weekend, I couldn't help but get that little tingle of excitement in my veins to spend some time with people that make me feel fresh and fabulous. It's real people; you can push time away from your clusterf*ck of a schedule, for your friends.
I've been so busy talking about how stressful and crazy my life has become since graduating from college all of this time, I haven't even stopped to think about the serene course my life has taken as well.
To me, saying I'm insecure sounds a little harsh. It sounds a little wobbly and flaky. It sounds dishonest and awkward. Sometimes, it seems like I'm a little too big for it, kind of like Alice in Wonderland after she ate that piece of crack bread and grew her arms out of a cottage. But I'm willing to believe actually admitting an insecurity of any sort is the first step to fixing it.