It is Sunday night, and it is striking me that Sunday nights have taken on a whole new meaning for me. See, I gave up my coffee shop job earlier this year, and since then experienced a bit of a downward spiral. Thankfully, I managed to land on my feet and snag a full-time 9-5 office job. So, it is Sunday night and I am preparing for my office job like so many other around the world.
The office job is wild. Meaning that it is the opposite of wild; no crazy frenzy of espresso grinds and cafe politics. I have a real adult cubical job, and I no longer have to crawl out of bed at 4 A.M. and rely on singing the Sound of Music at the top of my lungs on my way to work to wake myself up. Wild.
Back to my downward spiral. It all began with this train ride. As my last few posts mentioned, I spent most of the summer in Oregon. It was a revealing trip as well as an exhausting trip, and I was homesick. So when I hopped on the train in Portland, I strapped in for my 48 hour train ride, which felt more like 3 days because it was two nights.
The first day of travel was nice. We passed gorgeous scenery. I listened to music and journaled. People got on and off the train at various stops, and I was one of few taking the full length of the Empire Builder home. You think rest stops are liminal spaces? Try existing on a train for three days where you’re too cold to sleep and everyone you meet is either carrying a bible or a child.
Anyway. I got home, eventually. Pulling into Chicago’s Union Station, I cried a little. Then, I was home. The manic feelings set in.
I applied for another coffee shop job. Showed up. Got the job. Realized I did not want another coffee shop job. Quit two hours into my training.
That day, I set myself in motion by impulsively tearing a huge shelf out of my wall. I then had to spend the next three days patching this hole. I thought I had yellow paint to match my walls, but no. Wrong yellow. I had to paint the whole room white.
Once that ordeal was over, I thought I would be better. For a while, I was.
Then I got a haircut.
This hair dresser did not give me the short angled bob I usually ask for. I am not one to be too picky about my hair, but I don’t really know what happened with this cut because it looked horrible; you could see every jagged portion where she’d chopped. It was bad. My friends and I came up with a list of what I looked like: the little prince, a rejected Cranberries member, wonky sailor scout, Anne Hathaway in Les Mis… etc. So, with an interview for a respectable job approaching, I had to get another cut.
I knew I would have to go full pixie, so I downloaded a few photos of styles I like and took them to a new, more expensive salon. This time, I was clear with the hairdresser… Or I thought I was. I showed her the pictures, and she told me that the style was “too masculine.”
BITCH!
She ended up giving me this “straight girl having her moment” pixie cut that was too long and girly. My close friend took pity on me and did my eyebrows and dyed my lashes, which is apparently a thing.
After getting the job and settling in, I had to drag myself to another salon. This time, over the phone, I told them what I wanted. They recommended an appropriate hair stylist, who was queer, thankfully, and knew why I wanted what I wanted.
My life has turned around a bit since then. I’m getting my footing back. I’m applying for grad school and submitting short stories to contests and journals. I’m writing a lot. I even finished the eighth draft of my novel, and this time I am not as convinced that it’s horrible. I made progress.
Next week, my best friend and I are driving to Maine, so yeah. Things are looking up.
The Honors Student's Guide to Life After College 