My nose is a little raw and red in one particular patch on the side. Kind of a deep crimson – not in the common cold way but in the way that oh crap, it’s very possible that I may have scratched my face in the middle of the night kind of way.
In consequence, I endured many finger-to-the-side-of-nose gestures that day from various conversation partners. It was my singularly perceived option to stare blankly at said person as if this mark on my nose wasn’t a clumsy 3am mishap but may, in fact, be a unique and charming characteristic of original genetic disposition.
Any self-aware person might feel soft around the edges about such a flaw.
When you’re also a control freak this feeling is taken to an extreme. One becomes aware of each and every potential wrinkle in presentation and blemish of personality. There should be, you think, some sort of demonstrative state one must exhibit that lies firmly beyond the point of any forgivable identity crisis developed during one’s more formative years.
I’m on version four of my twenty-ninth year. I have a red freckle on my face and a scrunchie in my hair (long story). I’m hunched over a shiny silver laptop ( the one I’d soak in espresso ten days later) as if to protect my insides from any external prodding such as a vulnerable real world situation upon which my most internal hardwiring would continue to be exposed – and ultimately judged.
I wish I had the type of armor grownups build, a notion of grit borrowed from generations past. Reaching for a tissue to blow my nose, I think “it would be better to hide than to be around any of this.”
And this is how things have been over the course the past year. A bit awkward, a dash misplaced and emotionally exposed as I made my way from one job to the next.
So now.
As a complete and utter fluke, the job I moved to New York City for has unexpectedly come to an end. Five months in, it had actually happened. The big life changer I set myself up for ultimately fell through the cracks.
After I got the news, I summoned up a brave smile and told everyone that this was the job that got me to New York. On the inside, I was crushed. I didn’t want to go back to working in tech. I didn’t care about a lot of things anymore, and my previous career path was one of them.
Early on in one’s career on we find ourselves chasing as much as humanly possible – yet as we travel down the rabbit hole, we graduate to a significantly higher state of nonchalance, becoming guardians to the delicate tensions harnessing personal happiness.
This was an ideal time to move to New York. Giuliani and Bloomberg had cleaned up the city (to what degree of sterility is debatable) and the Sex and the City detritus of the early aughts had finally settled. While it wasn’t the most culturally interesting time to be here, it was safer than it had been in decades.
And, I was older now. If I came in my 20’s I would’ve collapsed through the sheer force of it all.
This morning a guy on the street yelled out in my direction.
With a nod to the fashion of the day paired with the idea that someone without a “home” generally lacks social boundary, I remain remiss to deem him as “homeless” because in that sense we would all be considered that way.
“You have a very distinctive walk, ma’am!” He called out. I offered half a smile and slight nod, as if this was a comment on something obvious and non-debatable, like the weather. I smiled, nodded, and bumbled away.
The busy streets had clashed against the occupancy of my mind. The present was merely a somewhat amusing situational matter to bookmark for the future. The paths had already been created in my mind, deep within the recesses of matter that is gray.
As I walked the streets I considered the things that had been. My relationships, career, the things I was missing back home and the deep sense of disconnect I felt to the world around me.
Before advancements in technology the only way to learn from the past was through storytelling. Prior to the printing press the only way to learn about wars, rulings, births, deaths and progress was through word of mouth – stories passed down from one generation to the next. There was no recording, replication, transaction or storage.
When phonograph records were first pressed in the late 1880’s the experience of music was captured for the very first time. The set ended, the house lights came up, and the music lived on. What did we do before we were able to document things so easily? Before the phonograph and the printing press there were no ghosts.
Now, the things that “were” are omnipresent – stored on paper, on vinyl, coded in digital 1s and 0s. The things themselves die, but the story continues to live on.
I was older now and distinctly split between two worlds.
I could, in theory, deactivate my Facebook profile. There would no longer be anything to share or recall. There would be no “FOMO,” or “fear of missing out,” (yes, it’s a thing) while I reminded myself that it was my decision to leave LA. I chose to leave the music industry, the parties, that place.
Should I go dark?
I peeked over the top of my monitor. It was dead quiet.
The office space bears semblance to an actual museum. Thoughtfully designed with a generous proportion of desk to space ratio. Minimal clamor.
My desk faced an aisle. In the morning and around the lunch hour it resembled a fashion runway of sorts – a steady show of black here and a flash of red lipstick there. Round eyeglasses all over. Slim and bulky silhouettes, simple textures and pointy shoes. Click-click-click, on the cement floor.
Noise!
It was pretty amazing for a first job in Manhattan. Then again, I was coming from Santa Monica where flip flops and denim ruled and the only opportunity to wear all black was mostly never.
Lunchtime was lonely. It gave me time to slowly and methodically bundle into layers of new winter gear, run quickly across the street, and immerse myself in a book over a steaming bowl of soup. Making friends becomes difficult as we get older. The efforts are stronger and authentic but somehow this time around seemed to be with reluctance.
After lunch I’d return to the building and swipe a card at security. This little piece of plastic was my symbol of identity and entry into this place.
In the photo my nose is red – this time a courtesy of the blustery city streets. My hat was tucked back on my head, the one my boyfriend would make fun of the following winter by citing my apparent “horrible taste in winter hats.”
The city had pulled me in and wanted me to be there. A new identity was applied and no changes were necessary. Yet somehow, while I clung to a more favorable past everything had changed. It’s easy to miss it when all you see is the surface.
Those paths may seem greener but it’s the clear cut ones that are the least interesting of all. In the meantime, the best we can do is stick to the present with our most authentic self, however awkward it feels. And buy a good hat come winter.