Jump. Just Fucking Jump.

I think the breaking point of when I knew I needed a change came in September when I left a John Mulaney show in tears, crying to my husband that I didn’t even know why I existed. I figure that’s a euphemistic way of saying I spent the rest of the night curled into a ball under his arms, throwing suicide on the table like it was a plate of lukewarm leftovers that I would love to eat. If I got that hungry.

It was that night when I realized I needed to either jump and feel myself soar, or I would be left inching myself out to the edge, forced to watch myself plummet. For the previous few months, I had slipped into a spiral of a depression I hadn’t known before. I had become a vague outline of myself. Like someone I would stand next to in an elevator, her name on the tip of my tongue, but not caring enough to ask. Then we got off on separate floors.

My husband got us front row tickets to a John Mulaney show in Louisville. We both really enjoyed his comedy, and this was a valiant and so very thoughtful attempt to give me a night—just ONE night—that didn’t end with me sobbing.

I love stand-up comedy. I love listening. I love watching. I love famous, mainstream comedians. I love local, niche comedians. Most of all, I love performing. For as long as I can remember, I envisioned myself up on a stage, making people laugh, making people forget about the shitty parts of life. I had dreams of moving to a big city. Los Angeles, New York, Chicago. I'd make it big. 

I did stand-up for a bit, and told myself I would get back into it. I kept performing improv here and there, but nothing consistent. I wanted to start writing sketch comedy. Louisville has never been the city for that. But somehow, I ended up there. "Tomorrow. I’ll start writing something tomorrow."

The day of the show, I peeled myself out of bed, which had become increasingly harder to do each week. But I had decided that this would be my day to turn things around. I’m allowed to have one day that I don’t feel like I’m being swallowed whole. This was the day.

Aside from my love of all things comedy, I’m also notoriously known for my abnormally small bladder. You’d think I’m trying to pass a kidney stone on a daily basis if you kept tabs on my bathroom trips. Which I would be very interested in perusing, if anyone happens to have kept a ledger.

John was in the middle of his show, and I had been throwing my head back laughing the entire time. We even made eye contact several times, which is hard not to do when I could’ve literally reached up on stage and tied his shoelaces. He knew I was enjoying the show. I knew I was enjoying the show. Happiness had made its way back to my doorstep. This was the day.

Panic struck as I realized I guzzled not only my 22 oz. beer, but half of my husband’s during the show. I got up in what I thought was a super discreet and stealthy way, doing that awkward, courteous half-bend as I shimmied past my neighbors. As I made it to the aisle of the theatre, I heard, “DON’T YOU GET UP AND WALK AWAY WHILE I’M TALKING ABOUT MY WIFE.”

It took me a second to register that John Mulaney had just called me out in front of a crowd of 2,500. Not because I had analyzed what he said, but because I saw more than 4,000 eyes looking at me, pointing at me, and laughing at me. As he continued to ridicule me down the aisle, (“yeah, go on and get outta here,” “someone in the back make sure that door closes behind her”), I felt my chest constrict. I forgot where I was. I forgot that I needed to pee. As soon as I crossed the threshold into the lobby, I burst into tears. And as hot salt ran down my cheeks, that question that hung in the corner of my thoughts for the past few months pushed its way through and jumped the queue of all rational emotions and logic and self-awareness: “why do I even exist?”

I spent the rest of the show emotionally paralyzed, standing in the shadows of the back of the theatre. I don’t remember the last 30 minutes of the show. I do remember watching my husband, who had my phone and my wallet, stay in his seat until the theatre cleared, whipping his head around and scanning the space for any sign of me.

I even made the mistake of looking at John Mulaney’s Instagram post of Louisville, and scrolled through the dozens of comments, “so mad that girl never came back!” “that one girl never returned!” and even a sick burn from a 14-year old who, in my opinion, has no fucking business being at a John Mulaney show: “sadly that one girl never went back to her seat but she was hiding in the back for the rest of the show.” Well, @shaddie_shad_shad, I wish nothing but the best for you in your presumably mediocre high school football career, and I hope that someone starts a rumor about you having chlamydia, but mainly I also hope that you contract chlamydia.

A year ago, I would have brushed this off. A year ago, I would have laughed and spouted something tawdry and crass back to John Mulaney, making me the hero of the night. Giving me anonymous notoriety—“that girl who shot back at John Mulaney,” “the girl who got heckled and held her own.”

But that girl got off on a different floor.  

This whole time, I’m thinking to myself, what the fuck happened to me?

For the past couple of years, I lived a life that I didn’t entirely love, but one that I accepted. One that was a little bit better than ‘good enough.’ One where I felt comfortable, but didn’t feel exhilarated. One where I stood on the edge of a plateau and made camp, instead of climbing, and undoubtedly falling a few times, to reach the peak. I had a wonderful boyfriend turned fiancé, who became my husband, I had great friends, I had a cushy job in corporate America in my hometown, the friendly town of Louisville, KY. On the surface, I had everything. But sometimes the façade of having everything doesn’t let you off at the penthouse, and you end up riding it all the way back down to the ground floor.

I think this was the turning point because I’m no stranger to depression. But I am a stranger to giving up. I am a stranger to saying “I can’t and I won’t.” I am a stranger to complacency and lying down and not putting up a fight. I am a stranger to “tomorrow—I’ll start tomorrow.”

So I decided to jump.

And I’m feeling myself soar.

I’ve thought a lot about perspective and perception and change recently. But I’ve also thought a lot about fear. Fear is what held me back from jumping before. Fear was synonymous with comfort for me. Fear was ‘good enough.’ But eventually, fear of staying stagnant eclipsed the fear of never fulfilling the crazy dreams I’d imagined for my future.

I jumped, and I am fucking flying.

I fell in love with Chicago six years ago, and always dreamed of coming back. There were always excuses, and always empty promises and proposed timelines; “we’ll move once we get married,” “we’ll move after tax season,” “we’ll move, at some point.”

The timing couldn’t have been more terrible. Uprooting our life and relocating to a new city during the holidays. Gambling that I would love my job, still in corporate America—a job that serendipitously fell into my lap by nothing short of divine intervention. Asking my CPA husband to roll the dice before tax season that his firm would let him work remotely. Crossing our fingers that we could sell our house with such short notice.

In three weeks, we found an apartment in Chicago that we’re in love with. I love my new job, and I’m finally at a place where I’m seen as an expert in my field and my team couldn’t be more supportive.  My husband has a home office set up in our living room, where he can work in his sweatpants and watch Netflix during his lunch break. We received a full-price offer on our house after the very first viewing, and we plan to close any day now. I signed up for my first official improv course at a renowned theatre, and I’m pissed that it doesn’t start for another month. I am writing again. I am finally. Fucking. Writing. Again. And do you have any idea how much better sex is when you’re not worried about crying or having an emotional catastrophe every 10 minutes?

None of this would have happened if I hadn't jumped. I had no clue what would happen, but I jumped. I don’t know where you are in your life. I don’t know if you’re spreading your wings or if they’re clipped. But just know that you are not the only one, and there’s not just one option.

I don’t recognize that girl who stood in the back of the Louisville Palace during a John Mulaney show. Her name is on the tip of my tongue, but I’m too focused on getting off on my own floor to ask. I don’t know whether I should thank John Mulaney, or hope that someone starts a rumor about him having chlamydia.

I am no longer an outline of who I want to be. I am in the process of creating who I want to be. Happiness made its way back to my doorstep. This is my day.

How to Be an Adult (or at Least Fake It Really Well)

 

Yes, I realize this is long overdue, and I’m sorry.  But uprooting your entire life and moving 17 hours away from home, to a city where you’re living alone with your small dog that won’t let you sleep for more than 3 hours a night and constantly leaves little surprises underneath your futon when you’re not looking, all for the purpose to attend a prestigious grad school program that you have no idea how you’re going to pay off in 10 years kind of wears on a girl, ya know?

So to answer all of your questions and reply to all of the texts I’ve gotten that I’ve been too overwhelmed to respond to, which led to me forgetting about them completely (sorry if that makes me an asshole), here we go:

Yes, I love Boston. 
Yes, my apartment is great, yet very unfinished—there’s a roofdeck on my building where I frequently escape to drink wine and contemplate what the hell I’m doing; that’s probably what I’m doing instead of responding to your texts about my apartment. 
Yes, I love my classes; especially my sitcom writing class. 
Yes, my professors are great. 
Yes, people comment on my southern accent and yes, I still firmly protest that I have an accent.
Yes, I’ve gotten lost. 
No, I haven’t gotten mugged. 
No, I haven’t met Mark Wahlberg or Ben Affleck or Matt Damon, but I did watch The Departed for the first time last week.
And no, (this one is for my mom), you cannot open a branch of your office in Boston to be closer to me.  Sorry.  I’ll be home for Christmas.

Since coming to Boston, I’ve cried a few times, laughed plenty, gotten on the wrong train only once, and have consumed more “Welcome to Boston!” drinks than my liver and my exponentially tighter jeans can handle.  The adjustment has been a little difficult, especially when I have to alter the sanctity of the pronunciation of my hometown to give anyone the slightest idea of where I’m from (it is LOO-uh-vul.  Not LOO-ee-ville. Not LOO-is-ville.  Not whatever the hell else you call it. Embrace the muted vowels; LOO-uh-vul), and especially when I sound dreadfully out of place when I say “wicked,” or anything with an R in it.

And I’ve finally put on my big girl pants (when I wear pants; do you even know how liberating it is to live alone and wake up knowing that no one is privy to Victoria’s secret except you?) and learned a few lessons (some the hard way) on how to function as a struggling graduate student, ripped away from suburban comfort and dropped into the fast paced world that takes no prisoners.  The transition into adulthood isn’t formulaic, but I’ve tried my damnedest to prescribe the right steps to get me there, and maybe imparting them to you may save some poor soul who, like me, still hasn’t gotten her shit together.

Be On Time.
Probably the most important rule of being an adult.  If you have an obligation, whether it’s a really dry Powerpoint lecture on the history of radio, an appointment with a helpless undergrad who doesn’t know the difference between a thesis sentence and hoagie, or even just a first date that you think is going to be super awkward but turns out to be more than you ever expected; Be. On. Time.  I leave my apartment at least an hour before I need to be anywhere.  Yes, I know this is a little anal retentive, but if you know Boston, you know the green line is as predictable as the weather in the Midwest.  Being on time makes people take you seriously and gives the appearance that you’re dependable and organized (even if you’re far from it).  It also makes people want to hang out with you more.  No one likes to be held up on Ladies’ Night, due to that one friend who is constantly running behind (you all know who you are…). When it comes down to it, would you rather be known as That Girl Who Is Always Obnoxiously Early or That Tardy Fuck.  Yeah, that’s what I thought.

Dress The Part (day edition).
There is a distinct difference I’ve noticed between undergraduate students and graduate students.  Graduate students look like they knew they had to go out in public.  Undergraduate students look like someone kidnapped them in their sleep and dropped them off on Commonwealth Ave.  I’ll admit, I had my fair share of days when I refused to brush my teeth or put on a bra to go to class.  I’m at fault there.  My bad.  But now that I’m forced to leave the confines of a college campus and trot around a major city to get to class and actually make an impression on my professors so hopefully they’ll hook me up with a sweetass job when I graduate, there is no time for morning breath or boobs bouncing out of place.  And overall it creates a sense of pride about how you look.  Believe me; I’ve been tempted to take selfies more than ever now that I actually put effort into how I look every day (don’t worry, I refrain. Most of the time.)  If you look halfway decent, people will give you a little more respect than they would if you were in your UK Mom sweatshirt and a pair of inside out boxer shorts.

Dress The Part (night edition).
I am 22 years old.  I no longer shop in the juniors section for a reason.  That reason being that I wouldn’t be caught dead in a neon crop top or shorts that show off my colon.  Don’t get me wrong, I love to go out on weekends and hang out at bars until all hours of the night and get drinks (I don’t think that’s a huge surprise to anyone), but there’s no way I’m going to be that classless broad on the dance floor or sitting at the bar who leaves little to the imagination.  You don’t have to go out looking like a 16 year old with chlamydia to look good (I’m sure some people would beg to differ, but clearly that’s not my target audience here).  Clean it up and don’t look like a slut (by all means, if you’re a slut, go for it, own it, work it, I don’t know your life, but just don’t show it), because it’s hard to take you seriously if a complete stranger can tell that you have a dimple on your left asscheek and a birthmark right above your nipple. 

Take Responsibility.
I am the queen of excuses.  I love to blame other people for everything.  Because obviously, nothing is ever my fault.  But what I’ve slowly been learning since graduate school started is that usually, most things are my fault.  It is no longer my printer’s fault that I didn’t turn in an assignment.  It is no longer my alarm clock’s fault that it set itself to the wrong time.  It is no longer Starbucks’ fault that the line was so long that it made me late.  And it is no longer every single one of my friends’ faults for being so goddamn interesting that I don’t have time to get any of my work done.  Just the other day, I mixed up some dates and didn’t show up for an entire shift of work.  Was it my supervisor’s fault for not e-mailing me to remind me?  No.  It was mine because I’m incapable of being organized enough to write down anything correctly in my planner.  Step up, own your mistakes, and learn from them.  And don’t blame me that you’re wasting time reading this blog post when you should be doing work.  Caught you there, didn’t I?

Smell Nice.
A small, yet very crucial point of being an adult.  My advice: invest in a nice perfume.  And no, that doesn’t mean keep wearing that cheap, alcoholic sugar water you bought in 7^th grade from PacSun.  When you have your own “scent,” you become recognizable and memorable.  And it also covers up all those pheromones and other weird shit your body involuntarily produces (hey, we’re all human).  I have people who know when I’m around because of the perfume I wear daily (which could be potentially precarious if I’m trying to avoid someone or become the target of a stalker/serial killer), and it’s always nice to know that you’ve branded yourself in some positive way.  After re-reading this paragraph, it seems really stupid.  But I’m going to keep it because I like to let everyone know that I smell nice, and want to urge everyone else to smell nice, because the world would probably be a much better place.

Read Up.
‘Ignorance is bliss’ doesn’t really apply anymore.  Sure, when you were 17 and didn’t know the first thing about your government or social graces or corporate etiquette, it may have been acceptable, maybe even endearing; “oh, look at her, how cute, she thinks socialism is about how many friends you have.”But in the real world, that shit doesn’t fly.  Pick up a newspaper. Read something.  Make your brain work.  When someone asks you about a current event or a movie or a book or even your opinion about something so inane and remedial like Miley Cyrus’ VMA disaster, you shouldn’t have to say, “oh, well, I don’t know how I feel about that,” as an excuse for not having the slightest clue what to say.  Make yourself knowledgeable and in turn, make yourself marketable.  The more you know, the more people want to know about you and the more people value your opinion.  Unless you’re Miley Cyrus.  Then the inverse is true. 

Shut Up.
Remember that phase when you thought everything was about you?  When you would tell awesome stories about your awesome life and how awesome your breakfast was and how awesome your outfit was and how not awesome that girl in your philosophy class was and how not awesome it was when she talked in class because she never had anything awesome to say because it wasn’t as awesome as what you wanted to say, and how awesome it was to hear the sound of your own voice until it became sickening?  That phase is over.  Shut your mouth and start listening.  This has maybe been one of the hardest things for me, because I naturally tend to be a longwinded storyteller and naturally think that everything I have to say is the most revolutionary thing ever, like, “yesterday, I ate this really good burrito.”  People have stories.  Stories I can learn from, if I only take the time to shut up and listen instead of centering things on myself.  It’s about learning from others and realizing that maybe there are some pretty awesome people with some pretty awesome stories that don’t involve you and your now, only semi-awesome life.

Cry.
It’s okay to fall apart every once in a while.  Catharsis, I think is an appropriate word.  When you realize that you’ve just moved into your own place, and your shit is all over the floor because your classes have been so busy that there’s no time to tidy, and your suitcase isn’t even unpacked, because you’re still trying to assemble a dresser by yourself, because you refused your parents’ help when they were still in town, and you almost give your dog that you have grown to love with entire heart away because you feel that you’re physically and emotionally incapable of giving her the attention she needs, and you’re sweating through your clothes because your apartment doesn’t have central air and Boston is experience some weird heat wave conveniently as you're moving in, and your TV doesn’t work because you forgot the remote at home, and your sink leaks and your toilet doesn’t flush, and all you can bear to do is sit on the floor in your underwear and cry and cry and cry and dwell on the fact that no one is making you do this, and that you made this decision and you’re the only one who can make it better.  Crying is probably one of the most adult things you can do.  When you realize that you’re not invincible and you understand exactly where you’re breaking point is and that you’ve finally reached it, that’s when you are the strongest.

Breathe.
Take it all in.  This is what becoming an adult feels like.  It’s hard as hell, especially when you don’t know where to begin.  Take a breath, and realize you’re not alone.  The first week I was here, I stood on the platform at Kenmore station.  I boarded the first train that came, which—surprise—wasn’t the train I needed to take.  Of course I panicked.  I’m in this new city and I’m on a train headed to who knows where and my phone is about to die and I have no idea how to make it back to my apartment.  I’m going to die.  I am going to die on the street because the stress is too much to bear.  I will wander around, looking lost and lonely and someone will find me and take me home and I will never see my family again.  I got off at the next stop, and Googled my apartment right before my phone shut off.  I had a slight idea of where I was going, but I wasn’t quite sure.  I knew that I would make it back to my apartment somehow, as I confidently stepped off the train and looked like I knew exactly what I was doing.  And that’s when I realized you don’t have to know where you’re going to walk with purpose.