Monthly Archives: March 2011

Am I ready to grow up?

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I once had confidence.

I am 22. I am a college graduate with a degree in journalism. This sounds perfectly fine, yes? Wrong. I have graduated with a degree in a field I have absolutely no passion for. Although I enjoy writing, I am not a reporter. I don’t get the journalist high when “getting the story.” I came to realize this during my last semester of college.

Oh, shit.

I thought I had it all planned out. I was going to graduate, move to New York City where I would pay over a thousand dollars to live in a closet, all the while working for a large, corporate Cosmopolitan magazine (Feminist Jamie shakes her head at the thought). I was going to write about everything I write about in this blog, but I would be getting paid.

Oh, shit. My life is hardly that. Four-year-old Jamie would be terribly disappointed.

“What do you mean you still live at home?! You don’t have a boyfriend, either?! But you’re supposed to be doing big girl things, like be a country singer or be a veterinarian.”
“Ah.. well.. err…”

Life is funny like that, four-year-old Jamie and I am now just learning it. Life doesn’t like to go according to plan, especially when you have had your whole life mapped out by the time you were fourteen.

I never understood why people went back to school after they just graduated. They had a degree! Go flaunt it! Go hang it on a wall! Go get that career!

I was silently judging them. (Outwardly, my facial expression revealed all.) I was envious they were already done with school, but at the same time, confused to why they were going back. Why weren’t they like me? I couldn’t wait to start my career. I couldn’t wait to prove to people (an employer) I really was a good writer. (Hire me!) I couldn’t wait to move out of Florida into my efficiency (that’s a nice word for “it’s miniscule and you will be lucky if you can fit two whole people in it”) New York City apartment.

Yet, I am one of them. The post-college graduate not quite ready to be an adult, and is contemplating on going back to school. (After all, it’s where I am used to being at.) I have entertained jobs that don’t require a degree: a flight attendant. (Okay, so I really just liked the idea of traveling to foreign countries for free.) I thought (and am still thinking) about somehow becoming a digital nomad. I have even considered joining a gypsy community. No, really.

I am not where I thought I would be at 22: working at a local newspaper at the bottom of the totem pole doing mindless work, and being completely miserable.

As of lately, I am questioning my existence. What is my purpose of being here? What is the purpose of life? To wake up, go to the dead-end job where we earn barely enough money to pay our bills, just to survive? This is life? This is what I couldn’t wait to start? Am I really ready for this? To grow up and be a big girl?

Oh, shit. Ready or not.

When I first met my current job nine months ago, I was instantly smitten. I was finally the go-getter and knocking politely at the door which would lead me to the field I wanted to pursue: journalism. (Or so I thought.) After all, it was an office job, and when your resume consists namely of retail and restaurants, this is hitting it big. I could finally wear those adorable pencil skirts and high heels. I could finally stop ranting about how much I hate working with the public. This was it.

It didn’t take long to fall in love. Nor did it take long to fall out of love.

I have reached the point in the relationship with my job where I no longer care. I am miserable, and am only here because I need money to survive. And because I am saving to leave Florida. (I hate you, capitalism.) (I hate you, American Dream Nightmare.)

I am learning that jobs are very much like relationships. They can be rewarding offering such a high that one doesn’t want to come down. But on the contrary, they can be entirely exhausting. They can be short-term. (Keeping one’s options open.) Or, they can be long-term. (Tying the knot.) Each member in the relationship must work hard in order to remain happy with one another. And if someone isn’t happy, a breakup occurs.

It’s not as if my current job is difficult. It’s quite simple actually. Perhaps that’s the problem: it’s not fulfilling. It’s boring. It’s not rewarding whatsoever. I am not intellectually stimulated. In other words, I am dating the guy who is just there to pass time, even though I deserve someone really spectacular. (I have a college degree! I deserve my own office! So I can hang it on the wall!) I am more than just a copy aficionado. I am more than just the girl who transfers calls to the correct department. I am more than just a coffee fetcher for the higher-ups.

But I am 22.

I feel that I am still young! I couldn’t fathom the idea of marriage or having children right now. How can I fathom the idea of settling into a career then? Isn’t this just as serious as making any other commitment? One must be sure! Are my expectations just as high as finding Mr. Almost Right when it comes to landing the career? Maybe.

I suppose it’s the same theory when it comes to finding the aforementioned Mr. Almost Right: you have to work a lot of shitty jobs until you find the right one for you. The secret? (I think) Figuring out what you love doing (for free), and then finding someone who is willing to pay you.

That’s the hard part.

That girl.

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She’s the girl you see at the bar. She’s usually laughing (it’s more than likely infectious). She’s sipping her cocktail, and has an amazing pair of heels that complement her attitude. Men are gawking, all the while. Each of them discovering the words pouring from her mouth, fascinating. They all stare at her lips in anticipation of what will be said next. I never know what she is saying, (Hell, it could be rather dull) but I still envy her.

She is confident. She is funny. She is attractive. She knows this while she looks at herself in the mirror, getting ready for the day. She can easily charm the people surrounding her. Why? Why does it appear to be so easy for her? What is her secret?

Is it because men are surrounding her? Does that make her more confident? Because she has often been told she is funny by the opposite sex? That she is attractive? That the words eloquently rolling off of her tongue are fascinating? Is it the shoes? Or is it all an act?

I’m insecure. My choice of shoes (flats) reveal my fear: the humiliation of falling in public. I laugh a lot to fill in the awkward gaps where small talk should be placed. I’m an introvert. Words don’t eloquently pour out of my mouth. I mumble over my words when I don’t re-play in my mind eight times of what I will say out loud.

I am uncomfortable in my own skin.

Even if I get the slightest attention from anybody (namely the opposite sex) other than who I am with, I think horrible thoughts. Oh, dear! Did I forgot to wipe all the toothpaste off my face? Is my zipper undone? The thoughts are never him possibly thinking: Wow, I think she has an amazing smile! or She seems like a real, groovy chick. I want to discuss the meaning of life, and what she would do if life handed her lemons. (I would peel them, throw them at people and hope the juice would get into their eyes.)

I often wish I was that girl at the bar.

In the beginning of relationships, I have that confidence. I feel like I am that girl at the bar for a moment or two. Inevitably, when I get dumped, I’m back to who I previously had been. (Or maybe it’s who I’ve always been.)

After my break up with A, I vowed to myself that I needed to be on my own for a while. During most of those two years together, I relied on him to be the one to tell me how great I was. The one to tell me how lucky he was to be with someone, like me. The one that broke down my barrier, releasing my confidence. It was always a relief when I could finally be myself around a person and they found it absolutely charming. (No, really! I am quite funny.)

I relied on reading self-help books and talking to anyone who would listen to my whining about the break up. I kept reading and hearing, “You must learn to love yourself. Otherwise, if you can’t even love yourself, how could anyone else?” What does that even mean? I do love myself! I think?

No I didn’t.

Otherwise, I would be comfortable in my own skin. Right? I wouldn’t need to rely on the opposite sex to tell me how fascinating I am, nor would I need a man to be happy. That’s the problem with most relationships. More often than not we aren’t in love with ourselves. We rely solely on one person (who aren’t even ourselves!) for that happiness. Rather, the person should just add to your already batch of happiness.

That’s the girl at the bar’s secret: she is in love with herself. She really is smart. After all, it makes sense. Yourself wouldn’t let you down. Yourself wouldn’t go cheat on someone else. Yourself wouldn’t break your heart.

But how does a person fall in love with themselves? It seems like it’s awfully hard to start over with yourself, especially after knowing yourself for 22 years. But if I looked at it from the other spectrum, a break up is really just a new beginning. It’s the perfect time to start over. (Even if it’s just dying your hair a dark brown.)

Since mid 2008, I have kept my vow and have been on my own. I’ve been unhappy, but I’ve also been quite happy with where I have been. I am in love with myself. I think?

I recently was asked, “Are you really in love with yourself, Jamie?” I quickly said yes. But then I thought about it.

I’m still terribly insecure with myself. I blush when I get compliment from someone. No! You’re just being nice! I refuse to accept that he thinks I’m attractive when I have no makeup on, and that my arms are perfect just the way they are.

Maybe I really haven’t been all on my own. Perhaps the person I am now isn’t truly the person I am supposed to be. I’m hoping this move across the country will allow me to become the person I am supposed to be. This will be the ultimate test of being content on my own. I will be in a place where no one will know who I am or have ever been. It’s a fresh start. I won’t be judged if I go against the norms of who I used to be. Those negative thoughts when I get a double-take from someone will remain here, in Florida.

When I am the one telling myself how great I am, the one breaking down my own barrier to release my confidence, and looking in the mirror believing that I really do have an amazing smile, will be the day I can say I am truly in love with myself.

An open letter to my ex-boyfriends

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Dear Ex-Boyfriends,

I realized I never got around to writing any of you a letter. Firstly, do you even remember me? I wouldn’t want to send a letter to someone that hasn’t the slightest idea of who I am. But you should. I was once a very important person in your life, as you were once number one in my life. (Perhaps a big mistake on my part. Never make someone your priority if you’re number 12 on their list of Things to Do.) Nonetheless, we used to see one another every day. We laughed. We held hands. We had romantic walks along the beach as we discussed the meaning of life. Inevitably, you told me you loved me and wanted to spend the rest of our lives together. (Each and every one of you.) Nonetheless, you broke my heart. (Each and every one of you.)

I proudly decided you were once worthy enough to have my heart, which I purposely enclosed in bubble wrap, placed into a box, which was then wrapped four times with a chain and locked shut. As I handed you each the key, I said “Don’t ever take this out of the box or else…” It was very much like Pandora’s Box because you couldn’t resist not seeing what was inside. All  of you opened the box and left it unprotected on the ground, releasing evil (heart break) that could not be undone. Inevitably, you all fell out of love with me. Nonetheless, when I met someone new, he would pick up the unprotected heart, pack it in bubble wrap, place it back in the box, bind it with a chain, and seal it shut with the lock. Nonetheless, like the previous person, he wanted to open up Pandora’s Box.

I couldn’t help but ask myself What happened, ex-boyfriends? It actually didn’t appear so… clean. It went a little more like this: I was sobbing, uncontrollably. My hair was a mess, snot was running down my nose, all the while yelling “W-w-w-w-what ha-hap-happened?!”  (And you thought you had already seen me at my worst, when waking up. ha!) I was crying to anyone who would listen: my mom, my walls, my cats, my shower, the radio, a stranger on the street. I cried at work. I cried in restaurants. I cried while driving. No one who listened had an answer, and so I kept fucking crying. I thought you all might hear me if I cried long and loud enough. Again, there was no such luck.

But eventually, you weren’t the first thing I thought about each morning. Eventually, I was no longer the girl who cried in restaurants. Eventually, I got over it.

I occasionally peek on some of your facebook pages to see what is new in your life. (Actually, it’s to see if you two have finally broken up. No? Oh, well, I guess you two really are suited for one another then.) Some of you haven’t changed. Mentally, at least. Physically, I can see you’ve finally put some weight onto your lanky bodies and appear to look your age. Congratulations.

But I, too, am different since we parted ways. Mentally, I’m much smarter (No, really! I’ve my college degree now to prove it. I am still looking for a wall to hang it on, though.) I’ve realized that none of you ever deserved to be placed on that pedestal and I was wasting my time crying about you to strangers. Physically, I am much hotter than you last saw me, too. I know one of you used to tell me to go brunette, but I never listened to you. Guess what? I finally did it. I decided to get rid of those blonde locks and go a dark, brown. Chocolate brown #6 to be exact. It really make me eyes pop, just like you said it would. Thank you.

Speaking of thank yous. I’m truly writing this open letter to thank you for breaking up with me. No, really. I thank you for breaking my heart. I thank you for releasing the evil from Pandora’s Box. It has helped me learn how to be content on my own. It’s helped me figure out who I was meant to be. Otherwise, I would still be in those miserable and masochistic relationships. I would still be that girl who had big dreams, but would never get around to them because I was settling for each of you, instead.  Thank you for helping me be that one step closer to being with that bigger and better someone.

Signed, sealed, delivered. I’m no longer yours.