Tag Archives: anthropologie

Stay Hungry (I Think)

I think by now the salespeople at Anthropologie just know.

It’s so nice of them to ask me if they can help me or if I need a shopping bag, but when I’m scouring the sales racks for markdowns in my band shirt, thrift-store moccasins, and denim cutoffs that are fraying to no end, I simply think they have to be aware that I will not be purchasing anything priced above $20, so, in that case, my selection is narrowed to maybe 1 salt and pepper shaker and/or a pair of damaged earrings.

But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to still look at and try on all the pretty dresses, smell every single heaven-scented $75 candle, and caress the handcrafted kitchen collections as if I were Martha Stewart.

So that’s…something?

Every single book I read or blog I bookmark or movie I watch about people in their twenties seems so romantically tragic. Everyone’s broke-as-a-joke but still looks so put together, living in a rundown apartment with “charm” and quirks, working jobs that make no sense with their skillset or seem to “kill their dreams”, but through it all, writing their screenplays or songs or memoirs in hopes that one day they’ll be discovered and successful and their lives will come together and crescendo like a good last song on a decent indie record.

So that’s…real life?

Unfortunately, no one ever actually managed to print the manual on making it through life when you feel like a kid and an adult at once and every single person over the age of 30 that I seem to inquire about their twenties always takes a deep breath or lets out a nervous laugh and says, “oh, you could never pay me to be 22 again.”

So that’s…hopeful?

I wish I could stop writing about my twenties. I wish I could have more useful knowledge than the cheapest parking downtown or the best songs to put on a playlist, but I’m just not there yet. I’m not a Norman Rockwell painting of life experience, but I am, in fact, hungry.

And aren’t I supposed to “stay hungry”?

Staying hungry was always an expression that evaded me. It seemed dumb and worn out and lame- as if hungering would do anything useful. It seemed to sit right next to “starving artist” and I had no patience for that, considering I actually enjoy food and eating, and everyone that I knew that considered themselves “artists” seemed to spend more time complaining about world poverty while ordering overpriced coffee than making actual art.

But I think I’m supposed to be very hungry at 22 right now – whether it’s the hunger for a better job, hunger for figuring out who the heck I’m supposed to be or simply hungering for better plans on a Saturday night. I think the constant dissatisfaction that my twentysomething generation seems to ramble on about, whether it be privileged upper-middle-class bloggers (oh hi!) or blue-collar beer-drinking barstool rants, can be put to good use. Sure, dissatisfaction can breed apathy, but what if it bred “do better” instead? Or at the very least, what if it bred just a little bit of action?

Staying hungry can drive you to something, right? Staying hungry can mean waking up in the middle of the night and sacrificing sleep to write down some semblance of a great idea that actually sounds put together, right? Staying hungry can mean staying late, even at a job you’re not in love with yet to go above and beyond, right? Staying hungry can mean investing your time in real face-to-face relationships instead of online videos and shopping bags, right? Staying hungry can mean having an overwhelming sense of confidence in yourself and your life, even when you’re working for tips or an unpaid internship, right? Staying hungry can literally mean spending too much of your paycheck on concert tickets because you want to work in music and adore it and subsequently convincing yourself the next week that Ramen and toast and coffee is an acceptable diet, right?

And on a totally related note and story that I wish I was making up – my macbook charger literally just died completely while writing this post. So don’t worry, I’ll go ahead and prioritize technology and kiss the rest of my bank account goodbye when I swipe my debit card at the Apple store in the next few days.

But hey, at least I’ll be…hungry?

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19 Days And Nothing Is Normal Anymore

19 days and nothing is normal anymore.

It seems a novelty to write about why I haven’t written in a while, so I’ll try and keep it short, and hey, I might even throw in a few pictures!

19 days without writing, 19 days with little to no downtime, 19 days of too little sleep. 19 days of jokes and stories that don’t make sense to anyone who’s not here working at camp with me. 19 days in a new town in a new state. 19 days that have felt like 6 months. 19 days and I am a dot com now!!!! (check the browser bar above!) 19 days of growing up and feeling so much like a kid at the same time. 19 days of brand new relationships. 19 days that I never could have predicted in, like, 19 million years.

My head always has this little buzz inside of it lately. Every single day is a blur as well as a lull and at some point, usually a Maroon 5 song (no shame) or Lumineers song or Aretha Franklin song that’s stuck in my brain and won’t stop playing. My hours are off, my schedule is off, and the only consistent thing seems to be the attachment of my phone to my hand and face.

I’m working from 7am-11pm every single day and my energy is so spent, but I’m not complaining. It’s exhausting and it’s hard and I tend to have a little freakout of stress every single day, but it’s worth it. Gone are the days of making huge plans and long hours of lazy television marathons in bed, and here are the days of quick ideas and constant problem-solving and barely having time to throw my enormous mane of hair into a style before I’m needed and expected to have some semblance of my thoughts together.

I’ve never done this before. You see, I’m a novice in the field of actually being busy and booked all day, every day. Sure, I’ve watched nearly all the romantic comedies and coming-of-age movies where the young twentysomething girl is wearing a polished Anthropologie-knockoff-outfit, holding several binders of important files and precariously balancing full Starbucks cups as she rushes through the bustling city to her challenging 9-to-5 and important boss, but my current version of said portrayal is a lot messier.

You know how they tell you to make goal lists and things you want to accomplish? This summer I’m shredding those lists and setting fire to the idea. Because right now, I live my life 5 minutes at a time, and can’t plan more than that, and I’m gritting my teeth to learn that it is actually okay. It’s actually OKAY to let go and pry my fingers away from holding onto my control-freak-mantra of where I’m headed in life. Sure, it is important to dream and have an idea of where you see your pretty face 5 years from now and yadda yadda yadda, but at this point there’s no telling and simply no time to do so.

Right now I’m hardly the sweeping-conversationalist and meticulous-playlist-maker obsessive-planner that I have been for so long.  Who am I?

I’m frequent sips of coffee. I’m little tiny moments of catching my breath before I’m back to teaching 8 kids that need my attention and exhaust all my brainpower. I’m high-fives when they excel and I’m concerned questions when they are stuck. I’m a constant brainstorming session of activities and strategies to make camp better. I’m the alarm clock that gets set minutes later each day to try and catch up.

But, even with everything, I’m not totally disconnected. Because, oh lord, more than ever before, I am constant little text messages and too-long phone calls and hours on skype to stay in touch. I’m verbose emails and gchats and Facebook posts and instagrams in a different time zone. I’m songs sent on Spotify when there’s no time to talk and we have to use lyrics instead, and I’m a paragraph of heartfelt I-miss-you’s and call-me-later’s. I’m long pauses when I know neither of us want to hang up but we’re out of words. I’m letters in the mail and voicemails that ramble.

I’m exhausted but also exhausting every single form of communication possible.

And while I’m grateful for this job and for this change of scenery and for all these moments, I just wonder if it is ever going to feel normal; so tired and burned out but so happy, as well as constant connection with those I love, but so disconnected at the same time. Maybe I should give up on finding normalcy in my 20s altogether?

Or maybe I simply need to wear that earlier-mentioned polished Anthropologie-knockoff-outfit while balancing Starbucks cups and everything will make sense. Maybe that’s what’s truly missing.