This must be what it feels like to be one of those Housewives on the BRAVO Network.
This morning I stretched my arms up at 10AM after an hour nap following the morning dog walking party with my mother and her neighbor. I had to get up for Zumba class. I also had to check my e-mails and fill my online shopping cart with fabulous new tchotchkes and designer clothes that I would be purchasing later in the day. That is, of course, after I played with my perfectly dressed and groomed puppy and caught up on my missed TV shows from the night before. I can’t catch up on everything, though. I have such a busy and fabulous schedule, after all!
I feel like a housewife alright. I mean, except for the fact that I am single with no prospects. I go on walks every morning with my mother who I live with and I signed up for unlimited dance classes for an introductory fee of forty nine dollars (thanks for the credit line increase, bank!). I take “slutty salsa” classes more often than not with senior citizens who are just trying to keep up their coordination skills everyday. I never thought I would live in a world where I wished I hadn’t gone through all four seasons of Parks and Recreation so quickly because I miss it being in my life everyday. As a time killer, I fill my online shopping cart. I fill it in hopes that one day I will get my dream job in a high rise building so that I can pay for all of the useless crap I want.
Apparently, I have been searching for my dream job for twenty seven years without ever knowing what it might be. I have been lost. So lost, in fact, that I stayed in a black hole of depression called Los Angeles for five years trying to figure it out. Stubborn little me, I wanted to stick with it, perhaps become one of those old spinsters (by Los Angeles standards, sometimes “old” means 40, which is pretty stupid), still trying to find herself.
One day it hit me that I did not want to grow into spinsterhood, so I decided to move home to Petaluma, California, to regain my real life consciousness and remove myself from the superficial bubble that is Los Angeles. I have gone on exactly eleven interviews, all of which have gone extremely well, only to lose some of those opportunities because someone had been grandfathered or brother-in-lawed in. Nonetheless, good for them, bad for me. As The Mindy Project’s Dr. Mindy Lahiri would say, “Them’s the breaks.”
I don’t even know what I am supposed to do here. What the heck is my purpose? Do I even fit in here anymore? Sure, it was the right decision, but I still need to prove that to myself. I told all of my friends it would only take me a month to move to San Francisco (which is only 45 minutes away), but after being here for four months, that moving day seems further away than ever.
So here I am. No job, no love, living under a roof that I haven’t lived under for almost ten years. I never thought at 27 my idea of a great Friday night would be mixing three flavors of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream in a bowl, topping it with whipped cream and falling asleep to the first season of Hart of Dixie. I thought at least by now I would have my own apartment in San Francisco with a couch where I could catch up on my Lauren Conrad Beauty and Style books.
Sometimes, though, I have to give myself credit. I went to school without knowing a single soul, got the degree, moved to the big city, had a big city job (in reality television — don’t get too excited) and made enough money that I could be one of those gals who said, “I make money, and I deserve to spend it the way I wish.” I made some bad choices along the way, but I was, and part of me still thinks I am, one brave biatch.
In the words of a broken hearted ex, it is time for me to “get back to reality”, which is pretty ironic considering my previous line of work. Here I am, back in reality, physically ill at the mention of the ever so condescending phrase “Elaine, Rome wasn’t built in a day” (I almost just puked).