My life’s motto: Work it, Bitch.
     It’s been quite a day for me — quite some two days actually. I flew down to Baltimore, moved all my things out of storage and into a Uhaul. Then drove up to my sister’s house in Jersey City to move  my things into storage here. I moved everything by myself –by everything, I mean everything I’ve owned, bought and used (or not used) for the past four years in Baltimore where I literally had an apartment while I stayed at Loyola (A+ dorms!). This means everything except furniture. BTW I LOVE clothes. Like, love love. By “myself” I mean, by myself. Yeah.

     So after after all the moving and hauling I joined my new roomies (I know I live in their house, but calling my sister & her husband my “roomies” somehow makes me feel less publicly pathetic) for yoga at SunMoon. At the end of yoga sessions, one lays flat on their back in a position of relaxation –exactly what I had been looking forward to. But the instructor did one thing that set me off track. “Take any extraneous thoughts,” she said “and push them out.” Really? How can you bring the term “extraneous thoughts” into my mind for me and then expect me to think of other things? When someone tells you not to think of what’s bothering you, it’s like a levy broke. Needless to say, a mental flood ensued.

    First, I thought of him. I thought of why he hasn’t called. Of where things went wrong. Whether I should fix it of if it’s his responsibility. If it’ll ever come back. In one instant I thought of hate and of love as one; for me they are inseparable. I thought of my friends. The summer we shared. The trust we have. The test of time that we’ve endured. Of how much I’ll miss them. I thought of my cousins who will be my new group of friends as I learn NYC. How much time will they expect from me? What if I don’t have time? Will they even understand if I don’t have time? Will I have time for them? For me?

     When the instructor told me to bring my mind back to the present moment, I thought of where I was. The move I had just made. The steps I’m making. The goals I have made and conquered in my lifetime. Of what is next. Moving is scary. Not just moving physically, but mentally, emotionally and professionally as well. Things are moving for me, but I can’t quite predict what’s next. It’s like driving through new terrain and not knowing if there’s a valley, hill or cliff up ahead.
     Tomorrow is my first real day of work. No guides. No shadowing. And… I am scared out of my mind. There are so many demands to meet. I’m going in at 8:15am (even though I don’t have to be there till 9) and don’t plan on leaving until 7pm (there is no “clocking” in or out here). It seems I’ve willingly given up my life. I’m going to work everyday for longer than most people. I’m going to pay rent higher than most people. Inherit more stress than most people. To top it off, I come home to my sister’s family. When I get my own place, I’ll be going home to myself. Yes, it’s sad.

     Yesterday, my friend Ashely asked me what my timeline was. You know, for marriage and all that good stuff. This past summer, my friends (all of whom are mothers) asked me the same questions. I mean, my answers to these questions are always a rendition of the same thing: I don’t even have the guy yet.  How can I plan the rest when the most important piece is missing?

      (Surprisingly) My mom asked me how many kids I wanted to have which I responded: “I’m 22, I’m more worried about how many carats are in the ring.” Me contestaste bein, she said. That means, You answered me well. In the words of Beyonce (as if she’s a philosopher), My momma taught me better than that. 

     Another rendition: “When I get a house to put the kid in and a husband to have the kid with.   

     Am I going to be a work-aholic? Perhaps, I’ve always known that I would and that’s why I wanted to be in fashion industry. At least I’d be fashionable and be invited to the hottest parties where I’ll show up wearing the hottest outfits. If I end up alone, I’ll be a cougar. Some hot model’s sugar momma, I suppose. I just saw pictures of  Calvin Klein  and his supposed “partner” Nick Gruber that give me hope that if I stay good looking and fashionable, I’ll pull a 20-year-old when I’m 67, too. If I can’t be Carrie Bradshaw, I’ll be Samantha Jones. It’s not that I want to be alone, simply that I can be alone. A man would make me happy, but I don’t need a man to be happy. Much less do I need a child to do that. Men (who are men as I prefer them to be) don’t cry.

Let me make this PSA:

I’m broke, yo. Right now, I can’t have kids or a stingy man. In my ideal life, I want to go to work, leave work, go shopping, go home, put on designer shoes, clothes and accessories to go A) on dates with hot men who drive nice cars and take me to nice places where we eat good food and he surprises me with nice things he bought me or B) to hot clubs with tall drinks and much taller men.

For now at least. I mean… Hey, I’m a city girl 🙂  If there’s still hope for Carrie & Mr. Big, there’s plenty hope for me.