Life in New York

“You should either be a model or a Rockette.”

~Old man behind the drugstore register as he hands me my change.

Really? Those are my only options?

Wowie-zowie* you guys. You’re all really nice.

Or you just really like knowing someone in Glamour magazine. But I prefer to think you’re all just really nice.

The blog was five views shy of 600 total uniques yesterday, and it had nothing to do with narwhals! (Well, okay, 32 of those views had to to with narwhals. Can’t win ’em all.)

Would you believe I still haven’t seen the actual magazine myself? I’m gonna make a run over lunch, so hopefully by this afternoon I will have seen myself in all my CMYK glory.

Anyway, I don’t have any decor updates yet, but I just wanted to say thanks for all the kind comments, Facebook likes, texts, and random contact people made yesterday. Seriously, I heard from people I haven’t seen or spoken to in over six years yesterday. Madness.

The point is, you’re all swell in my book. And if you’re new to the blog, welcome! I hope you’ll keep reading and commenting. Because I like hearing from you all.

*I am not saying this randomly. There is a story about “wowie-zowie” that only my husband and my friend Sarah Hall know. But just trust me it’s funny to say.

In general, I am not a reckless person.

When people talk about the crazystupid things they did as teenagers, I usually cannot relate. I’m a play-it-safer. In general.

I can think of two things I’ve done in my life that were probably stupid, even though both of them worked out. One I’m not allowed to tell you about because it happened during the JAB Florida Trip of 2007 (a) the third best trip I’ve ever been on and b) OMG we’re old that was in 2007), but the other…the other I can tell you about.

I was actually reminded of this bit of recklessness by my friend Michelle’s blog post that she recently wrote about quitting a job she had just accepted because she realized she would hate it (even though she could really use the money right now).

When I first moved to New York over two years ago, I had an internship that paid me a solid $20 a day.

I think you probably read that over kind of quickly, so I’m going to need you to take a second to really think about what I’m saying. I was living in New York City. And my only income was $20 a DAY. You probably spent more than $20 on your last dinner out. You probably spent more than $20 on the last T-shirt you bought.

Plus I was only working four days a week, so I was pulling in $80 a week, about $320 a month.

I don’t really want to get in to what I was spending per month on rent and food, but suffice to say it was more than that. Thank goodness I got hired when I did, because my entire savings account was steadily depleted, including the money I got when my parents finally sold my car. Times they were a-dire, folks.

However, I wasn’t totally insane. I fully intended on finding other employment for that extra week day and the weekend. Enter me applying at a shoe store that was actually right next to my internship.

And wouldn’t you know it, they actually hired me. And I actually went to my training day. And then I never went back ever again.

I know what you’re thinking:

Whoa, whoa, WHOA! Hold up a second. You’re telling me you were suddenly gainfully employed, and then you just flaked?

Well…yes. Allow me to explain.

You know that guy I talk about a lot? The one who asked me to marry him and with whom I live happily every day? Well, I had really started to get to know him a couple of weeks before I was offered the job (though we weren’t officially dating yet). And the only time I could ever see him was on weekends when I made the jaunt out to Long Island.

So when they told me on my training day that they wanted me to work that Sunday, and I had already been invited out to the Island for a party by the fella in question, well, I found myself with a little dilemma.

I knew what I wanted to do. I also knew what I probably should do. Incidentally, it was my dad who made the decision for me.

I had called my parents to explain the conundrum and ask their advice. I expected my father, a former lawyer and analytical to a fault, to launch into a speech about work ethic and rational thought processes and the dire straits of my finances, but instead, he got on the phone and said simply, “I think you should go to Long Island.”

It was my turn to start throwing around a “whoa” or two.

So the decision was made. In all fairness, there were other red flags to accepting the shoe job. For one, they had scheduled me on both of the days/times I told them I absolutelypositivelywasnotavailable. Did I really want to make a pattern of that? Plus, the manager was really creepy. So…yeah.

So I went to Long Island. And about a week later, I had myself a boyfriend. And about a year later, a fiance. (I think you see where this is going.)

Am I aware that I’m saying “I chose a boy over a supportive job”? Yes, yes I am. And I’m not making any excuses for that. It was reckless and motivated by emotion and so downright female that my first instinct is to cringe whenever I tell the story.

But you know what? I would have hated that job. And I love what I ended up with instead. Supportive husband>supportive job.

So I like to think that someday if I have a child and they come to me with a moral dilemma where they either need to choose rationality or happiness (provided it’s not too reckless…I’m still planning to be a responsible parent after all), I’ll have the guts to tell them to take the chance. And maybe I’ll even tell them this story. Without any cringing at all.

I thought about starting this post with some bit about how I was officially too famous to acknowledge you all, but then I remembered that I’m not actually famous (yet), so alienating the few fans I have is probably not the best career strategy.

Plus you know I love you all. Truly. Deeply. Madly. And in other Savage Garden-esque ways.


So the photo shoot went well! I arrived around 9:30 in the morning and was quickly ushered into hair and makeup. (Le sigh… the trialsome life of a model!) I actually know a couple of people who work at the magazine from back in my own journalism days, so it was nice to say hi (even with the added awkwardness of having someone fiddle with my hair while we caught up…like I said, trialsome).

Next I got to pick out a dress (trust me when I say it’s freaking adorable…I wanted to steal it…but I didn’t…because it’s wrong to steal…but mostly because they were watching me like a hawk and I never would have gotten away with it because I was also wearing SUPER awesome shoes that were way too high to run away in…but also, you know, cuz it’s wrong…).

The stylist kept asking me which dress and shoes I wanted, which just made me really uncomfortable for some reason. I kept flailing my arms in this weird shrugging motion and being like, “Um, I don’t know! *giggle* Um…which do you like?” You would think I had never dressed myself before in my life.

But come on! This is going to be in a national magazine! Loads of people are going to see it! People who have known me at all stages of life! Friends! Enemies! Old classmates and co-workers! Perfect strangers! I canNOT be trusted to pick out my own shoes.

Finally, I was dressed. With a final makeup touch-up (including putting foundation on my legs) and one last hair fluff, we were off to the shoot location. (I had another girl with me, so I didn’t have to be entirely self-conscious.)

It was a little awkward at first, but still pretty fun. After getting fussed over for two hours, my new goal is to be rich enough to hire someone whose only job is to brush my bangs out of my eyes. It was certainly handy to have.

I do feel a little bad for the 100 or so tourists who thought we were famous because we were getting our pictures taken, and therefore took pictures of us themselves. Later analysis will surely bring on some disappointment. Sorry, not famous. Just me.

Without giving too much away, we had to stand in a public space and look like we were having a grand ol’ time. Which is more difficult than it sounds in 5-inch heels. The photographer reeeeally wanted to get a photo with one of us popping our foot up, and because the other girl had apparently never worn heels before, I was the only one who could manage it. He kept yelling things like, “Ok, one, two, three! Now HOLD it!”

I couldn’t hold it. Five. Inch. Heels. I am not a machine.

But he seemed satisfied at the end of the hour and a half. (Photo shoots take a mad long time, yo. I can only imagine how long these things go on for actual models and celebrities.)

But then we were done and it was back to real life. Which, honestly, I was fine with. It was cold, my feet hurt, and I was a bit late for work. But, all in all, a really cool experience. I’ll be in the January issue, so watch for it mid-December sometime. Hopefully it will be online somewhere so I can post pics for those of you who don’t get American Glamour. (Looking at you, random European and Australian readership! I got you.)

The rest of the day went well, albeit less glamorously. (See what I did there?) Work was fine, and the hubster and I had a lovely dinner, after which we met up with my buddy Erin to go see Kevin’s show. Laughs were had. (Erin was actually crying with laughter at one point…though it may have been less to do with the show and more to do with the hilarious reaction a guy sitting behind us had at one point…to-may-to, to-mah-to.)

Today, I’m back to plain old me. Actually, probably even more run-down than regular me. My feet (and back..and hips…damn 5-inch heels) still hurt, I overslept so I’m wearing a speck of makeup, and my outfit was thrown together in about 30 seconds. My hair, oddly enough, still looks pretty fab. Now if only I could find someone to brush these flyaways out of my face…

I’m a pretty friendly person. I can hold up my end of the conversation at parties and, if trapped in an elevator or train car, I can crack jokes or at least offer up something to talk about.

The thing is, while I’m really good at chatting when approached, I rarely go out of my way to engage strangers in conversation. I could just blame the fact that I spent the last couple of years in Manhattan, where engaging strangers in general is a risky, risky game, but the fact is, I’ve always been a little stranger shy. (I blame those McGruff videos from the first grade. Stranger danger is real, yo.)

Which is probably why I’m always more impressed than weirded out when somebody I do not know tries to strike up conversation. You KNOW how I love when someone hits on someone properly, but here I’m talking about any kind of friendly outreach.

It’s widely agreed that making friends when you’re an adult is near impossible. In school you have, well, school to throw you together, along with extracurriculars, teams, and groups. As an adult, sure, you have work, but it’s just not the same. And if the guy sitting in the cube next to you wants you to join a color guard with him, you’re concerned, not excited.

And remember all those crazies in Manhattan? How are you supposed to know who is just saying “hey” and who wants to wear you as pajamas?

For example, today I went out for lunch to a nearby burrito establishment. I was alone. There were two gentlemen in line behind me that I didn’t pay much attention to, except to notice that one of them kept looking at me every time I said something to one of the people behind the counter.

I sat down, and one of the guys sat at a table near me. The other guy finished getting his soda, then walked over to my table.

“If you’re looking for someone to have lunch with, you’re welcome to join us.”

This was the first time I looked at him. He seemed nice, around my age. He also had a ponytail.

I was slightly taken aback. First of all, did it look like I was “looking for someone to have lunch with”? I had ordered and sat down to eat. I didn’t stand at the head of the dining room staring wistfully at all the other kids who had someone at their lunch table.

Secondly, PONY. TAIL.

I was so caught off guard, I almost said something like, “Oh, um, ok!” Instead, I remembered my stranger danger rules and politely told him I was fine. (Because I was. I had not been “looking” for someone to eat with.)

He sat down, and I realized that his cohort ALSO had a ponytail. Seriously? Is this coming back? Please tell me it isn’t coming back. Even I’M not wearing a ponytail today. Clearly, I spent the rest of lunch making up stories about how these guys worked at Best Buy, but they spent their evenings playing bass and keyboard (respectively) for a WOW-themed rock group. (No one else does this? Just me? Moving on.)

The point is, sure, it seemed weird at the time, but you have to give the guy credit for reaching out to a stranger. And now I can’t stop wondering what we would have talked about. I’m guessing movies, even though they really would have wanted to discuss the plans for band practice that night. Obviously.

So, I have this blog post that I’ve kind of wanted to write for a while, but I haven’t really been able to put the whole thing into words until I finally hashed it out with my dear, dear friend Susan. Plus, it’s a bit heavier than what I usually post about (cooking, projects, awkwardness involving bodily functions), and Lord knows I hate going all existential on you.

But when Susan finally put what I was feeling into words for me (because it was something she had been feeling herself), it was immensely comforting. I’ve always been the type of person who has been comforted by the right words. I might know I feel weird or off, but if I can pinpoint exactly why (and write the crap out of it), suddenly the obstacle seems immensely easier to scale.

I guess what I’m saying is, if you’re feeling the same way, hopefully you get some peace out of a) hearing it spelled out and b) knowing you’re not the only one. And if you’re not…well…welcome to my journey of self-discovery.

Here goes.

My whole life, I wanted to be a writer. As I entered my late teens/early 20s, that dream gradually evolved into wanting to be a journalist. So we’re talking a dream that was a lifetime (albeit a short one…Lord knows I’m not that old) in the making.

And you know what? I was damn good at what I did. Right from the get-go, it seemed like I was doing what I was meant to do. I mean, I loved it, and I was good at it. AND I was successful. I moved seamlessly up the ranks of my college magazine. I got all the “prestigious” internships I applied for. I was even that girl whose magazine created a job for her after her internship because they liked her so much. I’m not bragging — I’m just trying to paint you an accurate picture of what my life was like when everything started to shift.

It’s difficult to explain to people who aren’t or don’t want to be journalists exactly what is so intoxicating about being in journalism. I mean, sure, they get the glamour of seeing your name in print, talking to famous people, and appearing on camera. But I’m talking about what it’s like to be in journalism. As Susan put it, “The salaries are low, the hours are killer, and the competition for jobs is fierce.” But, as she went on, “And to be honest, we were winning that game. Even if the success didn’t always feel like success, it was.”

And when you’re sitting at your desk at 9:30 at night waiting for an email approving the newsletter that has to get out that night, wondering if it will ever come, if you will ever get to eat a dinner that doesn’t cost 75 cents and come out of a vending machine, it’s easy to forget that you’re winning at anything.

Because you spent your last lifetime dreaming about this. About the seeing your name in print and talking to famous people and getting to appear on camera. You even joked cavalierly with your peers about how adorably poor and hungry and exhausted you would be, your voices full of pity for the ones who were settling for more “average” careers.

You know how people say things like, “I can’t pinpoint exactly when things started to change”? Well, I can pinpoint the exact moment I started having doubts about my lifelong dream.

It was 8:30 on a Friday night, and I had volunteered to stay late with an editor to finish a few slideshows and things that had to be done before we left for the weekend. I had planned on making a quick trip to Long Island for the evening (so in the throws of romance were Joey and I that even if we could only see each other for a couple of hour, after an hour commute each way, it was a better alternative to not seeing each other for two weeks), but my gallant offer had squashed those plans. As the hours ticked by (none of which I would be compensated for, just to clarify for those of you who have never been in the industry), I started to notice that my editor didn’t seem as anxious to leave as I did. I timidly asked her if she was in the office that late every night. She answered yes, and there was a note of questioning in her voice. As if she was saying, “Why wouldn’t I?”

Though I brushed off the feeling I felt then for the better part of two years, that was the moment. That was when I first started to doubt my decision. My life path, if you want to get all “big picture” about it.

But when you’ve spent every second since you were 18 trying to achieve a goal, it’s really, really hard to look that inner 18-year-old in the face and tell her you’re giving up the dream. Because it’s really hard to look at it any other way, even if you’re not so much giving it up as realizing it’s not your dream anymore. As Susan said (because she says things so much better than I do when it’s my problem), “I feel like the journalism world that I wanted to work in doesn’t exist anymore. If I’m going to work for little pay, I need job security. And I want to work in a positive environment, and I don’t want to see empty offices….I never though I’d be one of those people with a career change at age 24.”

And THAT is hard to realize because you’re essentially realizing you’re not that 18-year-old anymore. And maybe you know a little bit better than she did.

Before I go into the next part of my revelation, I want to clarify that I really am excited about my new job. I think I’ll have a lot of opportunities to be creative, and it’s not entirely different from the journalism I imagined I’d go into (or as Susan so eloquently put it, that used to exist). That being said, I’m not working for a publication. I might still write, but it’s not the same as reporting. So I acknowledged that I was making a shift in a more permanent way than I did with the current job (which, if I’m perfectly honest, I never saw myself staying at forever anyway). I acknowledged that journalism doesn’t make me happy enough to endure the downsides anymore, and I was okay with that.

And then last Friday happened. Last Friday, I was sitting at work when my phone rang. (Quick backstory: A couple of months ago I interviewed at a small publishing company. They were looking to hire a temporary assistant editor that they were planning on turning into a permanent position. I had two interviews, they really liked me, but they ended up hiring from within. Ok, you’re caught up.) It was the editor. They were hiring a senior web producer and had immediately thought of me.

It’s really funny how timing affects things. If they had called me two weeks ago, I would have taken it and stopped looking for new jobs (at least for a while). But instead, they called me all of one week after I had accepted a job I was excited about in a location I was BEYOND excited about. My rational side knew that the web job would mean keeping up the commute and probably taking a pay cut. My journalist side knew it would mean writing and editing a magazine and getting a title I hadn’t expected to bear for at least another five years.

I quietly explained how flattered I was, but that I had accepted another position. I later emailed her an additional thank-you, because really, it was extremely nice of her to offer and it it’s always nice to be wanted.

I was (am) still happy with the decision I made, but the niggling feeling of letting myself (or rather, my 18-year-old self) down prevailed. And then today, a friend who works for a magazine in the city sent out an email that they were hiring. Normally, I would have pounced on it, drafting up a cover letter and getting it back to her within the hour. This time, I calmly returned to my inbox (though I didn’t delete the email).

I know this is getting a bit “the lady doth protest too much,” but I swear, I wasn’t feeling disappointment because I wished this opportunity had come up before I accepted the new job. Even though I did imagine what it would be like if it had. And I started to feel weird and off, and I didn’t have the words to explain why. Until I started explaining the situation to Susan, and she put words to my inner turmoil.

I told her that I don’t feel like the same person anymore. After my conversation with Samantha last week, we both discussed how we felt like maybe we’re not journalism people anymore now that we know the lifestyle that it requires. And here is where Susan got kind of brilliant (I’m just going to quote it because paraphrasing brilliance is stupid):

“Matt and I actually had that same conversation, too. It’s one thing to say ‘I don’t care about money and hours!’ when you’re 18. It’s another to do it and be like ‘wow, I can’t live on this salary, and these hours are really killing my relationships.’ But it’s hard not to have that gut reaction. I even kind of had that when I saw you type that! It’s hard to do a 180. Because just because you don’t necessarily want to do journalism now doesn’t mean you don’t like it, or even love it for that matter. But you have different values now, and know other things are important and also demand your attention. And who knows? Maybe you’ll go back to it one day.”

Can I just say, Oh. My. God. Because that is exactly it. I don’t want to do it anymore, not really, but I still love it. And maybe it seems really obvious to everyone else, but it was probably one of the most striking and painful realizations of my life. Is that extreme to say? I don’t care, that’s how it felt. It was like, BAM. That’s it. That’s what you’re feeling. Those are the words you couldn’t find.

It’s not even about the terror of not knowing what you’re doing with your life. It’s not about the overwhelming feeling of “looking for a job” when you have no idea what you’re looking for. It’s realizing that just because breakups are hard doesn’t mean you shouldn’t break up.

While I was reeling, Susan kept on being awesome.

“But I also think it’s good. I mean, why am I making some of the decisions that I am? Well, because now I have a boyfriend I’m crazy about and I want to be with him. And you’re wanting to work normal hours and be in Long Island because you have a family!”

If I hadn’t met Joey, hadn’t gotten married (and assumedly hadn’t had a similar scenario with anyone else), I can say with almost no doubt that I would probably still be in journalism. Would I be happy? I don’t know. What I do know is that I am extremely happy with the way things did work out. And just because Joey is the type of guy to read this and think, “Did I mess things up for her?” (yeah, it’s pretty much the most important thing to him that I’m happy all the time…did I mention I’m extremely happy with my decision?), no, meeting the love of my life and pursuing that relationship did not “mess up” anything. It changed the game. The lifestyle required by journalism (at least the kind and level I was shooting for) is better suited to single people. There, I said it. Obviously it can be done in a relationship and even a marriage, but the relationships and marriages I saw people around me having were not the ones I wanted.

I wanted dinner with my husband after work. I wanted knowing what time I would be home so we could make plans with friends. I wanted to enjoy my marriage, not just check it off on my life’s to-do list. And no offense to 18-year-old Justine, but I’m pretty sure I’ve wanted that since 2-year-old Justine first toddled around with a Barbie and Ken doll.

So regardless of when it happened, there would have come this point in time where I would not have been satisfied with being a successful career person. And attaining satisfaction would have required a change.

And the whole “how would I feel if my life had turned out differently” business doesn’t even matter, because my life turned out like this. And I would marry Joey again this afternoon if I could. Jobs are going to come and go, but that man is not something you let slip away.

So why is there any inner turmoil at all? Because I loved journalism. LOVED. And I don’t know if I will ever love a job as much as I loved that. I think I probably won’t, because I look back on it like you look back on your first crush. And it’s all kind of hazy and rosy and you forget that he chewed with his mouth open and sometimes didn’t return your calls and ended up liking that girl who sat behind you in math better anyway. You just remember the good times and how he made your heart beat faster. (Does anyone else feel a little weird that I always compare careers to relationships? I feel like there’s probably a lot of analysis to be done there…another time. This post is long enough as is.)

And to be fair, journalism IS exciting and interesting and you meet cool people and you get to feel involved in the world as it spins around you. There are probably going to be people who read this and are like, “Huh? What are you TALKING about, journalism is the BOMB.” (Ok, they might not think exactly that. Because, as we have established, that is an outdated phrase.) But they are going to disagree with me entirely. And you know what? That is EXACTLY the type of person who SHOULD be in journalism. They probably describe themselves proudly as workaholics and brag about how late they stayed at the office and how many events they have this week. The love the rush of too many cups of coffee and smile pityingly at their non-journalist friends when they complain about the doldrums of the corporate life. They have different priorities than I do. And if they don’t, well, their own existential crisis is probably right around the bend.

But the fact is, it’s how I feel. And maybe no other job will ever make me feel as fulfilled as journalism used to (or at least how I thought it would), but nothing in the world makes me feel more fulfilled than my marriage and the family I have. I crave stability with excitement peppered in — not the other way around. In terms of domesticity, I’m somewhere between the exotic pet parrot and a housecat. But, to be honest, I was never really that exotic anyway.

I think the purpose of this incredibly cathartic blog post was to say, I’m giving myself permission to have a new dream. And I give myself permission to miss journalism while still understanding it’s not the right fit for me. I now have my permission to be happy even if I’m not doing what I used to think I should be doing. Because, you know what? I can be a writer no matter what my business cards say. Heck, if you’ve stuck with me this long, you’ve seen first hand that I am still capable of writing (even if it does get a bit scattered and ramble-y at times). And for my friends who are still in the business, hit me up if you ever need a freelancer! And if I change my mind in a year, I’ll email you.

Wow. If talking it out made me feel better, writing it out actually put me in a happy mood. To those of you who just don’t care, I apologize if you stuck it out to the end only to still not really care. Please accept this post about narwhals as my recompense. And for those of you that hear me or disagree but still think my self-growth is an interesting case study, thanks for reading.