On a return journey from New York City this past weekend my friend Heather let someone squeeze between her and the car in front of her in line for a toll booth. The poor unfortunate soul who found themselves in the EZpass only lane jumped in front of us with a wave of his hand and we all cursed his existence.
We pulled up to the booth with 5 dollars ready where we found the tollbooth attendant smiling. She refused to take the money because she said the man ahead of us had paid for us as well.
What? Had we heard correctly? Yes, there is a God, there is Karma and THERE ARE GOOD, APPRECIATIVE PEOPLE IN THE WORLD! Hallelujah! Who would have thought we would have found a beacon of goodness in line for the TriBoro Bridge? He could have easily paid for himself and driven away thinking little of the bespectacled girl in the Toyota Matrix who let him cut her in line.
But no, instead he repaid us with little chance of reward or recognition.
Things like this make me proud to be human.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
coffee casualty
Music was pumping into my ears courtesy of my awkwardly pea-green headphones when I realized I was next in line.
[I refuse to go to this class without some form of caffeinated elixir.]
Flustered because I hadn't been paying attention, I reached for my student I.D. [coffee number 8762837 courtesy mom and dad]. I whipped it out with an underestimated and inappropriate amount vigor and somehow unleashed the shiny card into the chest of the tall Indian man at the cash register. In a flash he jumped up as if the orange card emblazoned with my fresh face had shocked him from a coma. Blushing, we both reached down to pick it up from the spot where it landed by his feet. Perhaps it was his impossibly long arms, but he beat me to it and handed it to me with a grin spreading across his face.
He looked at my shocked face and started to laugh.
I started to laugh.
The guy behind me started to laugh.
It was beautiful. My nincompoopery shook all of us from the stupor we walk around in so much of the time. I didn't assault him with my I.D. card, I simply punctured the comfortable little bubbles we had around us for a brief time and shared a laugh with a stranger.
I didn't need the coffee to wake me up.
[I refuse to go to this class without some form of caffeinated elixir.]
Flustered because I hadn't been paying attention, I reached for my student I.D. [coffee number 8762837 courtesy mom and dad]. I whipped it out with an underestimated and inappropriate amount vigor and somehow unleashed the shiny card into the chest of the tall Indian man at the cash register. In a flash he jumped up as if the orange card emblazoned with my fresh face had shocked him from a coma. Blushing, we both reached down to pick it up from the spot where it landed by his feet. Perhaps it was his impossibly long arms, but he beat me to it and handed it to me with a grin spreading across his face.
He looked at my shocked face and started to laugh.
I started to laugh.
The guy behind me started to laugh.
It was beautiful. My nincompoopery shook all of us from the stupor we walk around in so much of the time. I didn't assault him with my I.D. card, I simply punctured the comfortable little bubbles we had around us for a brief time and shared a laugh with a stranger.
I didn't need the coffee to wake me up.
Friday, June 6, 2008
a bird pooped in my pinkberry
Dear New York City,
I've got to say, I applaud you.
I thought I had you beat.
I should have known better.
In the midst of an adventure to Pinkberry to celebrate the conclusion of my first week of my internship, you transported me straight back to reality. In the form of bird feces swimming among my strawberries and bananas you jarred me back to life.
Thank you.
I had forgotten how funny, unpredictable, and absurd life can be. Sitting behind a desk pretending to be a working professional for a week had me lulled into a comfortable fantasy. I had found myself in a world where I knew exactly what was going to happen every minute, a world where I could see myself working this way for the rest of my life.
But then like a mushy gray delivery from above, my sweet celebration was interrupted.
I couldn't help but smile.
I needed that.
Thank you.
I've got to say, I applaud you.
I thought I had you beat.
I should have known better.
In the midst of an adventure to Pinkberry to celebrate the conclusion of my first week of my internship, you transported me straight back to reality. In the form of bird feces swimming among my strawberries and bananas you jarred me back to life.
Thank you.
I had forgotten how funny, unpredictable, and absurd life can be. Sitting behind a desk pretending to be a working professional for a week had me lulled into a comfortable fantasy. I had found myself in a world where I knew exactly what was going to happen every minute, a world where I could see myself working this way for the rest of my life.
But then like a mushy gray delivery from above, my sweet celebration was interrupted.
I couldn't help but smile.
I needed that.
Thank you.
Friday, April 11, 2008
dear maturity
Can you hear me knocking at your door?
Those determined strokes are mine. Take a good look. The blonde, lanky woman standing before you now has come a long way from the naive, awkward teenager who used to despise you so. Don't ask me how I got here. I just keep finding myself back in this spot, standing on your threshold.
Many times I've raised my fist to your door, but dropped it over and over again. I've turned away from you and walked, sulking, back to familiarity. But here I am - ready to look you in the eye. I'm finally prepared to step, with my head held high, into your imposing foyer and tread your territory with confidence and poise.
I want to tell you that you don't scare me anymore. Over the past year I have allowed the idea of you to creep slowly into my life as well as my head. And I've learned to embrace you. I think you will be proud to see the woman I have become, the things I have done, and what I still plan to do.
I have lived on my own for 4 months in another country.
I got a summer internship at a Website in New York City.
I've paid to live in a Columbia dorm.
And most importantly I know who I am.
There is nothing I can't do.
What I'm trying to say, maturity, is that I've been training for 20 years to give you a decent fight. It's taken a lot, but here I am, ready to take you on and make you my own.
Bring it
Those determined strokes are mine. Take a good look. The blonde, lanky woman standing before you now has come a long way from the naive, awkward teenager who used to despise you so. Don't ask me how I got here. I just keep finding myself back in this spot, standing on your threshold.
Many times I've raised my fist to your door, but dropped it over and over again. I've turned away from you and walked, sulking, back to familiarity. But here I am - ready to look you in the eye. I'm finally prepared to step, with my head held high, into your imposing foyer and tread your territory with confidence and poise.
I want to tell you that you don't scare me anymore. Over the past year I have allowed the idea of you to creep slowly into my life as well as my head. And I've learned to embrace you. I think you will be proud to see the woman I have become, the things I have done, and what I still plan to do.
I have lived on my own for 4 months in another country.
I got a summer internship at a Website in New York City.
I've paid to live in a Columbia dorm.
And most importantly I know who I am.
There is nothing I can't do.
What I'm trying to say, maturity, is that I've been training for 20 years to give you a decent fight. It's taken a lot, but here I am, ready to take you on and make you my own.
Bring it
Wednesday, June 6, 2007
dear destiny
I'm paralyzed. I'm furious.
I'm spending the summer working for $8.72 an hour at a department store.
I'm missing out.
I'm wasting my potential.
It kills me that my classmates are living in New York City with glamorous internships - securing their futures. All I'm securing is the constant headache that working with the public never fails to provide.
Did I mention that I'm already looking into boxes? That's right, boxes. When I graduate in 2009 with a sparkling $175,000 journalism degree from one of the best communications schools in the country there will be a gaping hole in my resume. "The internshipless summer of 2007", "the life-experience drought of 2007" . When I'm jobless and homeless on the street I want to make sure I at least have a spacious, sturdy box. When my classmates walk by with their ironed suits and shiny briefcases I can at least be seen in a decent box.
I wimped out.
I chickened out.
I procrastinated.
The bile rises in my throat when I think about it.
I could have gotten a great internship. I know it. Granted, I don't have any connections - my mom isn't the CEO of NBC, my hairdresser's mom doesn't work for Vanity Fair. But those are minor details. I'm a columnist for my daily college newspaper and I have a 3.9 GPA. I'd just have to market myself like a prostitute. I can do that.
I know how things work: employers aren't wringing their hands with sadness at the thought that they missed out on me. Deadlines have come and gone, they've filled their openings with suitable minions. BUT I COULD HAVE BEEN ONE OF THOSE MINIONS!!!
Now I'm wringing my hands in sadness and kicking myself for thinking an internship would just magically come along.
My mom would say that this all worked out. You know, with one of those motherly i-have-my-own-private-crystal-ball-ha ha-you-can't-see-it looks she tells me that at least now I'm motivated. I guess homelessness is the price I'll pay for motivation.
In the mean time I feel like I'm floating. I know where I want to be but I just can't get there. Spending summers at home as a college student is one of the most painful things I've ever done. It's a massive flying-leap backwards from everything I loved about living at school. I feel pathetic - detached from my destiny. I've been demoted.
But I'm determined to make the best of it. And I have a message for my destiny if it hasn't already given up one me: "I'm coming, I'm just taking the long way."
I'm spending the summer working for $8.72 an hour at a department store.
I'm missing out.
I'm wasting my potential.
It kills me that my classmates are living in New York City with glamorous internships - securing their futures. All I'm securing is the constant headache that working with the public never fails to provide.
Did I mention that I'm already looking into boxes? That's right, boxes. When I graduate in 2009 with a sparkling $175,000 journalism degree from one of the best communications schools in the country there will be a gaping hole in my resume. "The internshipless summer of 2007", "the life-experience drought of 2007" . When I'm jobless and homeless on the street I want to make sure I at least have a spacious, sturdy box. When my classmates walk by with their ironed suits and shiny briefcases I can at least be seen in a decent box.
I wimped out.
I chickened out.
I procrastinated.
The bile rises in my throat when I think about it.
I could have gotten a great internship. I know it. Granted, I don't have any connections - my mom isn't the CEO of NBC, my hairdresser's mom doesn't work for Vanity Fair. But those are minor details. I'm a columnist for my daily college newspaper and I have a 3.9 GPA. I'd just have to market myself like a prostitute. I can do that.
I know how things work: employers aren't wringing their hands with sadness at the thought that they missed out on me. Deadlines have come and gone, they've filled their openings with suitable minions. BUT I COULD HAVE BEEN ONE OF THOSE MINIONS!!!
Now I'm wringing my hands in sadness and kicking myself for thinking an internship would just magically come along.
My mom would say that this all worked out. You know, with one of those motherly i-have-my-own-private-crystal-ball-ha ha-you-can't-see-it looks she tells me that at least now I'm motivated. I guess homelessness is the price I'll pay for motivation.
In the mean time I feel like I'm floating. I know where I want to be but I just can't get there. Spending summers at home as a college student is one of the most painful things I've ever done. It's a massive flying-leap backwards from everything I loved about living at school. I feel pathetic - detached from my destiny. I've been demoted.
But I'm determined to make the best of it. And I have a message for my destiny if it hasn't already given up one me: "I'm coming, I'm just taking the long way."
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