When all else fails, there's always Joni Mitchell.

Between my compulsory trip to Boston and now, I have begun to find peace in the act of sitting in cafes with my laptop, sipping espresso and enjoying the free wifi. What's happening to me? This cliche seemed obnoxious until I started doing it. Now I feel like it's one of the only ways I can be alone with my thoughts without any outside pressures crushing down on me. Does that sound sad? It's not meant to. I'm not feeling as desperate and harried as I was when I wrote my last post, although life never ceases to be interesting.

I was speaking to a friend recently when I said, "Sometimes I feel like the cosmos are laughing at me." This is mainly because I feel like my life over the last few months has been a huge catastrophe punctuated by an occasional ray of good news. I got a real job. That was fantastic news. And I really like my job! But the news of solid employment fell into the slot between losing my boyfriend and losing my apartment [laughs].

Yesterday was an eventful day. I got screamed at for a solid 20 minutes, was called what might have been every lewd and profane name available to the English language, had my personal belongings hurled  down a stairwell after me, and was threatened to be sued for "everything" I have about four dozen times.

How much is that? About $217?

Anyway, long story short  (and vague - I'm public, here!), I was being horribly mistreated by my roommates, who were a couple (and for all intents and purposes, my landlords). For me, my limit was reached by a needless and frightening confrontation with the guy roommate. And so, instead of paying another $800 to people who were abusing their rights and mine, I generated an escape plan and left. The reaction was priceless and totally scary. But you know what?

Today I might be technically homeless (I'm crashing on someone's living room couch), but a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders. And at least I know that I won't go home tonight, sneak in the front door in hopes of not being detected, skip eating dinner, and exist with constant tension as I wait for the next needless confrontation or inaccurate accusation about damaging property.

Word for the wise: really take a little time to get to know the people you meet on Craigslist. 

So, what now? I'm single, homeless, and poor. But I have a job, which means that the money will get easier as soon as things get into full swing. And I already have a couple appointments to meet with people for apartment viewings. My biggest criteria when it comes to roommates, knowing more now than I did before?

1. If it's a couple renting out to a female tenant only, it's not for me.
2. Overnight guests - both male and female - must be permitted. Not constantly, but if I have a friend who wants to visit for the weekend from out of town, it needs to be okay. I don't think I should be obligated to live in social isolation because I'm not "allowed" certain privileges.
3. Cleanliness, but not freakish cleanliness. I do not want a roommate who scrubs the kitchen floor with a toothbrush and expects me to do the same, nor do I want a roommate who demands that I vacuum my bedroom floor when it's perfectly clean.
4. As a matter of fact, if it's my bedroom and I'm not damaging it or hoarding dishes or rotting food inside, I don't want to be told to clean it, period. It's mine and I'm paying for it. I keep a neat bedroom, anyway. But the point is that the space is mine to keep as messy or clean as I choose.
5. I need proper documentation for everything. I was so naive last time. Ugh.
6. Give me people who live with me, not lord over me.

I'm so relieved to be out of that mess. God help the next poor sap.

I'll let you know if I get sued. 

[shrugs]

When all else fails, there's always Joni Mitchell.

"Blue, songs are like tattoos

You know I've been to sea before

Crown and anchor me

or let me sail away

Hey Blue, there is a song for you

Ink on a pin

underneath the skin

an empty space to fill in

Well, there's so many sinking now

You've got to keep thinking

you can make it through these waves

Acid, booze, and ass

needles, guns, and grass

Lots of laughs, lots of laughs

Everybody's saying that hell's the hippest way to go

Well, I don't think so

But I'm gonna take a look around it though

Blue, I love you

Blue, here is a shell for you

Inside you'll hear a sigh

A foggy lullaby

There is your song from me"

Last night, I treated myself to sparkling wine. 

I toasted to me. 

Define "UP."

My "adult" life, in review:

• Living in New York City this summer has been like setting up camp in the devil's asshole. 
• I don't like my living situation. The apartment is small and hot, the living dynamic is weird, the utilities are astronomically high, and agreement on the definition of "clean" never seems to be reached.
• I don't have a job. But, oh boy, I'll be damned if I haven't sent out COUNTLESS resumes and cover letters this summer. The fact that nobody responds, even to deny me, is emotionally exhausting.
• The financial well is drying up. I moved to NYC and pissed through $7,000, just to stay floating. My nest egg is almost gone and I have nothing to show for it. This summer has been like the shittiest, most anxiety-inducing vacation ever.
• I am socially isolated. In spite of my best efforts, generating friends in this city has been difficult at best. People, in general, are not open to interaction, and they are definitely not open to building meaningful relationships unless you share a mutual acquaintance. My sister just left for six weeks in Italy and the only person I regularly hang out with just moved back to Israel until Halloween. At least my boyfriend is moving to NYC for the fall semester at NYU, thank god!
• Not. After heated debate as to when he found out and why, it turns out that my boyfriend is not moving to NYC after all. As a matter of fact, he can't start attending college at NYU until January. And actually, he's not my boyfriend anymore. That's right. We broke up. After two years of being attached at the hip.

This obviously isn't working.

This is about the time that Anne called me and said, "I see that you're single." And that's when I unloaded it all on her, long-distance, like an emotional dump truck full of dead fish. And she said, "Maybe you should come to Boston. See friends. Get out of New York for a few days." And after searching for negative excuses as to why I shouldn't, I realized that I didn't have any and that she was right. And so I packed a duffel bag with six days worth of clothes and hopped on the 6 p.m. Lucky Star bus out of Chinatown, without any clear idea of when I'd be coming back. That night, Anne met me in Boston. We went out for dumplings at a local Chinese place, caught up in pajamas, and she spooned with me at four in the morning while I had a minor emotional breakdown. I needed it. I don't allow myself to indulge in those often. 

Today is my second full day in Somerville, MA. The weather here is beautiful. In the sixties, bright, and sunny, with the kind of breeze that always seems to be blowing in the right direction, so that I'm not freezing and my hair isn't sticking to my lip gloss. Anne works a 9 to 5 job, which has worked out well for me. As much as I love seeing her, it's probably good that I also have time to be alone and process in a place that's quieter than the hectic hustle and bustle of New York City. I've been wandering up and down residential streets, sitting on park benches, and drinking coffees. It's been really good for me. I don't want to go back. 

But my mental vacation has a deadline because I got a very important phone call yesterday.

And now I'm back to reality on Saturday afternoon.

Because holy mother of Christ, I got a job. 

That's right. You heard me correctly. 

A real J-O-B. 

With a $30,000 salary and FULL benefits.

As of Monday morning, I will be a full-time production assistant at a health and beauty website company in Manhattan. Am I salivating at the mouth about working in the health and beauty industry? No, but I'm totally okay with it and think I'll do just fine. But ask me if I'm excited about finally having some structure in my life and I'll tell you: Hell, yes. And I am so relieved to have some structure in my life after four months of chaos and fruitless job hunting.

At the moment, I am sitting in a Starbucks in Davis Square, writing this blog entry. There's something about this chain that I find internally abrasive, but when I buy one of their sub-par overpriced coffees, I have unlimited access to their free wifi for the rest of the afternoon. I haven't left this town since I got here, and though I have no desire to venture into the city, I'll be going there to visit my friend, Jay, tomorrow. And the day after that, I'll be off to see my family before heading home. Because New York City is my home now. My wonderful, terrible home that will both entertain me and, ultimately, cause me to go postal or put me into cardiac arrest sometime in my mid-twenties. 

But while I'm waiting for that to happen, I'd like to go up to the counter, ask who the dipshit is who chose the "Love Actually" soundtrack to be today's musical selection, and punch that person in the face. Which reminds me: I should probably rent that movie sometime soon, buy a giant bucket of the chocolatiest-chocolate ice cream available, and cry.

Ah, perfect for making you feel warm, fuzzy,
and suicidal. LOVE this movie.

I guess things are looking... up.

Life. A little more open-ended every day.

Shitty judgement can come in a wide variety of browns. It builds up quickly and, before you know it, a heaping fecal Jenga tower stands before you. It's only a matter of time before you tug out the wrong turd and the whole crappy structure collapses. So what do you have then? A smelly pile of shit. And you're standing in it. Far beyond the point of demurely scraping it off on the curb, you realize there's no option but to throw your sneakers away. And they were your favorite sneakers.

"Hey, check it out! I've got more problems for the
problem pile!"

"Sweet! Me too!"

Excusing my in-eloquence, this is more or less what happened to my relationship. 

And now I stand before you, Hilary Hayward, single. In all my glory. 

Check out my blog. You know you want me already.

SIGH.

In all seriousness, this isn't what I wanted. We were a happy couple, most of the time. But sometimes the world has other plans for you. So here I am, sitting on my bed, typing this blog at 2:22 in the morning, wondering what to do with a life that becomes a little more open ended every day. A gorgeous flower arrangement is sitting on the night stand beside me, delivered this afternoon from a friend who wanted to offer his condolences. I don't think I've ever had Happy Breakup flowers before, in celebration of my mourning. I know this wasn't the intention, but it makes me laugh to think of it that way. I have a strange and twisted sense of humor. Sue me.

Yesterday I drank a bottle of wine in a very nice bathtub. Tonight I went to a diner and enjoyed two cups of coffee and an order of gravy fries at midnight, all the while struggling to not cry between fat-filled bites of fried potato, beef stock and melted American cheese. Can a heart still break if it's glued together with lard?

Tomorrow I am going to Boston to see friends. I don't know for how long. Until I run out of money or am ready to come back, I suppose. This plan could only be thwarted by two things: 1) My check does not arrive in the mail. 2) I get called in for another job interview on Tuesday or Wednesday. For the first time, lo and behold, I find myself hoping for an empty email box. Pardon my language, but I just want to get the fuck out of this city for a few days. I think I need to. It's high-time.

I planned on switching the subject to wittier and less depressing topics before calling it a night, but exhaustion is really setting in. I've been so tired lately. So I think I'll just cut my losses and vow to make the next one cheerier. If I were holding a wine glass right now, this is what I'd toast:

To new beginnings, to rediscovering myself by myself, and to whatever comes next.

A quarter-life crisis. Just for me.

I recently underwent a mid-twenties crisis.

After three depressing months of writing countless unanswered cover letters and sending out resumes to companies that were seeking people with the skills I learned in college, something in my brain dissolved - much like a cold sugar cube in a hot cup of coffee - and I thought, "Wait a minute. Do I even want this?"

I think the realization was something that was bound to happen, as all it took to entirely reconstruct my priorities was a Craiglist job posting in the ETC section. There I was, frustrated, unfulfilled, jobless and potentially homeless, when all of a sudden, at two in the morning, like an impossibly convenient escape hatch, I clicked on a post to find that a traveling circus was seeking workers to take on the road with them.

Three hundred dollars a week. Free room. Three meals a day.

Holy shit. I could be in a circus. 

A circus. 

A circus.

A CIRCUS.

This led to a maddeningly-cyclic, week-long, over-caffeinated, under-rested identity crisis in which I frequently found myself staring beseechingly into mirrors and asking, "Who ARE you, really?" Thankfully, my reflection didn't answer me, because then we'd know that the issue wasn't really about dropping my new life to join the circus. In all seriousness, though, the issue was whether or not, at this point in my life, I wanted to be successful or happy. And I couldn't see a way of achieving both. And so this essentially led to one big question.

courtesy of lifeaswife.com

I was really craving some crazy new shit. 

This was met by a variety of reactions. 

Not surprisingly, my close girlfriend, Daelynn, was craving some crazy new shit for me. Surprisingly, so was my boyfriend, Sam. My sister, Jen, was open to the idea of me exploring crazy new shit, so long as I was doing it for the right reasons. As was my old professor, Tyrone. My best friend, Joe, wasn't crazy about the idea as he's perpetually concerned for my safety and I constantly seem to be coming up with new and creative ways to challenge that anxiety. 

My mother thought I needed some serious therapy and, for a day or so after mentioning that the thought of the traveling circus was tumbling around in my stress-rattled brain, I pondered as to whether she might have disowned me on principal alone. I don't understand why she gets so wound up, but sometimes I worry that one of these days I'll call her and tell her something that will put her into cardiac arrest or give her an aneurism. 

Love is cruel and life is a strange adventure.

Over the course of that week, I had no reservations. I applied to be an extra in "Men in Black 3," was called in for an interview, and was amused to find out it was a scam when a sleazy man named Brad told me I have a beautiful face and said that for just $137, we could get my professional modeling portfolio started. Why, "for $50, $40, or even $20,"  I could have my head shot taken. I laughed and walked out. 

Haha, yeah. Okay.

Two days later, I went to the circus' offices in Manhattan and applied for a road crew position that would require me to be packed up and ready to go that Saturday. The woman who interviewed me asked me if I had "ever even lifted anything heavy before," and stressed that the work would be back breaking. I told her I was counting on it. They didn't call me back. I was feeling slightly disappointed until I received an email from one of the circus' animal caretakers. Turns out, the woman passed my information along and they were interested in hiring me for a less intensive position where I could travel with them and help care for and prepare the animals for the shows. As they owned 12 ponies, 4 horses, 3 goats, 6 dogs, a capybara and a porcupine, this was definitely a strange and exciting possibility. 

That night, not wanting to kill the forward flow, I applied for a full-time dog walking position in Manhattan, because I feel that spending time with dogs is a worthy way of attaining personal enrichment. Poop and tired feet are a small price to pay for making money while feeling good about what you're doing. 

The next day bore surprises. Not only did the circus offer to reimburse me for a train ticket if I'd be willing to travel an hour out of the city to visit them, but the dog walking company called me back for an interview. So did a health and beauty company that was considering me for a salary position. So now I was in a real pickle: Accept a salary position that relates to my college degree and possibly walk dogs on the side, or pack up my room, cut my losses, and join the circus? The first option would leave me feeling mentally unfulfilled, but I'd be comfy enough to go out and do things in a city where, frankly, the only draw is the ability to go out and do things. On the other hand, joining the circus would have immersed me in myriad, rich opportunities for excellent feature writing in an atmosphere that fascinates me. But the money would be crap, the work would be hard, and the living conditions would be stuffy, to the say the least. 

Moving forward a bit: All three interviews went really well. A small part of me was hoping any two of them wouldn't so that I wouldn't really have to make a choice. My last interview was with the circus in Walden, New York. The animals were cute, everyone seemed super nice, and there was nothing there that seemed so horrible that I wouldn't tolerate it in the name of new, interesting life experiences. And I got to pet a porcupine. That's right. A porcupine. His name was Percy. I scratched him under the chin. He was nuzzling my hand. The girl who was showing around told me that sometimes he tries to crawl into your lap. Really, he was like a smaller, bristly, slightly anxiety-inducing dog. 

As I was waiting for the train to pick me up and bring me back to the city, I felt torn. I continued to feel torn all through the night and all through the next day. But ultimately, I had to make a decision. And I decided to stick it out here and see if I get that salary position, even though every fiber of my being wants to join the circus. There are a few huge reasons for this. 

1. I have $19 in my bank account. If I leave NYC, I won't have enough money to come back when the circus cycle is over in January. Where would that leave my relationship with Sam, who's moving to the city this week to continue college at NYU?

2. The circus cycle would finish up one month before my student loans start rolling in. With no job, no apartment, and no car, I'd be in a really tough spot financially to contend with VSAC. 

3. If I get an interview for a writing or editing position, they would ask me what I've been doing since I graduated college, as there would be a big, blank spot on my resume. "Traveling circus," would not be an impressive answer. 

I am leading a life where I am floating in transition and hoping neither to become a nameless cubicle slave nor a vagrant wanderer, $140,000 in debt and skipping from one laboring job to the next. I want to travel and I want to see the world. I want to meet strange and interesting people. I want to work with animals. I want to write. I want to try different foods and have exciting experiences. I want to be amazed by whatever is out there. I want to live. 

A huge part of me wants to say, "To hell with it," and just get out there and start doing things. But if I want a future that will justify my college degree, for now, it seems that playing it smart is playing it safe. Before I wrote the email turning down the circus job, I emailed my old professor for some further advice on the matter.

He wrote, "You are faced with a Hobson's choice.  Either way you lose, but my best advice, and I do not offer this thoughtlessly or unaware of your circumstances, internal and external.  Take the job with the health and beauty company.  It is highly unlikely you will get 'stuck' in any one career, and this will, I imagine, lead to other things. You have practical considerations to deal with besides the immediate, dreadful dilemma.  Everyone wants to run off to join the circus, and some manage to when they're younger, others a bit later."

Later, then. Maybe if and when I decide to leave this city, because I think I will eventually, I'll call them back. There's a time for everything. I guess the time just isn't now. In the meanwhile, I'm just hanging out in Harlem, pet sitting my friend's dog at her gorgeous, air conditioned, quiet apartment, a perfect atmosphere in which to think about my life and where it's taking me. Tomorrow I'll feel better. I hope that the company I'm waiting for brings me on board. If not, maybe it's not too late to catch that train.

* * *

EDIT: There's one more incident worth mentioning in my quarter-life crisis that I couldn't seem to find a way to finagle into this entry. Thematically, it just didn't fit in with the circus. I was in Manhattan the other day, waiting for the L train to Brooklyn, and there was this guy singing and playing his guitar on the subway steps 10 feet away from me. He was maybe in his mid-twenties, and there was really nothing about him that stood out to me, but he was playing the most gorgeous music. He was so good that I ignored my train when it arrived so I could listen to him play one more song. This is typically the moment where people drop a dollar in the guitar case or go on with the rest of the afternoon, slightly brightened by their good luck of stumbling across a musician that positively affected their day (because trust me, there are subway musicians who negatively affect days too). But not me. No, I borrowed a pen from a stranger so I could scrawl a note on a piece of scrap paper to drop in amongst the spare change and dollar bills:

I sing and play too. We should jam sometime.

- Hilary

hil.hayward@gmail.com

... It's a phase. Maybe.