Model Baby Sitter

Three terriers splayed on fine cashmere throws, a fridge satiated with organic health foods, and flat screen televisions appropriately placed on pristine eggshell walls, surround sound systems in tow.

The apartment whose bay windows overlook the trendiest neighborhood in Manhattan is replete with all the amenities one would need to live more than comfortably in the city, and as the light flushes through the space, it taunts me. Highlighting expensive art, framed pictures of vacations spent at second homes in Caribbean islands, and collections of designer frocks hanging from walk in closets.

This life that I am merely borrowing for the two days I have been paid to baby sit a model’s furry friends innocuously seduces with its “finer things”, and forces me to think about what could be in the city that I have chosen to call home.

New York entices its potential residents through sex and the city-esque paradigms. The nightlife, the restaurants, and the culture palpitate in the concrete jungle. To find the pulse of the city is what most desire to accomplish. Where is the bar of the moment? Who is the next mysterious artist to have an opening? What fashion trends are the Williamsburg hipster kids and models off duty struggling to covet in the months to come?

New York is a city that forces people to choose. Are you a fashionista? Socialite? Intellectual? A niche is required to maintain a foothold on the island.

A magnetic energy leads many to develop an identity after they become acclimated with the requisite that one must have a “something” to not be become invisible. So to be a floater, one who is still unsure of what road they are to travel, is living in a perpetual limbo, a real purgatory. Feeling as if everyone around them has it all figured out.

While the city moves at a pace no slower than childhood cartoons like speedy Gonzales and the road runner, those still struggling to figure it out are subject to constantly feeling on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Anxiety ridden, the floaters try on the plaid and dirty skin tight denim to see how it would feel to be the hipster kid. Buy a set of horse hair brushes and haphazardly stroke acrylics onto stretched canvas becoming the artist, and succumb to buying the shoes that cost half a months rent to effortlessly appear to belong in front of the line at Beatrice.

The impetus to belong to one tribe compels twenty and thirty something year olds to conform to standards not so blatantly present in other urban cities. And yet, you can always spot us, the floaters, exciting a new identity weekly, monthly, and even daily. Testing out what skin fits. Plaid, paint, purses, poems, the flavor of the week will continue to be mercurial. One day we will either come to terms with the fact that we cannot be defined by one genre or attribute, or we select one and work towards perfecting it, so as to be convincing enough to no longer be evaporating into the humid air of the New York summer. Rather remaining solid and visible in a population so often defined by its tendency to swallow its residents whole.

And...I'm Out.

We have all had times in our lives when we desperately wanted to be close to those who really epitomized glamour and social know how. In middle school it was wanting to emulate the girls who broke the dress code, the ones who played spin the bottle and seven minutes in heaven with acne faced and sweaty palmed pre pubescent boys. The same girls who would deny you the time of day unless you had something truly fabulous to offer, or played with you out of boredom and monotony. An abrupt desire to makeover the dork would whip the "populars" into a frenzy, but there was by no means a guarantee of staying power in the group so exclusive, it was not allowed to grow past a membership of five or six.

In the world of Entertainment and Talent Agencies, the people you feel the need to be close to are replicas of the uniformed girls but all grown up, and in my particular office, grown up men in suits and swanky linen. Yet the desire to be liked by one of these psuedo human's is juxtaposed by the constant desire to throw them out of the window's of their loft offices in the bustling meat packing district when they lambaste you for using the wrong paper stock when composing a letter.

The most interesting thing about the people who meticulously obsess over details unrecognized by the average individual is the fact that they are all but composed as people. The messes that I deal with on a regular basis have a proclivity of having control, which I have learned allows them to compensate for the sadness and isolation most of them truly internalize.

It's interesting as well as frustrating to witness a social popular crowd manifest in an office. The forty year old CEO's allowing their place of business to be run synonymously with high school mores.

As I sat at the front desk of my Talent Brand Management company fielding calls, composing proposals, and alternating between celebrity blogs and the Times online, I was re introduced to the feeling of being an outsider. Working in an office of inflated male egos and misogyny lent themselves to the environment that was subsequently created. The feeling of being reduced to the size of a pinkie finger when menial tasks were required of the only two females in the office became regular occurrences behind closed doors.

I always ponder to myself whether abandoning a situation that caused such trauma to my self worth and confidence was the right decision. Yet as each day of the remaining two week period of my employment dwindle down, and the feelings persist to no avail, I find comfort in the fact that there are industries that don't demand a hazing period in order to "break in" or succeed.

Perhaps I did give up prematurely, but I like to think that I may just see through the perfection of the pristine desks, glossy art books, and precocious technology that exist in the world I no longer want to be a part of. The fact that I desire to utilize any part of my brain in an industry that would appreciate it makes the fight in me stronger.

40oz.

The real mid life crisis is no longer characterized by “just for men” hair dye, red corvettes or moving into a beach side condo. No, the real mid life crisis has begun to creep up on those who barely know how to do their own taxes, still receive allowances and stipends from their parents and continue to drink heavily at least two to three nights a week despite their newly endowed responsibilities.

I have recognized this crisis as being ubiquitous. My college peers are sprinkled around the country and are connected through the common sentiment of ambiguity, a sense of estrangement from everything comfortable and known. Post college life seemed too far away, as we all lackadaisically sat on our porch fronts staring out at the west coast ocean that had embraced our four years of debauchery. With the smell of salt, stale beer, cigarettes and one night stands still lingering on our taut and tan skin, we felt ready to conquer the next part of our lives. After four years of blackouts, streaking, over eating, unfamiliar hookups in unfamiliar places, empty 30 packs, beer bongs, blunts and an overall disregard for reality, We were ready to don the un flattering cap and gowns that would proclaim us adults. We were prepared for great success.

Toting our bachelors degrees and four years of great education provided by the state of California, we pounded the pavement and were faced with a challenge greater than we had projected. After completing what seemed like an endless amount of papers, midterms and finals, we were left with blue books and lecture notes which "guaranteed" us all success in the months following the inebriated final walk accross the stage, culminating in our graduation ceremony.

But what happened after we awoke from the daze of feeling accomplished was worse than any hangover we could have imagined. While projectile vomiting and an insatiable appetite for burritos stuffed with french fries did not define the feeling, a new sense of sickness came to fill our lives post grad.

I could not have fathomed how defeated I could have felt after living on a cloud in the middle of an ocean for years. After pounding through inumerous amounts of energy drinks that were never meant to be consumed from 32oz. cans, and lathargically dragging myself to classes which I desperately tried to find meaning in, I felt that I deserved to be rewarded.

College was a guarantee. A guarantee at a good job, one that embraced the knowledge that had grown exponentially over the years. We were at an advantage and that meant fun jobs right? Well, here is where the not so pleasant surprise interjected into the fantasy.

Sitting in a cubicle for ten to twelve hours a day surrounded by straight faced co workers living in their own bubbles, unwilling to flash a smile or commence in conversation, hypnotized by the monotonous tasks, and celebrity gossip blogs would never appeal to me. That being said, having put up with a job that hardly satisfied my appetite for creative challenges, I took it upon myself to say: this is not what I went to college for. I quit, and here I am... proceeding forward without an idea of what is to come. Only with a newly found sense of self, and an appetite for fulfillment. College was a taken for granted luxury, which led to disillusionment and confusion. But learning to take control of life and self fulfillment, while realizing that you I am worth something more will hopefully propel me into a career better suited. Stay tuned...