As graduation approaches, I've wrestled with the questions that I think a lot of people at my age deal with: After 4 years of living in the college bubble, I am about to embark on the next stage of my life. Does that mean I'm an adult now? Is this the real world? Do I look how young-professional-adults are supposed to look? Do I have to start paying my own bills? Will I finally start to grow hair down there?
And while I am fully prepared for the next chapter, excited even, about taking on new responsibilities as an adult, the rest of the world needs to follow through on their end, and start taking me seriously.
This isn't just about still being asked if I want the kids menu, because I have to be honest with you, most of the time, I do. And I can handle that. I'm short, and skinny, and I always will be. But surely, SOMETHING about me has to say to the outside world, "I am not a kid anymore."
Friday, Joseph and I flew down to New York to meet Maura, and the 3 of us spent the weekend dining, partying, shopping, apartment hunting, being generally fantastic, and getting a nice taste of what life will be like in the near future.
On the plane, dressed in jeans, brown sandals, and 4 days scruffy in the face, I got the strange feeling from the flight crew like they thought I was Joseph's little brother. He told me to stop being so paranoid and to shut up. Then he gave me a nipple-twist and a noogie and said "no backsies."
Anyway, they began their snack and beverage service, and we enjoyed our Mint Milanos and Diet Cokes with the rest of the people on board. Then garbage collection came by, and we sat back in preparation for landing.
A few minutes later, out of nowhere, one of the flight attendants made a beeline for our row, tilted her head down to us like a grade school teacher and asked, "Did you guys get snacks?"
SNACKS? With that, I had convinced Joseph that I was not crazy, and that something was up. Why weren't people taking us seriously? How old do we have to look for people to realize we know what we're doing. The rest of the weekend, I got similar feelings. It's like sometimes when you go out to eat with a small group, and the waiter neglects your table because they think, "oh it's just kids, they don't tip well anyway." Some people.
Later that night, at a birthday reception for one of Maura's friends at A Voce on the east side, I mingled and introduced myself to a lot of the guests, most of whom worked in PR and Media.
Everyone was so nice, and it was great to talk to young people who already work in my field. Towards the end of the night, I found myself talking to a travel writer named Clint, who told me that "all the New York PR girls call me Uncle Clinty!" Think Karen's arch nemesis - Beverly Leslie - from Will & Grace:
Needless to say, I think Uncle Clinty thought I was much younger than I actually am. Just over 18, in fact.
The next night, we had dinner with my parents for Mothers Day, and afterwards went bar hopping around Chelsea and the West Village. At a few of them, we brought the average age of patrons down to about 34 from 45. We ended the night at the Cutting Room where we got to see the Saturday Night burlesque show. Topless dancers and flaming sword jugglers. I loved it.
Ok ok. I know that once I'm older, I will probably want people to think I'm younger. But now I'm 22, and I want people to know I'm 22. 22 says, I have just graduated college, and I am looking for excellent employment opportunities. Do you know any? Would you like to mentor me? How about leads on new apartment listings? Maybe something right off Hudson? Or Brooklyn? Or Hoboken?
Bring on the jobs, and the apartments and the bills. I assure you I'm capable of handling them all. But the snacks? I think I'm all set, thanks.
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