Social sabbatical

I’m trying (and probably gonna be failing) to not hang out with people at all this week. I’m calling my attempt a social sabbatical, a name just as silly as the phenomenon. Professionals take sabbaticals to have a break from their careers in favor of upskilling or just vibing out. I need to do the same thing but from filling up my calendar with social situations. I’m super excited to be mostly alone this week!

I’m definitely feeling detached and dysregulated. I’m so excited to read, listen to podcasts, hopefully work out (it has been way too long), and maybe cook? Whatever. We’ll see how it goes, and I’ll tell you all about it. I was super excited the past two weeks for this, but I woke up today on the wrong side of the bed. I had a lot of vivid, strange dreams last night, mostly about having homework assignments still due because I apparently still have to do some high school classes (I have these dreams fairly often). Something new I dreamt was that I had a moderately hairy chest but with hair that looks like it’s often shaven down and has grown out slightly.

I’ve talked multiple times before here about how 1. so many people age slowly in New York (good and bad) and 2. so many people get so insecure with their age, and I hope I never become like them at all. Age was a major theme of my weekend, which I would love to share.

On Friday after work, I met up with a recent college graduate, about 23, trying to break into journalism that a mutual friend set me up with to meet, give advice, and just have a kind conversation. They want to become an investigative journalist yet proceeded not to ask me a single question during our drinks x fries. I don’t think they respected me after I told them I was too lazy to be a journalist and have found a career I’m more passionate about without having such a high-stress job.

This person went on and on about their journalistic dreams and how they FOIA things for fun (for non-journos: this is a process where you request records from the government, which can lead to lots of stories and statistics). Although the extent of their professional journo experience was writing for their college newspaper (which can be sooooo much more stressful than the majority of school clubs), they had that same passion and excitement I used to have when I thought of my dream life as a reporter.

Journalism is something you almost have to be genetically predisposed for, possessing an innate persistence to pursue a story despite a plethora of personal and professional roadblocks. You can’t always tell if someone has that…thing…or not until they’re well in it. Sometimes I felt excited for them to figure out their path and other times was internally shaking my head thinking, Oh, just you wait. I later put down my card to pay for our meal as I think every more experienced person in a networking situation should do. Tell me if I’m unjust in my annoyance: they didn’t fight me with the check at all and instead said Thank yewww in a Veruca Salt-like way. But then again, they don’t know too many journalists, and maybe they didn’t know how to react in this situation. I should probably be more compassionate, but it rubbed me the wrong way.

We left the restaurant and I walked them to their train station. We hugged goodbye, and neither of us said anything resembling We should do this again. I was a 30-minute walk from my former colleague’s birthday party, so I put on my music and started further downtown. This dinner made me sad. I barely ate any food (stupid) and didn’t feel like I connected at all with this person. Was I not giving them enough grace? Were they actually just annoying? Does any of it matter? Nonetheless, it was another reminder of feeling bogged down and being annoyed that I spent any time doing anything but things that give me joy. Maybe they did learn something from our chat though. Maybe they’ll want to be a journalist even more after talking to a jaded ex-journo like me, something I felt every time in college while talking to others who I perceived as weaker than me and quit the field.

Mix this in with walking through the Lower East Side, a cesspool of going-out youths, and I was a real misanthrope for a few minutes. I stared at a girl as I walked past her outdoor dinner table who had such a great face of makeup and a slicked back ponytail. I don’t really like a lot of my style because I feel incapable of learning new things or putting in more effort into making myself prettier. I dress less feminine not because I don’t resonate with it but because it’s much easier to just put on jeans and a t-shirt. I’m trying to teach myself that either A. there are lower lift ways to look how I want or B. trying hard isn’t so hard at all. I wish I had the stylistic work ethic of my mom in the 80s spending hours on her hair so it could be the biggest at school.

To top all of these tiny problems off, I was about to walk into a birthday party alone without knowing anyone except for the birthday girl, which can truly be the worst both for the attendee and the birthday person. My friend Sarah just turned 33, and she’s got a lot of thoughts on growing up that I just can’t understand fully yet because I myself am a baby. But I knew if her friends were as fun as she is that I would have a good time. Nonetheless, I’m feeling tired, hungry, and ugly.

I went into a random restaurant (Bar Veloce in the LES), walked in with extreme confidence, and sat in the bathroom for 15 minutes to both use the toilet and something shittier: my phone. I needed time to chill out and get excited then stare at the mirror and convince myself I’m a star. I’m happy I took this moment in a city that lacks public bathrooms.

I got to Sarah’s party at this really cute bar and ended up having a fantastic time. I ended up talking a lot to this guy named Chris who was absolutely scandalized that I was too young to remember The Killers’ debut and then I proceeded to rant about how there is no worse song than “Mr. Brightside,” but we had a good time. Him and Sarah both tend to think that they’re old, so I just boo them. Anyway, hanging with her friends totally changed my mood around. I guess I’m just better at being the baby sometimes.

Age was also relevant on Sunday, when I had to perform the delicate balancing act of attending two different daytime birthday parties. I started off with Charlotte’s 23rd birthday, a picnic on Governor’s Island. It was my first time going there and Meera’s first time taking an NYC ferry. It feels like a completely different country or world from New York with all of the green, quiet, and families biking around (reminded me of City Island in Toronto). Charlotte always knows how to throw something and made an awesome spread for lunch, but she couldn’t have anticipated how exciting this food was for at least 15 bees. We all surreptitiously got our food, walking around and separating from each other to eat without getting bee-ten to our meals too much.

I had fun catching up with some friends I don’t see much and meeting other people in Charlotte’s circle. I met one of her supervisors who looked about my age, and she was super funny. At one point, she started talking about how old she is. Charlotte and her other coworkers were up in arms, and I found out that this queen is just 27 years old and thinking she’s old. I, too, pounced on who I saw as a spring chicken. She kept saying Just you wait until you’re 27…you’ll know I’m right! I can only roll my eyes long enough until eventually agreeing. I’ll know how I feel in two years, but that isn’t really much time at all.

After enjoying celebrating Charlotte, I went to the last part of my friend Leah’s birthday, who is about to turn 27 herself. I always feel like Leah is my age but just more sophisticated than me, but maybe it’s because she’s just plain older than me. Meera and I stopped for provisions at a Lebanese taqueria (New York is so cool) then met up with the crew at Zombie Hut in idyllic Carroll Gardens, a bar Leah and I once went to, just us.

Another great party. At this point, everyone coming in had been together all day and were delirious. We all ate pizza and gushed over the birthday girl, a birthday ritual that can exist at any age (but I guess not at a bar). Another instance of meeting and remeeting great people that are just happy to be together. Hitting two great parties before sundown made me feel like an adult that’s grateful to get a ton of sleep and a baby that’s powerful enough to make it all happen.

I am reminded once again that you’re only as old as you want to be. I need to age a bit over these next few weeks so I can remember how to sustain myself, but being baby also lets you in on so much fun. When I’m actually old, I hope that I embrace my age while retaining a youthful joie de vivre, like Sylvie, the sexy exec who can’t stand Emily on Emily in Paris. With her and last night’s Emmy Awards on my mind, here’s 10 actresses over 50 (not super old but old enough to make a great list) that are hot.

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