I had a conversation with my mom today about prospects. Despite being here a week and a few days, my shiny idealism about purely enjoying city life or being able to touch Manhattan have tarnished considerably.
I've heard from Negative Nancys, friends with jaded experience, and my own internal over-thoughts about my current situation, and if I'm honest, it's getting more and more difficult to keep those lions at bay. Maybe it's because of how I left things before I came here or maybe it's because anticipation and adrenaline got me through a lot of it, but right now, it sucks.
And being extremely open about it, and saying that it sucks actually makes me feel better about a lot of it.
Don't get me wrong. New York smells like fresh laundry and cigarette smoke, both of which I love. Walking down a sidewalk with purpose is one of my favorite things to do, and I got to do so many amazing things in just a week. Even when I get lost, I end up somewhere unexpectedly cool or at least get the satisfaction in finding my way again. But it's hard to be charming or positive about prospects all the freakin' time, especially when I feel like people count on me, and especially when I want to show that my gumption goes further than a move to another state.
I equate this move to pregnancy or at least what I imagine pregnancy to be like: all of that excitement over the idea of having a baby, followed by the nesting period where I get even more excited by baby booties and baby clothes, then the actual giving birth where my body's exhausted and frightening, and finally the baby that I don't really understand but need to care for.
I'm on those last two stages, I think.
Unintentionally, my Uncle continues to pester me about job prospects and the answer to the question of "what company do you work for?" brings a sense of shame when I have to answer, mainly because my position sounds flimsy to my ears. So I keep applying at night to positions I'm not even sure will fit, but the very action of applying acts as a balm against my negativity. I'm at least trying, my mind mantras as I sign off another e-mail or start a new cover letter.
I chickened out and called my mom walking home this afternoon and relayed all of this, to which she adroitly pointed out, "It's been only a week, baby!" And she laughed soothingly as I agreed pathetically. "There's no hurry," she assured me, going into a comforting speech about how I just need to keep trying, to make contacts, to keep writing.
And I nodded along, replying when necessary, expressing my fears in the same way I did when I found that both Ians had a crush on me in kindergarten*, and my mom lovingly listened to all of my petty concerns (at this and the Ians thing).
She left me then, going back to her life, assuring me constantly and repeating her declarations of love, which I repeated back, feeling slightly foolish for my depressive complaints.
At that moment, I stumbled on a sidewalk vendor with tables and milk crates full of thrift books, and I balanced my coffee on the mass paperbacks, stuffed my phone in my pocket, and picked up a book at random, if only because flipping through made me feel better. Never mind that it was a manga.
I started in earnest after that, picking up books and reading the backs, no intention of purchasing because my job paid me so little anyway, but the very action, the pretense that I could afford something frivolous made me feel better. And that's when I found it: a copy of L.M. Montgomery's Emily Climbs. I read the ending about Emily's path and Teddy's almost kiss. I flipped through it, because emotional me took it as a good sign that I found it, and having the comfort of a familiar book made everything seem less scary.
I placed it back, though, ready to leave, when I caught a glimpse of a thin, beige colored spine, the same ones Sam and I used to search for at library rummage sales. The same ones that belong to those old Regency books we love so much, and sure enough, it was. And by one of the authors we love so much.
I bought my signs, learning that they were fifty cents each, and I made my way down the sidewalk, a little more peppier than before, which was when a guy handed a flier about a new restaurant to me.
"New restaurant! Delivery available!" he yelled.
I took the flier as I passed, still smiling over my signs, and made my way to jay walk the intersection.
"We have a cute delivery boy too!" he added, and I turned back at this, taken aback as he looked me up and down.
I was almost hit by a car then.
But I took that as my third sign that New York wanted me and was trying to boost my confidence.
The fourth was that the car didn't hit me.
*Such knowledge was my undoing in kindergarten. This upset me tremendously, and I lost precious nap time worrying over it.