But I did. And it’s been about a month as an official employee, and I still can’t believe how everything has fallen into place. I’m proud of myself for going with my gut instinct in choosing TMG’s internship over one that was much more convenient, and would have let me work more at Banana and save more money . I’m happy that I fell in love with the company after just a couple of weeks, and that even though I was scared of the unknown, I kept my faith in my work ethic, and in the company. Every day that I was an intern there, I learned something new and grew closer to the fellow 75+ employees. And as a full-time employee, I am still learning, developing more responsibilities and growing every day.

With a full-time job, I’m finally able to feel comfortable signing a year lease on a place. I know I’ve been crazed moving from LBG to Alexandria, from Alexandria to Arlington, and now from Arlington to … well, Arlington, but closer to a metro. I’m excited though – my new roommate and I are very compatible and though I’m sad that my current roommate is leaving, I couldn’t be happier that her dreams have come true and she’s going after her goals and getting out of a city that never pleased her.

The events I get to attend as a representative for the Flyer in some cases are eye-opening, and make me a bit more appreciative of the way my parents raised me. As I joked with one of the writer for the magazine, my 10-year-old self didn’t appreciate a visit to the Louvre – I didn’t understand why Mona Lisa was so small, and was content with a brochure in my lap to read on the bench while I waited for my parents to finish up. But I was able to attend a gallery opening at the Corcoran a couple weeks ago, and I was able to see art in a whole new perspective. Maybe I won’t ever be a fine arts buff who can spend hours looking at portraits, but I was genuinely interested in the history of the painters, the sculptors, and the ideas behind the works of art. A few nights later, I brought a friend to a play (also courtesy of the Flyer) that was based on the Lincoln/Douglas debates, a historical period I knew very little about. But it was witty, the acting was excellent, and the director put an unusual spin on the play by framing each scene with a brief monologue from Douglas’s wife. And with just three characters, the play was truly a delight to attend. This weekend I brought my best friend who was in town to a wine tasting festival, and grabbed story ideas and talked with tourists and locals alike to get more of a sense of the DC scene.

I like being able to go to these events, and to finally choose what I want to do with my time. I’m not saddled by essays and tests, by the Cigar, by internships – I can finally be me. And though I’m positive of who that is careerwise, it’s the extracurricular that still needs development. On the phone with a somewhat new friend a few weeks ago, I was asked “What do you do in your spare time?” It was such a simple question, but I had to pause before telling him, “I don’t think I’ve ever really had spare time,” and then lamely finishing by saying I liked to hang out with friends. But then I thought about it, and told him what is it I’d LIKE to get back into … seeing plays, attending exhibit openings, catching a fun musical … and I realized, with not much surprise, I was echoing everything my parents had been jamming down my elementary/middle school self.

Though I think every kid doubts their parents at one time or another, as I grow older, I realize why many decisions were made. Why bother taking a 12-year-old to go see Monet’s house and the infamous lily ponds?

Because, 10 years later, she’ll see more of his work, and realize how much of a blessing it is to say that though she remember little more than the very brightly colored rooms, she’s been there. And curiosity might have killed the cat, but for me, my learning is just beginning.

It kind of just took me awhile.

04/29/09 – Sure, the squirrels have nearly run over my feet several times. I’ve locked myself out of dorm rooms, lost my student ID nearly seven times and thought I could survive a rainy day with too-long pants and flip-flops (Hint: You cannot.)

But with all the chagrin the past four years at the University of Rhode Island may have brought me, I am still that cheesy, vomit-inducing romantic that will look fondly back on these years.

They say high school flies by, but I still remember being a sleepy little freshman sitting in Professor John Pantalone’s URI 101 class, across the room from people who would become some of my best friends, wondering how the hell I would get through the next four years.

Of course, now I’m sitting here wondering where the past four years went. And as I sit, less than 20 days to commencement, I feel it only necessary to reminisce through my favorite forté: writing. So here’s what I think you should know, and do, before you’re in the same boat. …er … chair, as me.

1. Find something you love.

I’m serious. I’ve known my game plan since I was 13-years-old flipping through American Girl Magazine, but not everyone finds their passions right away. It took me until junior year to solidify what I want to spend my life writing about, and without my years here, I never would have realized it. And if someone tries to deter you…

2. Don’t let the bad guys bring you down.

Or the bad girls, to each his or her own. A friend said to me recently not to let anyone tell me that I can’t do something, because I could (short of acquiring Harry Potter-like powers, I suppose.) He adamantly slammed his hand down on the table when I told him maybe I wouldn’t achieve my goals and asked: “Why not?”

I urge each of you to harness that same mentality, and to press on, even when you want to give up. And if you do fail…

3. Sometimes failures lead to opportunities.

Don’t think of it as a failure. You know that saying? “When one door closes, another one opens?” Maybe I’m just too big of a fan of one-liners, but I agree. So you tried out kickboxing and it didn’t quite work out? Can’t string together a sentence, but managed to tutor your buddy in calculus? Look at your strengths, and work on your weaknesses. Always make yourself a better person – you’ll benefit in the long run. And when the going gets tough…

4. Make everlasting friendships.

In high school, I grew apart from a few close friends. But if someone goes away, then the friendship never truly existed. I still talk to my four favorites from high school on a regular basis. Though college is a crazy, wild ride, please don’t forget the people who came before.

And while you’re here, take the extra hour to sit with your friend over coffee or knock on the door with a DVD. Make those friendships that need only a glance and a knowing look to send the two of you into fits of giggles … and make other people scratch their heads in confusion. Lie on the Quadrangle and use your textbooks as pillows while you make plans that you better freakin’ keep. And while you’re at it…

5. Make somewhere your second home.

Whether it’s an organization’s office, an academic building or a friend’s residence, make something else a part of your life. I probably spend more time in this Cigar office than I do my own home, minus sleeping (and even then, it’s a tough call.) But I wouldn’t give it up for a minute. I know every stupid quirk about this place, and I would encourage you to find your niche, your “place” on or off of this campus, and make it your own.

Develop your own rules and live your own life. But above all, make URI the best damn four years of your life. Excel in academia, in lasting friendships and in pursuing your career.

Three words: Live. Laugh. Love.

OK, enough with the clichés. Take it easy, Rhode Island.

Oy vey. Well, I’ve accumulated a bit since getting here – especially since my parents sent me a ton of clothes, I brought a suitcase back with me …yikes. I almost feel I could get it all into my car, but I’m still glad to have Christina’s help on Saturday. It’ll make my life a lot easier.

So my room looks pretty empty now. I still have my printer, I still have a few pairs of shoes and a pile of clothes to wear. My shelves are folded up, my laundry basket is filled with clothes from my “closet” (and a nordstrom bag, adidas bag, and suitcase … whoops) and, toughest of all, my pictures are taken down.

I came across a lot of things today that I wasn’t sure whether to keep or throw away. Things that I don’t know if I should hold on to, for memory’s sake, or if I should toss it. I’m a huge dork, and kept my Projo evaluation, for instance … it makes me remember that summer and running around all of East Bay with my handy-dandy GPS. I also crack up, thinking of encounters with Sylvia and Mrs. Pimentel, where Brenna and I lived for three months. Oh, providence…

I kept my Chips Quinn pin, of course. It reminds me that no matter how much faith I might ever lose in myself, someone – a lot of someones, believe that I can succeed. A fake license plate from a DC souvenir  shop that says my name on it reminds me that every day, I’m still learning everything I can about this area that I’ve moved to, and though it’s slowly becoming home, it was once a strange, distant thought. Birthday cards from this year, because … well, I love my birthday, and they make noises. A thank-you note I received from Mrs. Bisbano, the wife of a superintendent I wrote my very first projo story on, that turned out to be this beautiful love story instead of a mundane profile piece.

As I took down my photos, I hesitated before putting some in the box of things I’ll be bringing with me to Arlington. Friendships change, especially when you’re not in the vicinity of one another. Especially when you have nothing linking you except a pure interest in one another’s lives. As I took the photos down, and cast a few aside, I realized that, like my senior year of high school, some friends just aren’t going to be there anymore. And that’s OK.

I think sometimes, most of the time, actually, that it’s a curse to be as sentimental and nostalgic as I am. I am very stubborn about change – I like things in my life to remain as I see them, and people leaving it is difficult for me. It took me years to throw out old letters between an ex and I, though no feelings remained. I still have my old notes from middle school in shoeboxes back home in Lunenburg. I think I just like the memories. I brought my scrapbooks here to VA with me. One my mom did behind my back with all my friends putting in a page for my 16th birthday, and one we had to do for a class in school that wound up taking on a life of its own.

I looked at it a lot when I first moved here, whenever I was missing home.

But, whether I like it or not, life is changing again. It’s been four months in a new state, learning new places, meeting new people, and making ends meet. Though I might be moving only 15 minutes closer to DC, I know it’s going to change a lot of things. Getting a new roommate (yay!) that’s closer to my age is also going to bring more new people, new hangouts and a new atmosphere. And in another four months … well, we’ll get there when we get there.

(Side note: I really do miss my ladies, and Tim Lawless, who called me & was disappointed I wasn’t coming home. And Nick Wittemen, because really, what’s life without my Nikelass.)

So instead of going out the night before Thanksgiving like I did last year, and the years before that, I’m chillin on my couch, in pajama pants, watching Family Guy and getting updates from Miss manda about random LBG happenings while I munch on tortilla chips.

Still, little things make me happy.

For instance, the principal of my company let everyone leave at 3 today, versus 6. That was nice. So I had time to go buy a nice hostess gift for my Thanksgiving tomorrow, which I’ll spend with my CE manager from banana republic all day, and then the VP of HR at the company I’m interning at, a dinner that she kindly invited me to. I also got myself a little treat, because I was feeling kind of lousy.

So, in essence. Chocolate and no work. Cheery.

Came home after catching the bus after waiting only 5 minutes – also a plus. Sat behind someone with not so great hygiene. Not a plus. Back at zero.

Trudged to my doorstep and remembered my housemate is gone to Oklahoma and her dog is also gone for the week. Cheery – driveway is mine. Saw a package from the parentals, another plus. Opened said package to find not only the fudge they told me they were sending, but also gnocchi that I cooked tonight, single chocolates (about 5 total) and chocolate-covered cranberries. (Minus – They have a strange orange flavor, too. I believe my mother forgot that I always give her the orange flavored chocolates. Nonetheless, they’re not bad).

Another plus? A coupon/postcard from NY & Company. Entire store 50 percent off. Hopefully a cute dress, earrings and a top will be coming my way. Their stuff is not as cute in person as it is online, so I have slight trepidation from my purchases. Minus? No earring choices. I’m a big earring girl, and they had lame ones.

Finished ordering, took a nap. Passed out until Christina called me asking if I wanted to go to Springfield (VA), but I hadn’t even eaten dinner yet soo that was a no go. Plus – reminded me there are people here who I do enjoy spending time with, and maybe it’s OK that I’m not home. Minus – reminded me that I wasn’t home.

So … it’s almost midnight, and time to go to bed. It’s going to be a long weekend. So far, nothing has made its way into the positive sphere, right now we’re just breaking even.

Tomorrow’s another day.

But, I did read comic books, had plenty of barbies and idiotically cut my own bangs when I was in kindergarten. So some childhood memories were still pretty normal.

Anyway.

As I was watching the movie, munching on my buttery popcorn and silently cursing the screaming children in the back rows, I got to thinking about the holidays. I got so immersed in the movie that I half expected it to be snowing when we got outside, with carolers lining the streets of Alexandria. Instead, it was nearly 65 degrees out today, sunny as all hell and the only holiday tiding mentioned was “I’m going to use this coupon to start christmas shopping!”

Eh. Tis the season for retail therapy.

I’ve been slowly realizing that my holiday is going to be a bit of a joke. I’m working on Thanksgiving, and spending “dinner” either with my new roommate’s family, who are driving down, or Kallie’s parents, who also are driving (across?). Yes, I need the money – time and a half plus holiday is a welcome treat, and to be honest, Thanksgiving has never been a big deal in my family. And I’m seeing my parents two weeks after, when I move into my new place. Working Christmas Eve, flying home that night, spending Christmas day and Dec 26 until about 3 with my parents, then flying back to VA that night. It’s definitely a new feeling, knowing that I am not going home for a few days to see my town all holiday’ed out, like when I would leave RI, or be home for a glorious month, sometimes even month and 2 wks depending on the year, for Christmas break.

My mom would slowly try and drag out the Christmas ornaments, and we’d start reminiscing about the time we tragically tried to imitate a Martha Stewart recipe and the cookies came out hard, flavorless and utterly disgusting … until my mom tweaked it with her great culinary sense and came out with buttery, sugary treats. I’d jokingly (OK, not so jokingly) write up my Christmas list and my mom would put out the Christmas stockings. My sister (who is 29, and married as of last year) and I would gear up for our tradition on Christmas Eve of staying up late, counting our presents and trying to figure out what’s in our stocking while sneaking Christmas cookies. Specifically the tri-colored beauties my dad tries to hoard. Vaughan’s husband, Erik, joined in on this lovely tradition last year. Welcome to the family, my brother-in-law

Every year, my mom asks me what I would like for Christmas dinner. And every year, I always want my favorite meal – ham and pineapples and mashed potatoes. And not the crappy potatoes – the cheesy, twice baked, clog-your-arteries amazingness. With some white vino on the side, s’il vous plait.

Christmas, and the holidays in general, are just that time where it’s OK to be a little kid.

I still remember when I was about 8, right after I moved to Lunenburg, and I still believed in Santa. I came downstairs to ask my mom a question – book in hand, I’m sure – and I saw her stuffing the stockings with candy. I loudly exclaimed “I KNEW HE WASN’T REAL” and bolted back up the stairs while my mom cursed behind me, hurriedly finished what she was doing and ran up to try and convince me that she was just doing Santa’s work because he had asked her to.

Everyone has a story like that, some crushing childhood moment when they realized that it was really mom and dad gobbling up the cookies and milk you so carefully placed by the chimney, and starting to put two and two together when “Santa’s” handwriting resembled the chicken scratch on the rest of your presents a liiiiittle too much.

One day my dad sent me to go look for something in his side drawers, and I found a bunch of my notes – to the tooth fairy, to santa – and it made me laugh. Being a child, thinking that everything in the world is going to turn out OK, and not being introduced to the pain of reality is seriously a wonder in itself. As a kid, I decided that if I asked the tooth fairy for more money, I would get some, and if I told Santa that I would like to forgo presents in exchange for a well-wish (OK, truth be told, I’m pretty sure I was never this selfless … I like my gifts, damnit. But I did always snag one for Toys for Tots or some other charitable organization.) upon others, that it would happen. Where does this ideology start?

And more importantly, I suppose, where does it end? And what is better? To live in an ignorant little bubble, thinking, and ultimately believing, that everything will turn out OK, and that the world is one big happy family? Or to lie in a world of cynicism, filled with ugly truths and deep mistrusts for your fellow man?

Anytime I sit and think about this – and as a journalist, where cynicism and realism is pretty much a requirement, it happens quite often – I think back to the book The Giver, which I read in 8th grade. It follows a society that literally knows no pain, no sadness, no death … except for one, chosen person, who is introduced to all the horrors of society, to embrace these only for himself in case a decision based upon these experiences has to be made. Now that doesn’t sound too fun. But what is better, idiocy or enlightenment?

I guess I connect all this back to the holidays because, for some reason, the world just becomes happier, more sane, (or insane, depending on how your glass is filled, I suppose) during the holiday rush. It’s this inane … “we should be nice to one another because well, it’s what Jesus would do.” Strange, in my opinion. And am I of the mindset that it shouldn’t be constricted to holidays, and we should always be helpful and well, kind? To a degree, yes. But get too far, and you’ve become a sap, a pushover.

Ah, journalism … always bring it back to reality. And what a sad world we live in, where an act of kindness is to be questioned.

I haven’t hit that, yet. I hit the aha moment knowing I want to be around words. Whether I’m going to be an editor or a writer, I’m honestly not sure yet. The editors at TMG say I’ll figure it out the more I’m around words. I suppose that makes sense. We’ll see. Anyway.

That person. I’ve thought I’ve hit it, a couple times. One time just got married and the other time is a bit too recent to be writing about. The in-betweens are just confusion and make my head hurt. I think I’m a serious sucker for a love story though.

I had a fabulous night on Thursday, going out with John Quinn for dinner. Typically, dinner dates with 80-something-year-old men are not entertaining. But, as I’ve said many times, this man is unlike anyone you will ever encounter. The founder of Chips Quinn Scholars, the internship/scholarship program I went through to gain placement at the Providence Journal the summer of my junior year at URI, Quinn is a great journalist, editor and in turn, storyteller.

After discussing relationships, journalism, and our favorite vinos over an hour and a half long dinner, I finally found out how he met his past wife, Loie. He started the story off by telling me about his dead aunt. Like I said, he’s not one to mince words.

His aunt gave him two things … $20 to buy a bicycle (and he bought a street bike instead) and the catalyst to meet his future wife – her death. Turns out, a family friend had a sister who was flying in from Canada. Her first flight, and would John please show her around?

3 weeks later – where he told me he made her drink black coffee and bourbon on the rocks (now THAT’s love) – they were in love, and I could see it in the way he was telling his story.

Less than 2 months ago, my parents celebrated their 25th anniversary. It’s definitely been a marriage filled with ups and downs, as I imagine many are, and it’s not my story to tell. But 25 years is impressive, and it’s clear that there’s no one better for one another.

I think it would be safe to say that I’m pushing love under a rug right now. I’ve got so much other crap going on – today I was so overtired, I literally slept until I was almost due at work (at 2 p.m.), have had 2 coffees, and will probably sleep quite soundly after Coyote Ugly is over. But, right now, it’s just not important to me. I guess it is, because I’m sitting here writing about how unimportant it is, which slightly negates the unimportance, huh?

Career. That’s my love of choice, and right now, I’m flippin’ married to it. Is that a bad thing? John also talked about his wife, who worked as a nurse, and said she was a stay-at-home mom. It made me sit back and think about all the courses I’ve taken about women in careers, all the statistics I’ve read, and all the essays I’ve written on empowerment and the power of choice. In the end, that was her choice. And, in my candid state of mind, I asked John if it was her choice. He didn’t seem surprised at my question.

I think that happily ever after means different things to people. I guess I’m not sure right now what it means for me. In the end, I’ve always said that I just want to be happy. That’s my idea of success. I want to love what I do, love who I’m with, and love where I am. Well, right now, I do love where I am. Right now, I do love what I’m doing (though I could go for a 5-day work week versus 7 ..), and I love who I’m surrounded by.

It’s really nice, having friends here. Last night I went to Kallie’s and we just hung out and chatted for a couple hours. it almost felt like I was back at home, catching up with miss manda over a few glasses of wine. Granted, some stories took a lot of background info and there were no “Friends” references, but still, it felt normal. The way my housing worked out, I’m slightly sad that just as I’m getting used to Alexandria, I’m moving … but hey, I knew this would be a temporary thing, and I’m dying for a place that I can entertain and decorate. Kelly seems like she’s going to be a great roommate, so I’m very excited for the next step.

So. I love who I’m with, in a sense. Success? You tell me. Right now, life is moving just the way I want it to.

Though I could sure use a vacation.

All right, that was a bit harsh. After all, the reason it’s neglected is because I’ve been busy. Working 7 days a week is no picnic, but in a strange way I am thoroughly enjoying myself.

I think I just don’t know how to not be busy. Double negatives. Hmm. Maybe I should be writing more. In any case, I am working toward my goals, and that’s the reason I moved here. No one said it’d be easy being a city girl (even though I’m not living in the city yet, and only have begun to feel that way with my sharp khaki trenchcoat and venti lattes).

But still.

I met a potential roomie today, who works for the opera house. It made me incredibly nostalgic of times when I had time to do something I enjoyed – that WASN’T toward my future. Thirteen years old and I begged and pleaded for two things: contacts and voice lessons. I wanted to be beautiful, not frumpy and ugly, and I wanted to rock out. Well, I still have my contacts, as much trouble as they sometimes cause me. I was scribbling away at my silly novella DGG=T! (Oh yes, it has an acronym…), but college was a passing thought, my dad had already mapped out high school for me (run for student government, join a sport, find a hobby, join the national honor society) and heck, I just liked kicking back with Emily and Sara watching Sabrina the Teenage Witch, or trolling the mall with my crisp $20 allowance hunting for the chicest (HA) top or the highest platform sandals.

And side note to dad: Thanks for pushing me. I wouldn’t be where I am without your support, so no hard feelings for your requirements at good ole LHS.

But those were such fleeting times. Life hit, hard, that year and suffice it to say nothing was ever the same after that. But that’s another entry, another story.

Getting back to my root, my favorite word: Passion.

Then, I wasn’t passionate about my future. I thought about Now, I thought about Tomorrow, but never Next Year and DEFINITELY never College. And I must admit, it’s nice to have passion for my future, and that people recognize that I’m ambitious and won’t really take no for an answer.

So I went to college, and tried, really tried to make it work with their vocal department prep program. But I sat back and said my future was more important than some stupid song, and I quit, and threw myself full force into the Good Five Cent Cigar, obtaining internships, researching NYC (where I thought I was going, until senior year). Sure I was an idiot freshman and sophomore year, but it didn’t mean I didn’t work my ass off. And then junior and senior year came, and it seemed that all there was was work. That everything I had to do had to be for purpose, for some goal. And that goal eventually became meeting people that could help me in NYC, and then meeting people that could help me in DC, and then figuring out what I wanted to do, who I wanted to be. I finally had this concrete idea of my life in 10 years.

And none of it included singing. None of it included, well, anything besides editing and writing and working long hours. That’s when I started to miss that other side of me that has been dormant for years.

I miss being passionate about singing. I miss finding that hobby that i could just throw myself into and forget about all my day’s worries. I was talking about this a bit today with one of the editors at the company I’m interning at. I just miss it.

My eyes light up idiotically whenever someone mentions a musical, I still totally rock out to sappy songs in the shower just so I can sing and not have to worry about a thing (eek, rhyming? not intentional). I know that in order to achieve certain goals, you have to sacrifice. I’m sacrificing much of a social life, any shot in hell at a relationship, 55-plus hours a week not to mention commuting back and forth. Sleep, eating right, health in general …

And anytime I sit and think, for more than a second about it. I just shrug, and move past it. Because right now, it’s totally fucking worth it.

Because eventually, I will have it all. And you can be damn sure that when I do, there will be singing.

But as I’m sitting here, watching Carrie Bradshaw’s life turn upside down as she hunts for men in New York City, I’m wondering how many women journalists dream of being her. She makes being a journalist look glamorous, fun, rewarding. If you don’t stop and think exactly how much her humongous apartment, manolos and nights out on the town cost, and how the only true journalist moment she has is her breakdown when her computer shits the bed. But still, there are so many that stare at her life longingly and think to themselves “Oh, wow. I can do this. I can be Carrie Bradshaw. Let’s major in journalism.”

Here’s the truth – I only started watching Sex and the City my freshman year of college, mostly thanks to Zoe Alloy, and after countless naggings from one of my best friends, Amanda. 

But I knew I wanted to write long before that. 

My mom told me that when I was younger, I used to memorize stories that were told to me, and pretend that I could read by holding the book out in front of me and “reading” it to my grandmother (who of course was delighted). It worked like a charm, until I held the book upside down. Oops. 

My dad still has stapled pages that comprised my stories on going to the beach or about cats and dogs. I still have a floppy disk (Oh, yes, a floppy disk…) somewhere back home that holds more than 80 pages of “Girls, Guys, Dances = Trouble!” which was loosely (ha) based on my middle school friends and I. But the main character wasn’t me, it was a combination of my sister and I. 

I remember one time I tried to sit down and write an autobiography – the deep-seated, emotions of Chloe Thompson. I didn’t get past 3 pages. The truth is, I have a very hard time writing about myself. If I wasn’t forced to do it for Jody’s “writing Women and Our Lives” class junior year, the most personal thing I would have ever written would have been rants after my high school break up in LiveJournal (yeesh).

It’s much easier to tell other people’s stories. And I think that’s the real reason I fell into what I’m doing. Rather, what I want to do. 

Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like to write fiction. My sister has always been great at it. But I’m too much of a realist – I sit there and look at situations and read books about people and think to myself “Hell no, that would NEVER happen.” She would NEVER meet that guy that way, he would NEVER land that job … this is one big string of coincidences. In fiction, you make things fit … you need conflict? Make it up. Need a new character when things get dull? Throw someone wacky in there. 

But in journalism, the characters are real. The stories are real. And it’s an unbelievable feeling, sharing someone else’s story with the world. OK, well, in my case, I’m sure not the world, but at least a few thousand people. 

I’m still finding what it is I want to write about. One day, I’m positive I want to spend the rest of my life writing features. The other, I’m not even sure I want to write – I want to edit. Then again, maybe what I want doesn’t involve anything but being passionate about my job. Whenever I get one, that is. 

I guess I’m not going to know if the shoe truly fits unless I try it on. Oh, Carrie. Always bringing it back to the blahniks…Maybe a part of me does wish I had your life.

I know some people think I’m insane. I have no legitimate job once I’m there, just a place to live, two months rent paid for, and my savings. If I thought I was a networking maniac before I left, I’m going to have to up the ante once I arrive in Alexandria. Of course, the prospect of an exciting internship is something I had been crossing my fingers for since March, so that will take first priority. 

It’s not that I don’t like Massachusetts. I do. I can see myself settling here once I’m ready to raise a family and get married and all that mumbo-jumbo, but that’s not on the radar for at least another few years. And it’s either move away, or stay here, get a job I don’t really want, and live with my parents. They’re great, but neither of us want me to live here on a permanent basis. 

All of this is a big, huge risk. But, to use one of my favorite cliches, I’d like to think that with great risks comes great rewards. And if I don’t move, I would hate myself for chickening out. It was a risk to go to Rhode Island, when literally all of my best friends were staying at schools in Massachusetts. Yeah, an hour and a half is very different than eight hours or a 2-hour plane ride, but they’re somewhat on the same level. 

So the next time I write (type?) in this, I will be writing from my new home, in Alexandria, on the top floor of a three-story townhouse. With new bedding, my clothes strewn everywhere, and a distinct longing for Cherry Hill ice cream (though I still recall it being named “Udderly Delicious,” complete with cowprint trash cans…). But, it’s something I’ve gotta do. 

Wish me luck…

Kindly, it reminded me to speak with someone if I didn’t know where I was going. And to please remember that train doors do not operate like elevator doors, and if a purse, arm or leg became caught in the doors they would not reopen. I couldn’t help but laugh after hearing that, no matter what sort of day my dad and I had had. 

Thanks, metrolady.