smile like you mean it

lately i've been wishing i was friendlier.

or, rather, that i seemed friendlier. because (on most days) i'm not mean or thoughtless or rude. i open doors for the elderly and those with baby carriages. i don't shove my way onto clearly packed subway cars. i hold elevator doors when i hear someone coming (sometimes i even thrust my arm between the closing doors and risk dismemberment). i toss whatever i can afford into tip jars of places i visit frequently. i high-five the security guard who mans the freight entrance of my office building. the other day i complimented the new hairstyle of the girl whom i pay for my coffee every morning and i think i made her blush.

so, you know, i'm not a jerk. i just wish i was more open.

example: a little while ago, on my way back from grabbing lunch, i was in the elevator with a girl—a woman? she seemed about my age, but i still think of myself as a "girl" most of the time, is that weird?—anyway, i gave her a quick half-smile as she walked into the elevator and then assumed my normal position of leaning against the back wall and gazing at the TV screen for the latest fun facts or breaking news.

the girl didn't press a button for a different floor, which meant she was going to mine. she didn't look familiar but two seconds later she turned to me and asked, "are you here for the accessories meeting?" i knew about the meeting and two of my co-workers were going but i wasn't able to because of a pressing project.  so i said, "no. are you?" she went on about how she was late, coming from visiting a new store outside of the city. i told her i thought it had started late so she was probably fine. she said she was only interested in the portion of the meeting being conducted by my boss' boss. i said, "oh, well, he's always late so i'm sure you're fine."

then she said, "so how are you?" and even as i'm saying, "good!" i'm thinking, oh god this girl thinks she knows me? awkward! and then oh crap, do i know her and just forgot? but then she said, "what do you do here?" i was still in the midst of my panicked thoughts and stammered some answer that probably illuminated not a single thing about my job. "have you been to greenwich?" she asked, meaning one of the company's store locations. "yes!" i said, so glad that i'd actually been there and could speak coherently about something. "it's amazing!"

the elevator doors opened and we both got out. "my name is Samantha," she said, "in case we ever run into each other again. nice to meet you." i said, "nice to meet you too,"—never even told her my name, genius—and we went in opposite directions.

it seems silly now, but the whole situation caught me off guard. why are friendly people so disarming? why do i get so uptight when someone tries to chat with me? i can easily banter with a checkout person at Duane Reade or a waiter in a restaurant, but when it's unexpected—like in an elevator, or on a train, or at the gym—i'm just pathetically, painfully shy and awkward.

and i honestly have no idea why, though it's been a lifelong affliction.

i can't even tell you how many times people who became my friends said they originally thought i was a bitch or a snob. they mistook my social awkwardness for silent judgment or something. which, if you know me, is a little crazy. and most of the time, i don't even realize that i'm not smiling or seeming open or friendly. my shyness seeps through my face, apparently. when i'm nervous or unsure of what to say, it looks like i'm just unpleasant or unhappy.

so awful.

many years ago my Gram told me she wished people smiled more. she said around her office the new, younger people were so unfriendly—a stark contrast to how it was with the old schoolers. "you should smile and say hello to everyone," she told me. this was right before i started my first job out of college and i decided she was right, so i gave it a shot—i remember so clearly walking down a hallway at Seventeen my first week there and smiling at a few people who passed by.

i'm not even kidding—they gave me dirty looks in exchange.

this could have had everything to do with the fact that i looked like a dork in my new Old Navy wardrobe (my entire magazine experience was very Ugly Betty) and came off entirely too eager and earnest and they had no idea what to make of me. or perhaps it was just cooler to be bitchy. either way, i abandoned my Smile At Everyone plan real quick.

but now i'd like to resurrect it. even before today i'd been thinking i should work on my friendliness. i want to be more like Samantha from the elevator. it just seems a nicer way to go through life.

mbm

broke: a true story

in conjunction with the speech President Obama will give tonight, in which financial  matters will likely play a very large and looming role, i have a little story i'd like to share.

once upon a time there was a girl. she was 22 and had a new job, a new apartment—and a new credit card. her dad said it was important to build credit, now that she was out in the real world, and that buying even one CD a month (it was that long ago—CDs were the newest form of music available) and paying off the balance in full was an excellent way to start.

so that's what she did. very small purchases, every month—balance paid in full. this went on for an entire year. she was off to such a successful, responsible start, it's hard to believe what came next.

because she could no longer stand living in the suburbs and passing through the Port Authority each day (twice), she moved herself into the city. her salary had gone up only a minimal amount and she had no business paying the kind of rent she was now paying (to share a studio!) on the Upper East Side. but it was pretty much her only option at the time—at least it felt that way—and, hell, she was young. so she dove in.

it wasn't long before the walls started closing in on her. suddenly one whole paycheck was wiped out each month, simply to keep a roof over her head (and that was with a little help from her dad), which meant that soon she was using her credit card for a lot more than CDs.

not a good idea, of course, but the girl was in her early 20s and with a new boyfriend—not to mention living in Manhattan, a dream she'd had since she was little—she couldn't very well stay home all the time.

new clothes, manicures, gym membership, dinners out, books, DVDs, concert tickets, shoes—all of it went on the credit card. whatever cash was leftover after the rent check went to non-fun things like commuting costs, bills and groceries.

as the balance on the credit card increased, so did the weight on her shoulders. her magazine salary was paltry, no hope of rising anywhere near what she needed to get her balance down, and she was trapped. completely stuck in the cycle of spending without saving, buying without truly having the means. she felt guilt, shame, panic, dread. she was completely uninformed about APR rates and had not yet discovered Suze Orman. instead of asking for help and advice, she made minimum monthly payments and otherwise practiced avoidance.

two years later she finally fled Manhattan for the cheaper pastures of Brooklyn, but the damage was already done. six years later, she's still paying for the sins of her 20s. she's no longer living paycheck to paycheck—and has long-stopped abusing her credit cards—but the money she could be saving for things like a trip to Ireland, a house, the super 120s jacket and trousers she's dying for from J.Crew, is all going toward her debt.

and, quite frankly, it sucks the big dill.

the end*.

*for those of you out there just starting your grown-up lives—or those of you in high school or college who will be out in the real world before you know it—i hope you will remember this cautionary tale. if you can't afford it, don't buy it. if you can't afford it, don't rent it. the Port Authority is not that bad. (and don't ever get a job at a magazine.) 

lorrie moore, the universe and me

my dad gave me a little guilt trip on sunday. “even though you promised to update your blog more often, you haven’t,” he said, in his ‘disappointed’ voice that gets me every time. i have half a dozen excuses, some of them even almost valid, but in the end it’s my own fault for not making time to write. because, honestly, i have the time. (i could, for example, not spend 20 minutes looking at the facebook page of a former high school classmate i haven’t seen in 15 years and instead use that precious time to write. in fact, it’s sort of embarrassing that i don’t.)

anyway. do you ever find that the universe kicks your ass at exactly the moment you need it? that certain events line up at just the right time to illuminate a life lesson you desperately need to learn? that happened to me yesterday, i think.

last night i went to a reading at the Barnes & Noble in Union Square. the guest writer was one of my favorites, Lorrie Moore. she hasn’t published anything other than a short story here and there in the last 10 years, so the fact that her new novel, A Gate at the Stairs, came out earlier this month was a huge deal to people like me. i had her reading written on my calendar in capital letters and highlighted. you might say i was looking forward to it.

but let’s back up a moment. i was traveling from Pennsylvania to New York yesterday morning and since i got to the Trenton train station a little early, i grabbed a medium coffee from the Dunkin’ Donuts stand before getting on the train. i was juggling a few bags (when am i not?) and sat my styrofoam coffee cup on the train seat so i could tuck my bags on the overhead rack. i clearly hadn’t sipped enough coffee yet because without thinking, once my bags were properly stowed, i sat down on my seat. on the coffee cup. in addition to scalding my rear end, i also stained my cardigan beyond salvation—i’m never carrying my Tide pen when i need it.

so all day i’d been walking around in a flimsy orange v-neck tee shirt from Urban Outfitters, jeans and my Converse—which is my idea of fashion, believe me, but not really work-appropriate. the outfit had been all about the cardigan, at least before the coffee incident.

by the end of the day i was freezing, so i gave in and threw on my Hofstra sweatshirt, purchased only recently on a sentimental, memory-lane-type trip back to my old campus (and the only other piece of clothing in my weekend bag). of course, it was during my time as a Hofstra student that i discovered Lorrie Moore. my second (and favorite) creative writing professor, Zach, wrote on one of the stories i submitted for class, “have you read Lorrie Moore? your writing reminds me of hers.” (to this day, it is the single best—and most ridiculous—compliment i have ever received.) i immediately went to the library and checked out as many Lorrie Moore books as i could find.

Like Life quickly became—and still remains—one of my favorite books of all time. it’s a collection of short stories and one titled “You’re Ugly, Too” especially opened my eyes to everything my writing was missing. if you’ve never read anything by Lorrie Moore, i suggest everything, but if you have only 30 minutes, please read “People Like That Are the Only People Here.” you can find it in the 1998 O. Henry Prize Stories and in her most recent short story collection Birds of America.

the story will stay with you forever, i guarantee.

anyway, so it was pretty fitting last night that i showed up to a Lorrie Moore reading in a Hofstra sweatshirt. that’s my point. i got there 30 minutes early and snagged a perfect seat amidst the growing crowd. and then i realized that Barnes & Noble was playing music by Madeleine Peyroux, a singer i only discovered about two weeks ago and have been listening to non-stop—literally—ever since.

after a somewhat mind-numbing day at work that had me really questioning my career choices, it was like the universe was telling me, “yeah, you belong here.”

Lorrie appeared on time, after an introduction that caused her to roll her eyes (which is partly why i like her so much—she’s so not about the B.S. ass-kissing the B&N employee was trying so hard to sell) and after a little self-deprecating banter she read from her new book (which i have still not read, i admit—i’ve been savoring Richard Russo’s Nobody’s Fool).

it wasn’t the first time i’d seen her read. four years ago she participated in the New Yorker Festival and i went to her session after work one Friday night. it was thrilling for me—it might as well have been Derek Jeter two feet away from me, seriously—and was right around the time i had decided to apply for MFA programs. i wanted to be inspired and i suppose i was, though not enough—i got rejected from every school to which i applied. (c’est la vie.)

last night i just really wanted to hear her read. people had their cameras out, snapping photos. nearly everyone had a Lorrie Moore book on their laps for her to sign. me, i wasn't feeling fanatic. before the reading began i’d overheard a few conversations between fellow attendees, people my age or younger talking about writing, talking about projects, about characters and plot twists and all sorts of things i never talk about with anyone outside of a writing workshop—and i kept thinking, “i’m not like any of these people.” i couldn't decide if that was good or bad.

after Lorrie finished reading she took some questions. that same ass-kissing B&N employee was running around with a wireless mic so various folks could ask their questions. as she was telling the first questioner about the writers who inspire her (“everyone,” was the gist of her answer), i decided i wanted to ask something. so i raised my hand when she was done. then i raised my hand again. no luck. the B&N employee announced that there was only time for one more question so i raised my hand yet again. rejected.

some lady asked whether she was crazy for thinking the protagonist in A Gate at the Stairs was narrating in the present tense—was she really reflecting back years later? i couldn’t helping thinking what a waste of a question! that’s what you end with? well, the universe heard my thoughts because the B&N employee with the mic changed her mind. “we have time for one last question,” she announced and, one last time, i raised my hand. this time, she saw me.

she hurried over and handed me the mic and heads turned to look at me, including Lorrie’s. “hi,” i said. “i was wondering about your writing process—do you have one? how does it all happen?”

it’s important to note that i love reading about writer’s processes. it seems each one has a different process—some much more ritualistic and anal than others. i was not—at least consciously—looking for advice or guidance. but Lorrie (or the universe) thought differently.

“do you mean, how do i start my mornings?” she asked me. “what routine do i follow?”

“sure,” i said.

she spoke about the importance of the first cup of coffee and how it should not be wasted on anything other than work. “don’t waste it on your friends,” she said, “because you can never get it back.” everyone chuckled but she said, “i’m really not kidding. you start going for coffee with friends and it loses its power.”

then she got serious. “when i was your age,” she told me, “i wrote all the time. i was obsessive. i spent my weekends writing. is that what you do?”

i found myself nodding, even though it’s not at all true. i wanted it to be true.

“well, then you know how it is—you get into a narrative and you want to be with it, you want to be close to it, all the time.”

(that is something i do know.)

she went on to say that she’d never had a rigid process, like some writers. when you love to write, when you have to write, you just do it. “it sounds like you’re on your way,” she said, finishing up. “just keep doing what you’re doing.”

i was struck by the fact that she assumed i was a writer. i guess that’s dumb of me—probably she knows that the only people at her readings are writers. but i was also struck by the fact that instead of talking about her process, she sort of turned it around on me. again, the universe was speaking, this time through one of my favorite authors. the message was basically: “uh, dummy—even Lorrie Moore thinks you should be writing all the time instead of putzing around waiting to be perfect. pull your head out of your ass already!”

and, as if on cue, as i filed out of the bookstore, Madeleine Peyroux came on again, this time singing my favorite song of hers, “Don’t Wait Too Long.” sample lyrics: if you think that time will change your ways, don’t wait too long...

i left feeling buoyed, not at all discouraged or even down on myself. on the subway ride home, i realized that i actually hadn’t been lying when i told Lorrie i write all the time. i may not always be writing stories that could wind up in a literary journal or collection of short stories someday, but most minutes of my day are spent writing—in my journal, e-mails to friends, birthday cards, thank you notes, photo captions, copy for work, copy for the wedding program, conversations i overhear on the train, descriptions that pop into my head that might be useful someday—i’m always typing, scribbling, jotting.

and maybe that’s the most important thing right now, at this moment. at least i’m always writing. though i did hear the universe loud and clear last night; i can’t wait too long to continue what i started in college, when i submitted that story Zach said reminded him of Lorrie Moore’s writing.

i’m just going to keep telling myself what she told me last night: “you’re on your way.”

mb

getting pounded by the pavement

lately around the city i've been noticing young, harried looking people dressed to the nines in the godawful humidity, lugging bags and portfolios, changing into or out of comfy shoes on street corners, all with a certain look on their faces—a mix of sheer terror, disbelief and anticipation.

and oh, it takes me right back.

ten years ago this very month i was doing the First Job Shuffle. once a week, or sometimes two or three times a week, i'd make my trek into the city for interviews. back then, believe it or not, Amtrak was still somewhat affordable, so i'd take the local train to Philly, hop on a cushy Amtrak train, and disembark at Penn Station with a stomach tied in knots.

it's so ridiculously scary, figuring out how the hell to start your career. especially at age twenty-two, when you've just spent the previous two decades being told where to go and what to do and how to do it and when to get it done. the sudden freedom of post-college life was, at least for me, a little debilitating.

it was so long ago i can barely remember all the places i interviewed. my first was at a publication called Glass Digest—yes, it was a real magazine and yes, it was all about glass—and i was offered an EA job pretty much on the spot. thank god i turned it down. i also interviewed at Cat Fancy or Dog Fancy—i really can't remember—and Weekly Reader (that required Amtrak-ing it up to Stamford, CT, what an adventure) and US before it went weekly and a magazine for lovers of the Mercedes-Benz.

that probably sounds awesome to recent grads—every place i sent my resume seemed to call to set up an interview. but let me tell you, it was exhausting. and i was utterly and completely lost.

one specific, vivid memory popped into my head earlier today. i was in the city for one interview or another—actually, possibly two interviews that day—and i was wearing a mint green suit. you read that correctly: mint green. think of the barfiest shade of green you can imagine and then kick it up a notch. that was my suit. purchased specifically for my job-hunting bonanza at a Kohl's-like store in Pennsylvania. (god, do kids even wear suits to interviews anymore? did they ever? was i that much a freak of nature?)

anyway, of course i was wearing pantyhose—it was July in the city, why wouldn't i?—and sensible pumps. probably from Naturalizer or Hush Puppy. probably a shade bone or taupe—sassy. i didn't know my way around the subways so well at that point and god knows i couldn't afford cabs. so i did a lot of walking from Penn Station to wherever my interviews were, usually on Fifth or Madison or Lexington, somewhere in the 50s.

that particular day, the mint-green-suit day, i remember walking up Fifth Avenue and feeling a wetness at my heels. i was just leaving a big fancy building, the location of some publishing company, and i glanced down to see what was up.

my heels—both of them—were a bloody mess. i'm talking a four or five inch radius of bright red, staining my nude pantyhose. i'd never seen anything so ridiculous. or disgusting. i had sort of felt the blisters building earlier but had no idea they'd exploded in such a gory fashion.

i stared down, horrified, and remember feeling—so very acutely—that i was so new. i was a clueless, overgrown, totally naive child and the whole world could see it, courtesy of my bloody heels.

no idea what i did after that. probably ran into a Duane Reade for band-aids and a new pair of hose. actually—and i'm not sure if it was that day or another one—i remember spending a good amount of time, either in between interviews or waiting for my Amtrak train, huddled in one of the lobby areas of the Marriott Marquis in Times Square. i sat by a bank of pay phones (i wouldn't have a cell for another two of three years—imagine that, kids) and called my best friend and college cohort, Kerri. we gabbed and laughed and commiserated for as long as my calling card would allow, and it was the most at ease i'd felt since graduating.

it all worked out OK in the end, of course. in August of 1999, just as i was about to accept an unpaid internship at Boston Magazine, i was offered a job as the reader mail assistant at Seventeen, and the rest is history.

i know the kids have it harder today. they're not only battling each other for a precious few jobs, they're battling all the tons and tons of people who've been laid off in the last year. must be a jungle out there.

for those reasons (and reasons directly related to the mint-green-suit fiasco) i am extremely glad that rite of passage is behind me.

mb