A Fresh Start

I'm not perfect. I'm 26 years old and just now getting a grasp of what being an adult should mean. I feel as though nobody told me it's like a swift kick in the face, then another for good measure, but I won't blame any of you. I'd like to believe this is how everyone transitions into adulthood: amid a series of challenges and setbacks. I'd also like to believe I'm not the only one who's not very good at being an adult yet. The impetus for this blog is my experience in this very transition, and the title reflects my sometimes-failed attempts at being a responsible, self-sustaining grown-up. Allow me to expand upon my recent tribulations.

c'mon... take me seriously

A lot has happened to/for me in the past year. I graduated with my Master's degree abroad and moved back to the Lone Star State, feeling extremely capable and full of promise. Unfortunately the feeling wasn't mutual with the Austin arts job market and I found myself taking odd jobs and retail positions to get by. Not exactly a transition that anyone loves to make: from discussing art theory with colleagues and professors to systematically shipping boxes of UT merchandise. 

it's a cold, cold world out there, folks. gotta get your jackets and suit up!

I was somewhat relieved to note that almost all my coworkers were degreed individuals, and thankfully some would commiserate with me regarding our low standing on the economic totem pole. Some days I would feel proud of myself for at least doing something, albeit menial labor, because not everyone was fortunate enough to be working. But, I'll be honest, most days I was ornery or dejected, feeling like I had taken several steps backwards in life. And then I came across this quote in a blog:

It doesn't matter how slow you're moving as long as you're moving. As long as you're making relentless forward progress. And guess what? Part of forward progress means pausing sometimes and getting off track sometimes and wandering around in circles and taking sixteen steps back because that's what real change in real life looks like.

also, this really resonates with me

That tidbit, coupled with relentless supportive pep-talks from my mom, helped me keep trying. Also, in the midst of this, I happened to meet the love of my life without even looking for him. Thanks to an odd job that had me selling popsicles at a music festival (I know, ridiculous) I met Jon, who turned out to be the best unexpected gift I could've ever been given. Cliché as it may be, very early in our relationship I "just knew" he was the one and that part of my life fell very easily, comfortably and happily into place. Professionally, I was not where I wanted to be, but thankfully I had a very strong emotional support system.

me & jon

I went on so many interviews, for jobs I didn't even want but I knew they'd be better than what I was already doing. I kept being told by close friends I should be happy I'm getting interviews at all, so I tried to be upbeat about it. But I constantly ended up in the final two candidates and then not being chosen. That happened to me 3 times! It's hard to say if that's worse than just knowing you didn't get the job - this way I knew I was consistently ALMOST good enough, but not quite-- a close second to another anonymous individual.

Now, nearly a year after graduating, I have found the person I want to spend my life with, I accepted a job offer at a yet-to-open western art museum in San Antonio, I got a car, I moved into my own apartment, and I'm officially on my way to serious adulthood. And I feel blessed to have all of these things-- it has been worth the wait. Although I've had to leave a city that has been my home for nearly 12 years, one that is also home to my lovely mom, my beau, and some of my favorite eateries and establishments, you all know me and my shifting concept of "home" over the past few years. I embrace change and I stare challenge in the face, daring it to best me (well, sometimes). If I can call a lopsided futon in a 40-something couple's Turin apartment "home", or a tiny twin bed in an 80-year-old woman's New York apartment "home", then I can call a small 1/1 apartment in an artist/inventor couple's San Antonio historic house "home".

A toast!

Here's to a fresh start in a new city that is now my home. Join me on all my misadventures into real adulthood -- it may be a late start, but it's a start, and everybody's got to start somewhere. It might as well be here.