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You know that cheesy Shirley Maclaine song "If my friends could see me now" (I think it's from Sweet Charity - musical theater friends don't scoff at my ignorance)? I sort of was counting on a full marching band breaking out in that tune and locals breaking out into choreographed dance steps upon my arrival to NYC. This is the big time, right?

Instead, I'm sitting in my friend's apt. as she is out at a rehearsal, watching endless episodes of SATC foraging for Carrie Bradshaw's truthful nuggets on life and love while attempting to keep my stomach from growling, because - yes, I scavenged - there is no food in this house, and although I have keys I'm afraid to leave the apartment on my own.

I feel as unsteady now than when I was 15 years old and my parents dropped me off at boarding school. More, I guess. At least then I had a guaranteed roof over my head, even if it was a dorm. Today I have no home, no phone, no income, and only two suitcases of survival supplies. Junior year I brought a van-full.

After being dumped at the airport curb, in more ways than one, my legs somehow got me to the ticket counter, where the woman took one look at my tear-streaked face and made me re-distribute my luggage weight so as not to throw a handler's back out. Wear a lifting belt, dammit. If you regularly haul around 50-pounders, is 52 really going to kill you?

My feet then mechanically carried me to the security check in where, despite the fact that I was nearing dry heaves, I had to pile all of my carry-on shit into a series of literally 6 of those little buckets. Then the guy stopped me with a hand - lucky me had been picked for one of those random "extra" searches. Nothing beats getting felt up while you're sobbing like a four-year-old whose new puppy just got runover right in front of her eyes. It was psycological rape by airport security.

"I'm sorry," said the woman in the pseudo-cop uniform, while patting down my inseam.

"Hope your day goes better," said the guy with the magna-wand, after waving it between my legs.

I don't know how I kept moving forward when all I wanted to do was go hop the El back north. And I don't know how I kept moving forward once we landed in NY, and all I wanted to do was a 360 and get right back on the return trip to Midway.

Everyone keeps saying how excited they are for me and this new big step in my life. Why then, do I just want to stop my life's progression right here and live it backwards?

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2006-01-05 10:45 PM Scared, hungry and heartbroken Previous Entry :: Next Entry Read/Post Comments (1) Share on Facebook	You know that cheesy Shirley Maclaine song "If my friends could see me now" (I think it's from Sweet Charity - musical theater friends don't scoff at my ignorance)? I sort of was counting on a full marching band breaking out in that tune and locals breaking out into choreographed dance steps upon my arrival to NYC. This is the big time, right? Instead, I'm sitting in my friend's apt. as she is out at a rehearsal, watching endless episodes of SATC foraging for Carrie Bradshaw's truthful nuggets on life and love while attempting to keep my stomach from growling, because - yes, I scavenged - there is no food in this house, and although I have keys I'm afraid to leave the apartment on my own. I feel as unsteady now than when I was 15 years old and my parents dropped me off at boarding school. More, I guess. At least then I had a guaranteed roof over my head, even if it was a dorm. Today I have no home, no phone, no income, and only two suitcases of survival supplies. Junior year I brought a van-full. After being dumped at the airport curb, in more ways than one, my legs somehow got me to the ticket counter, where the woman took one look at my tear-streaked face and made me re-distribute my luggage weight so as not to throw a handler's back out. Wear a lifting belt, dammit. If you regularly haul around 50-pounders, is 52 really going to kill you? My feet then mechanically carried me to the security check in where, despite the fact that I was nearing dry heaves, I had to pile all of my carry-on shit into a series of literally 6 of those little buckets. Then the guy stopped me with a hand - lucky me had been picked for one of those random "extra" searches. Nothing beats getting felt up while you're sobbing like a four-year-old whose new puppy just got runover right in front of her eyes. It was psycological rape by airport security. "I'm sorry," said the woman in the pseudo-cop uniform, while patting down my inseam. "Hope your day goes better," said the guy with the magna-wand, after waving it between my legs. I don't know how I kept moving forward when all I wanted to do was go hop the El back north. And I don't know how I kept moving forward once we landed in NY, and all I wanted to do was a 360 and get right back on the return trip to Midway. Everyone keeps saying how excited they are for me and this new big step in my life. Why then, do I just want to stop my life's progression right here and live it backwards? Read/Post Comments (1) Previous Entry :: Next Entry Back to Top
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