NotSoAverageDay

Imagine.

A president with a funny name, a different face, of a minority race.

Imagine.

3 girls, from seemingly upper-middle class white families, as average as any, striving for success in our land of opportunity.

There are obstacles-Cindy McCain's immaculate outfits; jobs as cocktail hussies at Goldbar, creepy bosses disguised as fashion photographers asking models to test shoot topless, interviews at Chelsea clubs with the whackest clientele, and the reigning image of a white GOP leader.  Tough tasks to tackle, but we are holding our own.

Cheers, tears, more pep talks than can be accounted for-the comparable tales of Obama's campaign and my life and the lives of my two roommates truly cement the realization that odds are less than a game of luck and chance, and more of a tournament of hard work.  It seems so bluntly insulting and so blindly simple.  But what happens from the moment you take charge is up to you, and belief is the foundation of success.  The trials and tribulations of my life may not mean what those of our next president do, but I'm willing to bet my future successes will mean as much to me as his do to him.  Carry on.  

And might I mention Jill Biden's exceptional lemon lime suit this evening, and the adorableness of those to-be first children. And they're getting a puppy! 

AverageSecrets

It gets colder and darker, and I get colder and paler.  Doesn't seem so significant a change in September, but come November I am fully immersed in the pale, dark, 5 steaming coffees a day lifestyle.  I buy darker lip gloss.  I moisturize... more.  I crawl into people's beds who's beds I should not be crawling into.  (Who can resist high thread counts, working heat, and an extra body after a few glasses of pinot noir?)  One of the major shifts in my existence with the onset of a chilly, blustery, downright off-putting atmosphere is the increase in time I spend loitering in cafes, mostly wishing I was back in Budapest so I could chain smoke with my latte.  These hours are willed away through my usual time-eating activities of reading fashion magazines I can't afford to buy (I'll site the economic downfall here only to justify the fact that I once used to spend $50 bi-weekly on my collection), staring at the scruffy man-boy attempting to look intellectual and cynical by reading philosophy (they're not still in college, are they?), and most importantly, scouring my brain and the internet for employment and careers and inspiration.  Full time job, really.  But as I've said before, talking and thinking don't always make for doing, and sometimes (ok, most times) these hours yield nothing more than a deeper longing to DO what I want to do in life.  Even though the specifics of my desires are often altered daily depending on how strong my coffee is or how many drugs Olivier did while putting together the issue of Purple I was reading, I nevertheless always leave feeling motivated, yet utterly confused.

How does one help this cause?

I think I've come to understand we are all confused.  And this realization, though far from helpfully explanatory, is comforting.  I'm assuming it stems from my previous epiphany that we, the people on my street, in my coffee place, at the dog park, we the people!- are just average humans, living an existence they want. Or one they don't. Either way, there must be an element of confusion in there somewhere. Though probably the ones that live the life they don't want carry it heavier than the dream achievers.  

Does the confusion end?

I can answer this one with a confident NON.  Mes amis, confusion is a life long affliction affecting even the most deliberately successful people.  Examples:

My most accomplished friend to date, we'll call her Miss M (not the miss M, but divine in her own right), with a great corporate job she actually likes, a life-plan including owning an apartment and a 401K, and a stellar current address to boot, is still, shall we say, lost by way of the man super highway.  It might be a result of that unwritten cliche that says when all your ducks are in a row in one pond, the other boasts scattered, sporadic, unreliable ducks(or, for some, ahem, no ducks at all).  Whatever the reason, confusion from this nonsensical occurrence is bound to sprout in the minds of even the most focused Miss M's.  

Mr. Jones, my ex-something and future law student, deals daily with confusion of a different, yet equally concerning sort.  Dying to be a part of a world he was not brought up in, he indulges in his desire to be seen as the lackadaisical, spoiled, uninterested prep-school kid (the type I've been yearning to be free from for almost 24 years now) by buying blazers and dating Colombia girls with Upper East Side townhouses and personalities.  Scotch holds a place in this production as well.  But the kicker is that he actually succeeds, (I think most don't care enough to call him out, I, on the other hand, make it my full responsibility) and is apparently quite intelligent and will get into an Ivy league law school.  When fantasy becomes reality 90% of the time, how can one not be confused?

Alas, to my own confused life.  It basically amounts to one consistent mass of confusion.  Job-can I get one? Men-huh? Ambition-too many.  What to do then, but continue on.  Strive for it all, focus on one.  Try everything, do anything.  The measure of this is yet to be seen, but I can only give advice to myself based on what I know, and this not being much, I'm eager to learn.  

I think by now it is quite clear to myself and my .57 readers that I treat this blog, the correct and all encompassing name for thoughts published on the internet, much more like a monthly column than a daily updated site where I post pics and dish on gossip I heard at last nights soiree.  I suppose even, that I really only write this column, if you will, because even though it is not widely read, and there are no pictures or links or advertisements (all on purpose but probably ultimately just the result of this not being a top priority in my average important life) I feel a string of responsibility that connects me to it, and on occasion (about once or twice a month, I'd say?) I indulge this feeling with a rambling, nonsensical, purely selfish rant of my thoughts and opinions and observations on my oh so average life.  I like to begin usually with a scenario of some kind, never over dramatized to keep with the average theme, but sometimes a tad preachy and always over a normal word limit. 

Average evening last night walking my dog, 11pm. Slight chill in the air. I'm on Prince, trying to pull back the pup from her favorite outdoor cafe spot for dropped food, and who is there but little nome beauty queen MK, looking ever so tiny and accompanied by some ever so unattractive man-boys. Ok.

Stroll back to my stoop where I am greeted by my roommates and my favorite man-boy, roommate's Bob. Bob expresses his growing disdain for the neighborhood, a spew I think brought on by the nome, but I'm starting to fully appreciate his point.  I understand that what I'm about to say is basically the thesis statement direct from the "Why We Moved to Brooklyn" memo, but the fact that so few places (and when I say places, I don't mean entire bur-roughs, I mean establishments, for god's sake) remain sacred is almost scarier to a little average Manhattanite like myself than the impending collapse of our economy is to the one friend I have on Wall St.  Terrifying, to say the least.

Yet I think there is a slight inconsistency to my reasons for feeling violated.  I am the one who lives here, the nome and all the other ones just like her lurking around every corner of lower Manhattan pretend its their town because for the most part they are left alone (another case in point, who really gives a fuck about this celebrity sham forced upon Americans through reality tv and the insane paychecks and privileges offered to those who attempt, but rarely succeed, to entertain?), and theoretically a celebrity can exist in this city just as any average person does.  Disclaimer: When I say average person, I take full responsibility for that person being myself and my friends, and when I say celebrity, I'm not really talking about Madonna or anyone comparable.  I'm more of the Adrian Brody, Josh Hartnett, Natalie Portman sensibility.  And of course, Kiki D.  If this is so, I wonder if they often only stay temporarily to avoid becoming fully immersed in the anonymity of NYC and watching their careers trickle away while they sit chain smoking at a cafe remembering the good old days of network series and blockbuster movies.  But this outcome is a safe bet either way considering they leave New York for Hollywood to make a movie that costs millions, tanks at the boxoffice, scratches a notch off their credibility chart, and forces them to come back to the city in search of a more serious, grittier, lower-paying role.  Fascinating turn of events.

So while this all just played out in my mind in a much more entertaining manner than the Real Housewives or Rock of Love, it really has no effect on me personally.  Nothing about this form of gentrification, if you will, really impacts my average existence.  There is not one thing that has changed, or will change in the immediate future in my life because MK ate, or eh, sat, or smoked, at a cafe a block from my apartment.  Except if she keeps taking up court at the outdoor table my puppy will scarcely have a morsel of food to snag off the ground! 

AverageLessons

Stealing the internet in my apartment is becoming a bit tricky, and thus I’ve re-located for this installment to one of those obnoxious cafés that fill up with students, quiet types who like to read magazines but not buy them, and old women slurping tea and pondering Goethe because they never read it in their younger years.  Though I did participate in much network configuration during my recent time abroad, sitting in a bookstore/café in my neighborhood next to Nolita’s lexi anorexi trying to connect to WiFi is a tad embarrassing.  And I’m about to give up, except I actually have work to do.

 

I am about to embark on a restaurant review collaboration of some sort, the founder and president of this ambitious start-up has opted to call them “experiences.”   Basically, I must market myself enticingly enough so an average of 20-40 people want to hang out with me at the restaurant and live music venue of my choosing for an evening, hopefully giving me enough material to compose a review of this experience that someone might actually read.  In MY experience, which admittedly is minor compared to my peers in this project, things like this either become huge successes in which the founder and president eventually sells out to a Fortune 500 company, subsequently releasing most of the original employees of their jobs, or, it fails miserably and gets tucked away in the corner of seemingly great yet un-materialized ideas that all of us possess in some capacity or another.  But uncertainty aside, I am rather excited about the prospect of being part of someone else’s risky idea besides my own, and I am jumping at the chance to prove myself without looking like an asshole. I do have a solid average reputation to uphold.

 

Maybe it is just the sole idea of moving forward that excites me in my average existence.  I ran into my old boss some time ago, and experienced a time warp of epic and frightening proportions.  This person, or man, or rather extremely older man who tired once to tell me he was 33 (with gray hair and a loft on Greene street that he has owned for over 15 years? Please) was one of the most destructive and negative people I have ever spent a significant amount of time with.  I’m talking day drinking beyond college spring fests, drugs beyond minor addiction, outbursts, accusations, and attempts at intimacy all wrapped up in a mask of his introduction: “this is my studio manager.” Oh, did I mention he called himself a photographer? A model’s booking agent once chewed me out because he asked the sweet little SouthAfrican blonde to go topless at a casting in his loft. Subtle class abounds.

Anyway, we both have dogs. And there are only so many puppy parks in downtown Manhattan.  So a few weeks ago I waltzed into one, and he was there.  After numerous cigarettes, awkward conversation, and his dog humping mine for the majority of the time, I made the genius decision to join him for a drink at an outdoor place where we could bring the animals.  Because our union ended rather abruptly and unprofessionally, I convinced myself I should go out, of my personal rule not to burn a bridges, instead of admitting to my fear of dealing with the consequences of rejecting him.  Cue the reason I spent almost seven days a week with him for two agonizing months-I am so clearly a people-pleaser, a shrink would (and has), have a field day with that one.) Obviously one drink turned into three, and considering I was coming off my detox/cleansing phase (that lasted about a week and a half), I was intoxicated and not up to dealing with what followed.

Fool me once shame on you, fool me twice, I’m a total idiot. If you can imagine, I joined this awful excuse for a contributing member of society in his loft for some pot.  Once I had been sitting on the couch staring at the enormous television long enough to realize none of this should have happened, I got up, grabbed my dog, and ran out into the dark donning sunglasses, just barely escaping his huge arms and disgusting lips.  I returned home repulsed beyond belief, but with a surprisingly clear revelation. If I was still “working” for this person I would have likely by this point in time been either raped, dead, or in rehab.  And upon realizing something like this, one does feel rather secure and positive about where their life is going.  If one evening of terribleness is enough to keep me going, then I might consider myself lucky.

 

Though lucky can be relative.  I’m sitting at this café still, looking at my computer covered in cigarette ash, coffee, and bits of popcorn and pita chips, wondering when I will be at a place in life where I am confident enough to make my own luck.  I don’t know how this sort of thing happens, but I imagine it has a lot to do with hard work and an idea of prophetic-ness that comes from planning for the future.  This has never been my strong suit (I spent yesterday’s earnings on two vintage jumpers and a belt from the Netherlandish street vendor), but as far as simply making plans goes, I’m getting the hang of it. I’ve even started using my moleskin for things other than doodling and reminding myself what day it is.  I think this might even be what ‘they’ call learning from your mistakes.  And I did learn, even if it took making the same mistake hundreds of times.  Maybe this lesson can carry over into my finances, because the $59 in my bank account is not going to take me very far into the future.  

NowBeAverage

My laundry is piling up to my clothing rack, my aloe plant is dying, and there is an unread Muse sitting on my bed side table. These are the hardships that come with employment.  While I figure out the best way to cope with these harsh consequences of my recently acquired position as a barmaid/cocktail hussy/waitress, I contemplate life pre-whiskey sours and determine that now is better.  That is the point isn't it? That now is always better than before? That living in the now is far superior for mind, body, spirit, for life in general, than living in the past or future?

I had this conversation last night with a seemingly, but not, french dude, and a nice little Asian who keeps reminding me we went to college together and even had the same english class freshman year. I may not remember this person, but amidst our Patron induced stupor I do remember agreeing with him wholeheartedly in that being conscious of the now is what truly achieves happiness. That being said, I have to say he trades Japanese stocks.  Being at work by 6am to get a jump on the market in Japan that has already opened, while looking to the future for what will make his money hungry clients the most cash certainly qualifies as living in the past as well as the future, no? But I digress, for if he truly didn't believe what he was saying why would we have been discussing it in the first place? Being a conscious participator in the now of  your own life is a massive first step in living in it.  Anyway, I'm sure by next  year he'll be burnt out and move to the Himalayas to become a sherpa and tend to his sheep.

As for yours truly, this moment calls for a manicure. In the past I've been negligent, but you never know what may happen in the future.

AverageAspirations

To do as a distraction, or to do in order to achieve.  These seemingly different reasons for action, though at their core represent polar opposite outlooks on life, end up merging in my case into the same end result.  Do I spray paint the coffee table in order to escape my more prevalent duties of making an appearance at the gym or revamping my resume? Or do I turn a blind eye to the shabby chic appearance of my apartment (emphasis on shabby) and stare at my computer screen for a few hours trying to make a sales associate description sound inspiring and impressive? Either way, I will be accomplishing something.  And each respective accomplishment has the ability to add up in some form or another, to an achievement.  The clear definitive here is not what you choose to do, but why you choose to do it.  What is more important to me, right now, in my state of post-4th of July weekend gluttony? The coffee table or the resume?  My home or my job status? Myself, or an extension of?  In all honesty I cannot freely choose.  I can tell you what my father would deem top priority, what my neighbor would suggest (the coffee table has been occupying the backyard, half spray painted, for a couple weeks now), and even what the little puppy would prefer, considering the art store for the paint is conveniently on the way to the puppy park.  As I go through each mundane pro and con concerning the respective courses of action on today's agenda, I become sidetracked with pictures from last week's happy hour for the unemployed drinking marathon.  Clearly, the importance of these tasks is miniscule, it really does not get more average than this.  But the one thing that gets me going, that forever holds motivation for anyone not suffering from depression, a severe phobia, or mono-is the thought that no matter the reason for doing, for accomplishing, for achieving, without trying there will always be a "what if?"  Regret may not seem like a positive push to get off the couch (I sit at the table, there is no television anyway), but when coupled with the guilt of sheer laziness it breeds apathy and unfulfillment.  And even for an average New Yorker sans responsibilities beyond her own self-involved life, unfulfillment does not, and should never, hold a place in the heart of any  soul with even the smallest aspiration.  Even if that is spray painting a coffee table.  So I will paint-maybe as a distraction, maybe as a slightly image-conscious creative-type in an apartment that needs a coffee table, or maybe because I'm noticing a lack of checks next to the to-do list.  Whichever reason I choose to justify my action, I know that once I am finished I will feel accomplishment, and contribute to an achievement I might not have even realized I had. 

AverageTimes

As Obama appears more and more cartoonish with every magazine cover, and my neighborhood becomes more and more inundated with foreigners, July 4th is around the corner and I realize time has passed more quickly than I can fathom.  The age-old cliche that life happens when you are making grand plans for it, a mantra widely quoted on Facebook accounts of college freshman across the nation, though true, does not exactly apply here.  It has been 8 days short of a month since I contributed anything to this forum, and I am unable to report any severe changes to the state of my average situation.  This may be a good thing, as no tragedies or catastrophes have occurred, but it leads me to think that maybe my grand plans are just simply sub-grand afterthoughts, ranging from "raid parents Cape Cod attic for furniture" and "apply for jobs."  Everyone has daily ambitions, to-do lists, aspirations, and categorizing them as grand, while an overstatement, may be just the thing to boost self-confidence for your role in the game of life.  On that note, I give you my grand life plan-a conglomerate of thoughts and dreams condensed to a single plan of action: To lead a bi-coastal, creative, inspiring life by way of physical and spiritual journey's to far away places, surrounded by those I deem worthy and worth-while to share them with.  While this may ease the mere average fulfillment of my current situation, to think beyond my little Nolita six block radius might be inspiring and fulfilling enough for now. 

AverageAngels

Coming from someone who's college roommate and all around best friend's uncle owns the Anaheim Angels, I've considered myself as of late a believer of spirits roaming above us, invisible yet powerful (although I am a Red Sox fan).  This rather artificial belief manifested itself into my life this weekend after an encounter with a clairvoyant, who despite my skepticism, made me a true believer.  And she works for the FBI finding missing children, so really that was all I needed.

She informed me of my spirit horses and guides and angels which surround me, waiting for requests and needs they wish so badly to fulfill.  It makes sense honestly, as I was absolutely obsessed with horses as a child.  She even asked me if I would be interested in becoming a horse trainer.  Not exactly my current career goal, but it sounds like a nice idea to an average job seeker like myself.

After walking dreamily away from this woman, I felt my sense of averageness in this world like never before.  Contemplating a three-dimensional universe, where you are a part of something bigger than just you-a walking, sleeping, eating, speaking, and all around doing, part of a whole made up of those here to serve the same purpose, is overwhelming and at the same time extremely comforting.  It completely validated my sense of self-to be average is nothing more than to be what you are here to do.  That is not to say do not strive to achieve all you have ever wanted in life, or to neglect responsibilities or make a conscious effort to be average, but to revel in the idea of knowing that anonymity and loneliness and insecurity are basically immaterial.  And that when these feelings pass, the road ahead is paved for you by a spirit guide, an angel, an animal, or your own power of thought to self-define your part of the whole as average or un-average as you like.

IdeasofAverage

As I am new to this idea of writing useless pieces of information from my life to the public (i.e. blogging, though I'm sure no one is reading this just yet), I decided to do a bit of research. Confession: the only true blog I have ever read is stylefile, and if I should one day aspire to reach such high levels of public or personal satisfaction I'll quit now.  So I stumble around on the internet, and after browsing, or mainly looking at pictures of people's pets, I've determined there might be a little room for originality amongst everyday, average blogs.  Despite my constant mention of my own pet puppy, I have vowed never to commit what I have deemed the following crimes of blogging:

1. do not greet your reader. they know what blog they are reading and I'm assuming want you to get to the freaking point.

1a. do not date the blog. it does it for you.

2. Do not talk seriously about your sleeping problems, your bowel problems, or personal problems of any kind that do not have a funny or entertaining bit attached. 

3.  Do not talk seriously about anything at all, unless of course it is a serious blog, involved in promoting serious issues.  Not the nightmares you're having in your tent while trekking across Montana.

That shall cover it for now.  And after these 3 vows, I've vowed not to read many blogs again.

Many may feel rejuvenated and inspired upon a return to the city post country jaunt.  I, on the other hand, feel slightly more at odds with my city.  My overwhelming sense of obesity could have been from the stoned feast of icecream and banana bread at the lake, or maybe it is just from all the little modelrexics skipping around my neighborhood.  Either way, it always takes a second to move back into the swing of things. (that is a horrid expression, but I'm out)  

That's why I have to choose my bed over crashing my roommates date, because even though my personal model encounter this evening with my pup, while the model's chihuahua humped her, reassured me there were 'average' above average people still in public with flipflops and a sweater on, my trainer's coming really early this morning.

AsianAverage

its Memorial Day weekend, and while your slew of acquaintances runs off to the Hamptons to bring the party to Stereo and PM, you and your roommate and puppy stroll around your tourist ridden neighborhood regretting your paralyzing indecisiveness concerning weekend plans.

post frozen yogurt, new from the favorite deli up the block, you stumble upon the eurotrash hangout on Mulberry.  George the greek, the french owner, and your neighbor who hails from Montreal all sit outside sipping vodka and hacking ciggies with you. Suddenly appears the town crazy, Willy the Asian. Short, porky, and with glasses as thick as thieves, he proceeds to sit down. And an hour later, he's still there playing itsy bitsy spider up your arm. An hour after that he's chasing after you, shoving through crowds of upper east siders, screaming Ellie!!! Ellie!!, the name he has chosen for your puppy.

Waiting for your dealer has never been so eventful, and terrifying.

heres my lingering question (and not "will you love me?" from Willy): when you are solely in a depressed state, ready at any moment to throw a full-fledge pity party for yourself, why do socially promising occurrences jump off the sidewalk and toss themselves into your life, forcing you to instantly decide whether or not to continue on in your self pity? it is a decision who's immediate consequences bring about a self judgement in a way  that should be reserved for times only when you feel satisfied with the current status of your life.

and contemplating whether or not to venture out into tourist land should deem no ones life satisfactory. only average.

AverageEvenings

when you live in nyc, it is common myth and common practice that making plans and following through with them has a success rate of somewhere around 26%. i believe this shall apply to me and those alike for some time, unless of course you suddenly become above average and rule your life with integrity and organization. those of us here without an agenda of course, do not.

this is why when you are at previously mentioned 'bar' with your 2 confidants, and booty call rings on your blackberry (a fun little toy you surely had no business buying) mumbling code words to get you and other stragglers into the box on a thursday night, you oblige. mundane details of booty call's life are not a concern, rather they could be a nice anecdote in another entry concerning men and the lack there of in this estrogen ridden city. 

you enter and proceed to the bar. with vodka rocks in hand, because why skip the middle man, you proceed upstairs where booty call is working the vip room. after a few ciggies and some lame conversation, an accidental encounter with a stranger resembling eminem leads you to the front table for the upcoming shows. 

for box virgins, the burlesque performances usually consist of exposed body parts, provocative dancing, and even some excrement eating. this evening we were treated to anal flavored tequila, beatboxing drummer boys, and your average lesbian strip tease. yawn.

all the while you take in the agness deyn wannabe dancing wildly to your left; the 19 yr old pro-snowboarder grinding with your friend to the right, (athletes are well-known to be rythmically challenged), and a smaller than average man in front of you wearing a tie talking about nyc nightlife in a way that leads you to believe he probably just landed at jfk, direct from arkansas, 2 days ago. 

just as you are about to be drunk enough to forget your most average outfit of black skinnys and keds, eminem hands you a little bag o' fun and suddenly the box bathroom is the place to be.

the evening dwindles and somehow your roommate racked up a tab. the vip room is empty, save for booty call in a fedora and unbuttoned button up, and you and your company proceed to trek the 3 blocks home.

at least the puppy is happy to see you.

the next morning over brunch at colonial (because who actually waits in the gitan line besides tourists) you and your roommate decide against the dark seedy scene. slipping out just as easily as you slipped in. what used to be free fun has now turned into a paying consequence.  maybe average just means you're getting old.  

4pm rolls around and per usual the question 'where did the day go' dawns upon us. magically before we are ever able to truly ponder this, texts for happy hour flood the lines.

normally, i reserve happy hour for the employed suit crowd.  i have never been one to enjoy slurping up martinis in midtown while donning tailored black, but this one promised a bloody social member appearance. so again, we obliged.

turns out, there are ways to take the edge off of happy hour. me and company's method: tequila-a beverage known to take the edge off of everything. perfect.

while chaining and swallowing and freezing up on the hotel roof, while foreigners squeezed by to photograph the beautiful new york view (the main attraction: steve madden sign in pink and black), topics ranged from an acquaintance band's horrid new single to vibrators. pretty standard, average speak. as has been said, "big people talk about ideas, small people talk about events, and little people talk about other people." average people talk about all of the above.

the night ends with a little brooklyn band's concert at the once uberhip lit, which has now been reserved for average and under, just the way we prefer. post mediocre hotspot and rosarios, we must walk the neglected puppy and pass out. there is no television involved in this activity, as the one we own is a 10 inch tv/vcr combo solely for the purpose of watching acting tapes (preferably while stoned.)

stumbling into the bathroom to attempt removing the taste of dough and cheese in my mouth, i think of the little couple that was formed in the last hour. in this evening's hookup case, chivalry rose quietly from the dead as (insert male name) walked home (insert female name. disclaimer: these are my average friends). of course this is not chivalry in its truest form, as the favor is now being returned as i type these last few words, but maybe the facade was enough to spike up the arrow a bit beyond average tonight. because i am sure it was not my vintage dior headscarf that did the trick.

B Average with me....

at the risk of sounding like another whiny privileged chick, while my best friend sits beside me muttering "im not here to judge, im just here to smoke a cigarette in peace," i have begun to wonder rather heavily where all the imperfect, common-place, average people go.

the sole view of new york city perpetuated throughout decades of Warhol partying, the coke filled eighties, and "fabulous" adult ladies running through town in dolce and manolos, has been one of glamourous living free of financial burdens and personal insecurities beyond that of who's engagement ring is bigger and who's getting into the box tonight.

what most do not realize is that there exists a community of young pretty people who rub elbows with the glamorous, but do not speak to them.  they enter, maybe even throw, the weekly parties at la esquina, make an appearance at the box, but no one knows or cares who they are or what they're doing there.  its the crowd in which the stars are allowed to shine.  and their everyday lives are nothing less than average.

when your life revolves around being unemployed and walking a puppy you have recently adopted as yours from your slightly more employed roommate, fabulous doesnt fit much into the equation.  

your wardrobe: H & M and AA basics with a splash of costume national boots bought at an outlet abroad (that i've declined to walk in)

your entertainment: google, style.com, puppy parks, and cinema nolita

your apartment: great, in the context of the youth of the finance world sans trust funds, with 2 bedrooms and lots of noise from the dingy dark bar below and the mexican singing and pot banging out your kitchen window. its most redeeming quality-less than 2 blocks from gitan, where you can stroll by the employed unemployed, who always are hipper and more hungover than you.

your nightlife: pouting at the Beatrice bouncer while those much thinner stroll on by..., tagging along to your roommate's friend's cousin's party, stopping in to say hello to the dj you slept with accidentally one night (early morning) post cocktailing shift at the mediocre hotspot for those just like you. my personal favorite-the bar where you sit with your most trusted confidant and revel in your average unhappiness.

your fantasy: meager hopes of working in fashion, being taken seriously, all while looking 'absolutely fabulous," as has been drilled into your head for the past 7 years, and again now in 9 days with the onset of the older, wiser, and more-fabulous.

as it may become more difficult to come up with average comments, for my life could suddenly transform, i hope i will be a devoted blogger.

aside from the rolling bar at equinox, this is the most fun i've had all day.