Pride and... Yeah, just pride.

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single woman devoid of a good fortune, must be in want of a job.

The illustrious post-grad job. The first meaningful step toward the rest of your life. The job on which to build hopes, dreams, resumes, and careers... Kid, you'll move mountains!

(You're still relevant, Dr. Seuss. Don't let anyone tell you differently.)

I haven't ever seen the movie "Post Grad" with Alexis Bledel, and to be frank, I think I missed my window. These days, I am not prepared for light, comedic, "I'm more than my TV character" films that are "appropriately" colored with the angst of old - and yet entirely new! - love, and the trials and tribulations of the quintessentially quirky extended family. (At least, that's what I assume the movie is about. And if not, the previous sentences serve as a fairly accurate summation of my life, sans the triumphant ending of job attained and the ever-attractive Zach Gilford.)

 You'd have your arm around him, too.

For me, life has progressed from one bubble to another, Chocolate to Catholic and back again. Not bad if you dig sweet confections and sweeter confessions. (In life, you receive the good with the bad, and that goes for jokes, too.) I'm been coasting on the wind beneath my wings for some time now. It's time to attack that horizon!

But attacking the horizon means first "leaving the nest." As any college student can attest, there are few people who enjoy when two, intentionally separate, yet equally stable, spheres collide: This is not a Howie Day concert. Let's keep college in one box, and home life in another. Friends from high school in one box, and friends from college in another. It's uncomfortable when the two meet.

So, for many students, being at home presents a number of small challenges, not the least of which is an assortment of good and bad memories, and the fearful confrontation that occurs when you face the life that "once was" or "could have been." Yes, you are Valentine Michael Smith, and this is your story.

I recently came to understand that I suffer from the acute symptoms of "revertigo." Have you ever spent time with a friend from your past, without realizing that suddenly, you are the person you were five or even ten years ago? Speech patterns, hair swinging, grating laugh and all? You have become the very figure you sought to "redefine" when you went to college (or grad school, or the workforce, or another state). You have reverted back to your former self, i.e., revertigo. (Thanks, Marshall, for a full catalogue of this disease.)

Classic Revertigo.

I won't pretend I was ever one for hair flips or valley girl vocab (aside from the occasional "for sure," eeek), and yet, here I am three weeks after graduation, and I can feel myself sliding down the proverbial mountain into the pit (or perhaps more aptly, vat) that is Chocolatetown, U.S.A. Suddenly, I care about my appearance again. And not just when I attend Mass. No, I actually care how I present myself to the public. I'm talking at teener baseball games, on the bike path behind my house, and in the 24-hour Giant, of all places.  Despite numerous late-nights in college -- nights when going for the grade meant looking like the grave -- I am slowly falling into the traps of yesteryear. What kind of sick game is that? As Liet. Roger Murtagh would say, I'm too old for this s...tuff. And yet, I look in the mirror, and there she is: The shyer (!?) shadow of myself with an overwhelming need to dress for success. WHO IS THIS PERSON?

I'm fearful of running into former carpool moms, ready to duck and cover at a moment's notice. And why? This inexplicable sinking of my stomach at the thought of seeing a former, not-so-beloved classmate... Where did that come from? I want to be put together, and yet, I reject the polos and pearls that defined four years of public high school. (I swear, those things must come with the birth certificate at Hershey Med.) I'm a different person! My conscience cries out, I learned things in college! I encountered other cultures, navigated a city and metrorail, ate from a foodcart, and sang loudly at Church! I went to the grocery store solely for a 12-pack and a six-pack (12 of Yuengling; six of Klondike bars). I performed a cappella in front of the White House, started sharing odes publicly, and used communal bathrooms! I've grown, Hershey, I. have. grown.

Sigh. Yet I still feel the need to fuss over make-up and apparel choices before heading out the door. (Dear Bon Jovi: Maybe this is why some people said, "You can't go home.") This was not my collegiate experience, that's "for sure." As a Catholic student, I would run to the C-Store at 11:57 p.m. with nary a trace of make-up on my face. My hair would fly behind me in the sloppy semblance of a bun, and I would remind myself for the second day in a row that I "really needed to wake up on time to wash it." I was lucky if my sweatpants (jeans is being optimistic) didn't also have traces of glue, acrylic paint, and magic marker on them (oh, the hazards of being an RA). And so help me, if I ever forgot an umbrella, a hat, or a hood -- even for that five-minute walk! -- the heavens would open up, and I would stumble into the Pryz like a drowned rat. But did I care? Not a whit. I would arrive in a state of disarray, sucking wind like it was going out of style, and then I would casually saunter to the refrigerated items. Greeting the clerk, I'd grab my chocolate milk - the Loft's closest thing to coffee creamer - and if I was lucky, there might be a box of Mike and Ikes in an acceptable flavor. The point is, I didn't care about my appearance. Looks were secondary to academics, my job, my friends, and those few, stolen minutes of sleep, curled in front of a Leahy computer.

But at home, it's different. To further aggravate and inflame these ridiculous notions, I saw (for the first time in approximately five years), the object of my junior-year infatuation on my intra-neighboorhood bike path: The dreamy, sandy-haired boy who sat behind me in Brit Lit. He was a year older, quiet in class like me, but a runner, and as I recall, a doodler. We had a very enlightening conversation one day about Third Eye Blind (Translation: I sat, starry-eyed and awestruck, with my hand tucked under my chin, listening to him talk about a band with which I was only vaguely familiar). Given our mutual, minimal conversation skills, it was a day for the books. Incidentally, I have not been able to listen to "Semi-Charmed Life" the same way. But seriously, bro, showing up five years later running down the path that I chose? Should've gone with Robbie Frost's advice. Foiled again.

But lest I offend my readers, being at home is not all bad. In fact, I have had a number of nice surprises. Like finding that N'Sync mix my cousin Maria made for me 11 years ago, buried in a dresser drawer. Or the treasure trove that was a box of Nancy Drew Files and Sweet Valley Twins books. (Aside - I wrote about this on Facebook already, but seriously, a lot of crazy stuff went down with those teens. Seriously, Jessica and Elizabeth Wakefield were only twelve.) Admittedly, I have more time to sleep and read for pleasure, something I have not done in ages. And if I want to imbibe at 2:30pm, I can do so (okay, perhaps not so different). I can enjoy the smell of cocoa in the mornings (when the cocoa is not trumped by the smell of manure), and I can bask in the glow of the sun and the shadows of a tree. We have wonderful parks and opportunities for hiking, and I have a front porch again. A real porch, with rocking chairs - not just a wooden addition that can barely seat myself, Steph, and Tom after late-night, post-Dunkin Donuts runs.

People wear suspenders in Church, and neighbors wave to you when you drive through the development. There are funny little green signs that say "Children at Play" instead of crowded crosswalks and angry Smartrip machines. I can see the stars again, not just a pink, hazy layer of polluted atmosphere. There are normal-sized animals, too. Deer that look like deer, cows that look like cows, not raccoons that look like they've been juicing up, or rats the size of dogs.

Life is far from idyllic, and yet, it's pleasant.  Of course, there's the occasional bout of shame, and it made its presence known last week, after one and a half hours of template perusal/font selection for this blog. Savor these colors, reader, because that's 90 minutes of my life I am not getting back. O, what creative drive we waste, when we practice cut and paste.

So, what have I learned, two and a half weeks in?

1. We all have our struggles with the place we call "home," and I for one need to get over the kind of vanity that would make Carly Simon shudder. Home makes me a little vain, and nervous, and I'm glad I realize this now. I need to take a good, hard look at the (Wo)Man in the Mirror. Thanks, MJ, for the reminder. I'm gonna make a change, and then make this world a better place.

Hee-Hee!

2. There's still a chance you may run into an ex-crush, and he still might make you nervous. Don't let this incapacitate your speech. You are a confident, strong, young adult, and you can handle situations like these.

3. Finding original New Kids on the Block paraphernalia in your sister's bedroom is entertaining and hilarious, particularly in light of the NKOTBSB tour.

4. We all have flaws. Don't be afraid to poke fun at yourself. And don't take the mutterings of a slightly pretentious blogger too seriously.
5. Writing about wanting a job, than going off on a long-winded tangent, is not actually the way TO FIND a job. So, I will now turn my attentions to monster.com...



Peace.
Out.