Going Postal

Just in case you'd forgotten the origin of "going postal," some lady in California decided to remind us.

Being An Adult

Today marks the one-year anniversary of my time as a YMCA programs director. It's hard to imagine I've had a "career" for 365 days. This is the longest consecutive job I've had since my paper route in elementary school. As I lie in bed thinking of all that's happened the past year, I can't stop thinking of how much I've grown up. Granted, I still drink too much when I go out, and I'm still single w/ nothing holding me to Boston, but I definitely feel older. Is this a good thing?

In the past year, I've supervised at least 50 people, having hired more than half. I somehow created a top-notch day camp that proved to be the most successful in my YMCA's history. I also managed to visit my parents multiple times w/out once pissing all over their bedroom door. Those are all shocking accomplishments, at least to me.

I've lost touch w/ many friends, but become closer w/ others. I've made friends at work and watched some of them move on, somehow always finding another colleague to fill their void. I've watched one friend get married and another engaged (you may or may not have read about that on this blog). Is this how adulthood feels? It's as if we're all sprockets on wheels, turning each other nonstop, but only meeting every so often, and always at different times. Is there a moment when everyone is alligned?

If I'd written about my year's accomplishments at this time last year, my stories would've been filled w/ drunken debauchery and Pizza Mart gluttony. I would've mentioned new friends, a new city, an old love; Working as an AmeriCorps VISTA was a wasted year, and I doubt I'll ever praise the program or my assignments from that time. Things are better now.

In Boston, my bedroom is too big to touch all four walls while laying down. My food stamps are but a memory and my neighborhood is enjoyable. But although I love my career (I feel so old saying that), a part of me misses the innocence of past years, the simplicity of leaving work at 5pm and not thinking about it until the next morning. And although I've lived in Boston more than a year, the support group I left behind in DC has yet to be replicated. I'm still looking for a delicious late-nite jumbo-slice pizza joint, too.

My Drugs

I've been hooked on many things in my life, whether it's exercise (the year in DC), writing poetry (see senior year of college) or water (still going). My latest obsession, however, may be dangerous. I'm actually struggling w/ emotions as I type, unsure if I should thank my roommate, or resent him for turning me into a newborn junkie. Over the weekend, my roomie (Big House) pointed out our other roomie's sandwich maker. No, the machine doesn't resemble two hands. It's actually a panini maker, if that's such a thing, and it's amazing.

My addiction began Friday nite after returning from work, my mind a mush after a long week at work topped w/ the weekly Teen Nite (imagine 90 kids running around a YMCA as members avoid being trampled). After cracking open a beer, I shook hands w/ the fridge and peered inside, only to realize I had zero leftovers. Of course, I always have whole wheat bread in stock, so I pulled out the bag along w/ some ham and swiss. After turning on the toaster oven, I began slicing cheese. That's when Big House walked into the kitchen and suggested using the sandwich maker.

I heard the toaster oven fighting back tears as I turned it off and pulled the new appliance from its perch. I felt like Pandora as I opened the lid to discover beautiful black teflon, begging me to turn up the heat. I did. The bread slices were young siblings tucked warmly into bed, the cheese placed on top like a farmer seeding his field. The ham followed, just before the lid closed down, as if biting my sandwich before I had the chance. Five minutes later, the green light was aglow and I was rewarded w/ a restaurant-quality panini to sit next to my green beans, beside my chocolate milk.

I've now eaten five paninis in the last three days, wondering what all the cheese will do to my digestive system. Cold sandwiches have lost their allure, like coming home from your first semester of college and realizing the hot girls from HS aren't so hot after all. I raced home from work today (actually, I always race home) and immediately pulled out the turkey and cheese, scampering around the kitchen to prepare dinner. And now I lay in bed, unable to sleep, excited for tomorrow when I can get my next panini fix.