Sometimes, I’m one of those street-wise city girls who lives for quirky shoes, low-cal cocktails, and running wild through the city I love. I don’t have much luck with men, mostly because I like the ones who are a little mean, or worse, still in love with their exes. But, my friends – a tight-knit little group of culturally diverse urbanites – are just fabulous. We drink iced coffee in DuPont Circle while we debate healthcare, and we hit up farmers’ markets, craft fairs, wine tastings, and jewelry shows to feel even cooler than we already are. Every weekend, we go on adventures that quickly turn into debacles. For example, there was the night that we sprayed Dom Perignon on each other while dancing on tables at a far too trendy club; and then, there was the time we accepted drinks from strangers in the parking lot of a Jimmy Buffett concert. They were called “Ghetto-ritas,” a combination Bacardi 151, Tequila, grain alcohol, and a splash of magarita mix. That went well.
The thing with this voice, though, is that the real me is neither cynical nor stylish enough to keep it up. You won’t find manic raves about designer knockoffs and vintage boutiques here; I don’t have the salary for them. And sure, I treat most guys with distrustful indifference – until they get me a $3 beer or kiss me, whichever happens first. I can’t be a smartass every day; I trust too easily and too often.
So here’s the point where I must admit that I’m naïve enough to be coming of age. I didn’t know what table service is until a few months ago, and I’ve never been to Trader Joe’s or eaten at an Indian restaurant. I’m an energetic, doe-eyed optimist, I always, always assume people are being forthright and true. I’m devastated at the slightest deceit, but I write about it until I’ve learned from it.
At work, I learn a difficult new lesson each week ranging from Just Because You Like Somone Doesn’t Mean They Aren’t an Embezzler to Don’t Shit Where You Eat. Every few days, I feel like I’m channeling a young starlet in one of those “my first big girl job is teaching me valuable life lessons” movies, as I’m either working alone in the office at 10PM while my friends call me from happy hour or I’m walking down a crowded street with a box of proposals, harried and distracted and texting on my Blackberry in a work outfit that’s just a little too sexy to be professional.
The thing I hate about this voice, though, is that it leaves little room for power. As someone who’s always been the oldest, I hate being recognized as the youngest.
Sure, someone might like a giggly 23-year-old because she’s bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, but it’s easy to say “no” to her for a raise, a job, or a date because she’s 23 and has a lot to learn. I get snippy when people who are less than three years older than me offer advice on poor life decisions and expect me to follow it. No, I can’t use that voice all the time; it’s a disservice to the wisdom I already have. I’ll try to limit it to days where I can’t figure out how to make a photocopy.
