Trying It On For Size

I've fantasized about living in New York since I first started reading magazines – first, my mom's Glamour, then begging for my own subscription to Teen magazine when I was merely 11 or 12. I pictured myself growing up to wear power stilettos and stylish skirts, strutting through the hallways of a highrise office, then snaking through the crowded sidewalks to sexy after-work cocktails. I dreamed of the Sex and the City life before it ever materialized on HBO.

At the same time, I was really most comfortable curling up with a book, not flitting around crowds of popular girls; I couldn't wait to go to college, picturing myself carrying great books from class to class, thinking hard, writing furiously. Were I to imagine a night I'd most look forward to, it usually involved a fire, hot cider and a novel, puzzle or movie – not the glitz and glamour of the big city. I am, at my core, a nerd, but have a developed a finely tuned ability to fit in with the cool kids.

When I went to New York in 2003 for the ASME internship, I was breaking out of my shell, trying on that magazine persona for size. And it seemed to fit. I felt at home, more confident than I'd ever been, vibrant, curious, full of energy – my best self. But I was living in a fantasy, a three-month-long bubble sustained by parent-funded NYU housing at Union Square, credit cards, alcohol, and the pristine confidence of youth (I know, I'm only 27, but it feels like ages from 21!). It was exhilarating to have New York City as my playground, with every opportunity available, untarnished by reality. But five years later, that is not the New York I would be returning to – and I'm not so sure that was the real me, but someone so entranced by the city that she was able to fully lose herself in the role.

Do I sound jaded? Cynical? Perhaps it's the Seasonal Affective Disorder we Portlanders are prone to. But perhaps it's the realization that I don't want to pretend anymore. Without a job or a plan for the first time in my life, I am being forced to confront my self at the most bare, stripped of the roles I have taken on all my life to fit in. I am increasingly haunted by the notion that I've chosen what I "like" based on external expectations and approval – i.e. what's "cool." I fear that I've been ignoring my internal voice for so long that it's stopped trying to be heard. Do I want to continue on this career path? Why, really, did I choose it in the first place? Who am I if not an "Editor"? What makes me truly, deeply happy? And where do I belong? Quarter-life existential crisis, indeed!

I'm flying to New York in ten hours. I have an interview for a web startup focusing on pets. I should be excited. I have pictured myself strutting in to the meeting in killer heels, full of the same blustery confidence that I had (or faked so well) five years ago. But something doesn't feel right. It may be fear. It may be the paralyzing inertia of not working for three months. Or it may not be the right thing for the real me. I already miss Portland – for the first time in a long time, I don't want to leave. But I have to go, to find out the truth about what I really want. And I plan to curl up with a good book after I knock their socks off.

(I'll [try to] post here daily during the trip if you want to follow the adventures – I promise much more fun interspersed with the introspective ramblings!)