Clearly, I Didn't Think This Through : The Story of One Tall Girl's Impulsive, Ill-conceived, and Borderline Irresponsible Life Decisions (9781101612255)

by Goldfarb, Anna

  It was a whole ’nother day before I could even begin to shovel my car out of the snow. I was terrified of running into him while I dug my car out. But I did it. Driving back home was like coming back from war. I was tired and drained, and I saw things no person should ever see. I made sure to put extra marshmallows in my cocoa.

  I ran into Jack at a party recently and he came up to me straightaway. Must resist his charms. He fist-bumped me and said, “What’s up, player?” which almost made me laugh.

  “Hello, Jack.” I did my best to project a steely façade.

  “What? You’re still mad at me? Come on! Don’t be mad. How can you be mad at a guy who dances like this?” Then he grabbed his friend Mark’s hips and humped him from behind, causing the poor guy to spill his beer everywhere. I covered my mouth so he wouldn’t see me crack up.

  “There it is! I knew I could get you to smile.” I tried not to grin, but it was impossible. How could I be angry at such an immature goofball? It’s like getting mad that Nickelback still has a career or that a Katherine Heigl movie lacks sufficient character development. What’s the point? It’s the nature of the beast.

  Besides, I don’t enjoy being irritated at him. It’s truly not worth it. Fuck it. It’s easier to accept him for the wacky jerk he is. I looked at his huge hands and huge feet and realized that I wouldn’t want to date him anyway. I like my men like my marshmallows: mini-sized.

  Being with Jack made me feel like the mature one. Maybe I wasn’t so bad at being an adult. Knowing who you are and what you want is a mature thing. I may not be ready to settle down, but at least I wasn’t settling for something that wasn’t a good fit. I could recognize Jack for what he was: a knucklehead. I wasn’t mad at him anymore. Any anger I had for him evaporated instantly.

  “You’re right. I can’t be angry at a guy who dances like that.”

  Then I scanned the place for the shortest guy in the room because, let’s face it, that’s my favorite thing to do.

  CHAPTER 14

  Those Who Can’t, Teach

  No adult woman ever wants to move back home with her parents. It’s essentially waving the white flag: Hey, everyone, I couldn’t hack it in the real world. For me, it wasn’t an easy decision. And it’s not like I didn’t try to keep my apartment in the city. But, as it turned out, I was totally incapable of being hired for any kind of job anywhere in Philadelphia, and apparently, slices of pizza and cases of beer don’t pay for themselves.

  I thought graduating from grad school would be like falling back into a pile of job offers. It wasn’t like that at all. I don’t know if I had a sign taped to my back saying that I would make a terrible employee or what, but I went on dozens of job interviews, and I could not get hired for the life of me. I wrote thank-you notes. I wore panty hose. I shook hands with confidence. I even came close to getting a job a few times, but they went with younger, less qualified candidates. Other people seemed to get jobs all the time, but I was like job Kryptonite. I’d watch hordes of people mindlessly commute home from their jobs every evening and wonder what they had to offer that I didn’t.

  It turned out that having a graduate degree in journalism was not an asset; I was overqualified for every position I applied for. It was almost cliché. I approached my professors asking for advice, but they didn’t have any for me. I chose to be an expert in a dying field. I might as well have gotten my master’s in Betamax videotapes or Sony Walkman repair.

  And it’s not like I had lost a job and had unemployment benefits to bridge the gap. I was living off my savings, which were dwindling rapidly.

  My friends empathized because most of them were struggling to find jobs, too. My parents just seemed perplexed by the whole thing. I’d never had any trouble nailing down jobs when I lived in New York City. But to Philly, I was doused head to toe in job repellent. I tried to console myself that it was the economy’s fault, but some people had jobs. I know it’s true because I’d run into them as I was on my way to interview for one. Something was up.

  On the plus side, being chronically unemployed gave me a lot of free time, which allowed me to write as much as I wanted. Yay, I guess. But no one’s ever put food on his or her table by writing (that statement is totally not true now that I think about it). Let me rephrase: I was not putting food on my table through writing. I had to reassess some major life goals.

  As my savings grew smaller and my options became more limited, it was clear that my life was going in one direction and it wasn’t to a human resources department to talk about medical benefits and the company sick day policy; it was going to a bedroom on the second floor of my parents’ house. I had to accept reality here.

  Another factor that influenced my decision to move home was that since Kat had moved out of the apartment we shared, my home life straight up sucked. I had a steady stream of Craigslist freakazoid roommates file in and out of her empty room. One quiet poet moved in his funky half-Asian girlfriend after three months. When I told him that I didn’t appreciate the extra roommate, he abruptly moved out with her, leaving me back at square one looking for someone to split the rent.

  The next roommate was an art school guy who didn’t even have a bed, just a gnarly sleeping bag he’d wiggle into every night. It was weird. Besides the fact that his room smelled like a sweaty gym sock, he was hard of hearing, which made communication tricky.

  Me: “Did you call the landlord back? He wanted to talk to you.”

  Him: “What?”

  Me: “Are you planning on staying in tonight? I’m going to have some friends over.”

  Him: “What?”

  His name was Arnie and he had just moved to Philly. I felt sorry for him, but I felt sorrier for myself because he kept trying to get in on my plans. He’d lean up against the wall looking bored every Friday afternoon and say, “So, what’s going on this weekend?”

  “I don’t know. I was thinking about checking out the scene at Silk City.”

  “Oh, cool. Mind if I join you?” What do you say to that? It’s hard rejecting a dude every single week. After two months he finally stopped asking, thank God.

  The first time he asked, I said sure he could come out with me, because I was a nice person and I wanted to give him a shot. He had just moved his things into my place, and he didn’t have a circle of friends yet. However, my pity quickly turned to irritation because he ended up getting trashed, hitting on my friend Lana relentlessly, and then asking me if he could borrow ten bucks. It was like getting mugged by a slow, horny, drunk robber who had keys to my place. I wasn’t his ATM or his pimp and I didn’t appreciate him creeping on my buds.

  It didn’t take long for our roommate relationship to go downhill. He insisted on smoking in the apartment even though it was against the lease. I had him kicked out for the offense. It was clear that this living-with-random-strangers thing wasn’t working.

  The roommate after that wanted to be my best friend when I just wanted to have someone to split the gas bill with. She’d talk my ear off into all hours of the night, divulging her deepest relationship problems to me. Instead of having a roommate, I had gained a psychiatric patient. I wasn’t getting paid for that service, either.

  I found myself heading to my parents’ house for peace of mind so often that it didn’t seem like that big a leap to just move home altogether. With no real job and a string of crummy roommates, it was nice to give the finger to the whole thing and retreat to the suburbs. And, as a bonus, the break from rent and bills was admittedly welcome.

  At first it wasn’t so bad living with my parents. It was nice having a bigger kitchen to cook elaborate meals in. It was even nicer to have other people eat the food I wanted to cook. My sister Rachel bought me a fancy apron, which was fun to wear as I breaded chicken cutlets and chopped mushrooms. The apron distracted me from the fact that it wasn’t my kitchen I was cooking in.

  My parents installed cable TV in my bedroom, which fucking ruled. After watching three stations back at my apartment on rabbit-ear antenn
ae for six years, it felt like I had won the entertainment lottery to have so many cable channels on demand. And I could write all I wanted since I didn’t have any annoying roommates poking their heads in, demanding that I listen to their long list of grievances. It wasn’t that bad. It was almost too comfortable.

  The only downside to living at my parents’ was telling guys I met about my situation because it made me seem like a loser, which I sorta was. I was a hypocrite, too. After looking down on guys who’d moved home and couldn’t hold a job for years, I was on the other side of the fence with my tail between my legs. I hated that part.

  After a few months, my parents sat me down and insisted that I do something—anything—to get my life back on track, so I took a job substitute teaching a few days a week. Since my mom works in the school district as a learning consultant, I entered into the system quickly. My new job gave me just enough money to buy beer. Plus, I liked the flexible hours and I enjoyed interacting with the youth of America. I could accept only the jobs I wanted to take and decline ones that were either inconvenient or just didn’t look fun.

  But I had never been an authority figure before, and it took a while for me to fully grasp that shift. When students asked if they could go to the bathroom, I’d be like, “Why are you asking me? I don’t care. Do what you gotta do.” They’d exchange worried looks with their classmates. Is this lady for real? I treated them like adults, which blew their minds.

  “Can I eat my snack now?” a little girl with pigtails would ask.

  “Go for it.”

  “Can I write the answer on the chalkboard?” a little boy in overalls would ask.

  “Knock yourself out, chief.”

  I became the “cool” substitute teacher, a role I enjoyed immensely. When I’d walk into the classroom, the kids would cheer and high-five each other. “We’ve got the cool sub,” they’d exclaim. You could hear their shouts all down the hallway. Other teachers would shut their doors and give me dirty looks, trying to block out the racket. The kids would run laps around the classroom like their socks were on fire. I’m not going to deny that the ego boost was nice, especially since I was feeling pretty useless in every other area of my life.

  “All right, all right. Settle down, everyone. Let’s start this party.” Sometimes during recess, a few of the younger kids would ask if they could hug me. If no one else was around, I’d say that they could, real fast. I felt like a rock star.

  After a few weeks of subbing in the same classes, I got to know the students better. I took great pride in memorizing their names; it showed that I cared. Plus, it was easier to yell out their names when they did something out of line. And it became clear that they didn’t need an apathetic woman standing in the front of the room getting chalk on her purple dress; they needed someone to maintain order, someone they could trust to take charge. I was that woman.

  Not everyone liked how tough I was. Some of the students would get on my nerves, challenging my authority.

  “Hey! There’s no talking when I’m talking,” I’d snap. “That’s disrespectful.”

  “So?” If you’ve ever met a defiant seventh grader, you can imagine how this kid looked; his slouchy posture, his hair in his eyes, his muddy sneakers, and his bad attitude seemed almost calculated.

  That’s when the lightbulb went off: I was the authority figure in here and I had to step it up. It was my Dangerous Minds moment, if you will. Just so we’re clear, I’m Michelle Pfeiffer in this scenario, not Coolio.

  And, I have to admit, taking control of the classroom was kind of fun. I stood straighter. My voice was more commanding. I’d say things like, “In my classroom, we don’t use language like that.” Or, “In my classroom, we don’t throw things at substitute teachers.” I was concerned and fair, but if any one of those little rascals got sassy, I’d kick him the hell out. Even though I felt like a dropout in both my personal and my professional life, in the classroom I had to present myself as a confident adult.

  I grew into the role and tried to be the best teacher these kids had ever had, encouraging discussions and recognizing innovations from my students. I was getting the hang of it. I subbed for four separate school districts, and I took almost every job at first because I didn’t know any better. I taught everyone from kindergarteners to seniors in high school.

  Things I learned after a few weeks: The younger the kids, the more psychotic they’d be about maintaining their daily routines. The older the kids, the less they cared about behaving for me. Fourth grade emerged as my favorite class to teach because these kids were still interested in behaving, yet they appreciated having a sub come in and shake things up for the day. They were my little homies.

  I ate my lunch in the teachers’ lounge, which was a total mindfuck. Dented Lean Cuisine boxes, sad little napkins swiped from the cafeteria, streaky plastic tablecloths; it was like having a backstage pass to the most depressing concert you’ve ever seen. I kept to myself and offered the other teachers only tight smiles. I wasn’t interested in making friends; I was interested in teaching the kids the best I could, making my money, and going home for a nap.

  At thirty-three, I was easily the youngest member on the staff. I was probably the only adult in the building that knew how to send a text message properly. Working in an office, you’d only get a half hour for lunch and two short fifteen-minute breaks. Teaching, I’d get a forty-minute lunch break and up to two more free periods. It was a good gig. I had accepted the fact that I could never be a working stiff, but teaching wasn’t stiff at all; I got a kick out of it.

  But, as I was busy diving into my new career, I noticed that other areas of my life were sorely lacking. I really missed dating guys. I wasn’t meeting anyone in the suburbs. Besides, I felt like I didn’t have anything to offer a guy anyway. I was too ashamed about moving home. I considered online dating again, but it seemed like too much of a hassle to explain my situation to anyone.

  The only head I turned belonged to Joe, a pimply cashier at the supermarket. He had braces and a studded leather belt. Whenever I needed a quick pick-me-up, I’d make my mom go with me to his store. I’d subtly redirect her to use his aisle if he was working the register. I enjoyed making chitchat with him as my mom paid for the groceries. One day he worked up enough courage to ask me what high school I attended. My mother laughed in his face.

  “Her?” She pointed at me. “She’s thirty-three. She’s been out of high school for a very long time.” He looked surprised. My mom kept going. “In fact, she just finished grad school. You thought she was in high school? That’s a good one.” She even held her sides as she laughed, to drive home the point of how hilarious the notion was.

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t even make eye contact with Joe. We just collected our grocery bags and left. As soon as we stepped foot in the parking lot, I snapped, “Mom! You totally blew up my spot back there.”

  “Oh, honey, relax. Like you had a chance with him. He’s practically a baby.”

  “Well, now I’ll never know. We had a connection. Sort of. The way he looks into my eyes as he rings up those SnackWell’s cookies—you can’t fake that.”

  “Oh, Anna, you wouldn’t want to date him anyway. He’s not even twenty-one. He can’t even go to a bar legally.”

  I frowned. “I know, but it’s just nice to be noticed by the opposite sex.”

  “Sweetie, you’ll get back on your feet soon,” she said, loading the groceries in the car. “This is all temporary.”

  “I just thought I’d have my shit together by now, you know? I never thought I’d be the kind of person living back home in her thirties getting her kicks by chatting up the kid at the Acme.”

  “You’re”—she struggled to find the right word—“a late bloomer. You always have been. It’s just taking you a little bit longer to figure things out, that’s all.”

  “Thanks for the pep talk, Mom. And thanks for letting me stay with you and Dad while I sort my life out.”

  “Like I always say, we
love having you here.”

  With that, I reached over and hugged her. We hugged for a while, right there in the parking lot. I started to pull away, but she didn’t let go. I let my shoulders relax and she lightly rubbed my back.

  “Just stop flirting with teenagers, honey. The boy has braces, for crying out loud.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Denise Silvestro and everyone at Berkley Books, thank you for letting a 6′1″, thirty-three-year-old, unemployed Jewish woman write a book her parents can show off to their friends. My excellent management team, Alexis Rosenzweig and Richard Nichols, thank you for believing in me.

  Sarah, Mike, Julianna, Rachel, and Alex: I’m especially grateful for your support and encouragement. Grandma from the Train, Grandma from the White House, and Grandpop, I will never forget your unconditional love.

  Jenna Davis, Lara Crock, Tracy Keats Wilson, and all my wonderful friends, thank you for inspiring me.

  And thank you to my first crush, Michael J. Fox, whose poster has been tacked up on my bedroom wall for more than twenty-five years.