Hi. I'm Nina.
I moved from NY to D.C. fresh out of college without a job (to my parent's horror) with only the conviction that "I'd Make It Happen."
I guess, in some ways, I did.
First I found a job. Then I found an apartment. I collected some friends along the way. And debt and suits and "practical pumps" and a lot of other things I never thought about before (like a 401K).
I bought a TV with my first paycheck. Then I waited four months for it to be delivered after it was back ordered. Twice.
I swapped sleeping in for brunches with big groups of interesting friends, and I tried my best to sound smart in our conversations (even when I was hungover).
I subscribed to, and read on occasion, The Economist.
I set the office microwave on fire last week.
At first, moving to D.C. was a thrill. It was like a game of Steal the Bacon. You're hyped up and excited, but it's not a life or death matter. It's just a bowling pin in a hula hoop you've got to get back to your side. That's what my move here was like. If I failed, I'd move back to NY. My head hung low, but no real damage done.
I was 22. Whatever.
A couple of days ago, I turned 24. A year that, I always told myself, would be the year I "got it together." A year I'd apply to graduate school, and start taking my Roth IRA seriously. A year I'd stop showing up to brunches 20 minutes late wearing last night's mascara.
But 24-year-old me doesn't feel any different than 22-year-old me. Or even 18-year-old me (Again, I am sure, to my parent's horror).
I live in Foggy Bottom and often go on runs after work. Sometimes I detour back through the George Washington University campus, peeking through the colored-paper Greek letter cut outs in the frat row windows.
Inside, groups of girls on laptops sit on couches in expensive sweatsuits. Boys watch sports on huge TVs. In my running clothes, I don't look much different from them, and I'm not, except for:
-200-400 days difference in age
-"Responsibility" (*note quotes)
I still feel like a college girl. I'd still be game for Spring Break and dramatic classroom lectures that, in the end, are completely insignificant. But even in these two years I've been in the so-called "Real World," I've learned a lot. And it is my hope that in this blog, I will share what I have learned with you.
Each year on my birthday, my mother tells me enthusiastically "you have only begun to start living!"
I have no idea what she's talking about. If life starts in a office 40 hours a week, or when your younger brother and sister both bring home significant others during Christmas (and your Grandma frowns at you, alone, from across the table) then yeah, maybe I have started living.
But by my definition of living, I'm in transition mode. Stuck in the in-between of one type of life and another.
I've got a long way to go.
Can someone start by telling me where in D.C. I can get some real NY pizza?!