I turn 25 on Monday so I decided to write a short essay about it. Get out your tiny violins, because it’s my birthday and I can muse if I want to!
White Girl, Wasted
“The roaches mostly come out at night, so I’d try to avoid any midnight snacks,” my new roommate informed me. I’d found the Harlem walkup through a Facebook housing group, and a few weeks later I was proudly setting up my new closet full of Express blouses in every color of the rainbow.
I’d come to New York for a job I didn’t want. The pay was abysmal, and I had a sneaking suspicion that overtime wouldn’t be compensated, despite the sunny assurances of Megan The Recruiter – she’d probably tell you that Pyongyang, North Korea was a lively city for up and coming professionals if it came between her and her commission. But it was a pretty prestigious PR firm, and I’ve always been a bit of a slut for clout.
On a balmy April evening just days into my tenure, I accompanied a coworker to a multi-dollar sign nail salon in Soho to meet with a junior writer from Refinery29. I hadn’t had a manicure since middle school, and it was a far cry from the hole in the wall salons I had visited as a kid in Massachusetts — upon entry you were met with plush, jewel-toned ottomans and somebody promptly handed you a crisp glass of pinot grigio.
In PR, part of your job is a thing called “editor dates.” This is a widely accepted practice where publicists attempt to bribe editors to write about their clients by taking them to expensive restaurants and spas, under the thin guise of “networking and relationship building.” Most of the time, the editors just thank you for the outing and never speak to you again, while the next day you tell your boss that you had a “fruitful conversation” about the current media landscape.
The editor arrived and I was nervous about making a good impression, since on an off day my small talk skills can make Mark Zuckerberg sound charming by comparison. I contributed where I could, but worried if my anecdote about frantically trying to cut a mango with a plastic knife in the office kitchen came off as charismatic or manic.
When the conversation inevitably gave way to the trials and tribulations of navigating your early twenties, I tentatively offered, “I can’t wait to be 25. That’s when I feel like I’ll have my life figured out.”
In the corner of my eye I could see the nail technician knowingly smile to herself, like watching a Beagle chase its tail.
***
I like to joke that I came out of the womb with a briefcase. Forget ball pits and bounce castles – I was after the board room since day one.
My second grade teacher astutely observed in a parent-teacher conference that I “wanted things to be real.” If I was playing store, I wanted it to be a real store. It wasn’t enough to mime the gestures of running a cash register – that plastic cookie is $2.73, and no, we don’t take AmEx!
Then at ten, after some ensemble stints in a few community theater musicals, I begged my mother to “get me an agent” in the hopes of becoming a working actor – my time would be much better spent BSing my academics with an on-set tutor rather than wasting all these perfectly good earning years twiddling my thumbs in English class.
I think that’s why the first time I ever felt a snippet of self-actualization was when I started interning. Internships are largely viewed as degrading at their worst or tedious at their best, but I got a thrill from perfectly juggling a blatantly ego-driven coffee order. The satisfaction of seamlessly procuring a double cupped blonde roast with half a pump of hazelnut and a hint of cinnamon must have rivaled how Michelangelo felt when he finished sculpting The David.
At work, it didn’t matter that I had never read Foucault or couldn’t identify Russia on a map – de-croutoning my supervisor’s salad was Real World Skills in action.
And when you’re very young, it’s not hard to impress your boss. Your American Eagle skinny jeans are jealous of how low the bar is. A couple bunny hops above expectations can win you mentorship, senior visibility, spot bonuses. . .when you’re 21 and talented, leadership loves to smarmily joke,“we’ll all be working for her in 10 years.”
It’s kind of like being a child actor. You win over the industry by being adorable, professional, and a little precocious. But once you hit puberty, the rug is pulled out from under you. You get chubby, awkward, and in the blink of an eye, you aren’t so marketable anymore.
When I started my career, my entire self-worth hinged on professional praise, on being an “upstart” or a “phenom.” Now, four years later, high performance at work translates to conventional competency versus star quality, and the dream of being One To Watch begins to drift away on a gentle sea of ennui.
***
I’m a rare crier, but I’ll share with you a few moments when I’ve definitely welled: Simone Biles earning 4 gold medals in Rio. Billie Eilish sweeping the Grammys with her debut album. Akeelah winning The Bee.
Key takeaway: I’m enthralled by ingenues.
It’s cathartic – these brilliant, beautiful prodigies have triumphed over insurmountable pressure and come out dominant, on top, everything they’ve bled for finally at their fingertips – and they’re not even 20 years old. While their friends were occupied with beer pong tournaments and Algebra II, they were tirelessly dedicated to something so much bigger. Their accomplishments are magnified by their age, and so is the euphoria that wafts through our TV screens as they accept the throne.
As my prophetic 25th birthday approaches, I’m struck by a twinge of melancholy. It’s hardwired into my brain that success tastes sweeter when you’re still young enough to be on your parents’ insurance plan. Why do you think ABBA was so adamant in specifying that the Dancing Queen was only 17?
In some ways, 21-year-old me wasn’t so far off about “having it together.” I’m no longer roommates with insects, I happily shell out $18 for a salad every night, and even though I’m not on any 30 Under 30 lists, I generally like my job a lot. She’d probably be thrilled to know that I have an Alexander McQueen bag, but annoyed that I gained 15 pounds.
In other ways, I think I’m what she always feared. I putter along at my little job at a company no one’s heard of, cheerfully building pitch decks for organic granola bars and DTC bidets like a dutiful elf in Santa’s workshop. She’d view my contentment as complacency, disappointed that I never forged my own path, that I’m a basic drone just like everyone else.
I guess part of growing up is accepting that you’re not special. Or maybe that’s just giving up. If I died today, I’d ideally like to have a legacy that extends beyond a few well-designed PowerPoint files. . . throw me a New York Mag opinion piece at least.
What 25-year-old me finally grasped, which 21-year-old me couldn’t comprehend, is that in The Real World, hard work rarely correlates with commercial success. If anything, once a corporation sniffs out that you have an ounce of ambition, it’s used against you – promotions are often dangled but rarely funded, your workload increases above your peers’ because you’re “such a trusted asset,” and you’re expected to grovel for “opportunities” that boil down to senior work with junior pay.
Being jaded helps protect you from exploitation – you’re wise enough not to take the things people say at face value and you’re hyper-aware of the buzzwords and spin doctoring used to keep you on the string. But as you start to shed your naïveté, you sacrifice the same wholesome and unadulterated drive that propelled you to your initial peak in the first place.
Staring down the barrel of this quarter-life crisis, I’m reminding myself that Kim Kardashian (who’s photo occupies my phone’s lock screen in lieu of a boyfriend or loved one) didn’t become a household name until she was 26. Then it took another 10 years for anyone in the business to take her seriously in fashion or entrepreneurship.
She makes a compelling case for the effectiveness of the Slow Burn, for the merit in relentlessly eroding every limit and boundary the world imposes on you. Her career was born through exploitation and ridicule, but she outplayed the entire industry to become one of the most powerful women on the planet.
Overnight success as a 19-year-old wins you immediate renown before anyone has time to throw the first stone. But there’s a reason instant coffee isn’t as bold as cold brew – maybe the richest, most decadent success is carved out of ruthlessly shattering the pre-existing perceptions about who we are and what we can achieve.
To say fuck you, I told you so, enjoy the view from the cheap seats.
“De-croutoning my supervisor’s salad” killed me dude
SO GOOD