The Christmas Card Debacle of 2007 is almost at an end. Putting the fresh labels on the painstakingly glued and stamped envelopes was truly satisfying. Leaving the misspellings and typos created by my predecessor on the fresh labels was also a rare treat. What a heady mixture of responsibility and unaccountability! O, an admin's life for me. Yo ho ho, indeed.

It occurs to me sporadically that my life is pretty good. Or rather, the individual ingredients that make up my life look good on a platter. Somehow, however, the sum of all these parts is less than satisfying. I have pretty constant anxiety and pretty predictable bouts of melancholia (so much more literary than depression). The source seems to be a constant low-grade certainty that I am not doing "the right thing". This thing changes all the time, but it is always not what I am doing. It's hard to keep perspective in this ever-shifting landscape of criticism. So, I keep reminding myself of the good things in life. Sometimes saying them out loud, writing them down, or just thinking about them lifts my mood.

In other news, today I experienced the white collar equivalent of banging one's head with a hammer to forget about the pain in one's thumb (or is it vice versa?). My regular job involves scanning all of the paper documents produced by the company, in order for them to attain paperlessness. Not only is the irony of this not lost on me, it fairly smothers me with its obviousness at every moment. But back to the hammer: today, instead of scanning, I collated, corrected, and compiled addresses for the company Christmas card list and hand-addressed over 50 envelopes. Upon completion of this task, I was actually relieved and even almost excited to scan some documents. I felt a sweet nostalgia about the scanning and performed the familiar motions with a sense of homecoming. Gotta love it.

I finally asked for help with my grad school essay. After a couple of frustrated and unproductive hours at the library yesterday, I emailed a rough draft to my adviser and a few friends. The relief was palpable. It felt so good to let go of my shame, resistance, and perfectionism! My adviser has already sent it back with some helpful comments, which I will act upon as soon as I get over my instinctive resistance to suggestions of any kind.

I found out that I'm not very good at Scrabble. But I am still playing it! This is another true victory of my mature life.

Tonight I have conferred well-being upon myself. I took a bath and am sitting in cozy pajamas, drinking a pot of tea. It was a stressful day, peppered with little pockets of goodness. Now I find myself with a rare few hours alone. I am not doing anything substantively different than I normally do, but the silence and certainty of being alone makes this a special time.

I am looking after my boss's daughter until next Wednesday. She will be out late at night almost every night, so I might have more moments like this one in the next few days. Balancing work, caring for H, and dealing with M feels like a lot. The internship is going to be obsolete for the next week and a half. I hope I will find/make time to complete a good draft of my grad school essay so I can at least get my recommenders squared away. The first deadline is a month from tomorrow and I have doubts as to whether I'll make it.

My thoughts are jumbled yet curiously static. It's difficult to write about my life and state of mind. I think I am withholding thoughts and feelings from myself in order to remain somewhat positive. There are lots of negatives right now, but I don't want to see them or catalogue them. Therapy would be a good place to take these issues and air them out. Right now, they'll remain musty in the corners of my mind.

Hmmm...time to post again. It's now November and I feel changeable, like the weather and the season. My psyche is alternately chilled and heated and I never know how best to suit it up.

I have a job now. It's pretty much unutterably awful, almost comic in its badness. If only the boss in the pink shirt with the white collar from Office Space would lean on my cubicle and ask me about my TPS report. Perhaps I will glean the beginnings of a satirical novel from this. However, I suspect I will only glean even more support for the idea of going to grad school. My applications have stalled and it's hard to know what this portends. I hope I will complete them. I hope some sort of latent ambition or drive or utter panic will give me the impetus to finish this process.

The internship is also hot and cold. I will meet with my boss this weekend to talk about what I'm (not) doing. I am certainly "doing" a lot of self-criticism and blame, so hopefully this meeting will help me put things in perspective. I have to remember all the changes I've been going through over the last months. And I have to share some of the weight of this with my boss, whose frenetic life often gets in the way of her ability to mentor.

Ongoing positives include riding the T, working at the various libraries in the area, daily communion with my roommate, savoring the bite in the air when it shows its teeth, FutureSex/LoveSounds, romance novels, the New Yorker, and frequent contact with Carleton and Mount Holyoke friends.

Maybe I should go to grad school for something other than Sociology. Shifting gears like that both tantalizes and terrifies me. Often I feel like the only thing I'm really good at is being Jenny Smith. Couldn't I just be employed at being me? Or read a bunch of stuff, synthesize it, write about it, but never define its category or discipline?

Another definite good: Johnny Cash singing "I Still Miss Someone" in Folsom Prison. Strangely, this song always makes me miss California.

First of all, we can all breathe easy because the Red Sox are safely in the World Series. Of course, I expect Boston to spontaneously combust sometime in the next week or so.

I am procrastinating, to the benefit of my blog. I have many hours of interning to complete, but I am burnt out on my current project, so I think I'd better blog. Also, I should be writing my personal statement for grad school applications. Today I sent off checks to Carleton, Mount Holyoke, and ETS to get scores and transcripts sent. I'm hoping these literal checks will spur some figurative reality checks in the application process. In any case, it feels good and nostalgic to have a reason to procrastinate again.

I had a good, social weekend. On Friday, I took the train down to Lakeville/Middleboro to meet Keith. It's an hour's ride on a very comfortable train. I sat on the top deck and enjoyed the view of leaves changing, small towns, and cranberry bogs. The ride back to South Station on Saturday was enhanced by the presence of outlying Red Sox fans. I spent Saturday night in a bar in Harvard Square, watching Game 6 and losing my voice and my hearing. Sunday I had brunch with my sister and her friend in Brighton. I enjoyed walking around the city, continuing to figure out where things are located, and in what relation to each other. The days have been warm and bright, perfect for rowing, sculling, and baseball.

This week finds me reconsidering things. The only constant is how much I enjoy Boston. The internship is unsatisfying for a variety of reasons and my search for part-time work has stalled again. I wonder if I should form a new plan - work full-time and scrap the internship? I'm going to give it a couple more months and then revisit this idea. Or maybe I need to scrap grad school and look into professional positions instead. The possibilities keep hope and anxiety alive.

A lot has changed since my last post, but remnants of that mood cling. Transition is transition, with all its incumbent uncertainty. At least now my transitional feelings are taking place in new, interesting environs. I am living on the 5th floor of an apartment building in Brookline. I love being in Boston and my fascination is enhanced by the very specific time of year and set of circumstances in which I've arrived. I am speaking, of course, about the baseball post-season. The Red Sox are battling the Cleveland Indians for the ALCS pennant. I am a peripheral and intermittent fan, at best, but even I can feel the fever. I walked down by Fenway yesterday, around 1pm the day of an 8:20pm game. Fan were already roaming around in packs, bedecked in red and blue (and the occasional pink - MLB's unfortunate nod to femininity), seemingly just there to soak up the atmosphere. The weather was startlingly beautiful and the air lay sparkling around the park, shimmering and charged with excitement. Little did those early-gathering fans know: the game that night would last 5 hours and 14 minutes, finally discharging its weary and (momentarily) defeated denizens at 1:37am. I wonder what the atmosphere around the park felt like then?

I can report that Boston is a good place to be lonely, unemployed, and indecisive. I am feeling and experiencing all those things, but also the thrill of being in a new city that contains much to compel and fascinate. In a flash, I can take to the streets and discover new territory. I can nurse my nagging indecision over an excellent cup of coffee and eavesdrop on the deciders around me. I can take my laptop to the stunning courtyard of the public library in Copley Square and wait for inspiration to strike. I can gaze out my 5th floor window and let the vista of trees, old buildings, and hills spark my emotions. I can immerse myself in the chaos and confusion of the Haymarket farmer's market on a Saturday afternoon. I can wander the North End in search of pastry, secretly superior to all the tourists who are just visiting this city. I'm even enjoying the job search, as it takes me hither and yon, on the T and on foot, into high rises, hospitals, and ramshackle office parks. I almost dread the day when I will be returning to the same place over and over. These initial interviews are so delicious, filled with promise and flirtation, like a first date before the unfortunate political views of ones companion are revealed. I scan my email and phone messages, wondering if I'll get called back for a "second date". As delicious as the interviews are, the waiting is dismal. Time passes slowly and my worries proliferate. At least I am safe and secure in my housing and somewhat solvent, for the moment.

Just took a break from writing to discuss politics, baseball, and the visiting cat. I am keeping the plants in my room while the cat is here, so I have a jungle to contemplate. I watered my jungle and now I wonder what the rest of the day will bring, or what I will bring to it.

Here, borrowed from my Dad's friend's blog, is a great little article on dealing with transition. It pretty much lays out all the things I've been feeling lately, then contextualizes them as part of a "Neutral Zone" which comes into being during transitional periods. It's helpful to know that others experience this kind of profound dislocation, and helpful to get permission to be in the thick of it for as long as I need to be.

Yep, there's simply too much to write about and my mood is so unreliable that I fear publishing a bunch of cranky whining and existential angst. The following is a list of my current preoccupations:
1. finding a part-time job in Boston
2. thinking about moving in with my new 85-year-old roommate in (less than) two weeks
3. related to the above - considering how to most efficiently move my scattered possessions to Boston and trying not to consider the responsibilities I will bear for helping said roommate
4. what to do about parking at my new home: there's no overnight street parking in Brookline and it costs upwards of $120/month to rent a parking space in a garage.
5. my internship and whether or not I am spending enough time/doing good work/impressing my boss or, alternately, able to find something of value for myself in all this (ie. why am I doing this in the first place?)
6. grad school applications - where? why? how? can I bring myself to write a personal statement? will I get everything in on time? do I really want to pursue more education? is sociology the right discipline for me?

Lying awake at night, as I am prone to do more and more often lately, these topics run through my head, along with concerns about my parents' eventual death, my long-term relationship with an alcoholic, my inability to feel any lasting ambition, and other cheery concerns. I am most definitely in the midst of some sort of depression - I am a fairly high-functioning depressive. Every day I get up, work on my internship, apply for a few more jobs, research grad programs, and get through the day. Some days I feel more positive and hopeful; I enjoy my work/research/applications. Some days I just want to stay in bed.

For today, things are looking up. There's a savory pot roast slow-cooking on the stove. The sky is blue and crystalline, the way it gets when the temperature starts dropping along with the leaves. I have an appointment with a temp agency for Monday; this will get me out of the house and make me feel like I am doing something concrete to get myself a job. Despite feeling extremely lazy when I got up this morning, I managed to work on my internship task for 1.5 hours, leaving me only 2.5 hours more to fulfill my daily (self-imposed) goal. I read an article in the New Yorker that got my intellectual juices flowing and gave me some ideas about topics for my grad school essay. I am safe, warm, and in a familiar place for the moment. Who could ask for anything more?

I haven't been able to write much lately. I do a drive-by of my blog every day, consider posting, then find something else to do. I'm not really sure how to write about what's going on with me; I'm not really sure what is going on with me. I'm definitely not sure how I feel about it.

I paid a helpful visit to my parents this past weekend. I left their house with a much cheerier outlook on life, my life in particular. But I still don't know how to write about it.

I've been wondering where my taste for trashy sentimentality comes from. I have always prided myself on at least knowing what real art, real culture, good film, etc is even if I don't choose to patronize it. More and more, I am forced to admit that the line is blurring for me. This becomes apparent when I recommend books, music, and movies to others. I am increasingly unable to predict who might like what and which media are really good/worthwhile/intelligent. I like what I like, and damn the torpedoes. This is all part of the middle-Americanization of my soul, I suspect. I am one of those people who grew up with pretensions to intellectualism, valuing culture over commerce, complexity over sentimentality. Strip away the fancy schooling and vocabulary, however, and I am just as low-to-middle brow as everyone else. Am I thisclose to becoming a Libertarian? Will I serve my kids Chef Boyardee? Will I continue to notice cultural distinctions? Does it really matter?

My friend Kevin coined the term "limboland" at some point during our first year of college. The word used to make us laugh uproariously - something about the combination of syllables and sounds, coupled with the absurd rightness of the concept as a descriptor of that place that is no place, sent us into spasms of laughter. Of course, such spasms were not uncommon that year.

Now that I am once again approaching that Zen-like state of heightened indolence that might very well be categorized as limboland, the concept is less uproarious. I find myself feeling grateful that there might be a word to describe this place-that-is-not-a-place where I am located. I am on the verge of doing/moving/working/changing but I am not there yet; my present inertia is charged with the knowledge of imminence. Since I have been here before, it is fitting that this spot on the map should have a name. Welcome to Limboland.

The blessings and the mixing continue apace. I suppose the real miracle is that I continue to expect things to go according to plan! Or that I expect there to be some sort of plan...If I look at the pattern of my life so far, it certainly does not contain too many orderly pathways or grids.

Today I read a poignant article by a man with Asperger's Syndrome. He was not diagnosed (indeed the syndrome hadn't entered mainstream diagnostic texts) until mid-life and he touchingly describes the relief he felt once he found out that his differences and difficulties had a name. He also benefited from the gradual sifting and sorting we all undertake as we age, finding the jobs, activities, people, and lifestyles that might suit us better than those we've been given, or led to expect. But, undeniably, the diagnosis lessened his self-criticism and the anxiety of not-knowing.

As someone who has always felt that she didn't fit in, I read the article with a curious sense of solidarity - there but for the grace of a few genes go I? A friend writes of discovering a book that tells how to raise an introverted child. Through reading the book, she came to recognize and accept her child's introversion, as well as that of her partner. I remembered the joy I felt upon completion of the Myers-Briggs test, which labeled me an INFP. Many of the broad characteristics attributed to INFPs fit me, at least the way I see myself, but the item that brought the greatest relief, and attendant joy, was the acknowledgement that modern US society doesn't welcome or understand introversion. This was the first time I'd ever considered that I was not solely to blame for my differences. It was thrilling to feel that perhaps I was not wrong, just trying to fit into a way of life that didn't suit me. It's not a blanket dismissal of personal responsibility - I still need to find ways to get along in the world and function in society - but it lessens the burden of criticism and the pain of never-quite-getting-it.

Reading about Asperger's sends a whisper of familiarity along my senses, along with a healthy dose of relief - my afflictions are not so severe, nor so puzzling. But I am reminded, as I often am when reading about mental illness, psychiatric diagnoses, diseases, and other medical evaluations, that the line separating THEM from ME is fine indeed. A diagnosis can free us - from self-criticism, denial, fear, anxiety, censure - but it can also too neatly define difference as "other". It confirms that which we have feared and suspected: there is something wrong with me. At the same time, it allows us to name our fear and move on, secure in our place in the social continuum. Sometimes that acceptance is a boon to me; other times I wonder if it lets me off the hook a little too much. For the author of the article I've mentioned, diagnosis was a minor emotional miracle, but not a cure.

Mixed blessings. I am still a beneficiary of magical thinking, but I am also victim to my own impracticality. I just found out that the internship I got, though undeniably wonderful and useful, is also UNPAID. That is one colossal wrench in the works. I feel a bit foolish, a bit humbled - did I misread the ad? Was there a typo? Or did I simply see what I wished was there? However it happened, I put lots of hope and plans into this being an internship/job, not just a learning experience. And couldn't the learning have begun along with internship, not before it?

I am thrown and a bit panicked, but mostly just full of the dread of the job search, dread of putting myself out there again, dread of figuring it all out. As K points out, my project for this weekend will be my life.

Oh, also, I am embarrassed to have to inform everyone about this new information. Yech.

Hooray for magical thinking! I have always suspected that I lead something of a charmed existence. Recent events confirm this hypothesis. I applied for an internship a few weeks ago, then went on a vacation to Martha's Vineyard. While I was gone, the director of the internship replied to my application asking for references. I sent out an APB to my referrers, then went to Northern Vermont for a week. I arrived home Saturday to find that I'd received the internship! Now that I've gotten what I wanted, plus two wonderful vacations, I have to thank the gods, the universe, my parents, my social circle, Mount Holyoke connections, my own optimism, and of course, magical thinking, for this bounty. I also need to start looking for a place to live in Boston, without knowing if I'll be making enough money to live there, but that sounds slightly less magical, and is an entry for another time.

It seemed like time to check in here. I have nothing to write, or perhaps too much to report to consider writing it well. My extended vacation has been trundling along, extending further and further until I can barely imagine an end to it. This is an unexpected blessing, but also, in the way of blessings, something of a curse. I have managed to apply for one job/internship, but that's it, so the real world is at bay through the power of denial and magical thinking.

Time to go make the rounds: Target, Barnes and Noble, Radio Shack, et al.

My friend recently posted on her blog that she is too low energy even for blogging. She wondered "how can one run out of energy for narcissism?" I am here to say that narcissism is EXHAUSTING. It requires way more energy than almost anything else. And, of course, it is pretty tiring for others to deal with as well.

Case in point: my birthday. The adequate celebration of my birthday has been an ongoing struggle for about 10 years now. Clearly, the needs and feelings that center on my birthday are larger than life can handle. I have good years and bad years, but it is always some sort of struggle in which I try to be honest about my needs without being demanding and those around me try to fulfill my needs without being resentful. Yeesh. This year was a mixed bag. I felt very satisfied about my birthday before and after the day itself. However, on the actual day, I was beset by melancholy and loneliness. I suspect those latter feelings were exacerbated by my current state of unemployed limbo. Also, the internet doesn't help. The first thing I did upon awaking on my birthday was to open up several tabs in Firefox so I could flip fruitlessly back and forth between GMail, Facebook, MySpace, and my other email accounts, looking for signs of birthday love. Of course, I was doomed to disappointment by both my strategy and my expectations. Nevermind that two days before, I was feted and pampered by my boyfriend in a fancy hotel room in Boston. Nevermind that the day after, my parents drove for over an hour through nasty weekend traffic to bring me a cake my mom had prepared early that morning. Nevermind that most of my friends and family don't even know where in the world to find me, let alone remember my birthday and commemorate it. Nevermind that I rarely remember any birthday but my own. The old feelings of inadequacy, anger, insecurity, and fear rose up in me and spread along my limbs and skin like a particularly virulent virus.

Today, July 24th, I am sufficiently relieved from my own narcissism. The world is a brighter place! I will call my dad later to wish him a Happy Birthday and, what is better, I will mean it.

On another note, I finished the latest, and final, Harry Potter at 3am this morning. It was an odd feeling. I had devoured the book, sometimes almost skipping words and sentences in my hunger to find out WHAT HAPPENS NEXT. I was completely panicked the whole time, certain that either Ron or Hermione would be killed at any moment. I couldn't even tell if I liked the book, because I was trembling with the knowledge that it was the last one. Going on some message boards helped - people expressed many of the same feelings and thoughts I'd had and I had the nice, arrogant feeling that I'd understood some things others had not. I was amazed to see that some people were planning to reread the entire novel immediately upon finishing it! I definitely need a break, though I think I'll eventually reread the entire series. It is especially satisfying to think back on the arc of the books and see that the main excitement and concerns of the first book are so different from the last, and yet connected. One of the cool things about the series is the way that the author understands the shifting of concerns from age 11 to age 17 and how she mirrors that shifting in the events of her plot. She also does very well with metaphors made manifest, symbolism brought into the literal world. I have really enjoyed these books and I can't quite believe that there won't be more.

This is the first post minted on my brand new MacBook. I look forward to improved clarity and functionality, though perhaps these will translate only to the aesthetics of my posts, not the content. The new laptop is one result of a wonderful long weekend spent with my parents. The weekend was the graduation present I requested and the hardware was the graduation present my parents' suggested. So, both parties are satisfied with the weekend, and I have received two incredibly generous presents.

The weekend began on Friday with a trip to New York City to see the Richard Serra exhibit at MoMA. We rode in on the train, chortling quietly as we sped past the stalled traffic on 95. We grabbed coffee and pastry at Grand Central, then walked over to 53rd and 5th. We began our viewing with Serra's more recent pieces, commissioned especially for this exhibit. They were shown in the large installation rooms on the 2nd floor. I haven't been to MoMA since junior year of high school (1993) when Mr. Cobbett took our Modernism class to view "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon," "The Starry Night," Mondrian, Cezanne, Braque, and all the other stars of the movement. I scarcely remember the old layout and am very impressed with the new building. The space is appealing and well-designed. There are several stunning vistas and precipitous views. Best of all, they have created a space equal to the power and scale of Serra's massive steel sculptures. As someone who loves works of art but struggles with the inanity of museum-going and museum-goers, I was pleasantly surprised to find myself alone for several minutes in one of the folds of "Band".

The large-scale sculptures readily accomplish one of Serra's stated aims: namely, to make the viewer feel like she is interacting with the works in a visceral, physical sense. As the curving sheets of steel fold in, lean over, and lean back, the human body responds to the space that is either created or withdrawn. The response is not intellectual or even purely emotional, but rather a complex interplay of psychological and biological stimuli. Perhaps Serra has hit upon the conclusive answer to the question of biology vs philosophy: in space, no one can hear you cogitate. The body and the mind, matter and spirit, blend seamlessly into one wholly experiential creature whose thoughts and feelings stream through her physical being. There is no separation and a feeling of extreme well-being permeates.

My fancy has taken flight, so I will hold off on the description of our further adventures until it has landed again.

I've landed in another safe haven. Perhaps I should liken myself to a beautiful species of migratory bird, possessed of rare stamina and a plangent appreciation for distance. Instead, I am too self-absorbed to liken myself to anything but myself. I, me, my self, brain, body, ego, chemical makeup, whatever we want to call this collection of feelings and impulses; whatever we call it, it's flooded its banks and taken over. I realized yesterday that I have been so focused on not overstaying my welcome, not asking too much, not taking up too much space, that I've overlooked the feelings of those around me. In other words, I've been so hypersensitive to what people might be thinking that I've missed what they are actually thinking. This is not the first time I've encountered this problem. I suspect that my monomania, which masquerades as sensitivity, empathy, and just plain "nice"-ness, often leads me into this paradox. My narcissism manifests itself as social paranoia, which results in me acting in a way that gets coded as kind. I am nice to others because I fear for myself.
Update from the tangible world: I am enjoying blueberries and toast. This is my first breakfast toast in many weeks. Today's heat is predicted to be oppressive. Inside the house, with all the windows closed, it is still cool and I am glad for my morning coffee. The bed lies in disarray on the floor, waiting for me to gather the wherewithal to lift it back onto its frame. The dense heaviness of a futon mattress reminds me of a limp body, always more weighty and unwieldy to lift than I would suspect.
I had nightmares last night - the kind that involve not only terror but the threat of physical harm and death. I don't remember what was happening in them, only how relieved I was to wake up. I forced myself to stay awake a few extra minutes before going back to sleep, hoping to sweep the final traces of the previous dream from my unconscious. Those moments are always particularly poignant for me, as my conscious, waking, limited mind tries to predict what my unconscious, sleeping, unlimited mind needs. Somewhat like ruling a vast kingdom from a tiny castle, I would imagine.

What's that tired old saying about family: they're the ones who, if no one else will take you in, have to take you in? Or something slightly less clumsy? Anyway, I bring this up because I have observed over the last few weeks that, besides having a wonderful family that does want to help me, I have formed a new family that functions the same way. My friends, from Mount Holyoke and beyond, have formed a safety net for me. I hate being in the position to ask for or accept help, but I have been humbled by the willingness my friends show in this area. My semi-permanent summer housing plans fell through yesterday, an occurrence which, at other times in my life, might have dealt a mighty blow. However, I did not feel completely felled by it because I knew I had people I could stay with who would care for me and, even better, appreciate my company until I figured out a Plan F (or G, H, whatever letter I might be up to now). I think it is rare to have such support, but for me it is even rarer to recognize it. When I got the news about my housing, I could feel the support of my friends cradling me and it kept me afloat. How amazing to count on that without having to even speak a word!

I have been busy adding to my list of temporary homes. Last week was spent in Hamden, CT, "taking care" of my parents' house while they were on vacation. I put that description in quotes because I suspect that rather than me taking care of the house, it was taking care of me. I had a very relaxing week - the only anxiety was introduced by plant-watering and ipod-crushing. Luckily, the latter happened the first day I was there, so I had several days to get over it. I have been extremely careful with my nano for the past year, but all it takes is one not-so-careful moment to blow the whole streak. I stepped on the very corner of the case that was holding the nano and managed to break the inside of my display. So, the music still plays, if I can blindly press the right combination of buttons to make it do so. I miss the damn thing very much, but felt too ashamed to call Apple to see if they'd replace it before the year warranty ended on June 30th. I think part of me never felt like I "should" have an ipod, so at least that part is satisfied.

Now I am house/cat sitting for a former professor. I feel like I'm in permanent limbo - I float from house to house, bringing along my books, my clothes, and my neuroses. This is a pleasant place to land for a bit, if not completely comfortable. I may have to go rent the next installments of Freaks and Geeks to soothe myself. Only I am pretty near broke, so purchases are dodgy at this point. I keep joking with people about it being time for me to recover my work ethic - the humor covers up my fear that I have lost that ethic, or never had it. Prolonged periods of idleness always provoke this fear. I begin to suspect that my current ennui will never end. Of course, it will, if only because I don't have a permanent place to live, a status which requires constant vigilance.

Class notes for my high school were due yesterday. After receiving an email from our perky, self-appointed class liaison, I went to the website to check them out. I thought about posting - after all, I've just achieved a milestone in my life. But my old shame rose up to block me: my classmates are all posting about MBAs, PhDs, babies, houses, careers, and here I've just graduated from college. I feel ten years behind, stuck in my adolescence, a loser among the cool kids. I try to remind myself that people only write into the alumni magazine when they have something to boast about. I look at the notes from my friends and think about how glad I am to hear from them, how nice their lives look on paper, purged of the trials and tribulations I've heard about along the way. I could narrate my life in that vein. I could joyfully proclaim my achievements and make them valid by doing so. However, I am stymied by my own doubt about the validity of my achievements. I am stopped by insecurity, the very emotion so often stirred by my experience at Choate and rekindled by my re-entry into the world of academia, social pressure, and the tyranny of success.

The epitome of the "class note"? A little update from a man who writes that he has "taken up triathlons," completing 7 in the last year. Yeah? Well I've watched 2 entire seasons of Entourage and one of Deadwood. Call it the triathlon of television.