An Ode to Not Bitching Out.

It has been longer than I like to admit since I have last posted. This is because I have a job again. More specifically, it is because I have a job that requires me to wake up at 5:30am, commute for about 2 hours, work until about 6:30pm, then commute another 2 hours home, getting me in the door at 8:30pm. For a simpler, clearer picture, that means I spend 15 out of the 24 hours in a day just trying to get paid. Get. Paid. Beyond that, I have to work on commission until I have proven myself worthy.

There are several negatives attached to this situation, as anyone might imagine. One of the more serious downsides is that my iPod is old and about to crap out on me any day now. Even pretending that the battery life will last 4 hours is laughable. Yes, I could read or knit or even strike up conversation with a friendly face. But, none of those alternative activities are going to save me from the one thing my iPod can: hearing sick people on the train.

Every time I hear the guy two seats behind me cough or take a strong sniff of whatever's about to leak from his nose, all I can think of is what kind of eviler version the evil he has released into the relatively small, closed space we're sharing will evolve into once I, inevitably, inhale it. Ew. Ew ew ew. But I digress.

This routine I have willingly put myself in is, undoubtedly, an uphill battle. There are so many moments in a day when I just want to bitch out. Quit. Call it a day or a life or whatever. Look myself hard and long in the face and say, "Gab, I know you have a college education, but your body won't look like this forever and well it's just a body and you like being naked anyway. And the money. Money for being naked. They can look at it as long as they don't grab it right?"

Then I have to remember that the reason I am putting myself through this is because it is a great opportunity. Don't bitch out. Don't do it.

There are other times when I want to bitch out. Like when I'm tired from my stupid job and pigs fly and someone wants to socialize with me. And I think about how tired I am. I am so tired. But I always force myself to do it because, well, I will only live once. Yes, I just said that. You will only live once, too.

Or when I'm scared of something and I know there is an easy way to avoid confronting my fears. I always think of doing it (AKA bitching out). For example, my old job called me two days into my new one and offered me my position back. That would have meant easier hours, not having to dress d-bag professional, and a paycheck with the same number on it every time. That made bitching out sound as enticing as watching Intervention in my underwear on a worn in couch with a couple of slices of cold pizza and a cheap bottle of wine. Which I have never ever ever actually done. Psh, me? No way.

But when I really had to make the decision, I knew I'd be choosing comfort over growth. Moving side to side instead of forward. Maybe you are thinking I am an idiot. I have thought that as well. However, I suppose in this case, as it is in most cases when I end up not bitching out, the potential splendor involved in the risk outweighs the comfort cushion.

Just so you know, having this attitude keeps me in a constant state of anxiety. I am always nervous. So much so that I cry once preemptively in the morning and once at night just because even if I can't pinpoint what it is, I'm sure to either go through or have gone through something awful every day. It feels terrible and I hate it so much. Really, I loathe it with every cell of my being.

But every now and then, something fantastic happens. It seems that those are the only things I remember when I think back. I feel like the theme song from The Wonder Years should be playing right now. Actually, here: The Wonder Years Epic Theme Song. Ok, now click that link and re-read this entire thing. Wait, no, start from "There are other times when I want to bitch out." Yeahhh.

I think I am feeling embarrassed right now.

I guess I should just get to my point. I think it's pretty clear. Apply every cliche you've ever heard that sums up to, "Nothing good comes easy." Or, in the year 2011, "Bitching out never got a player nowhere." If, in any facet of your life, you want to be a baller, shot caller, or both, you just have to take it as it comes, full-on. Be scared, but don't bitch out.

If you bitch out, you miss out.

Someone will probably use that to peer pressure a teenager into trying drugs. Shit.

Jean Jackets, Jello, and Why It's Impossible to Feel Bad About Yourself in NYC.

Why don't I start you off with a song to accompany your reading? No worries, this one's catchy, not creepy like the last. "Meet Me In the Bathroom"-The Strokes

As I sit here, at my desk, typing away on my Dell PC (which, by the way, was a real fine piece of machinery when it was gifted to me back in 2007, but is now showing all signs of seriously considering shitting the bed), I am feeling pretty uplifted.

Why? Because I have a jean jacket that I bought for $5 at Goodwill a couple weeks back and I ate cherry flavored Jello for dinner tonight.

Oh yes, and yesterday, on my two-week anniversary of being unemployed, I got a new job. And the crowd goes wild (please imagine muffled, whisper-like cheering noises, as I am currently making them). However, that is sort of neither here nor there, being that I won't be discussing the job itself, but rather the revelation I had while in pursuit.

That revelation being that it is impossible to feel bad about yourself in New York City if you don't want to. Here's why: People in New York City are really weird. As a matter of fact, feel free to replace "weird" with almost any adjective that might equate to sketchy, odd, unusual, or abnormal.  I'm talking full-on strange.

And I am so grateful.

On Tuesday morning, as I got ready for the first round of interviews, I was feeling nervous. So, to counteract those nerves I thought to myself, "Ok Gab, knock it off. Take a shower and then do everything in your power to get your act together as best as you can in the most superficial way possible." You know, fake it 'til you make it. Or, in the words of the classic SNL sketch "Fernando's Hideaway" featuring Billy Crystal,

"It is better to look good than to feel good."

Sometimes, it really is. So I went ahead and did that. I put on my finest button-down-business-type shirt and pencil skirt (and by finest I mean only), a nice new pair of "sheer" tights, which were not so much sheer as they were mocha, and a shiny pair of heels that would eventually cause me to leave my interview with bloodied ankles and no feeling in either of my big toes. I even went the extra mile and ran a brush through my hair. Real professional-like.

Then, on the 40 minute trek from my friend's place in Brooklyn to the office in Times Square, several people verbally harassed me in the most vulgar ways imaginable. Instances ranged from a whistle, to a couple of lip-smacks, to a long, drawn-out "damn," to a very expressive gentleman who took the trouble to stop me and say, "God bless you and your body, baby."

If only they all knew how sweaty I was and that I had blood pooling in my shoes.

But, they didn't. So good for me.

Right now you may be thinking, "Why would you like that?" Or, "Ew." Or maybe even, "That's scary." I would like to take this moment to just say that if you are thinking one of those things or something else along those lines, you have a poor attitude.

Sexual harassment? I think not. I look at it more as unsolicited encouragement from some enthusiastic strangers. Choo-choo, this is your conductor speaking, welcome aboard the positive spin train.

Now, sure, I did go out of my way to look presentable and therefore, may have warranted more of a reaction than I normally would. However, I am certain that I could get an equally strong reaction if I found myself in the right part of the right town. More good news, I'm no exception to the rule.

Which brings me to my point: You too can feel this great about yourself in New York City. No matter your body-type, hair color, style, etc. There is some creep out there in some creepy place waiting to let you know just how enticing you actually are.

Just don't make eye contact and carry a small weapon.