“Let’s get you back in line.” They wheel my bag back in the direction of security.
“I wish we had talked about this stuff.” I swing my backpack over my shoulder. “I forgot that I had access to an expert on being in a relationship with a divorced person.”
“It’s okay not to have all your firsts with someone.” The line lurches forward. “The firsts can be disasters. That’s when you make all the stupid mistakes. It’s kind of great to be partners with someone with a little bit of life experience. Sometimes seconds are really, really good. Better than the firsts.”
35
I only let my alarm gooff once now that I live in a space where two of my walls are accordion-style divider screens and a third is a sheer Urban Outfitters curtain I bought at Goodwill.
For the last few weeks, I’ve been subletting a room (using the termroomloosely) in a converted warehouse loft in the Hudson Valley. It houses five people, officially. They’re supposed to be some kind of artist collective that got priced out of Brooklyn and moved upstate. Since I’m just a subletter, they mostly care about collecting my rent in advance and making sure I don’t eat anyone’s yogurt. I would never touch a yogurt in this household, so no worries there.
Confession: I sleep on a mattress on the floor. I know, Iknow.I’ve become the very thing I hate in single men. I’ve lived long enough to see myself become the villain. The worst part aboutit is that I’m lacking that extra sense of security against roaches. I try not to think about it; it doesn’t work.
I think about roaches constantly.
It sounds terrible, but hear me out: if you were sleeping on the floor in this particular industrial loft space, you’d be thinking about bugs nonstop. You’d see them crawling whenever you close your eyes.
I didn’t bring much in the way of decorative objects, but I have Kira’s drawing of me in a frame, propped up near the futon. Yes, it obviously reminds me of Nick. (In case you’re wondering, I’m now drowning in Romily’s black Lovelorn circle, which has expanded to cover all four quadrants.) But mostly, I like having it here because it’s a precious, personal thing. It’s a gift and I’m honoring it. And also proving to myself that I’m nothing like my dad.
I’m an independent (burning through my savings) woman with her own apartment (that she shares with five other people and probably hundreds of bugs), a thriving social life (a couple of friends from undergrad whom I’ve seen once for drinks), and enriching hobbies (a quarter-life crisis).
My entire morning routine is very different now. Turns out, I need a schedule. If I’m expected to be in the art education program office at 9a.m., I will not spend my morning watching makeup videos on YouTube.
I’m surprised by how much I enjoy the job. It’s not because it’s particularly interesting work—I spent most of the first week ordering catering for various “welcome back” events and troubleshooting A/V issues—but because it’s simply A Job. I have a list of tasks to do, questions to answer, IT workers to befriend. After years of formless, bloblike days that blend together, my waking hours finally have shape.
I meet some of the grad students during a department mixerjust before the start of classes. My mom would be happy to know that I’m “networking.” As I suspected, my duties have little to do with art, and no one here is going to help me finally get that coveted acceptance email, but I’m getting unadulterated intel about what it’s like to be in a PhD program.
As I replenish the napkins on the little buffet table, the PhD candidates grab multiple Jimmy John’s sandwiches off the platters and stuff them into reusable plastic containers. Apparently, this is what I’ll have to look forward to as a doctoral student.
“There arenojobs in academia,” one woman tells me as she snags several bags of chips and places them into her messenger bag. “Art history is so oversaturated with unemployed PhDs. I got turned down for a volunteer docent position at Dia Beacon. Go into advertising. It’s less painful.”
One of the adjuncts has a second job as a bartender. Apparently, I was preparing for this career path without even realizingit.
On the official first day of classes, I spend forty minutes waiting in line at the registrar’s office, the university’s equivalent of the DMV waiting area. I’ve been tasked with fixing some incorrect registration permissions for Art of the Western WorldI.
Had my life continued its planned trajectory five years ago, maybe I’d be teaching that class. Of course, now that I’ve seen a chart with salary ranges, I realize that my hourly wage as an entry-level office coordinator is roughly the same as an adjunct lecturer.
The assistant registrar behind the desk is probably making a fantastic wage in comparison.
“Art…of the Western…World,” she mutters as she types, squinting at her computer.
“I’m kind of jealous of the students,” I say, just to make polite conversation. “I was an art history major. I loved sitting in thosebig dark lecture halls.”
I can tell this is not something we have in common.
“Employees can audit any open class, you know,” the registrar says, without lookingup.
“Really?”
“Yep. Anything that’s open.” She turns her monitor around so I can see a long spreadsheet of numbers, letters, and class names. “It’s one of the ‘perks,’ ” she says, making air quotes. “If you enjoy sitting in lecture halls with college students in your spare time.”
As I try to decode the massive course list, she mentions that I could also take online classes from any school in the university system. “You can get your MBA from your bed,” she says, not realizing that the whole point of me being here is to beoutof bed. I’m not going to get an MBA from my floor futon.
Maybe it’s because the class codes that begin with the letter A are at the top of the screen, but my eyes land on ART0190 Comics and Characters.
I point at the monitor. “Can I take studio art classes?”
“You could take poultry science as long as it says ‘open’ next to the class code.”
