At last write-in, I was over-tired in the Detroit airport after a night lying terrified on a yoga mat while a definite child molester cleaned the floor around my head seventeen times with a linoleum Zamboni. I was in NY for three weeks, two of them accompanied with the BF, with whom I ravaged NYC and the metropolitan area as I hadn’t in years, overwhelmed with the excess of culture, languages, and sheer lack of awful dressing. I gained about 10 pounds, which was fine because I had assumed this would happen (a year without Chinese food and pizza and Vietnamese and Thai and bagels and LEGIT COFFEE will do this to you) and taken three straight weeks of Bikram yoga classes prior to homecoming. This was the first year in many that my homecoming was not a hoecoming; in fact, 2011 marked the first year in a while that I’d had sex with only one person. Said person was almost lost on NYE 2011 when, after 3 dirty martinis, a bottle of mezcal, a bottle of champagne, a few vodka shots, and beer, I challenged him. To a fight. In Little Italy. And then told him I would slit his throat if he didn’t get out of my sight. (I have no recollection but thus went the story). Suffice it to say, I expect 2012 to be quite eventful.
Also during our previous chat I shared the lovely news that I had been promoted! I was to depart from the despised Distrito for precious Puebla (where the verga veracruzano is more of a draw than the mole poblano, but hey – don’t judge me!), where I was to be at the educational helm of the new school they were to be opening. Status, allegedly more money, less travel…I moved my stuff in a snap, gave up my (brilliant) apartment, and put the 22 area code chip back in my cell phone, promised by the director that I would never have to step foot back in the capital again, that the next time I was headed to Santa Fe would be for shopping purposes only.
Imagine my surprise, then, when I received a schedule for Mexico City classes, starting at 7:30 in Santa Fe, 4 out of 5 days. I obviously fired off a professional ¿QUÉ PEDO? email ASAP, which was responded to with a: “Hola Lilly!!!! We got confirmation yesterday that the Puebla project will start in April. I hate the Mexican government!!!!” Ignoring the exclamation points and misspelling of my name still didn’t make me inclined to want to move yet again, nor did the simpering query: “Will you be needing help with accommodation?” I politely declined the offer, both through email and over the phone a few days later, and am more than pleased with the decision.
I realized last night, while lying in my boyfriend’s bed watching Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (I), I realized that I have started every year since 2007 unemployed. [Before you ask how, let me share that since I’m odd, unpatriotic and anti-liberal in that I actually save cash, this is feasible for me (#MoneyOccupiesMyAccountsInTwoCountries).] Begun each 12-month epoch with a bit of soul-searching, meandering, etc. I also like to quit smoking, swear that I’ll write a book, and promise myself that I’ll for over the ridiculous sum required to take the GREs and thus get into grad school (for Creative Writing, which is entirely contingent on my ability to remember shit from the Math4H I took in 11th grade).
I’m not promoting unemployment; however, I spent all of last semester loathing, but LOATHING, the job I had, and was surrounded by people who hated it even more than I did. This is unhealthy. Though I could write tomes on the wretchedness of teaching English to wealthy Mexicans who think gays should be hanged and slaves still legal, it’s better for everyone to simply quit. As an administrator, I would have been in charge of myself, or rather the current old me’s; I let the shiny thoughts of having a coffeemaker and maybe a desk get in the way of my judgement and rationale. On my second night home, I was down on the Lower East Side with two of my oldest friends in an Indian restaurant with pepper/rainbow lights literally exploding from the ceiling, discussing transsexuals and juggling. That’s who I am, not a bitter drone who yearns to be home watching Gossip Girl.