Recent Grad

by Meredith Wright

They say there are three kinds of people who go abroad: 1) the adventurously awesome person 2) someone who’s running away from something and 3) the socially inept person who hopes that things will be different in a foreign land. I have encountered all of these people living abroad. I fancy myself in the first category; however the second rings true for me as well. I moved abroad to both live life and run away from it.

As a recent graduate from McGill University, I now find myself in the center of America: Central America, that is. I went from the frozen sidewalks and dripping poutine of Montreal to the sweltering city of rice and beans in Spanish-speaking San Jose. How did an English literature major end up in Costa Rica? Well, I came here to take a break for a year and teach English (the two are not mutually exclusive). In other words, I came to Costa Rica to procrastinate productively.

As an English teacher I can support myself and be a travelling hippie at the same time. I also really want to learn Spanish despite my hatred of my first year Spanish class. The only time I got an A in that class was when I dressed up as Shakira for a presentation. So far, things are going relatively smoothly here. I put the Toronto grad school option on hold in favour of an exhilarating, irresponsible lifestyle. I have no future and it feels damn good. Of course I worry about what I’m going to do with my life, but as they say here in Costa Rica: pura vida. Pura vida literally means pure life, but often refers to the stress-free Costa Rican or Tico lifestyle. My cousin was working here for over a year and promoted Costa Rica as the ideal post-grad experience. Costa Rica boasts a capital circled by mountains, active volcanoes and year round spring-like weather.

My cousin even invited me to live at her boyfriend’s family’s house. The family is great and their home is absolutely beautiful. My mom jokes that I’m living like a princess, and really, she’s not far off. I’ve been in Costa Rica a little over month now and my daily activities make some of my friends back home want to drop kick me or just drop out of grad school. I did manage to get a job teaching, and took up a position as a substitute teacher at a school which has great perks. I enjoy free salsa lessons and long talks with native-Spanish speakers. My level of Spanish is similar to my level of dancing: I can’t do either of them well, but that doesn’t stop me from doing them! My Spanish blunders and my dance moves both cause unintentional injury and bewilderment in others. I’ve also had the chance to snorkel in the hammerhead-infested waters of Drake Bay, drink a cerveza at the picturesque Nicoya beach, and swim in a volcano crater in Nicaragua. Nowhere else have I been snubbed by a banana-loving spider-monkey and intimidated by an 8 foot tall street dancing gypsy type on the same day. Next on my list is a trip to the active Arenal volcano where I plan to go zip-lining and frolic in the hot springs.

Some days, however, I really miss my family and friends. Being away from them makes me realize how lucky I am to have them. To my amazement, not many people here are impressed by my extensive use of puns and even longer list of corny jokes. I am usually a social butterfly of sorts, but it hasn’t been an easy task to bond with people here. A few of the teachers I work with seem to have lived in this country a little too long and aren’t looking for any new enthusiastic Canadian friends. Luckily I will have a fresh crop of keen co-workers come January and a full-time schedule to boot, eh!

Although Costa Rica can be so lonely at times, I feel I made the right decision in coming here. I wasn’t ready for grad school or any version of a real job. Living here also gives me time to reflect about what I want to achieve in life. Seeing as how my dear Grandma disapproves of my lifestyle with all of her old-fashioned heart, this tells me I’m on the right path. I realize that I can’t hide here forever, but for now, when the real world starts to stress me out I can just brush it off with a pura vida.

by Emily Heppner

It’s five o’clock in the morning, and I’m wide awake, fraught with anxiety. I have a one-way ticket to Europe, a twelve-month work visa for France, few job prospects, only a handful of overseas contacts, and when it comes down to it, no plan. My plane leaves in ten hours. Curled up under my warm, soft, Toronto duvet, I can’t help but wonder whether I am ballsy or just plain nuts. This is what people do when they graduate, isn’t it? Suddenly, my vision of me living in Paris, sipping café au lait with a beautiful Frenchman named Jean-Henri gives way to one of a blonde lost in a foreign land – all alone, penniless, and begging for bread.

Of course, it is only natural to fear the unknown, and I am certainly not the only recent graduate wild-eyed about her future. With today’s precarious economy, finding any job, whether it is in France or Toronto, seems brutally unpromising. And for those of us who are working, the realities of the “grownup” work world can be daunting. Mindless tasks, indifferent coworkers or bosses, little praise, excessive snacking, boredom, and lack of vibrancy are all common features to the nine to fiver, especially when you are just starting out. You don’t need to be taking off for Europe without an itinerary to be nervous about where you are headed in life. It is just as scary to be stuck right where you are. In fact, waking up in the middle of the night in a sweat became a habit when I was working in an office this summer. The thought of spending the rest of my days in a cubicle, and the rest of my nights at home with Mom and Dad was enough to make me run screaming to the airport.

The reality is that our comforters were pulled away from us the moment we accepted our diplomas and walked across the university stage. It was then that we were stripped of our protected status as student and all the benefits that come with it, and left alone to define ourselves (believe me, there is nothing more intimidating than an empty box on a visa application labeled “Profession”). As a recent graduate, the fear of failure is more acute than ever, and I am utterly terrified of failing abroad. Of coming home early and admitting to my friends and family that I just wasn’t able to make it happen.

But perhaps I am being too hard on myself, as most graduates are who try to have their lives all figured out before they’re even really started. Perhaps a bit of failure is precisely what we need. After all, were not Gertrude Stein, Hemingway and F. Scott Fitzgerald all considered aimless wanderers in their time? It’s time to kick off my duvet, get dressed, and get going. I have no idea what will happen or how long I will be gone, but I welcome the challenge. Who knows, Jean-Henri may even be waiting for me when I get there.

by Ali Golfetto

Graduating from university might just be one of the most terrifying experiences I’ve gone through in recent years. Far from being a cause of celebration, for most of us it is the first time that you realize you have no skills, no prospects, no money, and no idea how to get any of them.

At least that was the case for me. When I finished university with a biology degree (that I chose because it would ‘keep my options open’ when, in reality, it just ‘kept my GPA extremely low’) and no hope of getting into med school even if I wanted to, it was terrifying because I had nothing planned. I tried to look at it as exhilarating that the world was my oyster and I could do whatever I liked. I realized that the only thing I’d really done or studied in university that I was really passionate about was volunteering for a campus club called Dignitas that works to provide access to life-saving treatment to people living with HIV/AIDS in resource-limited settings.

I figured international development would be a good place to start-only I had taken no ID courses and knew nothing about how to get going. I was trying to come up with a plan when, just by chance, I overheard someone in the cafeteria talking about a program at Humber College that was one year (good, because I hated school and couldn’t handle much more), teaches you tangible skills (good, because I had none), and is focused on international development (good, because that was the only thing I knew I had an interest in).

I just finished the program in June, and frantically sent out hundreds of resumes all summer. Just when I had begun to resign myself to waitressing and living with my parents forever, I got an email. I was being offered a job I hadn’t applied for and didn’t even know was vacant. Dignitas had remembered me from when I volunteered in university and thought I’d be great to replace someone there who was going back to school!

I’ve been working for Dignitas for just over a month, supervising the university chapters I was once a member of, and everything seems to be going well. My credit card bills are almost paid off, I am getting something I can actually put on my resume, and I’m meeting great people. Yes, I’m still living with my parents, all my friends are still living it up in university, and my pay cheques are miniscule-but it’s a start.

I guess I would tell other recent grads that there is hope. You have to pay your dues and start from the bottom – in fact, volunteering is a great way to get your foot in the door if you can afford to do it. Just remember: being true to what you care about always pays off!

Of my five best university girlfriends, I'm the only one who graduated after four years. All the same brunches, parties, and library sessions are going on in Montreal--just without me. And I am marooned in Toronto, in my parents' house, with no full-time job, never to have sex again. Welcome to Recent Graduate.

I think I am officially in life's purgatory. After completing my Arts degree and racking up some solid student debt, I've got no cash to travel and no excuse to postpone getting my career on. But getting a job in publishing is no easy feat for a recent grad--it's a "pay your dues" industry where you prove yourself for a while by working for free, and who can afford to do that? Meanwhile, most of my friends are still in school, drinking their OSAP money, taking classes, and doin' it after the bar.

My parents' house sees so little action that it might as well be a nunnery. I certainly can't resume my university shenanigans, like going home with a Frenchman I mostly couldn't understand. The only English sentences he seemed to know were the lyrics to Britney's Gimme More and "I want to pleasure you", and I liked him that way, but this is probably not the sort of thing my mother and father would appreciate in their home. Has the time for these hedonistic delights simply passed? Will I ever earn enough money to rent an apartment in which to get my freak on? And are health and dental benefits simply out of my league? Because hear you me, do you ever miss those when they're gone.

Commiserate with the trials and tribulations of this recent graduate as I intern, take continuing ed courses, work soul-sucking retail and sleep in tents in the park, all on the journey to that elusive regular pay cheque.

By Samantha Evans

One year later, it is confirmed: I am a not so recent graduate. 7 am wake up calls, increasingly larger circles of friends with whom I share a diminishing amount of intimacy and an unfamiliar yet comforting regular pay cheque all stand as clues that I am not a girl, not yet a woman, yet it was my most recent return to the town of my 4 year (honours) moratorium that secured this daunting realization. Well, that and a tactfully worded email from a fellow SDTC compatriot and good friend: “we should probably get a more recent grad to start contributing…”

Like they say, all good things must come to an end. If they didn’t, they wouldn’t really be all that good, would they? Take this bangs pinned, bare legs sticking to the old leather TTC seats, warm and drippy beer-filled August we’re having. Sure my hair is rebelling like an angst-ridden teen, but I heart every steamy minute of it. And why do I love it? Because I never know when I’ll wake up and it’ll be gone for another frigid 12 months. To those of you still in school, there really will be no other time in your life that you can go a week sans shower and not be judged profusely for it. Embrace the all-nighters and the Sundays on the couch with KD and SATC! Revel in your Fridays off, and breathe in every last drop of crisp academic air, ‘cause once the suit goes on and you’re a 9 am regular at Starbucks, you can never quite recreate those memories, no matter how many retro-themed parties you throw.

I walked along the tree and litter lined streets that house my alma mater this past weekend, musing about the various memories that came to mind… addresses that conjured up thoughts of people and moments that I will never forget. While I am still that accommodating and motivated student at heart, there is no denying the changes that have occurred in the last year. And yes, the learning continues beyond the realms of campus. Step one in becoming a full fledged adult: Maturity (n.): As much as you want to relive something, some things are meant to be lived once, and only once, and as such, you may have to concede that some things you may reconcile within yourself, but never repeat.

But rest assured new grads! Death at age 23 is not imminent! With every stage of life comes new adventure, opportunity, and of course, photos, to chronicle every fantastic and tragic moment of it. As for you, the reader(s) of this column that started as a navigational tool for new grads and evolved into a space in which to air my dirty and (I hope) hilarious laundry for everyone to smell, I hope at least one sentence resonated with you. That was my initial and final aim. I recently lent my voice to an up and coming Kingston-based magazine, Konekt , which is shaping up to be a very interesting read… I’d love to hear your thoughts. It’s been a great experience and I look forward to sharing many more with this community of amazing women. Stay classy, Toronto.

Is your groin burning? Do your calves ache? Does your chest feel like a sumo wrestler is giving you a deep pectoral massage? No, I’m not inquiring if you have crabs or tried that bewildering new sex trick from Cosmo (the latter is a crock; just try rolling over). I’m talking about exercise, and what happens when you take your young limber body for granted. I did four exercise classes in two days and have never felt less agile or more elderly. I’m 22! What happened to those “best shape of your life,” endless energy days I have heard so much about? Next thing you know I’ll have saddlebags or a mortgage or something. Okay, to be honest, I actually workout somewhat regularly, but you wouldn’t know it watching me hobble from my desk to the copier and back today.

I’ve heard that corporate desk culture is the fastest way to fattyville, but didn’t believe it until I found that the only thing luring me out of bed every morning was the promise of a scone with my tall mild misto. Add to that my sister’s newfound Bikram yoga, loud blender juicing, teetotaler ways and a nagging fear that the dryer is not in fact shrinking my jeans, and I decided something’s gotta give. I’m afraid it’s time to admit the truth: I don’t walk to and from campus 3 times a day, dine on Mr. Noodles and fit in workouts between lectures. If you’re not careful, 9-5s will fatten more than your bank account. It has been only two months since I ended my off and on relationship with my bossy personal trainer, and my flexibility has little to show for itself. And the blonde spindly girl on the mat beside me didn’t help matters. “Since you’re so flexible, focus on your left leg” the teacher says, as said blonde nearly pokes me in the eye with her splayed right tree trunk, while I cough to hide the cracks of my buckling knees. “You might want to see a sports specialist about that twinge:” it’s like I’m 13 again and just misread organism aloud to the whole class, but there’s no textbook in which to bury my head in shame.

Maybe yoga’s not for me? Maybe I don’t have the proper Lululemon uniform? I shall give it and my crackly elderly knees another go before throwing in the mat. Everyone deserves a second chance. Wait, is that… Ethel, from the office? On second thought, I always preferred running.

The post-university dating scene is a treacherous one. I find myself longing for the days of all-nighters at the library, if only for the plethora of good-looking Econ and Engineering majors occupying the basement cubicles. Post-convocation, we are faced with different dating etiquette, successes and utter fiascoes. While a 9-5 may come with sublime stability and a regular pay cheque, it is also accompanied by stagnant routine, especially if your commute involves a residential bus ride with your father’s friends, who consider the Blackberry on their belts to be the ultimate accessory. Better yet, when you spot a hottie who resembles deliciously preppy Nate from GG, you realize he is in school uniform because he is still in high school. I officially gave up on finding love on a real train when a briefcase-carrying trekkie in a waiter’s uniform told me my hair resembled that of Silk Spectre from The Watchmen, but that I should wear more latex. It’s a little Risky Business for the office, Kirk, but I’ll keep it in mind, thanks. 

So if public transport’s out, office affairs are strictly off-limits and I now feel the need to ID half the gentlemen who approach me in bars, what’s a girl to do? House parties are few and far between and there are no longer endless conferences, student councils or charity fashion shows in which to rub shoulders with a cohort of viable bachelors. When is the appropriate time to bring in a pinch hitter (aka surrender to the most awkward of first dates), the blind date? For someone who may know the elementary school and name of a suitor’s high school prom plus-one, all before a second date, the concept of being thrust into a round of 20 questions sans preparation is terrifying, if not akin to heading into the wild with nothing more than an LBD. True, it is a good way to break a pattern. Say you are known to select passive aggressive brunets or intellectually inferior blonds, and are looking for a superior breed of man: Chances are your friends know this and can steer you in a better direction c/o one of their own friends. You also have a lower chance of going home with a Patrick Bateman type who enjoys slicing skulls over chicken parmesan. But my stubborn “my bed or sleep alone” streak immediately flares up at the thought of someone else playing God over my dating life, despite the fact that I’m really just scared that I will bore him or will be trapped as he addresses me by the boots I am wearing or asks “Do you know how many girls throw themselves at me?”…Bottom line: enlist a friend whose taste you trust and approve of; plan an escape route à la Charlotte in SDTC (“I wouldn’t normally answer my phone but what if something bad has happened…”) and remind yourself that the beat will go on, no matter how deadbeat the dude is. Who knows, maybe you can catch that preppy minor from the bus before his curfew. But if the po-po knock on your door, don’t say I didn’t warn you …

For a moment there, you weren’t sure if the week would ever end, but it did. You worked late and weren’t paid extra, your umbrella broke in Katrina II, you forgot to go to the bank and missed your bus when you finally remembered- definitely one of those weeks. Your friend calls to remind you of a party that you absentmindedly agreed to attend, and all you can think about is how lovely it would be to curl up with a DVD and a box of Mike n’ Ikes, but then something crosses your mind… Jan 2009, New Year’s resolutions (I KNEW I would regret publicizing those damn things) to expand your horizons, say yes, risk it all. Risk it all? Wasn’t that what I was doing, clinging to my bottle of Stoli as the bus lurched through Leaside?  

You arrive at the party, which is to say, you were the party, as you stroll into a house that screams “Why am I sooo cool?” (Not unlike a T-shirt you once owned with same self-loving slogan ironed on the chest), and surmise that it’s going to be that kind of night, when fun is just out of reach. But then, it happens: In between funneling vodka Redbull and dancing on the couch, you think, I am having fun and, who is this cute boy? What’s that - It’s your party? Your farewell party? Of course it is! Life wouldn’t be life if it was all pep rallies and proms, it’d be an episode of Saved by the Bell. Before Zack could tell Kelly “See you in September”, time was up, leaving this former high school v-ball player and one-time waitress wondering: how do you get to know someone via long distance? Sorry Madge, but I like my lovers a little closer than 6 thousand miles away.  

The reinvented 2009 me says “que sera, sera” but my neurotic 2008 self nags “It’s been 3 days… he thinks you’re crazy… how can I flirt via social network!?” (“Hey baby, I’m following you on twitter”? I mean, really.) Crazy and calm finally call a truce and it is decided: a little faith in my inherent coolness + occasional reminders that I exist = carefree summer. And if you’re having one of those weeks, when you work late and the umbrella breaks, just ask yourself “Why is she sooo cool?” Chances are, he will too.

There are moments when I look around and say ‘How did I get here?’ (Other times it’s more along the lines of ‘Where am I?’ and ‘Who are you?’) More often than not, these moments occur when I am hauling my body and any number of bags full of high heels, lunches and smelly gym clothes to the bus stop every morning, praying I can squeeze in Starbucks and still beat my boss to the office. Somewhere in between weekly Queer as Folk wine and Oreo marathons and bar hopping until 5am, I found myself a full time job. Three interviews and one giant recession later, you can find me huddled over a computer, editing psych reports, wondering if it isn’t too late to analyze others’ problems for a living. God knows, I’ve had enough practice on myself. After dipping a sandaled foot into finance and an equestrian-styled boot into fashion, I can’t help but think that maybe there was something to be said for majoring in psychology (besides the multiple choice exams and ‘Freudian Slip’ bikini briefs, that is).   

If you’re anything like me, you probably spent the day before any big family affair planning your escape from Aunt Judy before she could ask, ‘What are you going to do after graduation?’ I’ve heard that our generation should expect to have at least 5 careers before we retire (if we retire. The world’s oldest woman just turned 115; I feel like calling her up for recessionary stock tips). In which case, I’m more than half way towards a condo in Fort Lauderdale. Seriously though, I think our generation will reject the one career per decade model of our parents in favour of a multiple career model that allows us to edit psych reports by day and be paid to blog about it by night (when we’re not jaunting to financial seminars and fashion shows, of course.) To be honest, I couldn’t be more pleased with this turn of events, as the only thing I can think of committing to is non-commitment. It’s best to have an updated resume just a click away; you never know who you’ll bump into on your next 5am pub crawl-- it could be your next employer. What am I going to do after graduating, Judy? Anything and everything. And yes, that includes the boss’ son.  

I don’t know about you, but I’m getting really tired of wearing tights under everything. Call them what you want—tights, leggings, hosiery, stockings—but let’s be honest; they’re all a close cousin of the unfortunately named pantyhose. UTI and wedgie inducing; hot sex hindering, nemesis of the big toenail pantyhose. With that said, I am happy to report that I stripped down and bared serious leg this morning and thus, spring has arrived! It’s been so long that the word is now associated with cheap shoe outlets in malls than with freshly cut grass. But any day now Starbucks will release a new frappucino, patios will open for lunch, hot boys will run by your apartment window and you can re-christen your balcony with the first beer of the season. While you purge your closet of last year’s frivolous purchases, you may also want to take stock of the people in your life. Some relationships may be as perplexing (and fatal) as the SARS epidemic. While others may have the potential for so much more…  

When two friends get together after months or even years of engaging and disengaging one another, it seems like the whole world can finally stop holding its breath. The couple in question may find that it can’t appear in public without hearing some variation of “It’s about time!” thrown at them. And like that first bare-legged morning, you feel nervous but giddy. Yes, it’s fab and exciting and simplifies plans on Friday night, but it also complicates things infinitely. Suddenly you can’t tell your good friend about your boyfriend’s irritating sleeping habits without simultaneously telling the boyfriend. And dare I ask, what happens if it doesn’t work out? You’re forced to swallow your pain along with your soy misto as you attempt to listen to your ‘friend’ talk about his new fling. (While he’s at it, why not fling himself out of the 416?) 

Sure, you can tell yourself you’ll never dip your love bucket in the well of friendship, but as a wise woman recently reminded me, chances are your next boyfriend will be a friend of a friend. As we go through life, we only meet more people; while we may de-friend on Facebook we can’t un-know someone in the real world. Therefore, it’s very likely a friend could become a future lover. (e.g. Jay’s friend from work seems safer than ‘Santiago’ offering to buy you a vodka soda, claiming you “look familiar”). It’s about time someone wrote a book on the matter. Maybe He Stuck it In, and Now I Want Out (for friends)? I’d write it myself, but I’m trying to decide whether ex-lovers can be friends, or if lovers were ever really friends to begin with. Perhaps I’m the wrong one to ask; fatal or not, I’m still trying to recreate the feverish summer of SARS. What can I say, some may carry a torch; others watch it go up in flames.