Recent Grad

by Samantha Evans

From Snakes & Ladders with the babysitter to M.A.S.H. in the backseat to Red Rover on the playground (until the class runt broke his arm), we all grow up playing games. In order for us to eat our Brussels sprouts or brush our teeth our parents created games as a way of making life “fun!” If games were played in childhood to manipulate and trick, is it really all that surprising that we continue to play them as adults? I was no fool; I ate around those bitter green balls. Today, I still resist throwing the dice, but unfortunately, others seem more than willing to throw it for me, because, as I learned playing Scrabble with the cat all those years ago, games are more fun when the other person plays along. In fact, unbeknownst to some, matches of flirting can only be played in doubles’ courts. But is it possible that we are not all born with the need to deceive and mislead? What about those of us who drunkenly profess our love after three too pitchers of Labatt Blue? Are we alone, setting sail to Freaks Island?

In a rare moment of self reflection (I’m partial to frequent moments of self-indulgence with little reflection), I paused to think what exactly games may represent. Why is complacent indifference the ultimate triumph in a new relationship? We all like receiving texts telling us that we are as cool as the other side of the pillow, so why hold back? Maybe games are a socially acceptable manifestation of our fear of the unknown—à la Good Will Hunting: “She’s like, perfect right now; I don’t want to ruin that”. Really, games are just another form of anticipation, foreplay before the main event. The longer we pussyfoot around the issue, the more fun it is when we finally give in to our emotions. So, do those of us who tell it how it is (“It hurts so much to love someone and not have them love you baaaack!”) simply require immediate self gratification? Such as when I told everyone at the lunch table that all the cool kids ate their Jello before their sandwiches? And if so, why do I grow bored with anything (or anyone) that offers itself to me so willingly? To complicate matters further, what happens when you dive in head first and then try to backsplash to the dock? I’ll tell you what: confused text messages, angry rants and spoiled Friday nights. So let’s play a game of Truth or Dare… I dare you to tell him how you truthfully feel. Make that a double dare.

What do inter-office emails, riding the subway and instant coffee all have in common? You can engage in all of them with your new office crush, or crushes, because why have one when you can have three? Humans are programmed to bond to proximal objects: pets, volleyballs named Wilson, and for the emotionally defunct, microwaves and Audrey Hepburn posters (they can fall or break but at least they won’t desert you). Thus it goes without saying that we will warm up to those whom we can spy on from over the cubicle wall. Unlike one night stands, the office crush is open to all; the partnered and the single can all participate, but when does the office crush move from harmless to high risk behaviour?

Upon entering high school, not only did I finally accept boobs as a permanent houseguest on my chest, but I developed an intense crush that led me to check my schedule five times a week. Years later, I flirted with a colleague to dull the blues of a long distance relationship. Sure, an office cutie may persuade you to actually straighten your hair or shave your legs, but as some famous poet (and my insightful friend Paul) once said, you can’t enjoy the good without the bad…thus, for every bewitching elevator ride you must endure a full day of hiding a massive pimple or worse yet, the loneliness/disappointment/guilt which kicks in when your work amigo quits/mentions his girlfriend/your boyfriend writes you a sickeningly sweet email.

To avoid being branded the office plaything, I recommend that all dalliances occur beyond the cubicle playground. But if you must, ensure the person sits far enough away that s/he can’t see you creeping on his/her employee profile. And never disclose details about an office crush while you still work with said individual-- you’d be surprised how quickly “cute new girl on 4” becomes “crazy stalker on 4”. It’s never happened to me; of course…it happened to a friend of a friend of a friend of mine…

A group of shaggy haired peace mongerers once proclaimed “If you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one you’re with”. A recent discussion with my mother got me thinking about the meaning behind this iconic song. We can divide the two camps into Team Yay and Team Nay; those who accept the world and ride its waves and those who point out that it needs to hit the gym more often. On any given day I can be found treading water between the two; my intense emotional side says “Anything is possible!” while my logical self is aware that generally “anything” does not usually occur; a logical effect following a series of causes, however, does. But I digress.

To me, the motto of the aforementioned song is this: If your first choice is unavailable, embrace the runner-up. In other words, settle. Is boy wonder taken? Marry his ill dressed cousin. Scared of applying for the cool job of your dreams? Stay in finance where it’s safe. I wonder, has the logical pessimistic side has won? Growing up, I was an impulsive child, often saying embarrassingly blunt things without realizing my blunder (my close friends know the latter is often still true). I can always apologize for saying the obvious, but how do I apologize to my 13 year old self for not following my dreams? How do I tell her that fear and insecurity stomped all over that empire of impulsivity?

About ten years ago, I wrote my future self a letter to be opened in 2010, outlining my future; I was to be a budding fashion designer in NYC-- this from the girl whose sewing skills led to the only pair of booty shorts in a class full of knee-length boxers. Misguided, yes, but hey, I dreamed in Technicolor. Less than two years to go, I find myself loving the one I’m with. I think it may be time to pen another letter: Dear Finance: You are safe, cushy and may indeed look shiny and important on my CV. You are probably someone else’s first love, but to me you are ‘The Man’ and thus, a perpetual runner-up. Consider this my resignation. Damn the Man, save the empire!

With university convocation comes relief, some tears and one big “Phew! I made it!” It also brings moments like the one I encountered this past weekend, while attending my friend’s birthday party, in which I introduced myself and was met with “Oh, Scott mentioned you were coming, the older girl, right?” Enter the younger guy. Not significantly younger; I am an October baby after all, but young enough to make you feel indignant when he interjects, “You mean, what did she take at university”. It was only two three months ago!

Many of you are probably ready to jump in and say that dating a younger guy is not limited to university graduates, and you would be quite right to say so. But there appears to be an intangible, indescribable difference which lies between the older female and the younger male that seems to turn into a huge black hole once the former has a degree. Maybe it’s the maturity factor or les garçons are simply in awe of the fabulousness we older girls exude, but many of my ladies are dabbling in the younger male pool …to their delight, and sometimes, chagrin. Like Miranda learns in SATC (“I broke up with Allison when I was still inside her!”), sometimes the younger man is a wee bit eager. Of course, that eagerness may be welcome in different places, at different times. But it is my experience that the younger man feels intimidated, nervous and mildly emasculated by an older female, as she knows what she wants, when she wants it and how she wants to do it. Most importantly, she is willing to do it all by herself. Younger men should jump at the chance to be with an older confident girl who is interested in them despite her age advantage, but too often they turn to the younger, more docile, insecure girls who pump air into their deflated male egos.

Like with tall girls, men usually say they would date an older girl, maybe they even do briefly, but most retreat to the trenches; having dipped a toe into the deep end, they leap back into the wading pool, feeling more validated and reassured than ever. Having engaged in a bit of a rant, I invite any men (do they read this? bravo!) to prove me wrong. And ladies, share stories of your confident wondrous younger men! I’ll quit while I’m still ahead (or still older). In the words of infamously young Benjamin, “Mrs. Robinson, if you don't mind my saying so, this conversation is getting a little strange.”

Is there anything quite as humbling as the TTC ROS (Ride of Shame)? You wouldn’t think so, by its name. But I’ve learned to take Joseph Heller to heart when he wrote (in Catch 22) ‘Maybe that’s the answer. To boast about something we ought to be ashamed of. ‘ Thus, if you’re going to greet Front Street at 8:30am on Sunday sporting cleavage, liquid eyeliner and hair that screams of passionate tugs and caresses, you best strut past the families en route to Centreville and make them feel as if they are shamefully overdressed. A cab ride might reduce the shame, but I enjoy the looks on the faces of everyone on the 9am subway; they catch my eye, take in my attire and quickly avert their eyes. Always one to relish in awkwardness, I smirk behind my java, and ponder silently why others feel uncomfortable with daytime sexuality. Besides, there’s something self-fulfilling about taxis; they reinforce the notion that you ought to be embarrassed about your activities of the previous night and scurry for cover. And I don’t scurry. Especially not in 3-inch heels.

Come September, the realities of ‘real life’ shall kick in as I watch half of my friends return to school while I curse the TTC en route to my 9 to 5(30). Wisdom should accompany real world responsibility, it seems only fair. Some may feel that 20-somethings should know better than to let a guy Johnny-Ray you in bed (i.e., somehow make you feel like you created all those promises yourself when he did all the talking). I can tell you the difference between correlation and causation, write a 20-page research proposal in one night and get a 90 on an 8:30am exam while drunk but don’t ask me to apply any of this logic to the male gender. When it comes to understanding the whims of those with a penis, I am all sensibility with no sense.

Like they say, practice makes perfect, and thus, two months out of university, I find myself relearning a familiar truth disguised as my first ‘real world’ lesson: Your head will play games with you but your gut will never lie. I am fantastic at inserting emotion into neutral spaces and a good year of emotional hangovers should have driven the message home that one can never fool her heart. Most people learn to trust their gut. But if you’re like me and get off on watching caution billow in the wind, take heed. Sunday sun hurts your head-- sneak Advil in your clutch; avoid sewer grates while in heels and bring a cardi along as the Lakeshore is rather windy in the early morn’. And finally, keep your chin up and your knees together. Dressing up for the TTC is nothing to smirk over; an exposed Britney is up for grabs!

Samantha Evans

by Samantha
I’m not sure what is more monumental: landing your first ‘real world’ job or getting fired from your first ‘real world’ job, especially when the latter came only ten days after the former. Like a slowly disintegrating long term relationship, the writing was on the wall. I disliked the work, the commute, and half the people in the wee 7 person office. But like a break-up, the reality of being fired/leaving your job doesn’t crash in on you until after the fact. They were paying me to be miserable. That’s something, right? And the fact that I landed the job in the first place, when everyone told me that I was too ‘junior’ for the role (do they tell you if you’re too senior?) made me falsely secure. How hard could Quick Books be? I thought; who cares if it takes over an hour to get home? They’re paying more than I’ve ever been paid! But it’s never about money, is it?

Whilst sipping blissfully strong martinis with friends last month, the topic of payment for sexually entertaining rich businessmen arose (yea, we’re a quirky bunch). How much is appropriate for such an indecent proposal? Everyone at the table agreed to compromise their good suburban values for considerably less than Robert Redford’s $1 million. Everyone winces at the idea of selling her body for money, but what about selling your happiness? How much would it take to stay in a mind-numbing, tear-inducing job? To that end, how much would it take to stay in a mind-numbing, tear-inducing relationship? Ten days or three years, I’m not for sale.

Just as I was infatuated with my first boyfriend, I was delighted with the thought that I was not going to be relegated to the masses of new grads who couldn’t find a real ‘thinking’ job. But how delight sours. Ayn Rand (The Fountainhead) makes a bold statement when she writes ‘I always thought that a feeling which changes never existed in the first place.’ It’s easy to right off the wrong job, but relationships are much harder to dismiss. Maybe a more modern pop philosopher has it right: You never were and you never will be mine. While success is always celebrated, I’m choosing to acknowledge failure, which is really a great pair of shoes in an ugly box. And cliché or not, without it, success would be undetectable. So ladies, here’s to living, learning and having the courage to do it all over again.

by Samantha
"You can be anything you want to be." If you grew up anything like how I did, (admittedly) privileged in a middle-class, sheltered existence hidden away from life’s real demons, then these words probably sound familiar to you, proclaimed by your proud parents ever since your 5th birthday. Like me, you may have grown up believing this, assuming that if you followed all the ‘rules’ (get good grades in high school, get into university, don’t fuck up royally) you would land yourself not just a job, but a CAREER that would catapult you into a divine lifestyle of sipping overpriced cocktails on dimly lit patios around the city, laughing gaily amongst friends about how grand life truly is. Now I am sure there are some, if not many, who are doing this as I write, but I am not part of this club. No, I write to you as a largely ignored temp, from the chilly halls of a gigantic 16-floored corporation that darkens the financial corridor of downtown Toronto. "Shannon, to the front desk please"; if only my name was Shannon…

Days away from my convocation ceremony, I find myself recalling an episode of Grey’s Anatomy in which drippy Meredith whimsically narrates: "No one grows up thinking they’ll be ordinary. Everyone thinks they’re going be great". If I wasn’t born great (and this remains to be seen, Mom), when will I achieve greatness, or better yet, have it thrust upon me? My mediocre math skills guided me away from career-practical majors like accounting and into the murky territory of "the arts", even murkier still: psychology (and no, I can’t read your mind). September 2004; frosh week flashes into my head; yes, those engineers may still be virgins as we cool Arts and Science kids cruelly predicted from beneath our paint-splattered coveralls, but will I really end up at McDonalds? From what I hear, they have a good training program and a half-decent benefits plan…

I scoffed at my hippie friends who took off half way through their degrees to save turtles in Nicaragua or to travel Europe. "Can’t they wait? It’s just two more years", I thought, churning out yet another 20-pg term paper. But no matter how many lattés I sipped from the fourth floor of the library, elbow-deep in musty coffee-stained encyclopedias older than both of my parents ages' combined, I couldn’t deny that nagging feeling which pulled at my conscience. I was jealous. Sickeningly jealous that they were brave enough to leave the comfortable confines of university and explore the unknown, because no matter what your parents told you, university is one big security blanket. Not knowing what you what you want to do is ordinary, letting yourself wander so you can learn about who you are is great; those who do are truly brave. Four years and one $20,000 piece of paper later, I am left with even more questions than when I started. And how I wish to find the answers -- Oh, the places I could go! If only I could rid myself of this pesky day job.

(Stay tuned as the job hunt continues…)