SelfAbsorbed.ME : ‘It’s Your Life, We Just Write it Funnier’

My motto since I moved to New York has been “Fake it til you make it.” I’d get a job, get my life together, and become a real New Yorker, but until that actually happened, I’d have to fake it. While I spent the majority of the first few months suffering from an internal temper tantrum, I tried to create an ice-cold exterior–a demeanor that simply stated, “I’m a New Yorker, bitch.”

However, with a horrific job market, a global recession, and the impending spike in the price of the Unlimited MetroCard, it seems as though my attempts at “I’m a New Yorker, bitch” have instead turned into, “I’m New York’s bitch.” I frantically count every dollar I spend and worry over when my indefinite paid internship will either become a real job or, more likely, a thing of the past. “Making it” seems like a far-off dream.

As a result, I’ve developed this habit of, well, not lying about my humble little life in New York. I just, sort of, dress it up a little. Take, for example, a recent interaction with my co-intern/cubicle-mate Sushi Girl:

Yesterday morning, Sushi Girl would not shut up about the most amazing meal her boyfriend treated her to at BONDST (pronounced “Bond Street”; la di da), apparently the “like, best sushi slash date restaurant” in the whole of New York City. (“You mean you haven’t even heard of it?!” Not even a little bit.)

This little Monday dinner date was a large part of the bf’s bailout package–a plan that Sushi Girl had meticulously drafted last week in the midst of their fight. All’s well that ends well, and apparently BONDST was Sushi Girl’s only means to an end. Unfortunately, happy endings for her usually mean miserable beginnings for me, as I have to hear about the wonderful world of Sushi for the first half-hour of the work day.

The description, which might as well have been entirely in Japanese given my tuned-out state, ended with the inevitable, “So…what did you do for dinner last night?”

A typical Sushi Girl kicker. Inquiring about someone else’s evening is the polite thing to do, but I just knew Sushi Girl wanted this to be the icing on her cake: the confirmation that her Monday dinner-date was above and beyond anything that I was capable of. Well, eff that.

“Oh, not too much. I made myself oeufs et fromages and some fresh greens with a dijon and balsamic vinaigrette. You know, nothing too fancy.”

“Wow. That sounds like, pretty nice.”

“Well, I’ve really grown to love cooking for myself. The culinary arts have become a bit of a passion.”

(Translation: I made scrambled eggs with cheese and had some romaine lettuce, slightly brown around the edges, with a homemade dressing of olive oil, mustard, and balsamic vinegar. Yet, coupled with a year of high-school French and some well chosen English words, my meal had been transformed into a sophisticated success. Granted, I had an easy advantage in this situation because I was aware that Sushi Girl didn’t know a lick of French. She’d once confided that, as a freshman in high school, she was diagnosed with a “Language Learning Disability” and never had to take a foreign language class. This surprised me, given that she does seem to speak a startling amount of Japanese.)

But I wasn’t quite finished.

“And then I hosted a little get-together at my apartment until around 2:00 a.m. or so. Just a few friends. You know, a pretty standard Monday for me. Relaxing.”

“2:00?” Sushi Girl raised her eyebrows. “On a Monday night?”

“We were just all hanging out and we completely lost track of time.”

(Translation: The “few friends” I was hanging out with happened to be the first two disks of Freaks and Geeks on DVD. Good company. I did indeed lose track of time as I lay in bed with my laptop, salivating over James Franco.)

Sure, it was no BONDST, but preparing French cuisine and hosting an intimate party sounded like a pretty impressive Monday night. I could tell Sushi Girl was surprised. I was surprised, though it was neither the first nor the last time that I’d taken liberties with language and gussied up my lifestyle. The truth is, it’s fun. And as I find myself surrounded by drab instability, I just can’t pass on the chance to play dress up.

Photo Credit: whatscookingamerica.net