Reader, I am lost as to what to write this week. Typically, I provide you with a bit of satire or some poetic rambling on my station in the world. But I have found myself consumed by a singular problem: I am laden with luck.
I have aligned myself too close with the stars, I’ve tripped over too many lucky pennies, I’ve been just too karmically just–
My life is…perfect?!
It started last Thursday, on my day off–I was doing some spring cleaning, naked (as one does,) and was battering through the back of my closet. My donation pile was barely a discernable mound because I had seemingly overnight…become THIN?! No–you don’t understand, yes–I know, “Jet you teach fitness, and have a preternaturally fast metabolism! You’re 5”7 with a swimmer’s build and perfect 3-1-3 proportions,” I know, I KNOW! But…my pre-COVID jeans fit.
Gasp! That’s not all–My freshman year prom dress, (a vintage Ralph Lauren velvet boat neck dress, I’ve always had impeccable taste,) slipped over my hips like a second skin!
You must understand, that such revelations provided me an undue confidence that pushed me into my Thursday evening plans with a God complex and a bottle of white wine, split with a girlfriend. A bottle of white wine that we drank to the last drop, as we poured our hearts out into glass after glass.
As I boarded my Uber home, my speech slurred, a smile across my face, I was certain Friday morning would be met with a pounding hangover, and a greasy breakfast burrito I’d later regret.
Instead, I woke at 6 am and was in a Pilates class by 7:45. My inexplicable cheery demeanor made cheerier by the compliments from the front desk team.
“Your skin looks amazing!”
“Thanks!” I petted my cheek, “I’ve done…nothing to it.”
I walked into class, craft latte in hand, a drink I paid for with my debit card, fingers crossed (my card bounces 15% of the time, insufficient funds for a $12 oat milk latte.) But rather than the alarm blare of the Square Tablet, taunting me, “YOU BROKE BITCH!”
I was met with the satisfactory “dah-ding,” of financial stability and the flip of the tablet asking for a tip.
What is happening to me?! I mean yes–I can afford life’s simple pleasures, like a $36 lip gloss I can’t live without, (Hourglass Phantom Glossy Balm in Thrill, UGH!) but I can’t possibly be reaching a place of security!? I have romanticized living paycheck to paycheck. Am I even an artist if I can pay rent and wear Marc Fisher thigh highs?!
That’s only half of it! This week has been full of expertly dodging responsibilities, watching mortal enemies thwart themselves, and perfect hair days!
And today! TODAY has been spontaneous coffee dates with a friend, a run-in with a former lover, (I looked GORGEOUS) and worst of all, a job offer in which I’ll be paid what I’m worth!
What is one to do with… plenty?
This isn’t my life. I’ve never been the “lucky girl,” I mean–I was an accident! My parents never meant to bring me into this world, I was just a “medical miracle.”
I was sin ugly as a girl, nothing compared to my Abercrombie-shopping-bag-model sister. I could only ever manage the grace the cover of Seventeen magazine. And it wasn’t like I had the brains to make up for it. I ignored my math lessons in pursuit of penning perfected haikus, while my brother re-invented the Pythagorean theorem.
So much of my life has been filled with agony, from the time my horse, Applejacks stepped on my foot, (I’ve never broken a bone,) to graduating college with no student loan debt! (It’s so hard being a minority.)
I have American-dream labored to get where I am today. When I first moved to New York, I could only manage to get hired for jobs at fitness studios mopping floors. In every interview, the hiring manager could smell the 21-year-old eagerness in me,
“So–why are you really in New York?”
The subtext, “So, what’s your dream?”
At that time, naive and freckled face, I’d beam, “I’m an actress!” Since then though, I’ve absorbed lessons from my tenure in the Upper West Side, and have adopted an appropriate Fran Lebowitz cynicism. Now I’m a “writer”-- but also, an actress.
And no one asks me why I’m “really,” in New York anymore. I have to offer it like inviting myself to a party.
“You know, I’m a writer–and occasionally a comedian.”
Blank stares, and furrowed brows, “Oh! Sure, yeah–cool…” And the conversation continues, away from my biography.
Does being lucky matter if it’s for the life you’re only pursuing out of necessity? I’m lucky enough to have a survival job I love, but it’s still a job I use for…survival. I love my life, truly–but sometimes I’d think I'd rather be broke and creatively fulfilled than have a fat wallet and an unhappy heart.
I’ve tried sitting with the knowledge that no matter how talented, or how hardworking a person may be, some are born into luck. Into Ivy League degrees, and prestigious LinkedIn profiles. Some are born with a funny bone, and an open door. I’m trying to be comfortable with the idea, that I’ll have to keep jamming my funny bone into swinging doors, and cross my fingers that one will pry open.
Be honest, am I mixing too many metaphors? I couldn’t afford to go to a better college, so I’m sort of a self-taught writer.
As a self-taught writer, I have the habit of starting an article with satire and taking an earnest turn on the last page.
Because I’ve been lucky, and I think it’s led me to the wrong door. Or maybe I have to be comfortable in this room. In the part-time fitness instructor, struggling writer room.
Maybe I could put up wallpaper, and get an ottoman for this room. While I wait for a key to the full-time writer/comedian/actress room.
Or maybe, my luck will turn. Till then, every eyelash, every birthday candle, every penny will be dedicated to the “why I really came to New York.”
