It was 11:30 pm on a Saturday night, and I was just getting home from a shift at the restaurant. I had been working there as a beverage server since the end of July. I mainly just worked weekend nights, which made it easy for me to edit and post during the week.
Although my current job had nothing to do with the career path I wanted to get into, I still enjoyed working there. I enjoyed the ambiance of it all and felt like I was really good at customer service. I had learned how to balance six martini glasses on a tray without spilling, and it made me feel, in some way, elegant. I couldn’t stay there forever, though. At some point it would be time to move on.
I had been browsing LinkedIn and asking around for opportunities to work in the fashion industry. I live close to New York, so I figured my mom may be able to get me a job through one of her clients. I submitted many applications to an array of positions, but after being declined by every single one, I soon realized the post-graduation job hunt was not going to be easy.
On Friday morning, I started a new book while training back from the city. One of the characters said something that stuck with me: “It’s not about the destination, it is about the journey.” I loved that quote, because it’s true, once you get to the destination, you don’t have much to look forward to. Of course you may feel accomplished, but everything you had dreamed has already occurred.
Still, I feel like I’m in career purgatory. Which I guess most 22-year-olds feel when they move back in with their parents, are working at a restaurant, and searching for a way to get out there. But something is just not clicking, and I can’t figure out what needs to be done to get it to click.
When I get home from work, I usually just hang out in my kitchen with the lights off, scrolling through Instagram while decompressing with a snack. When I’ve eaten my fair share of treats, both salty and sweet, I make a cup of tea and head upstairs. No matter how late it is, I always take a shower after work. Although my balancing act of martinis makes me feel like a poised woman, I’m usually quite sticky, my shirt covered in tajin from leaning over the rims of margarita glasses.
Stepping out, steam pouring into the rest of the room, I brush my teeth, moisturize, and tug tight my robe. Ahhh. Finally some R&R.
I reach into the second drawer of my antique dresser and grab out a pair of light pink pajamas. Once my tea is set adjacent to the warm Edison bulb lamp on my matching side table, I pull back the comforter and get in bed.
Fighting the urge to go back to scrolling Instagram, I open my laptop and type in the search bar: Girlhazard.com.
I wrote my latest post, “Glamour is a State of Mind,” five months ago. Writer’s block is no joke.
I was blonde when I wrote that; now I’m dirty brown. I was still in college, but living at home. Working at the restaurant, but life was so different.
I have a good feeling about right now. I guess that is why I decided it was time to try writing again, to face the writer’s block head-on, something I was struggling to do for months. But for those months it never felt right, and I hate to force things. It never works when you try and force something. Not in the way it should.
I open a blank document and start typing: “The Diary of a Girl Hazard…”
“Chapter 1.”
My eyes slowly glide from one side of my room to the other, as if the words for a topic would be pasted somewhere. Where does one begin?
I plant my eyes on the sliver of wall behind my bedroom door, a place where I curated a corkboard full of memories, a calendar, and a big red bus tour map of London, one I had saved from my visit during study abroad.
I love London. It is my favorite city. I like the way people talk, walk, carry themselves - it’s all great. I remember the Uber ride from the train to the tube, looking out the window at the beautiful buildings curved perfectly with the street. I was sad to go back to Barcelona after my three-day solo trip. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back,” I said to myself, my heart sinking into my chest a bit.
I had decided to go to London the weekend prior while visiting Ibiza with some of my girlfriends from college. They were studying in Florence and had invited me on a few trips, which I was very grateful for. It was so kind of them to include me, and I enjoyed having fun girls to travel with. We always had the best time.
During this era, I was crushing on a DJ from London. This feels like a universal experience for a 21-year-old girl. You’ve got to go through the DJ phase… or maybe, if you’re lucky, you don’t.
While in Ibiza, we stayed at the Ushuaïa hotel. It was a famous hotel known for having the best outdoor club. Saturday morning during our stay, we woke up and walked to Ammos, the Greek restaurant right on the beach next door. It was beautiful. The vibes were up. I was so lucky to be there.
After breakfast and some pictures on the beach, we went back to our hotel to get ready. Our balcony looked over the DJ set, which gave us such an interesting perspective after only seeing the view from the crowd online.
I wore a loose-fitted cheetah print maxi dress that I bought at Zara in Barcelona a day before the trip. I left my skin bare, with loads of moisturizer, giving me that Ibiza, outdoor club, living-my-best-life glow. It was iconic. This was truly a day I will remember forever.
We got into the crowd early, claiming our concert boyfriends, people that will help navigate us to the very front and fan us if need be. We stayed in the crowd all day, mostly at the very front. The last performance of the night was my crush. My London DJ crush.
I left his set slightly early due to bathroom break reasons and the realization that the view from our balcony was just as good.
My friend Rayen and I wanted to check out one more club for the night before calling it quits. So we headed across the street to Pacha, trying to prolong the post-concert depression with some dancing. After spending thirty dollars on two water bottles, we decided to head back to the hotel. It was time.
The next morning, the view from the balcony was depressing. The same outdoor club, but no crowd. Just workers sweeping away the remnants of a memorable day. We walked through the emptiness of the pool deck, turning one cheek as we tried to escape the loneliness of it.
Both of our flights were later on in the afternoon, so we spent the morning soaking up the warmth and beautiful views of the Mediterranean Sea.
While lying on a lounge chair, Diet Coke in hand, I started to research where in the world my DJ crush would be playing next.
London… six days from now.
I headed back upstairs before my friends because my flight was unfortunately two hours earlier. When leaving the Ushuaïa, I grabbed a zip-up from the gift shop that was overly priced and three sizes too big. It didn’t matter. I just needed something to help hold onto this weekend forever.
The airport was a fifteen-minute ride from our hotel. I had four heavy bags in hand, bouncing off my legs as I shuffled through the airport in search of my gate. The newly acquired gift shop bag was stuffed with items from my luggage, trying to make it seem as though I was not two bags over the limit of this forty-five-minute Ryanair flight.
Once I reached my gate, I was sweltering.
“The airport is a heat stroke,” I said to my mom on the phone.
“How was your weekend? Tell me all about it!”
“Soooo much fun,” I replied while waving my hand back and forth close to my face.
“I am so hot though. It is a million degrees in here.”
With that statement, a thought came to mind.
“Do I?…” I questioned my inner monologue.
With curiosity, I reached into the bottom of my backpack and grabbed hold of a hand fan, the same fan my concert boyfriend had used to cool me down one day prior. How loyal.
I sat on my pile of bags in a white linen halter dress, fanning myself to a normal temperature.
“Until next weekend,” I said.
