Reflections on the end of term

So, I know I’ve been on a hiatus. My blog has been empty, I barely leave my room, and have now developed a talent-crush on Greg Dulli of the Afghan Whigs and Twilight Singers—his melancholy vocals capturing exactly what life is like with six hours of sunlight a day. Even when there is a SAD lamp that sits on my desk, bottles of fish oil vitamins strewn across my room, all in quiet protest of the unopened package of prozac that sits in my top dresser drawer next to my birth control pills. I mean, if I can manage my menstrual cycle, what’s the difference of using something to help with my emotions? Except that I am so neurotic about the potential for weight gain that the blisters covering the pills remain unpopped.

To be perfectly honest, the reason why I haven’t been writing as of late is because I’ve been in hiding—both physically and emotionally. If I don’t leave my room, there is nothing to write about. And I’ve emotionally shut myself off because I’ve been fighting admitting the obvious: graduate school at Oxford is a fucking joke. Ok, maybe just my program. Instead of providing me with the intellectual challenges that I’ve been looking for since my undergraduate days, I’m left staring at the clock wishing that the girl who thinks she is always right would shut the fuck up and stop monopolizing class discussion. Except that she won’t, because there isn’t anyone else saying anything.

Maybe I went to the boot camp of undergrad institutions, where it was not uncommon to have to spend about 10 hours a day on work (nevermind the classes you had to attend), where you were the wild gal if you went out drinking on Thursday night, and a liar if you said that you never kissed a gal. And maybe I am not acclimating to the educational cultural shock that in the British system, how you are expected to be far more self-motivated than my pampered American ass would care to admit, but it seems that something is a bit amiss.

This term I have three classes: a ten person seminar that discusses key sociological debates, where we read about 500 pages of material then discuss it for an hour and half; a statistics class and lecture where I am learning how to program data and get frustrated because none of it makes sense in the book, and a research methods hour long lecture that I stopped going to after week three—because we are evaluated on the class by writing a paper in MAY on the subject matter. Even if I did go to class, I would have forgotten the material anyway. Might as well just teach it to myself when I need it. Plus I worked for a shady market research company a while back—I know how to manipulate data and research design in order to keep my clients from looking too bad.

Now, do me a favor, think back to your undergraduate days. Honestly, how much of that did you spend doing work? Now, decrease the amount of work you did in undergraduate by 75% and you have my typical day. But the funny thing is, I still managed to be busy—nursing hangovers, wasting time updating the shrine to myself on facebook, buying music off of itunes, and watching bootleg American television shows online.

As a result, I’ve become horribly boring. Everyone’s lives revolve around their own little world, but mine used to be interesting. Drinks at SoHo House, NY Fashion week tickets, getting drunk and vomiting on a Craigslist guy, dating every single unsavory character in NYC—although my life in NYC was pathetic, it was at the very least entertaining.

And with that old life, as a result from my misery, I developed escapist dreams. Thinking, as I balanced a spreadsheet, I was meant to be in academia, living on a farm in a small town, with a loving husband and some cute kids. Well, after one term at Oxford, I realized that I am not an academic type, the thought of spending years researching data sets is my ADD and dyslexic hell. Although the countryside is beautiful, I am BORED. The town is claustrophobic, people knowing who you are very quickly and I am quickly growing bored going to the same places, with the same people, talking about the same things because our lives are so similar! And the loving husband? I refuse to date English boys because of their excessive politeness that has left me kissing for hours with hands not leaving my shoulders. Yes, you read that correctly, twenty-four year olds who can’t even make it to second base. I like mean boys. And outside of NYC, I am at a loss to find them.

But that is the scariest thing for me right now. I took out $40K in loans thinking that I was one step closer pursuing my dream, and finding an Oxford husband. And, I’m not closer to either one of them—not because I can’t get them, but because I am realizing that I don’t want them.

I guess you must be asking, where the hell did all of this come from? I seemed/am happy! My biggest crisis during the days is whether to eat lunch at college, or to eat it in my room. No more crying at my desk, wishing for better things! Blame it on London. My reserved NYC where I vomit in my friends’ toilets instead of on the street, and of course drink in massive excess.

Last Sunday I hung out with my friend from college, needing emotional comfort after a hellish Saturday night. We decide to meet up around Covent Garden, for a quick lunch so that I could make it back to Oxford before nightfall. But, when you haven’t seen a friend in months, what is wrong with a bottle of wine to loosen tongues, and serve as a catalyst for better conversation? And we all know, when one bottle is opened, why not just go for the second, you know? So a quick lunch turned into a four hour booze fest that left me too inebriated to navigate the trains back to Oxford, and not fall asleep on the train and end up in Wales.

We head over to her place, taking the tube because taxis in this country are a luxury that are afforded to the employed, although at this point I needed water and a bed. Just as I’m asking her, “How far is it to your house from the station?” We run into her roommate. Who, Ankana tells me, is also a half breed Jew. Nice. Her roommate is going to a sold out show, and was wondering if we would like to go and meet up with a few of her friends for drinks before hand.

Interesting how without an invitation, the bed is a perfectly good place to be. However, once you have a place you are no longer as exhausted.

We go to the bar, have drinks, and make fun of British men, where I am told by the fortieth person that I intimidate British men with my brash talk of sex and clitorises (it’s been a lonely semester by the way). I am drunk. I spent the day drinking a bottle of wine, and have now just had two large glasses of wine.

Sarah, Ankana’s roommate, suggests that we “Blag” our way through the door, aka, pretend to be someone important and try to get a ticket.

As an aside, it is one reason why I love this country. One of my friends was asking me how I could live here, especially knowing that I would never fit in. But that is the beauty, surefire indications of someone’s status and class and personality traits don’t apply to me, as I was socialized outside their culture. People just see a NYer, who makes fun of herself, who is attending Oxford. I love it. It’s anonymous here for me—people having no idea about what it means when I tell them I went to HS on the North Shore of LI.

I love hiding behind my Americaness here. It’s unexpected, and when you play the cards right, it can be utterly charming, in that big golden retriever kinda way.

Sarah suggests that we blag our way through by saying that we work for a magazine. And since Ankana looks super young, she could pass as my intern.

Being drunk, I decide that I should make a costume change—you know, make me look cool and writer like. I hop into the bathroom, and change into what I drunkenly think a writer would wear: Uggies, jeans, a wide belt, and a cute t-shirt. Not too dressy as I am trying to impress anyone, because my talent should be enough. As I mentioned, I was trashed.

We walk out of the bar, and I am craving a cigarette but finished my last one inside. I go to the Deli with Sarah and leave Ankana with Sarah’s friend. When we come back from around the corner, Ankana has a ticket in her hand. Evidently, some dude couldn’t go to the show, and since it started he gave Ankana the ticket.

Knowing that I am the only one who needed to get in, and being so fucking drunk, I walk up the bouncer:

“Excuse me, where is the will call”

Use American expressions, so they realize that you are not one of them

“Will Call?” He responds?

“The place where you hold tickets for the press?”

He points to some woman.

I reach into my wallet and get out my Massachusetts ID. I walk up to the woman he pointed at and as I am handing her my license, “Hi, My name is Shannon [insert last name]. I’m here with the Village Voice.”

“Oh, ok. Once second.”

She comes back, “We don’t have anything for you.”

“Damn. I’m a freelancer for the Village Voice and I thought my editor confirmed everything. I am supposed to write about the band, because they are heading to NYC. You know, I don’t mind paying for the ticket, it’s just that I need to write the article”

“You shouldn’t have to pay for the ticket. One second, let me see.”

She talks to a big fat woman at the booth, and she calls over“Did you talk to a woman named Celia?”

I give an innocent look, “Honestly, I’m not sure. My editor arranged everything. I think that was it.”

“Yea, she’s ok!” The woman yells to the girl at the door.

And I’m in.

Now, when I drink, I should not be left alone. Already I am impressionable, as Ievident from “blagging” my way through the door. But, when I am left alone, I am even worse.
I was loaded when I walked through the door, and when we got inside, we all decide to go to the bar and get some beer and take some shots.

This is where my night gets fuzzy. I remember getting loaded and meeting a two seventeen year olds who I sat in the bathroom telling them to go to college. And even more surprising, she sends me a message via myspace the next day. I don’t remember giving her my name.

Then I ran around pretending to be from Vogue and telling people if I loved or hated their outfit.

But the funniest? I left the concert before the main act even got on, because I was so fucking loaded. I don’t remember if I waved to the woman who got me in or not.

I do remember the bus ride, though. I remember getting a wrap sandwich. I remember putting down my bag. But I do not remember falling asleep in my friend’s bed. Nor taking off my belt, as I spent about twenty minutes looking for it, when it was next to her bed, on the floor.

And much like my life back in NYC, I went to my group meeting on Monday morning without any sleep, reeking of booze and cigarettes, and sat in the corner, slurring my words, trying in vain to show them that I did try to do some work.

You know, it’s the drama that I thrive upon and I miss. The stressful situations. The anonymity giving you unfettered access into different worlds. And I don’t have that here. I think I am beginning to see what growing up in a small town could be like.

Oh, and another thing: don’t tell your adviser that there isn’t that much work, they really don’t take that too well. But, what the fuck do I care? It’s not like I am staying here for an extra year—my ass is heading to London next fall. And applying to journalism school that winter for the following fall. I just hate it that everyone was right.