New-Adult Ennui

Things that have happened since I last wrote a blog post (please refer back here for the golden years of Del's blogging, aka ages 19 through 21):

Felt guilty about not writing any blog posts. 
Moved to San Francisco. 
Interned and then was a contractor and then turned down a job and then "freelanced" (what designers get to call unemployment). And then got hired again. Don't worry, I work now. I even have my own health insurance (how I really know I'm an adult).

Crazy how easy it is to sum up a year of life, huh? 

Fortunately a year of life as a twenty-something in San Francisco has also been more than enough time to feel all the feelings of absolute bewilderment and lack of direction that every postgrad feels. Here's the highlight reel of some moments during which I realized I am really living on my own in San Francisco and have contributed to my sense of new-adult ennui:

Crying on the MUNI (not the same as crying in the car). 
I take public transit just like any other exceedingly hip urban city dweller, which means that I no longer have the luxury of crying in my car. Don't tell me you've never cried in your car on the way home from work? From high school? Nothing is more cathartic than having a terrible day and then getting in your car and having a nicely contained and self-indulgent pity party. News flash: IT'S NOT THE SAME TO BE THE CRYING GIRL ON THE SUBWAY. I've tried it, and it was fucking awkward. Then I thought about if it was worth a $7/hour rental of the ZipCar. And then I realized my life as an exceedingly hip urban city dweller had come down to considering paying money to rent a car to drive around and cry. (And could I possibly make an app for this?)

Trying to buy granola. 
My trips to the grocery store take 1.5x as long as my grocery store trips in St. Louis because I have to spend an extra 30 minutes in the granola aisle (because there is an ENTIRE AISLE OF GRANOLA) looking at the approximately 8 billion variations on oats being sold to me because I live in a place where people are cuckoo for granola. WHY. Why can no decisions be simple? Do I want fruit and nut honey oat? Or do I want double cinnamon chocolate crunch? Why won't someone just sell me something called "basic granola"? Where did all this granola verbiage come from? And then after I ask these questions to myself I realize my 30 minutes of confusion are up and I usually leave without granola.

Licking a seat on BART.
A friend once told me that studies have found every disease known to man on the upholstery of the BART seats. While that sounds like a really great urban legend, I also believe it. It's sweaty, it's full of people, it smells. I have never been more convinced I was staring at a dead body than when I rode the BART for 35 minutes watching a man sleep entirely motionless before he jolted awake at the 24th Street station and continued with his day. The BART is no Disney Monorail. 

So anyways here I am getting out at my friendly 16th Street BART station ('friendly' meaning I've become used to the pervasive scent of urine and am no longer afraid of the woman angrily preaching at me in Spanish through a megaphone), and immediately catch a whiff of the heavenly pupusa cart a mere block away. Pupusas are like an extra-thick Salvadoran quesadilla and probably the cheapest street food in SF. I would say I succeed in resisting the pupusa cart 1 out of every 5 times I walk past it. And this time was not my designated 1 out of 5.

The pupusa is also not a silverware kind of food. You get it on a paper plate, you kind of roll it like a taco and you go on your merry way. On that day, I had essentially exited a human-sized petri dish and proceeded to eat straight out of my hands. Somehow it wasn't as satisfying to lick my fingers after that pupusa because I was struck with the image of licking the BART upholstery instead. Which is essentially what I was doing. My immune system is now built like a brick house.

Knowing strangers are probably going to see your (my) underwear. 
There are three reasons why this is true.

1. It's windy AF in San Francisco and my body hates pants. This means I wear dresses. The amount of times my butt has been flashed in public is not as bad as the time I walked the 15 minutes from my apartment to my typography class with my dress caught in my backpack last year and then tweeted an apology to campus, but also not as good as when it's socially acceptable for everyone else to see your underpants like on Pride or Bay to Breakers. 

2. The towels at my gym cover 20% of your body and probably dry less than that. It's a locker room and underwear sightings are a given. But let's all say a little prayer and hope I don't see any coworkers.

3. My kitchen and living room windows look directly into the kitchen and living room windows of my neighbors. Which is 5 feet away. For the first 3 weeks I was REALLY, REALLY good about wearing pants in the apartment. But if you can't go around pants-less on a Sunday morning in your own home, where can you?! No where that I know of. If you haven't tried making oatmeal in your underwear, you're missing out. I think it makes it taste better.

Obviously lots of important stuff has been happening in my postgrad life — crying, germs, public transit (as usual). Stay tuned for further intensely analyzed daily minutiae.