I graduated college 6 months earlier than my classmates, loading up on extra courses every semester, taking an active role in the Presidential Scholars Program, signing up for three internships when the requirement to graduate was one, volunteering at New York Fashion Week — and I did it all in Prada pumps.  Even before I graduated, I had a job lined up.  And it wasn’t just any job; it was the job I longed for and scribbled on my notebook during class.  At a time when my friends were bussing tables at Mustang Sally’s to pay for their studio apartments in Hoboken (nothing against Hoboken, or Mustang Sally’s for that matter) I held a full-time executive position at one of the most historic, prestigious fashion companies to ever exist, recognized nationally and the world over.  I had an office, and business cards - with my name on them!  I got to meet celebrities!  My first week at work, Justin Timberlake stepped on my foot - and apologized!  Then came my encounters with Ed Westwick, Nicole Richie, Mary J. Blige, Vera Wang, David Arquette, Elizabeth Hurley, Gwen Stefani and the list goes on and on.

 

Soon after I landed my job, I moved into a two bedroom apartment on Sullivan street, centered between Houston and Prince.  Also known as Soho or the epicenter of all thing new, exciting and culturally riveting, always buzzing with great food, even better fashion and the best friends a girl could find.  Each morning, I waltz out of my pre-war building onto my tree-lined street with my Chanel shades down and my Marc Jacobs bag slung over one shoulder, grabbing a coffee at my corner shop, Local, and heading on a journey to my exciting job.

 

The fine print: What nobody tells you is that when you have a fantastic job, a fabulous apartment and a couture-clad life, you’re supposed to love it unconditionally.  I’m not supposed to question whether I really love what I’m doing, because a “thousand girls would kill to be in my shoes” (literally, they would really love to slip into these babies).  I can’t complain about the ultimate fears that plague me because what do I know about rejection and failure; I have my “dream job”.  I can’t bitch about my living situation because Anna Wintour is my neighbor.  What what I didn’t mention is that I share my gem of an apartment with a schizophrenic, a bulemic and an alcoholic and that all comes as a package deal in one roommate (thanks, craigslist!).  I feel that the more I have, the less I’m allowed to strive for.  I’m supposed to feel lucky and grateful for what I have (and don’t get me wrong, I do), but along with that feeling of luck and gratitude, my ambition, curiosity and questioning of what I really want in life is supposed to dwindle.  If I ever dare to mention my unsatisfactory feelings, I’m bound to face the white from turned up eyes, and that “eghh” sound that comes from the disgust that lies deep within your throat.

 

Basically, I’ve come to learn that my life is a ”Channel” bag, plucked from the cellophane wrapper on the corner of Greene and Canal. It may have the interlocked “Cs”,and pleated details.  It may exude luxury, glamour and status from afar.  It my even pass as the real deal to the untrained eye, but I’ll always know that it was mass produced in a factory China, and its only a matter of time before the stitching gives and the whole thing unravels.