“If you obey all the rules you miss all the fun.”
Katharine Hepburn
This is a story about a girl named Jane who lived for the fun of it and regretted nothing. It is also the story of a girl named Niki who should take a lesson from Jane.
Once upon a time, almost exactly two weeks ago, I arrived at the Newark airport in New Jersey to the blaring of honks and a dystopian city-scape.
Yes, NJ, you are quite the ugly duck.
Where I come from, if someone honks it is because:
- You are lookin’ real good.
- You are lookin’ real trashy. Which is often mistaken for #1.
- You are digging for the chapstick you dropped on the floorboard and the light has been green for a solid 10 seconds.
- You are 94 years old and you’re trying to turn into oncoming traffic.
- You are my mother and you’re trying to turn into oncoming traffic.
- You are a transplant from New Jersey or New York and you still haven’t learned to drive in civilized society.
These New Jersey honks were not meant for me. In this strange corner of America, it seems that brashness and abruptness don’t really have a purpose. Neither are they actually noticed except by visitors. There’s just so much of it that it cancels itself out.
As I was waiting for Jane (My cousin? Aunt? Hard to say.) on the curb outside the baggage claim, a police car drove by shouting over his loud speaker to “Keep moving! Don’t stop!” and then pulled right up behind this little car and shouted, “I MEAN YOU, NISSAN. MOVE IT.”
I would have cried if I was Nissan, but like I said, Nissan barely noticed. Standing there in my Chaco and Norts combo, I suddenly felt very out of place, so I set about Instagraming a picture of my arrival to pretend like I was stoked and not terrified.
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Then all of a sudden, the honks were for me. I looked up from my super pro photo editing sesh to see someone parked in the middle of the street and waiving wildly at me. Was I supposed to run across the gap with my giant suitcase, duffle bag, and backpack, dodging these honking crazies and put myself at the mercy of the loud speaker cop? The door of the car popped open. Yes. I was supposed to do those things.
It is a testament to my Frogger playing abilities that I was able to make it into that little car.
Then I met Jane.
I’d only spoken to her a few times on the phone, and I had based my mental picture of her on her voice. She is a true Jersey girl–thick accent, bluntness and all. Her face did not match her voice. She’s in her mid-sixties, but she’s beautiful. She’s also a firecracker.
Over the next few days with Jane I learned a lot. Jane has had A LOT of boyfriends. She was a singer, a guitar player, an actress, but most of all she loved to dance. She told me story after story of nights in dance clubs, of how boys would line up to dance with her, and how she could have her pick of partners. She drank for free because the club owners just liked having her there. She was the essence of carefree.
People loved Jane because she loved life. Every Friday, she headed to the shore. She took off for auditions in New York at the drop of a hat, and whenever she got the chance, she saw Elvis. (He actually kissed her, I’m told!)
She had a lot of jobs, but they were just jobs to her—a way to meet new people and pay for fun. She didn’t need other people or a job to affirm her importance. She knew she was a goddess.
Jane said a lot of things that weekend, but I remember most clearly: “I always have fun, no matter what I’m doing.” It was like a refrain that ran through every conversation we had.
I always have fun, no matter what I’m doing.
Huh.
Jane isn’t rich. She didn’t make it big as a dancer. Elvis died without asking her to marry him. She lives alone with her little terrier, but she still has fun. She watches Lifetime movies, works out harder than Jane Fonda, calls her family every day, and sits on her front porch to gossip with her neighbors. She’s happy. She has no regrets.
She regrets nothing because she missed out on nothing.
And here I am, supposedly chasing my dream, going to NYU, meeting the Editors of every major magazine you can think of and spending my days working on a magazine launch with some of the most talented people I’ve ever met, and I’m miserable.
This is all I’ve wanted for years, but I can’t help wishing I was somewhere else, with someone else, doing something else.
Why?
Yes, this program is intense, and it’s really scary to know that I will be actively looking for a job in a big scary city in a matter of weeks. Yes, I feel like the gimpiest, most minuscule of fish in the publishing ocean. Yes, I miss my friends and my mom and my boyfriend. But letting fear and stress drive my life has become a nasty habit.
Jane wasn’t telling me about all of her crazy nights and boyfriends for my benefit. The refrain is never in the past tense. It is her mantra, her self-reminder that she is Jane: Elvis’ number one fan, a beautiful woman, dancer extraordinaire, life of the party.
There will always be somewhere else that seems better and brighter than where I am. There will always be people who I wish I could throw my arms around and waste time with. And there will always be a more inspiring and freeing career path.
Confesstion: Right now, I’m seriously considering becoming a professional book reader for a sweet old lady. That was an excellent career move for Amy March in Little Women. She snagged Christian Bale and got a trip to Paris out of the deal.
The thing is, that the stupid adage “the grass is always greener on the other side” is so stinking true. And so is this one: “the grass is always greener where you water it.”
So, thanks for schooling me Jane. Keep shining.
reflections of the bitter and disillusioned 