Welcome Back

Shit, I’m going to be late. I always react with such shock, as if I’ve ever been on time to anything in 26 years. Though my gym is only 15 minutes away, I never manage to leave when I should. There are people out there who regularly show up early to things, whom I look at with awe: how did you become to punctual?  I hurriedly cram various pieces of clothing into my work bag, hoping they’ll make sense when I change after class.

Its 8am and “Shots” by LMFAO is blaring over the sound system. Our instructor, a perky brunette, demonstrates this morning’s torture: burpees, plank jacks, squats, overhead press, repeat. Just two days ago I was in a pool in Palm Springs. Why am I here? Several lululemon-clad women in the class around me seems to share this sentiment.

Working out first thing is a challenge for someone who is not naturally inclined to be fully functional before 9am, and its significantly harder after 10 days of vacation indulgence. Over the past year I’ve worked to make myself into a morning person, and while the aforementioned complaining may suggest otherwise, I secretly enjoy creating this habit. There is something to be said about that initial endorphin release and how it seems to make the rest of the day that much more productive. I’ve read that the most successful people have strict morning routines, and I’m trying to get my shit together.

Cool, forgot a bra. Shit only sort of together, though its not the biggest deal because the chosen shirt won’t be too scandalous without one. Small tits for the win.

Working in music also helps. The environment is very relaxed; arguably, too much so. My collection of floral jumpsuits and feels from my days at Conde Nast have been replaced by frayed jeans, tee shirts, and a general dismissal of fucks. The talent and literary department downstairs is still very formal; their interns walking around best suits and ties, in such stark contrast to the music staff that I often laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. My career prospects are limited to places that won’t require me to wear a suit, hence my work history: music agency, music management, magazine, back to agency. I’m such a fucking millenial, and I’m okay with this.

Though happy be back in New York, I’m coming off such a post-vacation high that my productivity is admittedly quite low; my sloth-like place in direct contrast with the high-intensity nature of my job. For me, California is a slice of heaven, and experiencing with the people I love is absolutely euphoric. Mentally, I’m still there: floating blissfully through memories of leisurely swims with my boyfriend, stargazing with my mom, dipping in the Pacific and driving with the San Jacinto mountains in the distance.

For someone who daydreams regularly, I may be taking it too far today. Ultimately, I decide that I am permitted one more day of bliss, blaring “Safari Song” by Greta Van Fleet, pretending I am driving on the Pacific Coast Highway with the wind in my hair instead of tending to my overflowing, long-neglected inbox.

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