My Thesis Is It Is January
a review of Writers & Lovers by Lily King
In between googling “what job should I do,” I like to chart out my professional trajectory by googling people with cool jobs and seeing how they got there. Actually I dislike it, but I know it’s good for me, like sitting in extended child’s pose or not texting suitors back in .3 seconds. I’ll come across someone with accolades/accomplishments/bylines to spare and think “that’s nice! Maybe this could be a good goal in 2-5 years.” Then I find out the person is only 24 and suddenly the room feels like a sauna, except there is no cucumber water or eucalyptus steam; only my own sad coffee breath and a stale smelling Nalgene. Enviable-career-trajectory is not my assigned role in this whole karmic enterprise (heretofore referred to as “life”) but I raise my $3 cabernet sauvignon to everyone riding that wave.
Casey Peabody is a wonderfully loveable female protagonist, saddled by student loans, grief and overdue doctor’s visits with no shortage of drive and self-awareness. She’s a writer who serves annoying clientele at a restaurant near Harvard. One time when I worked at Darwin’s I accidentally showed up to work at 8:00 am high on edibles. I was eating oatmeal in my kitchen when I smelled brownies through the tinfoil on the kitchen table and thought “a little breakfast dessert never hurt anyone.” Then I did that thing that you do when you have roommates, where you cut pieces from the end in equal proportions so to the untrained eye, it doesn’t look like anything is amiss. I was just past Central Square when I thought “this bike ride feels long.” Then I was locking my bike for 10 minutes and staring at my phone screen reflection thinking “do I have allergies? Why are my eyes inflated like tiny bao buns?”
It wasn’t until I j-walked across Mass Ave that I came to the conclusion: I was poisoned, because I was unwittingly an enemy of the state and they had to take me out. Maybe it was because I just read a book about private prisons. I walked in the door and feigned normalcy with a very loud “Hello good morning!!!” As I walked past the wet bar (my dominion), I realized: I am not poisoned for my political views! I am astronomically stoned from brownies made with the THC infused oil my roommate posted on her snap story last night. This guy ordered 4 croissants and a chocolate chip scone and I handed him a bag and said “here, six muffins.”
enemy of the state eats breakfast dessert
Thankfully this is a “me problem,” and Casey Peabody didn’t have to endure a weed-brownie-infused shift serving people with extremely marketable skills and corporate credit cards. My thesis is it is January, and I can’t fathom feeling joy again even though I have everything I need. While I cannot feel joy at the moment, but I can live vicariously through this character who works in the neighborhood I used to live in, and to whom good things happen. Maybe because we both conducted cost/benefit analyses on sandwiches while in line at the Central Square Au Bon Pain, things bode well for me, too. Read this book! It will make you feel good.