Venturing Forth: The Jungle of Clarendon...that I still Love

Maybe I have not shared this fun fact with you, but one of my long term life goals is to just exist as the embodiment of cool, chic Arlingtonian with a sweet apartment in Clarendon that I share with my dog after returning from a long day at my fascinating job. All of you residents just ooze cool-young-20-something-year-old and I aspire to be you. Is my love affair with this bizarre dream a little undignified in how open I am about it? Maybe. Am I ashamed? Of course not. Shame gets you nowhere in the world. 

So, I'm officially back home after completing a year at college and wallowing in unemployment. Trying to find a job that you don't need a degree for in this town has been an experience very akin to tearing my hair follicles out. Individually. And slowly. With as much pain as possible. When my mom poked her head in my room this morning around 9:30 a.m. to inform me that the Arlington County Public Library was hiring, I literally lept out of bed to shower, change, and deliver my application. (Awkward: I love the library. Get over it.) The catch: Clarendon. It can't be that hard, I thought to myself, I've driven through it before, right? 

Uh. Wrong. Driving through Clarendon and driving into Clarendon with the intention of locating a specific place are two radically different things. First of all, will the planner of Clarendon please step forward and riddle me this: Why is not one of the streets straight? Why is not one of the streets a turn? In Clarendon, there are not normal roads. It is a ...neighborhood? (What are you Clarendon?) of constant almost-turns and sharp bends that sit atop a 90 degree angled hill. This is wildly not okay for someone driving a 1997 Ford Pickup stick shift. Besides the fact that even with Tom-Tom at my side, what should've taken me 8 minutes still took me almost 20 because I'm totally incapable and embarassing.

Here was my next problem. Parking. Okay, yes I could be a better driver. Yes, people have been known to park my car for me. Was it really necessary to exponentially increase my awkwardness by glaring at me while I tried to park my car? I was already forgetting my windows were down and blasting "She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy" - cut a girl a break! My humiliation didn't need your help. 

So I hopped out of my car (in a denim skirt and platform flipflops no less, something I threw on forgetting I'd be amongst the gods of office chic. I know, I know, the sixth grade called, they want their outfit back, I get it) and entered into the building I assumed to be correct, because - Lord knows - we wouldn't place the street address in big numbers on the side of the county building. Okay, suite 406, ready....go. Wrong. The stairs only go to the third floor. Is this a joke? Is my life an actual sitcom. I now need to ask someone how to get my personhood to the fourth floor. The answer? Elevators down the hall. Of course. I'm barely functional. 

Thankfully, the travesty of this adventure ended there and I was able to remove myself from Clarendon with minimal mishaps after that, with the exception of almost running down some Clarendonites which also exponentially decreased my cool points... if there were even any left. 

To my credit, it's been awhile since I've been among the living here. 9 months in Colonial Williamsburg does not breed city saavy skills nor does it improve already iffy parking problems. What can I say, I'm a work in progress!

xoxo Justine