There's No Crying in PR

...unless it's the end of the day, you're back in your apartment and alone.

I guess this deserves some explanation.

Friday afternoon was like any other Friday afternoon in the office. Everyone was at their desk, fingers dancing across their keyboard to get what needed to be drafted, delivered and finalized out of their inbox and off of their to-do list to make it out of the office by four o'clock. Four o'clock Fridays were drawing to an end and with only two (including that particular Friday) left, it was a dream to get out as close to four as possible.

So why the tears, you ask?

Well, I had a review that afternoon; and I look forward to reviews like a bug looks forward to the windshield of a car.

Holding back tears while being told I need to "work on my confidence," "be careful about being too creative" and really trying to "own things," I couldn't help but get pulled back to my time in New York.  My family and friends will tell you I was not a happy camper in the big apple. I wasn't even close. I use strong words like "hate" and "disgust" to plainly allude to feelings that have only left a reminisce of my self-esteem in the working world. I had been bent and broken. I had been burned and shredded. Forever scared, with a bitter aftertaste that sits in the back of your throat like an ex-boyfriend's name.

Sitting in that conference room, I was once again "too much" while being "not enough." My edges were sharp, but in the wrong places. My accent marks punctuated the wrong part of the word. My kick of the ball landing it in the wrong goal. My efforts had been too strong in the wrong direction.

While the feedback stems from hopes of improvement, its flower perfumes a smell of disappointment. I left feeling more vulnerable than when I entered, than when I even started. Hunched from the weighted of the "criticism" I came back to my apartment and cried. I cried like that baby I really am, because let's be real...I have no idea what the heck I'm doing.

So what better thing to do then get it all down on this blog. Pour it all out and turn each piece over. One-by-one. Carefully, I'll find the pieces that connect. I'll build my boarder and piece together my picture. I will always be too much for some people. My accent forever a bit off. But I refuse to dull my edges and weaken my efforts. Those will stay as they are and the other parts of me will just learn to be as sharp and as strong, because there is no crying in PR.

Sincerely,

Cybill

{Photo Credit}

New York, I Didn't Love You

Union Square Park | January 2013

With complete understanding that my feelings toward New York City may go against popular opinion, I have to state, New York, I didn't love you. Now, I'm not saying I hate you, because I definitely didn't hate you. I just wasn't happy when I was with you...

I was living in New Jersey and interning with an agency in NYC earlier this year. From January to April, for five days a week, I would wake up before the winter sunrise, catch a bus at a New Jersey mall and shlep over to Port Authority. From Port Authority, I would navigate through the city's underground tunnels to catch the N, Q or R train which dropped me off at the Union Square stop, that I was convinced was soaked with urine — yes, it smells that bad. Often arriving an hour before my office opened and an hour and a half before my supervisor reported to work, I'd hide away in a corner of the closest Pret, Starbucks or Panera to avoid the bitter cold. I hated all most if it.

To add to all of this, my roommate in New Jersey (who also happened to be family) seemed unpleasant during most occasions. Though a hard worker, her work just never seemed to bring her joy and believe me when I say, misery loves company.

Washington Square Park | April 2013

Despite her moodiness, premature sunsets and mind numbing cold, the free moments I spent in the city  hanging out with fellow interns did redeem NYC to a certain extent. (New York, you better thank those moments and those people. They showed me how some people can love you.)

With my meager salary (something every staff member marveled and laughed at whenever mentioned), I would sometimes forgo the warmth of hanging out in Pret, Starbucks or Panera — I couldn't afford to buy a $4 coffee everyday, espeically since free coffee was in the office. Those mornings I spent braving the cold, I'd often stroll through the streets of the city. In the early hours of the day, the streets lacked the hustle, bustle, push and shove that was notorious when wide awake. It was nice and I enjoyed it (except that one morning when an older man shoved pass me to get off the train — I'm looking at you, you old grouch). It was very Audrey Heprbun a la Breakfast at Tiffany's and I was Holly Golightly, except without the black dress, questionable trips to Sing Sing and "occupation" that would bring the disappointment from my mother to a whole new level.

At first, I'd keep my walks between 23rd street and Union Square. I'd stroll west and then south toward the office building. Nothing crazy. Nothing extravagant. One morning, I even decided to brave the cold and sit on a park bench in Madison Square. I was desperate for anything resembling fresh air at that point. However, that lasted all about two minutes, before I briskly walked into an Au Bon Pain to warm my hands which I swear was starting to crack from the cold.

Rooftop View | April 2013

Those first mornings venturing around the city probably didn't favor a growth of warm feelings. However, they did provide a some good stories with my fellow interns, Catrina and Lesley. Those stories provided the laughter that helped us survive life in the trenches. More often that not, I'd worry the laughter from Catrina would lead to reprimands from our supervisors. I didn't realize my mishaps — like taking the ill-advised deep breath exiting a subway train — were so funny Catrina couldn't control her laughter, maybe they were so pathetic they became funny.

One of my favorite moments was the afternoon Catrina and I snuck up to the roof of the office building, disregarding any and every sign that stated an alarm would ring. With the door ajar, we doubted the alarm even worked and our audacity rewarded us greatly. Not only were we able to get an amazing view of the city, we found a future lunch spot, void of any crowds, but busting at the seams with some well deserved "fresh air." That spot was perfect when the weather finally warmed up mid-April.

In retrospect, New York City, with it's early sunsets, bitter cold chill and stern-faced residents wasn't too bad. Would I say my feelings have changed, no, but I would go back to visit. Maybe my love or admiration for the city takes more than a few months...maybe I can learn to love it...maybe.

Sincerely,

Cybill