Unemployment has suited me so far.  I was never a big fan of pants anyway.  I’d classify myself as “independently wealthy” as long as I eat ramen the rest of my life.  The cat has already agreed to share her cat food.

I jest.  Sort of.

I’ve been suffering from Imposter Syndrome lately.  Despite 13 years in the pizza industry, most of it in upper management, I look at job postings and feel like I surely am not even qualified to work part time as a pizza maker.  What was I doing this whole time?  Had I taken “fake it ‘til you make it” to some pretty epic extremes?  Had I actually done absolutely nothing this entire time and it took someone 13 years to catch on and even be SUPER polite about it when I was being terminated?  Surely any interviewer will look at me and see “HAS NO IDEA WHAT SHE IS DOING, RUN, RUN NOW” written in sharpie all over my face, right?

Last week I went to Colorado to get away from my problems.  I left Ohio within literal minutes of being fired, proving once again that the one thing I am majorly talented at is packing a bag as quickly as possible and gauging how much a cat could eat and drink for one to seven weeks.  Going on vacation by myself was always a point of pride for me.  People (okay, mostly my mom) would comment that it was “brave” and “it’s so cool you can just take off and you’re not scared.”  I never really considered it brave and I am oddly comforted by road trips.  Something about getting in the car and going and being directly responsible for your own fate is cathartic, at least to me.  Just me, the open road, and about twelve hours of the Sunny podcast.

I always get back from trips and people have questions that make me question whether I even really had a vacation or did anything at all.  Were the bars great?  Did you get really drunk?  Oh, um.  No.  I was in bed by 9.  Did you go out to eat any nice places?  No, I, uh, ate gas station turkey sandwiches.   Did you meet any hot guys?  I don’t even know if I came within six feet of a man unless you count the guy who sold me my gas station turkey sandwich.  Did you go jet skiing or rent a boat?  Oh, um, nope, guess I didn’t.

Really, though. That turkey sandwich was 10/10.

What I did while I was in Colorado, aside from lay in the hot tub and cry?  I binged almost two whole seasons of the Gilmore Girls because it is my cutesy yet verbose comfort show.

Now, normally I don’t lean towards this type of show with the drama and the romance and the who likes who… but we all have to admit Lauren Graham is a goddess, right?  Lorelai Gilmore is everything I aspire to – coffee coffee coffee, endless takeout, a great big speedy vocabulary, a slew of attractive forty-something men coming and going, and an independent streak that just won’t quit. I mean, I even picked my Colorado hotel because they swore in their welcome letter that their coffee was “seriously strong- strong enough to wake your ancestors.” Lorelai approves.

I also appreciate the cast of quirky characters.  Nothing groundbreaking, but I’d say some solid two dimensional oddballs occupy their little slice of the world and you can at least find comfort and predictability in them.  You can expect Luke to be grumpy.  You can expect Miss Patty to be horny.  You can expect Sookie to hurt herself and Jackson to speak loudly and confidently about his produce.

Then of course there’s little bookworm, Yale-bound Rory.  Though far from my favorite character, I oddly find small things in common with her.  I hauled books around everywhere as a child.  People found me gifted and talented for no reason in retrospect.  I dreamed of being a writer… and still do, let’s be honest.

In the particular episode that caught my attention, Rory and her terrifying friend, Paris, go to Florida for Spring Break when they’ve decided the east coast in March is just way too fucking cold (they’re not wrong).  They show up to their motel on the beach and stick out like sore thumbs in their East Coast dark attire, modest bathing suits, and generally reserved behavior while the most typical 2000s cable tv faire party goes on around them. 

Then they rent a movie and sit in their room with a pizza and then realize they are missing out on the party outside the room.  They’re “doing spring break wrong” so they decide to do it for real.  They drank.  They watched the party around them and uncomfortably danced and acknowledged that everyone was having fun but them.  They hated it.  Paris’ frequent flyer miles got them home the next day.

Maybe it’s not Lorelai I aspire to be.  Maybe it’s Paris Gellar.  I came, I saw, I experienced, and I went home, completely content knowing what is for me and what is not for me.

Most of these blogs won’t be self-involved drivel, I swear.  I just need to keep up the momentum so I don’t lapse into an ice cream coma and finish the whole Gilmore saga (reboot and all) by the end of the week. Plus, David Duchovny in Californication would smoke a joint once he’d finished a piece of writing and honestly that’s a motivational tactic I could get behind.

Music you should be listening to:
California (Cast Iron Soul) – Jamestown Revival
Cruel World – Princess Goes
Casino (Bad Things) – Houndmouth
After the Storm – Shovels & Rope

As always, this panhandling starving artists works for tips.  Think of it like busking.  With text.

Venmo – @Molly-Finch-7
Cashapp – $mfinch09
Paypal – @molly2009