Chapter 19
NINETEEN
ANNIKA
Whoever invented corporate offices can go to hell.
I hate coming into this gray office filled with cubicles.
I hate the pretentious looks from my coworkers as you walk in on a Monday.
I hate them half asking about your day before pressing you for deadlines.
I hate the shared microwave that no one cleans.
But most of all, I hate being stuck in hour-long meetings just so executives can hear themselves talk.
I can feel the years of turmoil just to get a college degree crumbling away on this job.
Being a marketing strategist at one of San Diego’s flashiest marketing agencies seems like a dream for anyone two years out of college.
Yet I feel more out of place than ever before.
I feel like I’m pretending to be someone else when those elevator doors open to the fifth-floor corporate building overlooking Balboa Park.
I can’t help but feel like an asshole because what a privilege it is to have a well-paying job that aligns with what I studied in college.
I think of Chloe, who keeps getting rejected by agencies just to become a bookstore chain Store Manager instead.
And yet, I envy her. I envy the freedom of not having to work in an office and instead being surrounded by books and quiet customers.
I realize my eyes are starting to glaze over as the marketing director has been droning on for twelve minutes about the importance of connecting customers to whatever brand we are working on, some surfboard company, I think.
The only thing that is keeping me awake is my 35 mm Olympus film camera with a Zuiko 1.
7 40mm lens tucked into my tote bag’s pocket.
My most prized possession that I dug out of a bin of old cameras at the Long Beach flea three years ago.
It took several how-to videos and rolls of discarded film to get it in a functioning state, but it is one of the small joys in my life.
At first, I only took pictures I thought were worth taking.
But then I felt like I wasn’t enjoying the moments, only critiquing them.
So now I bring three rolls of film with me along with my camera at all times.
Last year, Chloe pushed me to create a website and start freelance work.
I started out by just taking some new profile pictures for friends and coworkers, but it’s expanded to small parties, and even last month, I did my first wedding all on film.
I’d give anything just to be able to quit my marketing job to take photos, but there are things like bills and student loans and not wanting to disappoint my family by not having a salaried job.
My parents always tell me how proud they are of me and that I got my degree and work at a job that I can apply it to.
I could never quit this job just to take pictures all day.
I can’t quit the pride they feel. Finally, my coworkers start to shuffle, which means it’s time to ditch this meeting and hide in my desk cubby, pretending to work for three more hours.
I wonder how many trips to the bathroom I can take before someone starts to notice.
Quitting time gives me the same relief as the last bell ringing in grade school.
Freedom. My time is no longer tied to my workplace.
I am in control of the next few hours before I have to repeat this song and dance again tomorrow.
I pack up my tote and try to make it out before anyone talks to me.
Yesterday as I was leaving for the day, my manager Samantha flagged me down to ask me the status of my projects and if I could give her a rundown tomorrow morning.
I spent forty minutes last night figuring out what a rundown even meant.
My entire work-life balance is thrown out the window.
I feel like I am levitating through the office as I make it to the door and down the stairs.
Only one more day until the weekend. Is this how the rest of my life will be?
Counting down the hours, minutes, and days until the weekend, when I have full reign to do whatever I want but still feel tied to a job I dislike so deeply that it feels like it is crushing my soul.
I may sound dramatic, but that’s because I am dramatic.
I just remind myself that I am still young and I have my whole life to figure things out.
I’ll just let the older me handle my workplace turmoil.
I was going to wander Balboa Park to take pictures, but I’m feeling particularly drained after ruminating on my career angst and need to decompress. So I return to the place where I completely feel like myself. Pure Annika.
Pacific Beach is comfortingly always the same.
No matter how many years pass, it feels like that day six years ago when I met that floppy-haired boy at the pier and twirled in the sand.
The beach isn’t very crowded for a weekday in March, so I take a spot on the sand near the pier, making sure it’s the perfect distance from the water so no one walks in front of me but also not too close where my blanket might get wet.
I don’t know why I keep coming here. Who am I kidding? Of course I know why.
There are so many other beaches in San Diego, and yet I come back here whenever I feel particularly lost. I lay back and close my eyes feeling the sun setting through my eyelids.
A little girl giggles in the distance, and I hear a faint sound of hip-hop music coming from one of the booths on the pier.
I easily drift back to that day with Reid and let the pang of missed opportunities weigh in my chest. His touch on my face and his laugh at my salty remarks replay on a loop.
The feeling haunts me. However, I keep coming back here.
I give in to the ache in my chest so I know I can still feel something.
Everyone tells you the path to take after college, but no one tells you that you’ll be living life on autopilot, a dullness sweeping over you as you do the same motions every day of the week.
Work infiltrating my brain means it’s time to snap out of my waking nightmare.
My camera is already loaded with film, so I get started taking pictures and get lost in my viewfinder.
The ocean is a constant calm. It will always come back when the tide pulls away.
I know it will always be there for me when I come to visit it.
It won’t flake on you at the last minute, and it won’t break your heart.
I take a few pictures of the tide and turn my attention to the other evening beachgoers.
A little girl is building a sand castle that looks more like a sand shed, but her dedication is impressive.
A man is throwing a frisbee at his Australian shepherd on the beach.
I wait for the moment when the dog is reaching up in the air to catch it in its mouth before hitting the shutter.
I gaze around, and finally, a couple gets my attention.
They are cradling each other, sitting on a green blanket, looking toward the setting sun.
The smaller spoon gazes up to their partner and smiles with their entire face, and I see the love they have for one another wash over their expressions and snap a photo.
No matter where they are in their lives, they are savoring this moment together.
I turn my attention to the sea. The sun is starting to dip to the horizon, and the sky is swirling its medley of colors.
Pinks and corals blend into reds and warm yellows.
The blue sky fades behind the transition.
I take shots of the sun setting just as it dips below the deep teal water, and a chill washes through the air.
Chloe is already home as I walk into our shared apartment in the East Village.
We moved here after graduating college so we could each have our own bedroom, and it feels like our cozy little clubhouse.
All our memories are framed on the walls and displayed on DIY canvas art we’ve created on drunken weekend evenings.
She’s humming a song while she twirls around the kitchen.
I’m about to call out to her when I hear Dane’s voice.
This is the third night in a row he’s been here.
I can tolerate him, but he still acts like he barely knows me, even though he and Chloe have dated on and off for years now.
So I avoid the kitchen and head to my room, but not before seeing a brown bag resting against my door.
The perk of living with a bookstore manager, she will surprise me with a book every so often, and it delights me every time.
This time she gave me a copy of Women Who Run With The Wolves, and I can’t help but feel like this is a jab toward my single-and-loving-it lifestyle.
Whenever Chloe and Dane are on, she puts on her relationship guru hat and spurts out words of wisdom.
I flip over the paperback and read the quote at the top, “She is the Wild Woman, who represents the instinctual nature of women.”
Is she trying to tell me I am a wild woman or that I need to start living like a wild woman?
It’s been four years since my last…encounter.
But I still don’t feel ready to get back out there.
I reached such a low point in my life back then that I really don’t want to get to that point again.
For the last four years, I’ve been focused on myself and discovering what I need in life with the help of my therapist. Yet I still feel like I’m aimlessly wandering through life. Perhaps I do need to be a wild woman.
I wait until I hear the common space is quiet to emerge from my bedroom and heat up some leftover pesto ravioli. I take my bowl and curl up on the couch, reading about how I can embrace my womanhood and thrive on passionate creativity.