by Greg Dybec
When I received the e-mail from Brittany with the links to the two couches, everything slowed down. I suddenly saw myself the way I see my parents, as veterans in the game of life, moving forward against their will like pieces to a board game. They say one day you blink and you’re fifty years old. I’d blinked and I was twenty-five, halfway there. Where would I be after my next blink? And the one after that? How many couches will I have owned by then?
The panic, of course, had nothing to do with Brittany, so I did everything in my power to hide my discomfort.
“I’m nervous,” I’d tell her. “But a good nervous.”
A part of me was excited to take the next step in our relationship, while the other part stared intently into the distance, watching my youth fade away in the foggy night like Gatsby’s cherished green light.
I remember the day we both told our parents we’d decided to live together. My father and her mother approved immediately. My mother and her father took a little more convincing. They are both progressive and modern people, but they still held on to the ideal that you shouldn’t live with someone until you’re married. This, of course, is far from the general sentiment people have today. Things were different in the eighties when couples got married after high school and people still carried cash in their wallets. One night at dinner my brother and I both explained to our mother that we’d never feel comfortable marrying someone without knowing if we could tolerate living with that person first. Maybe divorce rates wouldn’t be as high as they are if more people did the same back in the day.
Her response was, “So you’re just going to live with every girlfriend you end up having to see if you can tolerate them?”
Almost simultaneously, Cole and I said we’d never move in with someone unless we thought there was potential to marry them. Those words played back in my head over and over as the move-in date with Brittany inched closer.
The first time it became difficult to hide my angst was when Brittany planned a trip to HomeGoods. HomeGoods is a home furnishing and decor store that smells like balsa wood and has a checkout line that is somehow always the same length, no matter what time of day you go. I’d been to the store plenty of times before, but always as an antsy child following my mother around while she spent way too much money on picture frames and linens. The store was packed from wall to wall with an assortment of trinkets and furniture that had no meaning or purpose in my life at the time. For all I knew, it could have been a well-organized garbage dump.
Entering the store as an actual customer with a purpose and near-empty apartment ready to be furnished made me dizzy. How’d I end up at this point so quickly, I wondered as the automatic doors slid apart and a sea of affordable clutter hit me squarely in the face.
The days of hand-me-down furniture would soon be over. Dorm-room chic a thing of the past. The adult responsibility of living with another person who’s not just a come-and-go roommate requires an adult aesthetic. This means spending money on things you’d never thought to spend money on before. Things like soap dispensers and towel racks. Walking through HomeGoods with Brittany was overwhelming, not just because of the variety of items, but also because it occurred to me I’d never given any thought to how I’d want my home to look. My apartment as it stood didn’t even have artwork. I have a nice TV that was a gift from an ex-girlfriend, but besides that my couch, dinner table, TV stand, and chairs are all hand-me-downs. My apartment before that one was decorated with things I stole off the street: traffic cones, a cardboard cutout of the lottery guy, and floral-pattern chairs I’m pretty sure gave me bed bugs. I’d never considered the apartments I’d lived in to be homes. Home was always my parents’ house, where I grew up.
Ditching the roommate lifestyle to live with a serious girlfriend meant establishing some sort of a home, or at the very least forging a level of comfort and warmth. Imagining a dream home is easy, but having to choose actual things among the sprawl of price tags and handmade bookends shaped like owls is a bit more difficult.
I followed Brittany through the store as if a string attached me to her. I felt like a lost dog following around the first person that pet me and asked where my owner was. She seemed so comfortable browsing, and I looked like I’d forgotten to study for a big math test. I observed everyone else in the store. Most of the shoppers were couples. The others were women who were by themselves, perusing the aisles the way people did when video-rental stores were still around.
The men in the relationships were clearly more seasoned than I was. They still trailed behind their wives, but they were at least prepared to give their opinion on whatever item was picked up and waved in front of them. Any time Brittany pointed something out I froze, unsure if the particular item were something I’d want to see every day of my life. It’s funny how once you commit to something big like moving in with a girlfriend, there’s an endless series of smaller commitments that follow. A couch is a commitment. Deciding which side of the bed to sleep on is a commitment. These commitments seem small on their own, but all the commitments together eventually make up your environment, your routine, your life. I’d see a coffee table I liked, but then I’d wonder if I’d like it two years down the road and doubt whether or not I ever liked it in the first place.
Brittany eventually spotted a yellow throw blanket and said it would be a perfect accent color to complement the gray couch. I didn’t disagree that it would pair nicely with the couch, but I was afraid one firm “yes” would open the floodgates, and I’d end up knee-deep in furniture and accessories I wasn’t positive I liked. The same way that first sip of alcohol can lead to a long night out after you’ve promised yourself you’d stay in and get some sleep, or how that one bite of bread at a restaurant leads to eating half a loaf after you’d convinced yourself you’d stay away from carbs.
Brittany could sense my apprehension. “Let’s just walk around with it and see how we feel before we check out,” she said.
Then, only moments later, she turned with the blanket held closely to her face and said with puppy eyes, “It’s like it’s already part of the family.”
“Let’s just get it,” I replied. I was fine being the confused guy, but nobody wants to be the bad guy.
By the end of our attempted shopping spree we didn’t have much in our cart. There was the yellow blanket and a shower mat. The last item we were deciding on was a piece that could apparently be used to store extra towels and toilet paper. I’m not exactly sure what to call it. It’s one of those miscellaneous home-decor purchases that you can only really refer to as a piece. The type of hard-to-define furniture that prompts people to say things like, “Wow, I love that piece near your bathroom. Great find!” Or, “That piece you picked up is to die for. It really makes the apartment come alive.”
If I had to describe it, it’s about the height of a nightstand with a small glass door on the front. It’s wooden and is painted an off-white color. It has the general qualities of an antique, but with a hundred-dollar price tag it’s obviously not. Brittany liked the idea of placing it at the end of my hallway, catty-cornered near the bathroom door. I agreed the piece was nice as far as pieces go. Though it was difficult to envision spending money on something with such little function. We eventually decided it was the adult thing to do, so we threw it in our cart and brought it to the register.
With only a couple weeks until Brittany moved in, she asked if I could bring the piece back to my place. For some reason this struck me as a strange request. Logically, it made the most sense. The piece, after all, was purchased for my place, where Brittany would soon be living, so why wouldn’t I bring it back with me? Yet, I didn’t feel quite ready to be left alone with it. I was overcome with the same concern I’ve felt when holding a baby and the mother walks away.
Back at my apartment I placed the piece in the corner near the bathroom. Sometimes all it takes to completely change the feel of a place you were once familiar with is filling up a small space. It wasn’t a good or a bad change. It was just d
ifferent. A space that was once available was now occupied. It’s fascinating how much ownership you can feel over nothingness. Space (especially in New York) is hard to come by. It’s expensive and always in demand. I’ve always been extra protective of my space. I have a difficult time sharing a bed or having someone sit too close to me while I work. Sharing isn’t something we’re born understanding. It’s a lesson we all have to learn as children. And even as adults, it’s something that has to be learned over and over again. Sharing material things is the first step, but sharing the personal space we feel is ours requires a lot more selflessness.
The first night after putting the piece in the hallway I woke up at around two in the morning and stumbled half asleep to the bathroom. Catching a glimpse of the piece’s shape in the corner of my half-opened eyes made my body spasm in fear. It might as well have been an intruder standing in the corner, not as concealed by the darkness as they thought. This happened the following night as well, and I nearly tore an ACL from jumping out of my skin. By the third night I had yet to get used to the newly filled space casting an unfamiliar shadow and was startled once more while walking to the bathroom.
“Damn you!” I yelled. “Stop scaring me.”
By the fourth night, seeing the piece in the once empty hallway didn’t cause me to physically throw my body in fear anymore. Instead it evoked more of a quick gasp and momentary flutter in my stomach. In the morning I took a long hard look at the piece in all its strangeness. I noticed the price tag was still hanging from the small knob on its front. It could have been a sign to return it, but I decided to find a scissor and remove the tag. You might as well make yourself comfortable, I thought while crouched down in front of it, face to face for the first time.
When the fifth night came around it didn’t surprise me at all when I made my way from the bedroom to the bathroom. (If anything, I realized how consistently I’d been getting up to pee in the middle of the night.) This time I nodded to the piece as I passed, letting it know it didn’t surprise me.
As I write this, I’m counting down the days until Brittany officially moves in, and I know the piece will still take some getting used to, though it is slowly but surely becoming part of the apartment. Dust has even begun to settle on its smooth surface and on the floor underneath it. I haven’t cleaned it yet. I want it to get a bit dustier and used before even newer pieces start taking up the space around it. By then I imagine it will feel like an old friend. Fast-forwarding in my mind I know it’s just one small piece in what will be a collection of a lot more pieces. Soon enough there will be nightstands and coffee tables and curtains. The couch has been ordered. I can even picture candles lighting up each room. By themselves all these things are strangers in a new place, but together they will amount to something I can call my home. Or better yet, our home. Because what good is all this space if it can’t be shared?
Life on the Other Side of the Internet
Riding the subway to work one day, I noticed the girl next to me scrolling through an article on her phone and laughing to herself. I could easily see from the large logo on the top of her screen that it was from Elite Daily. It was titled “26 Struggles of Having Boobs That Aren’t Big, but Aren’t Tiny Either,” and was an article I recognized quickly because, whether I’d like to admit it or not, it was my idea.
Noticing my gaze, she turned and looked at me, so I flashed my Elite Daily bracelet, like an off-duty cop who just happened to walk into a bank, midrobbery.
“Are you a fan of the site?” I quickly asked.
“Yeah.” She smiled, excited by the coincidence. “I love how it feels like the articles are written specifically for me.”
I did everything in my power not to look down at her chest.
Then she asked me the question most people ask: “Do you actually, like, know what people want to read?” Usually people will ask this in a condescending manner, as if they’re on the verge of making me reveal something. Sometimes they’ll even throw in a wink or a slight nod, hoping I’ll respond with something like, “Nope, it’s all one big game of throwing shit against a wall until it sticks.”
“The short answer is no,” I responded. “But the slightly longer answer is yes.”
She nodded, obviously confused by my attempt at a joke.
“That article you’re reading was my idea though,” I added.
She flashed a hesitant smile. I could tell she was thrown off by the idea that I, the stranger with the penis and the testosterone and the scattered stubble not quite connecting into a beard, could be the brains behind an article about boobs that seemed to so perfectly match the description of her own. Granted, I didn’t write the article. I’m not even sure why I thought of it in the first place. But I did assign it to a much more qualified writer of the female persuasion. Needless to say, the two of us kept to ourselves for the remainder of the train ride.
Similar occurrences happen more often than I’d ever expect. Luckily, they’re not all as awkward. Usually people will notice my Elite Daily bracelet or T-shirt and ask to take selfies, because yes, being associated with a popular website warrants celebrity status on the New York City subway. Others will notice and shoot me a look I know translates to, I fucking hate you. I see you all over my social media like a case of herpes I can’t get rid of. These polar-opposite reactions are the inevitable by-product of working online, which is a strange place if you haven’t already figured that out for yourself. I’ve noticed the same thing happen to a girl I see every so often on the train wearing a Buzzfeed shirt. She’ll either be greeted with enthusiastic high fives or venomous stares. Users of the Internet are either uproarious in their applause or ruthless in their judgment, and apparently even in real life.
People have favorite websites or blogs because they love the fact there are places where strangers can fearlessly say the same things they’re thinking but may have never said out loud. At the same time, people despise websites for allowing strangers to say things they may not agree with. Of course, everyone is entitled to his or her own opinion. The job of a successful website is to start conversations. And also to be all over social media like a case of herpes people can’t get rid of.
The odd beauty of the modern-day, millennial-focused website is that it often feels like an honest, intelligent, outgoing friend, who sometimes gets too drunk on weekdays but who can explain to you what’s going on in Syria and rant about the building effects of global warming. And you can’t always agree with your friends.
On a larger scale, this is also the beauty of the Internet. For most people, the Internet is both a source of daily procrastination and a perpetual stream of knowledge. Logging on to a website, getting lost in a Google search, or scrolling through a social-media page can be a much-needed break from a terrible day job as much as it’s an instant pathway to all the information a person needs to at least somewhat understand the world they’re living in.
People tend to wake up, wipe the tired from their eyes, and immediately plug into their phones or laptops to consume the day’s happenings, considering information, opinions, and advice from people they’ll most likely never meet in real life. There’s usually no question as to where all the stories come from and what goes on behind the scenes to make them appear at one’s fingertips almost effortlessly. But why question something that’s there for the taking? Like food samples at a supermarket or lollipops at a doctor’s office.
Once I began working for Elite Daily, subsequently becoming one of “those people you’ll probably never meet in real life,” the people who did know me in real life became increasingly curious about what working for something that seemingly only exists when they power on their computers and phones could possibly be like.
“There’s no secret Internet laboratory,” I’ll tell people. “We’re still just people in an office building. There aren’t wires running from our brains to some database.” Most people find this hard to believe. One time I added, “Movie sets aren’t as glamorous as the final product either
,” and it seemed to have helped.
After convincing people that my coworkers and I get up for work the same way everyone else does each day, it’s usually then a matter of convincing them that my day is not one big party. I get that misunderstanding—the average age in my office is twenty-five and the founder started the company when he was twenty-one. It’s hard to believe, I know, but despite the rampant ADHD and alleged “entitled nature” attached to us millennials by traditional media, we do know how to get work done. (In some ways, better than most, actually.) It did take close to a year to convince my parents and friends that my job was legitimate and had a promising future, though. It’s not that easy when your professional jargon actually consists of terms like “Facebook likes” and “page views.” It also doesn’t help when I tell people I’m coming up with article ideas about boobs, though that was a rare occurrence for me.
It’s surprisingly difficult for a lot of people, even my age, to believe that work doesn’t have to consist of dress codes and gray-haired bosses. It’s well-known that we live in a time where all you really need is a strong enough Wi-Fi connection to turn an idea into a business, but that doesn’t mean every millennial gets to experience it.
Some of the other questions I’m asked range from the vague “How does the Internet really work?” to questions as personal as “Do you wear sweatpants to work every day?” For everybody’s convenience, and mostly my own justification, I’ve put together a list answering the most common questions I’ve been asked since becoming that guy who works for that site that is all over your Facebook feed and Twitter. Apologies in advance if I disappoint.