For the past few weeks I’ve been finding scraps of paper stuffed into my coat pockets or buried at the bottom of my purse with little pieces of advice from Tim scribbled on them.
Read Chuck Klosterman
Listen to the Manic Street Preachers
Eat at Graffiti Burger
Banana parfait at Jeni’s
“Amanda” by Boston
Tim and I first became “work friends” when he was ballsy enough to start a conversation with me even though I had my headphones in and was presumably wearing my “leave-me-the-fuck-alone-I-hate-this-place” scowl, the one that I’m pretty sure was perpetually stuck on my face for at least the first four months of my new adult-ish job. He asked me what I was listening to, and I asked him what he was listening to, and we started having a conversation about music. I remember him asking me if I knew who Bad Religion was, to which I responded, probably a little scornfully, “um, yeah- I have a Bad Religion sticker on my car.” Fast forward to a few days later when he goes out of his way to make fun of me for all the other stickers that are on my car, claiming that Blink 182 is nothing more than “mall punk” and Third Eye Blind is a washed up 90s three-hit wonder. Thus is built the basis of our friendship- Tim busts my balls about my lack of taste in music, I bust his balls for being a judgmental music snob, he makes fun of my naiveté, I make fun of his age, and then we eat ice cream.
Sometimes in between that routine we talk about other stuff, like movies and writing and job hunting. My supervisor says that I am like a female version of Tim, and based on our shared, slightly obsessive-compulsive need for organization and clear visual aides, I guess I could see that. As it stands though, he has taken on a sort of avuncular role in my life, providing me with some shred of motivation in the hopeless sea of dusty letters and packages that is my life at the mail room temp job, also sadly known as “what I’m doing with my life after college.” He knows and sympathizes with the fact that I have an English degree that is currently being smothered by a lot of student loan debt, writer’s block, and a jaded lack of motivation to pursue a job or career that I might actually enjoy or get to use my college education for. And in an effort to help me with my writer’s block, he has come up with the brilliant idea to give me weekly “assignments” for this blog, something to give me incentive to write regularly and to also, no doubt, pass on his astounding wisdom of all things musical, cinematic, and literary. All snarkiness aside though, I’m down.
And so begins what I guess I will refer to as the weekly “column,” which Tim and I have decided to call Learning Curve. This title seems appropriate because it could be construed as some profound metaphor for my ongoing quarterlife crisis- you know, like how everything has a learning curve, from assimilating to “office casual” attire from cut off jeans, hoodies, and flip flops to managing monthly loan payments to learning how to live with crippling heartbreak, crushed dreams, and post-college despair. Plus I came up with the tagline Tim teaches, Lynsey learns because we both like alliteration, and because taglines are fun. Why not, right?
Stay tuned for the first edition of Learning Curve, which instead of showcasing the social progressiveness and lyrical innovation of an underrated 90s band, as Tim intended it to, will more likely demonstrate how good I am at blunt sarcasm, wordiness, and changing the subject when I don’t know what I’m talking about.
Read Tim’s miscellany at timminneci.com