Poor in New York: I'm 23

I was running out the door to a little gathering in Brooklyn last Friday, when I realized – agh! – I had not eaten dinner. This is important before venturing into the unknown New York evening. Thus, I began the often futile search for food in my apartment.

Fridge? It was pretty empty. I’d had eggs for breakfast, which meant I was in no mood to eat them again for dinner. We were also out of bread and there weren't anymore apples.

Cabinets? Those were pretty empty too. Even I know you can’t eat Tagalongs for dinner. And pasta seemed like a daunting task. But wait – what was this?


Hello, childhood friend.

Now, mind you, I did not purchase this odd little soup for myself. No, in fact my mother sent a can of it to me with the Tagalongs and a few other Easter goodies. (Don’t you judge.)

But I needed to be walking towards the train within the next 3 minutes. So I did what I’ve done many times before. In fact, I’m sure I’ve blogged about it at some point over the last two years.

Oh yes.
Cold soup.
Out of the can.
Forget the microwave.

This always made my college roommate gag. Though I promise it’s really not that bad. (Permission to judge.) 

But the best part of this whole ordeal? While I’m stuffing Spaghettios in my face, and trying to avoid dripping anything on my dress, Blink 182’s “What’s My Age Again” begins to play on my computer. If you don’t know the lyrics, they go something like this:

Nobody likes you when you're 23
And you still act like you're in Freshman year
What the hell is wrong with me?
My friends say I should act my age
What's my age again?
What's my age again?

Yep. Thaaaat’s me! At the ripe age of 23. I’m wearing heels and eating cold soup. At least my friends don’t tell me to act my age. Nope… they’re just as bad. And let’s be honest; our habits may not change that much before we’re 40.

But would you really read this blog if it were any other way?