It was a cold, frosty morning when I got off the bus two Fridays ago at the Port Authority Bus Terminal. It was even colder once I stepped out onto 8th Avenue and felt the polluted NYC air.
Until that exact moment, I almost forgot how much I hated the cold.
Once I confirmed which direction led me towards Chelsea, I started to walk, bundled under layers of newly bought clothing and covered from head-to-toe with only my eyes visible to strangers.
I walked as fast as I could with only a single thought in mind: the faster I get to 475 10th Avenue, the less time I’ll have to spend in this cold.
I was two avenues down with two more blocks to go. My eyes were burning. My throat was starting to tingle. I’m not sure if it was from the cold or an actual cold I was getting.
After what felt like an hour, I finally made it to 475 10th Avenue. I looked at my watch and realized the sad fact that I had only been walking for about ten minutes. Better yet, I was one hour and 45 minutes early for my interview.
What the heck am I supposed to do for the next two hours besides panic and worry about my fast-approaching interview? I couldn’t spend another second in the cold.
Thankfully, next door to my destination was a small café called “Café Grind.”
I walked in and settled myself at one of the empty, wooden tables. I ordered a large cappuccino and waited.
My thoughts began to race. “What if I don’t get this internship? How will I graduate on time since it’s required for all comm majors? What if I get it? What if they don’t like me once I start? What if I’m underdressed? Am I overdressed? Where’s my cappuccino? Where’s the bathroom? I think I’m going to puke.”
Cappuccino in hand, I looked out the window. Instead of seeing what was outside, I saw myself. I was looking at my reflection.
Finally, my nerves settled. I had nothing to worry about.
Here I am.
One hour away from my interview at a magazine in NYC, four months away from graduation and on my way to becoming the journalist I’ve always dreamed of being.
Three months ago, I ended my four years of being a college athlete. Three months before that, I traveled Italy on my own. Two months before that, I was appointed Editor-in-Chief of my campus newspaper.
I haven’t found the cure for cancer, but I’ve done a damn lot.
At that moment, my phone went off.
I looked down and saw a message from my boyfriend: “Good luck, you’ll do great.”
Again, it buzzed. It was my best friend: “Go get ‘em, tiger.” (She would.)
Again. This time my mother: “Suerte, baby! I love you!” (Suerte, in Spanish, means good luck.)
Again. My sister. “Good luck baby sis!”
I looked at my watch and realized it was time to head upstairs. I gathered my things and made my way next door.
Once I reached the 12th floor, I asked the receptionist where to go. She gestured towards a set of couches and I waited once more.
About 15 minutes later, my interviewer found me. We spoke for about 10 minutes, said our “Nice to meet you”s and went our separate ways.
In three days, she assured me, I would have her response.
Sure enough, after three days of agonizing curiosity, at 6 o’clock on a Monday afternoon, she informed me that I got the position.
This was great news.
Instantly I felt lighter; so much weight was lifted off of my shoulders.
The only, small downside: twice a week I’ll have to make the terribly cold commute to 475 10th Avenue.