Today, I completed and passed the final of the four tests that my job required to become A Banker.

What this means to me:

• I am just as smart as I think I am. Even though I did feel that, at my last job, I was dumber and dumber with each moment of my employment that passed.
• I really do love all of this stuff. So much that I had no problem sacrificing my fitness routine, my eating habits, my social life, various personal relationships, and my blog for it.
• It was totally worth the sacrifices, because I don’t remember EVER feeling as proud of myself as I do right this moment.
• I can watch TV, blog, have a drink, read a book, go shopping, so on and so forth without the constant nagging of the little voice in my head that whispers “test, test, test, test, you still have to pass another test, test, test, test, you might’ve passed one already but there are still more, teststeststeststeststests.” And I’ve forgotten what this was like, to sit here and not have worry hanging around in the background. It’s delicious.
• I am so happy. On so many levels. Everything about my life has been better since I got this job: My relationship, my overall attitude, my punctuality, my confidence, EVERYTHING. And the completion of this last step in this particular level of this job makes relieves me but, also, lets me appreciate the fact that a small change like a job can make such a huge change in me.
• Since I’ve been employed at this particular bank, I’ve watched no less than ten (out of seventeen) people fail the Series 6 and lose their jobs. This was my biggest fear in approaching that first test, and haunted me through this last one. Allow me to digress for a moment………… I got an 83 on the 6, and an 85 on the 63. That’s eleven and thirteen points higher, respectively, than the average score. For the New Jersey Insurance exam, each applicant is required to take 25 hours worth of a class, and then a “greenlight” test, which qualifies you to take the state licensing exam; you have to get a 75 to pass. For my greenlight, I got a 99. A NINETY-NINE. That’s ridiculous, and definitely above average. That was Friday. My state exam was scheduled for today. I studied for the state exam over the weekend, and all day Monday, Tuesday, and still more this morning. I was nothing if not ready for my state exam. Yet, when I walked into the testing center, I had a sinking feeling that accompanied the same voice that has been haunting me all along: “What if you fail?” it whispered. “What if you have to call the administrator and tell her you failed and that now you’ll have to postpone all of your job-training? You could fail. You might. You don’t know.” And even though I answered nearly every question with the kind of unwavering authority that experts do, I still worried that, when I finished, I might’ve failed. And when the testing center employees told me I’d passed, I almost cried. And then when I asked for my score, and they told me they didn’t have it, it was just Pass or Fail in New Jersey, I almost cried again. Because I wanted to know. But it doesn’t even matter now. I’m done.

What this means for you:

• No more “I have a test coming up” or “I just took a test” posts.

Hallelujah, right?

There’s one in every class. And, as the recent participant in THREE review classes, I consider myself somewhat of an expert.

There was one in my Series 6 review class, who answered every question the teacher asked with Blinding Flashes of the Obvious. If she wrote on the board that mutual funds dividends are taxed at ordinary income rates, and asked the rhetorical question of “…And how are mutual fund dividends taxed?” he would shout out “ORDINARY INCOME RATES!” Worse yet, if she hadn’t written anything on the board, he’d shout out whatever popped into his brain. The teacher asked what stocks would be preferred by baby boomers, and he said “DIAPERS!” Yeah.

Then, there was one in my Series 63 review class. There’s this rule that, if you, as an agent, have a client who is vacationing in another state, you can preform trades for that customer for thirty days in that state without registering in said state. And if your customer MOVES to a state, you may continue to act as your customer’s agent for sixty days before you must register. And that guy asked the question, “So, say you have a customer who is vacationing in another state, and on the 29th day, he decides to move to that state…Does your sixty day non-registration start from the first day of vacation, or the first day that he told you?” This guy asked questions like this for the duration of our four hour review, and the instructor eventually grew tired of his stupid questions. The thing is, that’s not anything we need to know to pass the test. We just need to get the information we need to PASS the test. We’ll learn all the other crap when we need it. IF we need it.

And now, in my Life Insurance class, we have another guy. This one is the worst form of That Guy: He’s a mix of the Obvious Answer Guy, The Needless Question Guy, AND the I Think I’m Smarter Than The Instructor, And I’m Going To Prove it Guy.

It’s painful to listen to this douche pipe up whenever the instructor introduces a new concept. I can’t help the eye-rolling and the exasperated sighs. Because he’s wasting the time of everyone in the class. And what’s worse is that I’m all by myself, with none of my beloved classmates to share in the hatred with me.

Due to some weird rule, and to the fact that I live in Pennsylvania, I am the lone person in my class taking a New Jersey state exam, while everyone else is taking the New York State exam. Even the people in my class who will be working in New Jersey, like me, are taking the New York exam. Why? Because they live in New York. And they can just assign their Insurance licenses to New Jersey. But because I live in PENNSYLVANIA, I cannot take the New York exam and assign it to New Jersey. No, I have to drive two hours into New Jersey every day this week, and take a class all on my own. And it wouldn’t be so bad if I didn’t have so many weirdos in my class that I would LOVE to talk shit about with my friends.

There’s the Know It All Guy. And then there’s the I Think She Might Be Drunk Girl, who slurs complaints about the class into her phone while she smokes cigarettes on break. There’s the Wow, I Think He Has Tourette’s Guy, who makes weird noises throughout the class: Strange, seemingly unbidden noises that are mixtures of moans and saliva forced through the teeth. There’s the Teacher’s Pet, and the Obvious Slacker, as well as the husband and wife couple who sit right in front of me. They’re pretty benign, except for the fact that the husband’s cranium is roughly fourteen times the size of a normal head, and always manages to be directly in the way of my view of the board.

But that’s not the point of all of this. The point is that this is the last prong of my three-test-pitchfork. Let’s forget for the moment that after my test is done, I’ll be training for the actual job I’ll be doing for a number of weeks before I actually get to work. Because the testing is the hard part. Training is training…But testing? It’s intense. And to know that my testing is so close to finished that I can almost TASTE it is the most delightful feeling I have been privvy to in nearly as long as I can remember. Feeling proud of myself - immensely proud, prouder than I can everremember being of myself in my life thus far - is one thing, but knowing that I’m nearing the end of a looooong process is quite another. Because, sure, I feel proud of myself, but I’m so eager to taste the relief that comes with no longer feeling the pressure of passing tests.

Which basically just means that, come next week, hopefully I’ll be talking about something other than tests and studying for them.

This holiday is quite possibly my favorite. And not just because we get to be unabashedly patriotic and set fire to things while drinking mass amounts of booze…but because I get the day off of work.

For just under two months, I have been making a two hour drive into a big city every morning, to sit in a room and read terribly dry financial books meant to groom me into the kind of financial whiz that can pass both the Series 6 and 63 licensing exams, in addition to a state life insurance exam. Then, after eight hours of reading, I get back into my car and drive back home for another two hours.

I’d be lying if I said I was reading for eight hours straight any longer. Having passed my Series 6 with flying colors, and then the Series 63 with even more high-flying colors (that would be two whole points worth of higher flying…), I approached my insurance book with the sort of tenacity usually reserved for sloths and snails. Sure, I open the book, maybe even highlight a line or two, but I haven’t been reading, really. I haven’t been actually reading for the entire week I’ve had the book.

My classmates and I are all close friends now, having survived the traumatic experience of the FINRA exams, and our conversations have finally begun to evolve beyond just bitching about the impending tests and/or reading materials. Really interesting conversations have begun to erupt around the room, and we are all pretty much ignoring our insurance books in favor of discussing our favorite quotes from Ace Ventura, Napoleon Dynamite and Austin Powers. Other things we prefer to reading our books: Talking about the coworker we hate; making fun of the class who came in after us, who are all completely unmotivated and sure to fail their Series 6 test; talking about how great it feels to have the right to be haughty about passing the test and casting disappointed/holier-than-though glances upon said class because A) we passed it and B) we can; discussing weekend plans; Sushi: Which is better, tuna or salmon?; colon cleansing. Etcetera, etcetera.

What began as a serious task has now melted into a social hour that lasts all day. I read my book when I get home now, instead of while I’m getting paid to do it. It’s not the smartest choice I’ve ever made, reading here, because it’s apparently quite easy to fall asleep reading about insurance. You might’ve thought that reading about SEC rules and mutual funds was the most boring material on the face of the planet, but you’d be wrong. Insurance is. Partly because it’s insurance, and there’s nothing less fun in the world, but also because a majority of this material was covered in my prior two tests. So reading the book for insurance is a lot like deja vu. Which happens to be a good excuse to not devote the sort of time to it as I did to my other two books.

I’m just grateful that, as it turns out, reading the book is not mandatory. I don’t want to give the impression that all my talk of finally being motivated and driven and eager to do well was short-lived. I still feel the same way: passionate about what I’m learning and eager to do well…But I’ll be taking a week long course on insurance, where I will learn about the insurance from a human instead of a page. Which is how I learn, anyway, so I’m not exactly burnin’ up the pages with my eyes.

And I still love the class - the people, the commute, and the knowledge - but it is making me a little weary. For the past week I’ve been the lucky host to a sinus infection, and getting up at 4 has been nearly impossible. The coughing kept me awake for hours (thanks, post-nasal drip!), and so the doctor prescribed me a hydrocodone syrup to take at bedtime. And it’s lovely, my friends. LOVELY. But it does make my usual get-up-and-go! a little more TRY-to-get-up-and-go—-slowly. And while I’m better now (and off the hydrocodone, thanks.), it’s nice to sleep till 8 and wake up on my own instead of to a blaring alarm. On a Friday.

And so, here I am, on the greatest holiday, still in bed. At 1:30. In the dark. In the air conditioning. And I’ve been playing sudoku online for 3 hours. It feels fantastic. Later, I’ll make some risotto, bring it over to my parents’ house, where they’ll grill meat and we’ll drink beer and I’ll set off fireworks with my boyfriend and my little brother. And I can’t wait.

But I have to say how much more full my life feels now. I look forward going to work. I forgot what it felt like not hate my job. I forgot what it was like to be proud of myself, and what I’m doing. I like working in a city, and I like that I’ve reacclimated to city-driving. My overall mood is better, I sleep better, I am happier.

Also, I’m more appreciative of my days off.

Happy Fourth!

I still had the slight lilt of a southern accent in my words when I started Yellowspurn Junior High. I had toiled for hours over what I’d wear for my first day in the new school, terrified of what kids would think of the most recent new kid. My mom had driven past the new school a thousand times before we ever walked inside, and every time our car slid past its brownish-pink stone walls, my stomach lurched. It was worse when we happened to be passing at the end of the day, when what seemed like millions of kids my age spilled from every opening in the building and out onto the sidewalks. There were so many of them. And they all looked so cool. They all seemed older and better and, frankly, I was terrified.

I begged my parents to find a way to let me stay in Mr. Senerd’s class, in the elementary school ten minutes away. But they shrugged and nodded, saying there was nothing they could do. We had moved to Las Vegas just a few months ago, into an apartment that served as our temporary home until the house my parents were building was complete. They were putting the finishing touches on our beautiful stuccoed home and when that was done, we’d move in and my school district would be irreparably changed.

The school system had just begun a new trend, in that, my first year, in Vegas. No longer would Sixth Grade be an “elementary” class. Now, we sixth graders would be shuttled to large, imposing, Junior High Schools meant, I suppose, to prepare use for the even larger and more imposing High Schools sprinkled around Las Vegas. While it was inevitable that I would be going to the Junior High right next to the elementary school I attended every day, I was okay with that. I had friends there that I’d only just made. I wasn’t prepared to leave one school and start another in just a few months; I didn’t want to have to make a whole new set of friends.

But that was all there was to it: We were moving, and in the middle of my sixth grade year, I’d go to Yellowspurn, with its curved outer walls, bronze statue of a dolphin out front, the enormous recreation field stretching out from its side. And, what was worse, I’d have to walk.

My first day, I decided against my still-standard outfit of choice: Leggins and a long sweater. That was the cool thing to do in Kentucky, but I’d noticed that the Vegas kids had already moved onto different things. My mom had taken me to the BX at Nellis Air Force base to pick out new clothes the week before, and I was amazed that even the options on the military bases were more sophisticated in Vegas than they had been in Kentucky. I chose Bill Blass jeans and what I believed to be a quite fetching body suit to go beneath it. I chose a necklace, and a little jacket to wear over my skin-tight top. And as I donned my outfit the morning before my first day, I hoped - hoped - it said, “Just because I’m new, and have a little bit of an accent, doesn’t mean you shouldn’t get to know me! I’m fun! I’m cool! I’m a great friend! Ask me my name!”

My mom offered to drive me, but the only thing worse than being the new kid was being the new kid who was too afraid to get to school by herself. I thanked her for the offer, but declined, flung my flaccid backpack over my shoulder and walked to school.

My mom and I had been in the school once before, for registration, but as I entered the open doors to the central area, I realized that it seemed much bigger when you were by yourself and surrounded by hundreds of other kids, all of whom, unlike me, knew exactly where they were going.

I headed to the office to pick up my schedule, and asked the eighth grader office aide sitting behind the desk where room 320 was. She explained that all of the halls had their numbers listed above their doors. I just had to walk down the main corridor of the school, and to the left and right, I’d see the doors that lead to the hallways that lead to the classrooms. “So it’s simple,” she said. I doubted it.

To get to class, I walked down a cement path that sliced the school down the middle. There was no roof there, just the impossibly bright Las Vegas sky. All of the common areas were open; the classrooms, hallways and the lockers were the only areas with a roof. Everything else was open to the outside; Palm trees were planted in little grassy patches in front of the hallways, benches laid out beneath them for weary students. It was like Beverly Hills 90210, and unlike anything I’d ever seen in my life.

I found my first door, walked through its hallway, and then into my first class: Mrs. Barnes first period reading. She introduced me to the class and showed me to my seat, behind a pretty girl giggling with her neighbor. I slumped into my chair-desk combination and tried not to act too scared.

Mrs. Barnes started talking about Where the Red Fern Grows, and I struggled to make sense of what she was saying. I obviously hadn’t read the book, and was forced to pick up smack in the center. I was hoping she was benevolent enough to not ask me any questions.

Before I knew it, it was. One long, loud electronic chime told us first period was over, and kids scrambled to their feet, tossing books and pens into their backpacks. I moved a little slower, hoping to leave the class last, so as not to get in anyone’s way.

“I love that necklace,” said the pretty girl in front of me.

“Oh, thanks!” I smiled. “I just got it last week.”

She stretched out a hand that was home to impeccably painted long nails and fingered the heart-shaped pendant. “It’s so pretty.” I just stood there while she looked at it, kind of frozen. I’d never known someone to be so bold as to just grab at a necklace on a complete stranger. It didn’t bother me, I just didn’t know how to react. She let it go gingerly and smiled at me. “So did you just move here?”

“Kind of,” I said. “We moved to Las Vegas about five months ago? But our house was just finished being built a few weeks ago? So we moved into the house last week? So, kinda, yeah, I just moved here? But really, I’ve been in Vegas for a while.” I didn’t know why everything I said sounded like a question. I was just so nervous. I wanted to keep talking to her, to make friends, but I knew I had to leave, because I still had to figure out my way around the school.

“Nice.” She flung her pink backpack over one shoulder. “So, where’s your next class?”

I pulled my schedule from my back pocket. “Room 125. History.”

“Well, my next class is close to there. You want me to walk you?”

I sighed with relief. “YES! Thank you. This place is so huge….”

“It starts to feel smaller,” she said, “just give it time.” She smiled. “C’mon. Let’s go.” She nodded her head in the direction of the door. “I’m Nichole, by the way.”

“Anna.”

Nichole showed me around my whole first day, and I was delighted to discover that, not only did we share three of the five classes, but our lockers were near each other. We became fast friends, and being friends with her gave me the opportunity to be friends tons of other kids.

Nichole was popular. But not in the bitchy-cheerleader sort of way. She was popular because she was nice, and made friends easily. She was a church-goer, and knew a lot of kids from her Youth Group which, she said, she attended every Wednesday night. She invited me to tag along, and even though religion had never been my thing, I did.

We spent the next two years being best friends. We hung out on the weekends, we called each other’s parents Mom and Dad. We were inseparable. And the one thing we had most in common was our hatred for my neighbor, Shelia.

It wasn’t that we hated her, I guess, just that she wasn’t one of us, yet kept trying to be. Sheila was nice enough, and there was certainly nothing wrong with her, but Nichole and I were a duo, not a trio, and we wanted to keep it that way. Yet everywhere we went, there was Sheila.

It was a nice feeling, for me, to finally be part of the duo and not that annoying third wheel. When I was living in Kentucky, I was Shelia, constantly trying to be part of a tight group, yet forever left to just orbit it. It made me a little giddy, in truth, to be on this side of the equation for once, and I was desperate to keep it that way.

And sometimes, when I would walk the halls of the school that the three of us attended, and saw Nichole chatting with Sheila by the lockers, or outside of the PE locker room, or in the cafeteria, I would get jealous. I felt like Shelia was trying to take my friend, and I didn’t appreciate it. But Nichole always assured me that that would never happen. She didn’t even like Shelia. She was just being nice.

And then Shelia joined the choir.

The meat of the matter was that the choir in our school wasn’t just an elective. It was a team. You had to audition. Each year, in sixth grade, a team was assembled and that team stuck together for their three junior high years. It took someone quitting or moving to get in. Nichole had been in the choir since sixth grade - had actually auditioned for it in fifth grade, during preregistration, to assure her spot. A month into our eighth grade year, one of the girls on choir moved, opening one highly coveted spot. Both Shelia and I, along with a handful of other girls, auditioned. It came down to five of us - me, Sheila, and three other girls - but Shelia got it.

I panicked at the notion that Nichole would now get to share a choir class with Shelia, but was relieved when Nichole rolled her eyes at the thought of having to spend even one more hour a day with her. The first week or two, Nichole would call me after school and fill me in on all of the stupid things Shelia had done in choir. How she acted like she knew more than everybody. How she tried to act like the best singer in the class. How she had the nerve to audition for the lead role in an upcoming show. We’d laugh, and I’d rest assured that Nichole wasn’t about to let Shelia take my place. “But she does have a nice voice, though,” Nichole would say. And it made me a little uneasy.

As the weeks passed, I noticed Nichole softening to Shelia. Her accounts of what Shelia had done in the class were nowhere near as venomous as they once were. Gradually, they lost their fire altogether, and Nichole was, instead, complimenting her. Telling funny stories with Shelia as the star. Recounting a story that Shelia had told her. And then she was talking about the plans she had with Shelia over the weekend.

My phone rang less and less with Nichole’s calls. The invitations to her house began to taper off. And I began to recognize Nichole’s mom’s Volvo parked outside of Shelia’s house, Nichole running up Shelia’s lawn to ring the doorbell and extract her for whatever fun thing they two had planned. And now, when I talked to Nichole, every story she had to tell involved Shelia. “You should come with us to Youth Group this week,” she said. I wanted to remind her that I’d been going with her to Youth Group for years, and that it would be more accurate to say Shelia was coming with us, but I didn’t bother. I was familiar with the feeling of orbiting.

When Nichole and Shelia went together to the State choir competition, I knew it was the final, gasping breath of our friendship. I imagined all the things they were saying about me now. I had other friends, and I spent my time with them, but I ached a little every time I saw Nichole and Shelia laughing together in the cafeteria. My heart was broken. I felt so betrayed.

Nichole and I had planned, for years, to spend our eighth grade graduation together. We’d been talking about it since the sixth grade: How we’d stay at her house the night after the little ceremony, and we’d watch scary movies and put cleansing masks on our faces and paint our fingernails and eat junkfood, and not even go to sleep till the sun came up. We’d spend a majority of the night planning what high school would be like, and we’d plan our classes so that we had at least half of them together. We had it all figured out. But on the evening of our graduation, Nichole spent the night at Shelia’s house instead. I knew because I saw her mom’s Volvo pull up outside of Shelia’s house, right across the street from mine. I watched Nichole get out of the car, her auburn hair still in tight curls from the graduation ceremony. She bent into the backseat and pulled her rolled-up sleeping bag from the car, and another bag with her overnight stuff and, I was sure, cleansing masks and nail polish.

I had cake with my family that night. With every bite, I fought off tears. When I finally told my mom was what wrong, she wrapped me up in her arms and told me it was okay. That I’d make better friends, and they deserved each other, and I should be glad I was rid of them. I felt like she was right, but I couldn’t help feeling like I’d had my heart ripped out. Nichole had been my first friend in Vegas, and she was the best friend I’d had in my life. I knew I’d make other friends, but I didn’t think anyone would ever be able to live up to the fact that she had been the first person to talk to me in my new school. That she had taken me under her wing and helped me make other friends. She had told me she’d be my best friend forever. We even had little necklaces that said so; a gold heart that said “Best Friends,” broken in half, so that each of us could wear a part. I was Be Fri. She was Est Ends. I felt lied to.

I didn’t want to see anyone. I felt like that night - the one Nichole and I had planned for years - was the final nail in our coffin. I knew we wouldn’t be friends any longer. Even casually. I knew we wouldn’t hang out in high school, or try to schedule the same classes. I knew we’d drifted too far apart as it was, and there was just no going back. And I was so sad for our poor, deceased friendship.

So I went upstairs to my bedroom and listened, for the hundredth time, to Victim of the Game. I sang along with every word, crying like a fool. I knew it was supposed to be about love or marriage or something, but it didn’t matter. I felt that same way. I hadn’t been in romantic love yet, but I knew that the end of my friendship was the same as the end of a relationship; it hurts the same. So I chose repeat on my CD player and let Garth remind me that I wasn’t the only one to ever feel this way until I fell asleep.

Desiree held her cigarette between her long, French-manicured fingers on one hand, and used the palm of her other hand to spin the steering wheel of her 1995 Mitsubishi Eclipse. I was in the front seat, my long legs straddling my backpack, the open window making the lighting of my own cigarette tricky. Julie was in the backseat, her short stature relegating her to the backseat of almost every car we rode in that wasn’t hers.

We sped away from the school, toward the Skyline casino, where no one asked why we weren’t in school, and the ninety-nine cent breakfast was well within our high school student budgets. “Put something on,” Desiree said, braking to meet the 25mph speed restriction in front of our enormous school. Even though we’d just pulled out of its parking lot, even though we’d just conned our way out of first period classes by using stolen office passes and crafty zig-zag patterns through the parking lot to avoid the school’s security, we felt that we were still in jeopardy of being caught until we were safely out of the school’s view.

I loaded the tape I’d made at Desiree’s request, and we all the grinned at one another.

“Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh” we screamed in unison, along with No Doubt. Even the fact that the volume was cranked to its highest point was no match for our collective teenage angst. Songs like “Sixteen” with its Ska vibe mixed with rapid drums and hint of anger were practically written for a carload of three girls who made it a common practice to ditch school.

Safely, now, out of the school zone, Desiree floored it, as was her habit. We drove way too fast down the Las Vegas roads, accelerating around corners because Desiree had heard that was the way the racecar drivers did it. But Julie and I hardly noticed, we just sang along with Gwen Stefani and played our imaginary instruments.

A long time ago, we’d dubbed ourselves the OCB - Original Car Band. It was so ridiculous that it was awesome, and it was something that we did often. I played the drums on the dashboard - clearly, the coveted role of the OCB - and Julie and Desiree played their bass and lead guitars, respectively. But Julie didn’t know how to play bass and Desiree couldn’t play lead guitar while trying to weave dangerously in and out of traffic, so it was mostly me, banging on the dashboard, intoxicated by the danger of ditching school.

I had always been a good kid. I had always followed the rules, always strove to be the teachers’ pet. I did my homework and extra credit; I always went the extra mile to be liked. But, at sixteen, I was tired of being the good kid, tired of always missing out on all of the fun because I was terrified of being in trouble. And ditching school was the best way I knew to fill that dangerous void inside of me; Sure, I was playing with the fire of being caught, but I knew that nothing I was doing was hurting anyone, and the damage wasn’t irreparable. I could make up the homework, and I could work hard later. But after 10 years of following every rule of school, I was ready to break a few.

And we did. Often. Ditching was something that I did, it seemed, more often than actually going to school. If I didn’t decide to take the whole day off, I’d at least ditch a class or two. The constant during those days were my two friends Desiree and Julie. Desiree was my catalyst, the one who basically showed me that it could be fun to be bad. Julie, my very best friend and, as luck would have it, my neighbor, was willing to go along with any choice I made.

The thing about attending a high school filled with over 3500 kids is that there was always someone ditching. And between the three of us, we knew someone in every group. We knew the popular kids, and we knew the stoners; we knew the gangsters and we knew the preps, we knew the older kids and we knew the younger ones. We also knew the one place that every ditching student met: The Skyline.

Though we didn’t like to brag, we liked to say that we originated the Skyline. In truth, it was something we’d heard from someone else: That the waitresses never asked questions, even though it was clear we were at the age where we should’ve been in some classroom somewhere. The food managed to be both good and cheap at the same time, and even though our bill rarely topped four dollars, we could sit there for hours without anyone asking us to leave. When we knew we were going to ditch, we’d tell our friends to meet us there, and before we knew it, every day we would find more and more kids from our school in adjacent booths. At eight in the morning, booths would fill with other kids from our high school, and we’d all discuss our plans for the day, and wind up moving our party onward.

We’d spend the day at the home of whomever’s parents were working. We’d go to Mt. Charleston, we’d go to Red Rock, we’d go to Lake Mead. The thing about growing up in Vegas was that there was always somewhere to go. For the two weeks a year I went without getting caught, there was always something to do.

But the boring days we spent doing anything but going to school? That’s not what I feel when Sixteen comes on these days. I feel that rush of avoiding security; the sick feeling that bled gradually into elation. The feeling that we got away with it. The taste of freedom that speeding down the road offered us. I can see the desert roads unfolding before our eyes, singing You’re only sixteen, try to cross the line, but your little wings are entertwined. I can see Desiree turning to me to scream entertwined, and the way it made me laugh every time. I can see the school fading behind us, as construction site whirring past. I hear Julie laughing in the back, and I feel the rush of doing something, for once, that I wanted to do. I don’t think I’ve ever felt so alive, before or since.

Ohmigod, you guys. I passed. I totally passed! One needs a 70 to pass, and I am the proud owner of a very official piece of paper (it has an embossed seal and everything!) that says I achieved an 83.

To be honest, though, I don’t know how I pulled it off. I found myself thinking - more often than not - I never read that! I don’t know that! What does that word even mean? I think that my weeks of preparation, studying and reviewing did little more than allow me to make educated guesses. While my base of knowledge is firm, I am not ashamed to tell you that I was just blindly swinging on a lot of questions on that test. More than I was comfortable with, for sure.

The test is all on a computer, and when you finish, you click “Exit” and then you wait ten seconds to see your score. I shit you not that I was sure my heart was going to beat its way right out of my chest while I waited. I was sure I failed. Sure that I’d barely managed a 60. Sure that I’d be the lone member of my class to fail. Sure that I’d have to make the call of shame to my employer and let them know that I didn’t pass, and, yes, I understand that I must resign. I was sure of all of it.

And then the 83 popped up. And I almost cried.

I practically ran out of the test center and began placing a series of calls to my classmates, bosses, family members, and loved ones to share the good news.

All of my friends in class passed, too.

And then, what appears to have been a frickin’ tornado blew through the town where I took the test and followed me the entire two hour drive home! Which was great. Because there’s nothing like celebrating your triumph on a huge test by driving through hurricane-strength winds and hoping you don’t hydroplane. It was pretty awesome.

Thank you all for your luck and well wishes. I appreciate them so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

That’s what my life is right now. Consumed. By studying and financial regulations and stress over passing this test.

The test I’ll be taking TODAY. IN SIX HOURS.

You may be wondering why I’m writing on my blog instead of, oh, I don’t know, studying more, but the answer to that is simple: I just can’t. I mean, I will, but I just can’t right now. My coworkers and I left our class yesterday, discussing how it didn’t yet feel like it was real: the fact that we’d be taking this make-or-break-us test in under 24 hours. We giggled and wished each other luck and climbed into our cars and all headed home. Five minutes after leaving, my classroom BFF, Tim, texted me: “Okay. It feels like tomorrow now.” I texted back that I agreed, that I’d started to freak out. I left out that my stomach was starting to churn, the way it does when I’m nervous. He didn’t need to know that.

I drove straight to the gym and left my iPod in the car in favor of my notes. I ran and walked for an hour, reading over my notes the whole time. I ate dinner with my parents, then came home, took a shower, and went, via the internet, to the practice tests I’ve been taking for the past three weeks. And I opened my notes. I committed to memory the regulations and Acts that have been escaping me, repeating key points over and over, out loud, so that I internalize them. Hopefully. I fell asleep with my computer open, notes splayed across my chest, glasses on. Sexy, really, is what I’m saying.

This morning, I woke up and opened up those same tests. My notes are next to me. I ate breakfast and went over the questions I keep getting wrong. Then I started getting nervous and decided to check my email. I toyed with the idea of going back to the gym. And then I decided to write.

I talked to Tim this morning, who called me because I sent him a text that said, “Ohmygodohmygodohmygod. The test is in like six hours, and I don’t know what to do with myself.” He keeps telling me that I’m retarded for even being nervous, because I’m going to pass with no problem. That’s what Ryan said before he left this morning, too, “I’m not even nervous for you because I know you’re going to do fine.” I love and appreciate the confidence, but that doesn’t mean I’m not nervous.

When this is over, I’ll start studying for my STATE regulation test. The Series 63. But that book is a fraction of the size of the one I’ve been studying for this test, and it’s rumored to be infinitely easier. When that starts, I’m sure I’ll be back to writing about stuff that happened to me when I was sixteen, as recalled through song. But until then, it’s just me and those Mutual Funds I’ve been spending so much time with lately.

I’ll be back soon. Hopefully with a passing score under my belt.

Mutual fund, bond, current yield, coupon, variable annuity, fixed annuity, equity, SEC, 1035, 1099, interest, investment, adviser, Subchapter M, cumulative, straight life, term life, Board of Directors…

This is what goes through my mind 24-7 these days. I wake up in the middle of the night - a time that happens to be, by the way, just before I’m supposed to wake up - thinking BONDS! General Obligation Bonds are tax free, sure, but how are they funded? By taxes collected by a state/town/county, or by revenue from public transportation infrastructures?

I know the answer to this now (taxes they collect, if you were wondering), but that’s only because I spent a majority of my work day today writing out OVER 100 flash cards with a word or term on one side, and its definition on the other.

After my morning commute of just under two hours (roughly half an hour of which is spent going less than 25 while trying to actively defend my position in whatever lane’s line I happen to be in…or taking someone else’s place in their line.), I start studying, and, except for my lunch hour and two well-timed smoke breaks, don’t stop until five.

The first week of my employment was spent reading a six hundred page book - three to four chapters a day - of dreadfully dry, yet somehow insanely interesting, investment information. I would take a test on what I’d learned/read at the end of the day. And then this week, I’ve been reviewing said chapters, and taking more tests, at least two a day.

Generally, we - the employees all furiously studying for our exams - are left unattended. But, from time to time, a licensed adviser comes in to lead us in a review session. It was during one of these visits that the flash cards were suggested, hence my furious writing today.

A classmate of mine, with whom I am rapidly becoming great friends, laughed at me when I pulled the blank index cards from my bag the next morning. “I figured you’d run right out and get those,” he said. “You’re studious that way.” Every day, he makes some crack about my preparedness, or my note taking; in short, he calls me a nerd on a daily basis. And I am oddly flattered by, and ridiculously proud of, this.

One needs a 70 to pass this exam. And, regardless of the fact that I am doing well, I’m nervous. Well, truthfully, I wasn’t nervous until today, when we discussed scheduling for the test, which will be a week from Tuesday. Suddenly, with a date and very real deadline in front of me, I’m sweaty and anxious and worried that I don’t know enough. Even though I’m pretty sure I can’t cram any more information into my already overstuffed brain.

If I sound like I’m complaining, I apologize. I’m not, really. In truth, I love it. I love waking up at the ungodly hour of four, and I love the drive, which I make with a purpose. I love getting dressed up every day, and the fact that I care about how I look again, which I haven’t done at work for over two years. I love the studying, the learning, and the fact that, occasionally, when a classmate asks me a question, I actually know the answer and say so with authority. I love that I feel confident, and I love that my day flies by because my brain is actually working. I’m so very fond of my coworkers, especially the two that I sit next to and run around with all the time. We’re like the three musketeers - or the three stooges, I guess - and those two guys make every single day of mine there better, just by being there. I look forward to seeing them, and laughing with them when the stress of the studying and test taking overwhelms us all and we explode in fits of stupid humor. I love that I know the formula of a tax equivalent yield, and how to calculate a sales charge, and when to apply them. I love that I feel smart again. And I even kind of love that there’s still SO EFFING MUCH I need to learn, regardless of the fact that it freaks me the fuck out.

And, also, I’m constantly amazed at how many freakin’ people are crossing the Tappen Zee at 6:45 on any given morning. Because where the hell is everyone going?

But the end of my day is pretty rough. I start out my commute home in a pretty good mood, and then I start thinking about the study materials, and then some A-hole cuts in front of me, and I have to slam on my brakes, and then I furrow my brow, then I notice that nothing good is on the radio, and then I realize how tired I am, and by the time I walk through the door, it’s all I can do to stay awake for two hours.

Which isn’t a problem, except that I should probably be studying those flash cards I spent all day writing. I mean, my thumb hurts from all the writing I did today. I should put all of that labor to good use. But I can’t bring myself to open my bag and pull out that ominous pile of white cards and read them. Instead, I’m blogging and watching a rerun of How I Met Your Mother, just hoping to stay awake till Ryan gets home.

It’s not so bad, though. A glass of wine at the end of the day has never tasted so good.

First days at work are so much like first days at school, that, if I didn’t know better, I’d have guessed I traveled back in time on Monday morning. Because, just like in school, I couldn’t sleep the night before the first day. And I planned out my outfit before I went to bed. I spent the morning making sure I looked just so, in order to make the best possible first impression. I also spent a good deal of time worrying about how to get there, and where I’d go once I got there, much like I did in school. I worried about parking, and making sure to not get stuff in my teeth at lunch, and whether my clothes were appropriate.

But instead of heading off to my first day of junior high, I was leaving my house at 5:30 for a two hour drive to work. And there’s something about getting into your car at 5:30 - before your neighbors, or the sun, have bothered to get up yet - and driving, in a suit, with your travel mug and your mapquest directions that makes you feel decidedly adult-like, and not at all like a kid. Only adults make drives like this - paying tolls and merging and changing lanes. And they do this because they have careers.

I love that feeling. I imagined that the people sitting in traffic next to me near the Nyack exit assumed I was some highly successful businesswoman; and in my pink polka-dotted dress shirt beneath my fitted black suit jacket, I liked to think I fit the bill. And sitting there, being all adult-like, in traffic, in my morning commute, on my way to work, I decided I was going to go ahead and assume that role.

When I start something new, I do one of two things. One, I am meek and accommodating, happy to fade into the background. Contrite is the word I’d use. Or two, when I am quiet, I assume what my loved ones refer to as The Bitch Face. It’s not meant to be bitchy, it’s just a look of indifference that Ithink says, “I don’t care that I’m all alone and have no idea what I’m doing and no one’s talking to me. I’m confident and lovely.” But they think it says “I am a bitch. Back. Away. Do not approach! I am just as mean as I look! BEWARE!”

But two nights before I began this new job, I had three glasses of wine at my parents’ house. And as I sat on the deck, by myself, smoking a cigarette, I had a drunken epiphany. I stared out at the trees in front of me and I realized, holy crap. I was good enough at that interview to be hired without the required second interview. And I am good at this stuff. And I am going to do so well at this job. I am seriously going to kick ass. I am going to make a lot of money, and I’m going to love not only the money, but the job too. I’ve been wanting a job like this for ages, and the opportunity is finally here. And I’m not going to shy away or slack off or give half of what I’m capable of. I’m actually going to make myself proud.

And even though I was a bit buzzed, I knew that I was right. It was time for me to tackle something in proportion to how much I want it.

And so I decided I wasn’t going to fall back on my two reactions. I am the best person for this job, and I knowit. I believed it when I interviewed, and I still believe it. And intended to carry that confidence - not cockiness, mind you - into my first day.

And I did. When I walked into the orientation - a half hour early, being that I arrived and parked two hoursearly, and got sick of killing time in a local Starbucks - there was another person in there. And I walked right up to him, introduced myself, and sat next to him. Not in one of the other twenty empty seats - as was my first inclination - but right next to him. And we made conversation until the next person came in. I greeted him with a good morning, and he walked right over and sat down with us. We exchanged names and started talking as the third person entered the room. I greeted him as well. I said good morning to every person who walked in, and they all sat in my area, not in the other seats. And I EVEN approached the girls, which is very unusual for me.

When the instructor asked who’d like to go first in introducing themselves and a hush fell over the room, and people ducked their heads and pretended to be interested in the seams of their suit jackets, I volunteered. I blanked on a word while I was talking, and while it almost made me panic, I caught myself. “It doesn’t matter. Just keep going.” And I did.

When we broke for lunch, I suggested to the four guys at my table that we all go together. And when we reached the foodcourt of the mall across the street from the Big Bank Building, ordered our food and sat down. I chose a seat near two girls from our class, and included them in our conversations. And then, as two other guys walked by, trays in hand, I called them over and offered them seats. We had a cluster of eight people together, and everyone was introducing themselves and chatting, and I like to think I had something to do with it. Because people had already begun sectioning off in smaller groups, and just needed a catalyst to bring them all together.

And while this sounds like gloating or bragging, it’s not. I’m utterly shocked and impressed with myself. I’ve always been good at talking to people, but not like this. I managed to be confident without being off-putting. I managed to be friendly and not subservient. I liked the person I was; the person I am, I guess, if I’d just let the confident Me step out every so often.

My assumption that I was friendly and not off-putting yesterday was confirmed today. I showed up at the same time as someone else, and we started talking, and as other people filtered in, they all made a point of saying good morning to me. At lunch, one of the girls asked me if we were all going to lunch together again. I swelled with pride.

And there’s more! As a requirement of my job, I am required to get Series 6 and 63 licenses. The first month and a half of my job will be 100% dedicated to getting these licenses. Not because that’s my goal, but because that’s how the bank has it set up. For my first month and a half, I will sit in a room with my fellow bankers (who are all doing the same job as I will be doing, in different branches) and read impossibly boring and tedious study materials with regard to these licenses. And then we will all take study tests, then practice tests, then the actual test. We’re learning laws and regulations and the fact that investors/government/bankers use about fifty words to describe the word “interest.”

And you know what? I love it.

It’s really hard. It’s a lot of information to process, and some of it is confusing, and all of it is boring. But I’ve always wanted to understand stocks and bonds, and now I will. And while I really have to focus to get through it, I am really enjoying it. Because - and this kind of shames me - I really love this shit. I really just feel like I’m back in my element.

The base of all of this is that I’ve really wanted this job - or something like it - for a long time. I feel like this is my opportunity to do really well. For, literally, the first time in my life, I am actually driven. I don’t know where it’s all coming from, but it’s a new, strange, and incredible feeling.

The only supposed detriment of my new job is the drive home, where I am forced - along with A TRILLION other people - to cross the Tappen Zee bridge at rush hour. It’s long, yes. There are stretches of time where I sit, without moving, for many a minute. And I don’t get home until after seven. But I don’t even mind that. I love driving, and being stuck in traffic on the way home seldom bothers me. Because I have all night to get home, and the longer I get to listen to Sirius, the happier I am.

I could do without the getting up at 4:30 to get out the door by 5:30, but it’ll all be worth it in a month, when I’m actually doing the job I love.

I woke up this morning, as I have for the past month, with Ryan. At 7:00. Normally, this is the time that I go get our coffee, and as Ryan fumbles through his morning routine, I sit up in bed, drink my coffee, and let the time sort of slide by until 8:30, when I get out of bed, put on my workout clothes, pin my hair to my head, and go to the gym in time for the 9:15 class.

This morning, it’s rainy. And, also, the last weekday that I can consider myself unemployed and, therefore, free. So, instead of getting up and going to the gym first thing in the morning, I just laid back down, and dozed for a little while. And then I sat up, drank my coffee, looked at the clock and realized I could still make it to class. And then, I decided fuck it. It’s my last day, people. I don’t know when I’ll be able to lay in bed and be sloth-like next. I decided to enjoy it.

It’s now almost one. I’ve succeeded in eating both breakfast AND lunch in bed. I watched last night’s episode of Grey’s Anatomy. And then I watched the Food Network and Vh1. I’ve played on the internet. I have NOT showered, nor have I even entertained the thought. I’ve been a bum, and I’ve enjoyed it.

And then I tried to sign in to write this very post, and, lo and behold, I had lost my internet connection. After three solid hours of clicking on stuff and generally wasting time on the computer, God or the Unemployment Gods decided I’d done enough, and it was time to get going.

So I sighed, got up, went downstairs, rebooted the router, and settled right back into bed. And logged into WordPress.

But I am going to get up. Because I do have to go to the gym eventually. Because I’m going out to eat a very fatty dinner and drink lots of cocktails tonight. And who knows when I’ll be able to get back to the gym when my new job starts. I may  not make it back to the area in time to go to the gym, and so I must pack in all of my calorie burning NOW, while I still can.

This week has gone by so fast. I remember waking up on  Monday thinking I had five whole days of unemployment left, and wondering what I’d do with all that time. And now I here I am, at the end of my little unemployment journey, and I’m wondering where all the time went. Frankly, I have no idea.

But, anyway, now I’m going to the gym and going to drive around in town, and live the last of my days as a lady of leisure.