The Opportunist [Humble Beginnings]

(and shit that happens when you almost die)

O p p o r t u n i s t .

When I wrote it out just now, I thought of someone who's well off. A relatively young man. Charismatic. When he laughs other people laugh with him. He wears sharp glasses. He's somewhere between cool and nerdy. He's confident. He is a guy women want to be with and men want to be. If not for his success - he's still budding, or his looks - he may not be all that handsome, or his humour- he may be on the quiet side. There's something nevertheless infectious about him, magnetic, unstoppable.

He's an Opportunist. He recognizes the open doors and sticks his foot in just in the nick of time.

And there he is, riding through life like Poseidon on the backs of dolphins and everyone can't help but want to be near him. What he has, you can't buy and you can't learn from watching a million motivational TEDX speeches. He was just born or condition to it. He's daring but grounded. Dreams with his feet planted. He has that thing everyone wants. And most admirable of all, he has good values and intentions.

That's how I picture it anyway.

I take a deep breath, count to four, think to release the air slowly but get distracted by the view before I come to let it out through my nose. The glimmering skyline of the city I grew up in. So close, but untouchable. It's chilly out here. After all, I'm no longer accustomed to the seasons.

New York always did have the most spectacular seasons. Everyone thinks it's just cold. Too many Christmas movies and that scene in Home Alone with the old lady feeding pigeons in a glossy frozen-over Central Park. But it gets unbearably hot here too. Almost as hot and humid as the place I call home nowadays. I guess it's cinematographically undesirable to capture the beads of sweat gliding down someone's spine while they wait for the R train.

I'm not dressed for the fall. I wasn't planning on being here so long. I look down at my bare arms and the slightly raised blonde hairs. My white sleeveless turtleneck is tucked into loose boyfriend jeans, the kind with enough holes to make your grandmother ask again if you really bought them like that, and to inquire in earnest how much you paid, and then exclaim in distasteful shock regardless of whether they cost $10 or 200. I'm bouncing my knee on the foot rest of the barstool anxiously as usual. A bad habit of hyperactivity I haven't quite learned to shake no matter how many times I'd been chastised for it in Asia. I've casually - perhaps too casually - kicked off my slip on sandals. I take a quick glance around and notice I'm the only one. For a second I think to slide down and stick my feet back into my shoes. But fuck it. No one seems to mind. My toes, for that matter, are clean, the nails cut short, but not lacquered. They were once, but it wore off in the sand weeks ago. The same goes for my finger nails. Though long and straight and clean, they're not polished in any color. And after glancing at them for a few seconds I realize that it's painfully obvious that they vary in length. The left hand has always been a little shorter so as to be able to play guitar. The callouses now starting to peel - I haven't played in weeks. Hours spent in the water weakened the tips of my nails and they would chip now and again.

I always wonder about those insta-famous girls who have perfectly groomed hair and nails and fake eye lashes, trendy outfits complete with matching jewelry, the whole works, while they're on the road. My only jewelry, a men's watch I've had for years that never fails me, and some macrame bracelets I received as gifts. They're blue and green. My favorite colors. They remind me of the ocean and mountains. My hair is pulled back, but some strands now blonde from too much sun, stick to my lipgloss, the only make up I bothered to put on to keep my lips from chapping. My shoulders and arms are slightly too defined for my liking; a result of water sports. The hole in my jeans on the right knee reveals a haggard looking scar. Black and blue marks trail my body like an old cobblestone path. I look like a 14 year old boy trapped in a woman's body. Anyone guessing would likely say I'm between 22 and 26. I reach for my beer bottle and take a sip.

They would be completely wrong.

It's not at all how I pictured The Opportunist.

A woman. In casual clothing. 30 years old. Technically unemployed. Alone. No smiles. No chic glasses. No champagne. No minions or harems. No magnetic charisma. No specific plan. But there it is.

When I think about it, what I've been known to be - unsettled, restless, indecisive, at best brave or fearless (undeserved credit as a result of a complete misunderstanding of my character, but I'll get back to that in a bit), is actually nothing other than Opportunism. Adaptability. The tendency to sense the wind of change is blowing and to ride it. Or to wait, albeit impatiently, when there is no wind. I don't know if it's innate, or crazy, or both. But I come to this sudden realization that I am, if nothing else, The Opportunist. It's not half as posh as I'd imagined.

Fuck. My student loans are due this week.

I bite my lip.

For the love of god.

#opportunist #opportunity #travel #digitalnomad