This post is long overdue. I meant to write during the week, but honestly, when you have only 3 precious hours of the day to yourself, inclusive of preparing and eating a meal, and getting everything ready for the next day, you don't really feel inclined to sit down and draft lengthy epistles. Still, I have felt a little guilty for betraying my extensive fan following. I know what it's like to wait for updates that never come.

Work -- it's hard to define how I feel about it. I had a long moan with Sarah a few days ago about how I'm not sure it's working out and how I'm already worried about future career moves. Sarah reiterated (with wonderful restraint and patience) that it had only been "three days, Adithi, I think you should wait a few weeks before you decide whether you should quit." I don't want to quit. I really don't. But I also don't want to work. I've decided this, over the course of the week. The whole 'up at 6, in at work before your boss, stay later than everyone else, rush home in a short temper' routine isn't my thing. But I'm moving in to my permanent flat this weekend, which will cut the commute time from 1hr and 10 minutes to 10 minutes. Brilliant! But I've loved staying with my aunt and uncle. Every evening we've had a great conversation or watched bad tv in chummy silence. They cheered me on and laughed at my woes, thereby issuing the only comfort that really works for me: mockery.

At some point during the week I had lunch with the other editorial assistants, courtesy of the press. I was a little surprised by the whole experience. I mean, being me, I went prepared to talk about why we love books and why museums and tea leaves add a splash of joy to our lives. Instead, all the girls (there are only girls) launched into a giggly discussion of their various boyfriends. Every second word was "boyfriend," past, present, or envisioned. How dull! I sat imagining a bunch of irritatingly dull guys who are daily dissected by these women. I guess I'm just so focused on certain things right now that I instinctively forget about stuff like that. It's like when Sarah once got very serious and said "I think you're going to be fine, take it as it comes and keep me updated," I instantly assumed she was addressing my career path and launched into my diatribe against big corporations that shut out deserving people. It's weird to think of being on a campus where the male/female ratio will be balanced. And it's Princeton, moreover. I'd better go dust off my Lilly Pulitzer dresses.

Speaking of the dress code! I potter in with my usual blazer/cardigan and skirt ensemble, to which almost everyone else adheres. But one of the assistants - Sophia - puts all of us to shame. She's Greek, which must account for it, but, well, she's the epitome of Southern European voluptuousness. The thing is, Sophia enters a room and suddenly it feels like a chic but every-so-slightly-shady bar in Sao Paolo. She wears tight office skirts, pointy heeled shoes, and her blouses always (ALWAYS) look like they're going to explode. It's so random! I mean, I'm obviously not remotely attracted to her, but the way she flashes her breasts around (PG readers please skip this passage) is astounding, given the environment. I feel like a total idiot, because I'm not interested in women, but her chest is just so omnipresent that I inevitably end up staring at it. Isn't that just so ridiculous?! I totally feel the way guys do when they're trying to focus on your eyes rather than anywhere else. My training sessions with her involve this absurd condition in which I alternately stare at her face and then the computer screen, focusing on anything but her chest. I don't get it. Obviously no one can say anything about it, because it really would be a touchy subject. But yesterday she purposely buttoned her shirt below her bra, as if the bra was actually intended to be on display as part of the outfit. It's not a Janet Jackson concert, people! It was a conference with the board! Maybe I really am prudish - Chris relished poking fun at me about it, but he hadn't met Sophia and her boobs. This isn't to say she's a bad person. She's warm and funny and chic. But I don't need to feel a) like a grandma in my collared shirts or b) like a 15-year-old kid ogling the female anatomy, of which, I might add, I am already an exponent. Whatever. Next week I'm unbuttoning my clothes and wearing nothing but La Perla. I refuse to be either granny or a lusty sailor. Now if I can only stop blushing, I can put this plan into action.

I think I'm warming up to New Jersey. I say this because everyday on my drive to work a giant frappuccino dances at the side of the road and waves to me. Sometimes, during these occasional flashes of something so natural and yet so extraordinary, I feel charmed by life. Plus today I saw these baby green leaves clutching the stone walls on a building, and some deep well-spring of gladness bubbled over inside me.

I will miss you, mr. dancing frappuccino.