Iris Has Free Time
There, I came across a cluster of NYU graduates standing in cap and
gown. They were laughing and posing for photos. Was it June again
already? Their voices echoed through the subway tunnel.
"Congratulations! Congratulations!” their parents said. And I wanted to
yell, "Don’t do it! Go back! You don’t know what it’s like!”
Whether
passed out drunk at The New Yorker where she’s interning; assigning
Cliffs Notes when hired to teach humanities at a local college; getting
banned from a fleet of Greek Island ferries while on vacation, or trying
to piece together the events of yet another puzzling blackout—"I prefer
to call them pink-outs, because I’m a girl”—Iris is never short on
misadventures. From quarter-life crisis to the shock of turning thirty,
Iris Has Free Time charts a madcap, melancholic course through that
curious age—one’s twenties—when childhood is over, supposedly.
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