Took a shower today...
Okay I know that for most of you, this is hardly earth-shaking, something that most of you perform once or in some cases, multiple times daily.
I used to be that way, until unemployment...
Lately, I've been rationalizing that 1.why do I need the bother of a shower when I'm not going anywhere 2. on the really bad days whether or not a bum such as myself deserves the consolation of hot water and fragrant soap.
Then today I got a 'whiff of myself. Heretofore, I believed that my natural scent was an amalgam of daisies, freesias, chamomile, and bergamot with a slight undertone of chocolate almond. It makes sense, being that these are all my favorite flavors and 'tastes'.
It's not.
It's, well...let's just say, it's not...good.
After finally ditching my paint spattered 'lounging trousers' decrepit t-shirt and my ever-faithful Liz Claiborne, 'Spa' Robe, I had that moment when you are pulling your shirt over your head and are trapped for seconds in your own personal, shall we say...air...
And all of the sudden, it occurred to me why the cats weren't killing themselves to come over and jump in my lap anymore...where the bad scent I assumed was coming from some grapefruit that had passed their sell by date some weeks ago originated.
It's hard being unemployed...you can try to put whatever positive spin you want on it, it's hard...
It all starts out novel and new and you tell yourself this is just temporary. Then the reality sinks in and it's like the moment in Mr. Mom when Michael Keaton's character Jack Butler has grown corpulent, stopped shaving and is addicted to the Young and the Restless. In my case, it's the bathrobe, scummy t-shirt and binge watching 'Melissa and Joey' on Netflix.
I hit an all-time low the other day, reading that the ABC Family Channel had cancelled the show, I teared up and fired off an angry email to the network.
I've read all of the support literature, countless '9 Tips for Surviving Unemployment'. I know that I'm supposed to be staying positive, not taking all the rejection personally, finding something or someone to invest in. I've read the how-to books, I've revised my resume about 19 times.
I've deleted my Facebook presence so I won't obsess about others' being happy and getting promotions, etc. I've thrown everything into my LinkedIn profile and now obsess about how many times my profile has been viewed.
I guess part of me is still bewildered...the part of me that thinks I never chose unemployment and I didn't quit...so what I am I doing here in my bathrobe?
I guess some days taking a shower and raising my glass to Jack Butler are the best I can do ,
"Yeah. 220, 221 whatever it takes..."
"I understand that you little guys start out with your woobies and you think they're great...and they are, they are terrific. But pretty soon, a woobie isn't enough. You're out on the street trying to score an electric blanket or maybe a quilt. And the next thing you know, you're strung out on bedspreads Ken. That's serious."
Here's to ditching woobies and bathrobes and doing whatever it takes...
Friday, March 13, 2015
Monday, February 9, 2015
Non-Company that I Worked For But Was Never Really One Of Them...Or What I Learned and How I Learned It
So fast forward...hello 2015.
I missed the beginning of 2015 and most of 2014...
No I wasn't in a coma or anything, but I might as well have been.
Nearly three weeks ago, on a Thursday, I was called to my manager's office to as he put it, "Discuss a few things".
I grab my steno and a pen, dismiss the faint feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach and I walk to his office. As I enter, I see my manager seated at his desk and then as I open the door wider, I see the Sr. HR Rep. In later appraisals of the moment, two scenes from movies come to mind, in Empire Strikes Back, when Han Solo, Leia, Chewy and gang are on Cloud City and invited to break bread with Lando Calrissian and Co, the door swings wide, then you hear the ominous low breaths of James Earl Jones as Vader welcomes them into the dining room with a malevolent hiss, "Please join me". The second being in Jurassic Park, when the velociraptors put their heads around the door, in a 'didn't expect to see us, did you?' pose.
I see an envelope on the desk, it's for me...my 'separation papers'.
I feel just like a wife who is being served divorce papers for the termination of a marriage she didn't even know was in trouble until that moment. Laid off...economic circumstances you understand, corporate restructuring, you are uninstalled, downsized, no longer an acceptable risk...you are out.
So the gist of all of this is, I am once again, unemployed...
It was hard for me to type this out, seeing it in black and white on the page makes it seem so final.
It does however, make all of the resumes sent, the interview clothes purchased and the hairdresser visit seem more worthwhile.
Fast forward to last Monday and I am headed out the door when my phone beeps to let me know I have a message. It's from a former co-worker. At first, I figure it is just another person reaching out, another "Hey man, sucks to be you, keep in touch, k,", both of us knowing all along that it is lip service and that neither of us will really be...in touch.
It's not...
What is on my phone, is a message telling me that a former co-worker is well...no other way to put it...dead.
I find myself thinking...
This time last month, this co-worker (let's call him Greg)Greg and I were having daily discussions about the training of a temp. Less than a month later, I no longer work there and he is...gone.
Really gone.
It doesn't seem possible...doesn't compute, add up, make sense...incomprehensible. My mind won't accept it.
Greg was 52 when he died and apparently he was alone when it happened. No one knew he was gone until he quit answering his cell phone and someone went to investigate. A coronary, no one there to dial 911, to talk to him...to hold his hand, to tell him he was cared about...loved.
I kept wondering, hoping that at least, in his last moments he called out to God and He, as he promised he would, sent an angel to take him the final steps...
"Leave it to Me, I'll lead you Home".
I spent the last 2 years or so living as if already dead. I went everyday to a job and I worked, and I worked and I took the work home with me, both literally and figuratively. I ate, slept, breathed and dreamt about it. I fought anxiety, anger, and depression constantly. Every morning as I drove myself to work, I would cry and beg God not to let me fail. I never prayed for joy or peace or happiness.
I prayed and prayed and I begged God, "All I have is this job, okay, All I am IS this job. Don't let me fail, let me be good at it, let me be the best at it. Please let them want me, please let them accept me, then I'd say again as if God forgot, PLEASE DON'T LET ME FAIL" .
I sat in my therapist's office week after week crying to the point I couldn't form words, could barely breathe. When I could, I'd laugh through tears about my job, that I loved so much I had to go to therapy every week.
I craved success and monetary rewards like a drug. One of the wake up calls is a moment of clarity I had when I told my therapist that the only joy I derived from my work was checking my bank account.
Saturday morning came, I woke, did my hair, spent time doing my nails and makeup. I put on my best Sunday go to meeting clothes and I went to Greg's memorial. As I was entering the church, I saw a few former managers and I heard a familiar voice call my name, "Hi Jill, how're you doing?", and it was if I were passing them in the hall on a Monday morning, as if nothing had ever happened. I was astounded,
"Really, you're going to ask me, how am I doing when you know damn well that you let me go quicker than it takes me to send an email...as if I were a smelly old cat that you were putting down?"
Then a light went on and I realized that for them, this is how they have to be, to make it in a corporate world, you have to divorce yourself from pesky emotions, like compassion, empathy, caring.
I ponder, how much longer would it have taken me to get that numb, that dead inside?
Later in the memorial, people reminisced about Greg.
But not about his work...
About how much he loved baseball, coaching, his son...how passionate he was about both these things. The church altar was literally filled with photos of him in baseball uniforms, and with his son.
I realized that I had nothing like that. No passion...that I been living as dead for years now.
I wonder how much of Greg's coronary was the result of life at Non Company, did he too experience the anxiety, depression, sadness...anger?
I don't want to be dead at 52.
And so, I thank God today that he loved me enough to let me fail.
To fail, so I that I might finally really live.
I missed the beginning of 2015 and most of 2014...
No I wasn't in a coma or anything, but I might as well have been.
Nearly three weeks ago, on a Thursday, I was called to my manager's office to as he put it, "Discuss a few things".
I grab my steno and a pen, dismiss the faint feeling of unease in the pit of my stomach and I walk to his office. As I enter, I see my manager seated at his desk and then as I open the door wider, I see the Sr. HR Rep. In later appraisals of the moment, two scenes from movies come to mind, in Empire Strikes Back, when Han Solo, Leia, Chewy and gang are on Cloud City and invited to break bread with Lando Calrissian and Co, the door swings wide, then you hear the ominous low breaths of James Earl Jones as Vader welcomes them into the dining room with a malevolent hiss, "Please join me". The second being in Jurassic Park, when the velociraptors put their heads around the door, in a 'didn't expect to see us, did you?' pose.
I see an envelope on the desk, it's for me...my 'separation papers'.
I feel just like a wife who is being served divorce papers for the termination of a marriage she didn't even know was in trouble until that moment. Laid off...economic circumstances you understand, corporate restructuring, you are uninstalled, downsized, no longer an acceptable risk...you are out.
So the gist of all of this is, I am once again, unemployed...
It was hard for me to type this out, seeing it in black and white on the page makes it seem so final.
It does however, make all of the resumes sent, the interview clothes purchased and the hairdresser visit seem more worthwhile.
Fast forward to last Monday and I am headed out the door when my phone beeps to let me know I have a message. It's from a former co-worker. At first, I figure it is just another person reaching out, another "Hey man, sucks to be you, keep in touch, k,", both of us knowing all along that it is lip service and that neither of us will really be...in touch.
It's not...
What is on my phone, is a message telling me that a former co-worker is well...no other way to put it...dead.
I find myself thinking...
This time last month, this co-worker (let's call him Greg)Greg and I were having daily discussions about the training of a temp. Less than a month later, I no longer work there and he is...gone.
Really gone.
It doesn't seem possible...doesn't compute, add up, make sense...incomprehensible. My mind won't accept it.
Greg was 52 when he died and apparently he was alone when it happened. No one knew he was gone until he quit answering his cell phone and someone went to investigate. A coronary, no one there to dial 911, to talk to him...to hold his hand, to tell him he was cared about...loved.
I kept wondering, hoping that at least, in his last moments he called out to God and He, as he promised he would, sent an angel to take him the final steps...
"Leave it to Me, I'll lead you Home".
I spent the last 2 years or so living as if already dead. I went everyday to a job and I worked, and I worked and I took the work home with me, both literally and figuratively. I ate, slept, breathed and dreamt about it. I fought anxiety, anger, and depression constantly. Every morning as I drove myself to work, I would cry and beg God not to let me fail. I never prayed for joy or peace or happiness.
I prayed and prayed and I begged God, "All I have is this job, okay, All I am IS this job. Don't let me fail, let me be good at it, let me be the best at it. Please let them want me, please let them accept me, then I'd say again as if God forgot, PLEASE DON'T LET ME FAIL" .
I sat in my therapist's office week after week crying to the point I couldn't form words, could barely breathe. When I could, I'd laugh through tears about my job, that I loved so much I had to go to therapy every week.
I craved success and monetary rewards like a drug. One of the wake up calls is a moment of clarity I had when I told my therapist that the only joy I derived from my work was checking my bank account.
Saturday morning came, I woke, did my hair, spent time doing my nails and makeup. I put on my best Sunday go to meeting clothes and I went to Greg's memorial. As I was entering the church, I saw a few former managers and I heard a familiar voice call my name, "Hi Jill, how're you doing?", and it was if I were passing them in the hall on a Monday morning, as if nothing had ever happened. I was astounded,
"Really, you're going to ask me, how am I doing when you know damn well that you let me go quicker than it takes me to send an email...as if I were a smelly old cat that you were putting down?"
Then a light went on and I realized that for them, this is how they have to be, to make it in a corporate world, you have to divorce yourself from pesky emotions, like compassion, empathy, caring.
I ponder, how much longer would it have taken me to get that numb, that dead inside?
Later in the memorial, people reminisced about Greg.
But not about his work...
About how much he loved baseball, coaching, his son...how passionate he was about both these things. The church altar was literally filled with photos of him in baseball uniforms, and with his son.
I realized that I had nothing like that. No passion...that I been living as dead for years now.
I wonder how much of Greg's coronary was the result of life at Non Company, did he too experience the anxiety, depression, sadness...anger?
I don't want to be dead at 52.
And so, I thank God today that he loved me enough to let me fail.
To fail, so I that I might finally really live.
Sunday, November 9, 2014
Dancing with Tears In My Eyes
I haven't been here in quite awhile and actually this time it's been a deliberate thing.
You really wouldn't have wanted to hear what I had to say...
I've been fighting a boulder size case of depression. The real scary kind. The kind that gets you a standing with a therapist every week. The kind that gets you a new pill to pop. The kind that you fight every morning just to get out of bed and get moving.
I couldn't tell you what led to it. There were signs, yes. Trying to buy a new car last spring and sobbing when the salesman was less than kind about my trade in, the terrible pain of turning 40 with no spouse or children, the constant deaths or cancer diagnoses in my family and friends. Upheaval at work, losing my greatly respected manager, a verbally abusive co-worker and a second admin who seems to constantly undermine me. It all just took its toll.
And in the midst of these things, I began to cry a great deal, weeping and sobbing and found myself unable to stop.
I've started rethinking the act of crying. There is a lot of it in depression. Sometimes it comes out when you don't want it to. At work is a problem, and in the company of others. I sought treatment for depression more for the prevention of embarrassment due to tears than anything else. I hated them, they ran makeup, they made my nose red and my eyes swell. I felt that they made me appear weak when I wanted to be strong. I worked and strove and damped down feelings for years trying to keep them at bay. But come they would. It's as if all of the tears and pain that I pushed down and held back for years came gushing forth like a dam breaking it's wall. They and I could be held in no longer.
Boom...depression. Tears and more tears. A monsoon after years of drought. Years of telling myself, "I can handle this."
"I am fine."
"I don't even want children, plenty of people live fulfilled lives without them"
I break down and then I work at therapy. I fight and I fight to just hit the top edge of happiness before falling back down. Sometimes it even happens.
A few weeks ago, I travel for the first time in my life to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Anxiety and panic have kept me from making this trip for years and years. I am 40 and I catch my first glance of the mountains. Hear a wail emanate from somewhere deep inside of myself and then I can't stop them, the tears, rivers of them. The first sight of this majestic mountain range has me sobbing like a child. My companion asks, 'Am I okay', and I laugh while sobbing,
"I never thought I'd get here."
"I never dreamt they were this beautiful...they really look blue...."
On and on I babble, for once the tears are present, but they are a manifestation that something... something good and joyful is happening within me. All of the cares and worries of my life seem to diminish, to melt away in the face of God's awesome creation.
Then last week, the night before the election. I am anxious and uneasy, I am ridden with worry about the country, things like ISIS, Ebola, my company has just announced a 25% reduction in the workforce. Did I make the right decisions, did I do enough? What is enough?
I stand in front of my bureau. I don't know what prompts me...I start to march in place, it feels good, I try one rhumba step, I try a cha-cha step and the next thing I know I am dancing. I am moving my hips, the muscle memory of 'Cuban motion', it comes back, it just feels so good. I am dancing the cha cha, the rhumba, east coast swing, west coast swing, some tango hustle, the cupid shuffle, the merengue, salsa steps. Oh I'm teary, but I'm dancing. Dancing with tears in my eyes...It's 30-40 minutes before I stop and later when I lay down, the worries that have beset me, they are nowhere to be found...I close my eyes and drift into sleep.
You really wouldn't have wanted to hear what I had to say...
I've been fighting a boulder size case of depression. The real scary kind. The kind that gets you a standing with a therapist every week. The kind that gets you a new pill to pop. The kind that you fight every morning just to get out of bed and get moving.
I couldn't tell you what led to it. There were signs, yes. Trying to buy a new car last spring and sobbing when the salesman was less than kind about my trade in, the terrible pain of turning 40 with no spouse or children, the constant deaths or cancer diagnoses in my family and friends. Upheaval at work, losing my greatly respected manager, a verbally abusive co-worker and a second admin who seems to constantly undermine me. It all just took its toll.
And in the midst of these things, I began to cry a great deal, weeping and sobbing and found myself unable to stop.
I've started rethinking the act of crying. There is a lot of it in depression. Sometimes it comes out when you don't want it to. At work is a problem, and in the company of others. I sought treatment for depression more for the prevention of embarrassment due to tears than anything else. I hated them, they ran makeup, they made my nose red and my eyes swell. I felt that they made me appear weak when I wanted to be strong. I worked and strove and damped down feelings for years trying to keep them at bay. But come they would. It's as if all of the tears and pain that I pushed down and held back for years came gushing forth like a dam breaking it's wall. They and I could be held in no longer.
Boom...depression. Tears and more tears. A monsoon after years of drought. Years of telling myself, "I can handle this."
"I am fine."
"I don't even want children, plenty of people live fulfilled lives without them"
I break down and then I work at therapy. I fight and I fight to just hit the top edge of happiness before falling back down. Sometimes it even happens.
A few weeks ago, I travel for the first time in my life to the Blue Ridge Mountains. Anxiety and panic have kept me from making this trip for years and years. I am 40 and I catch my first glance of the mountains. Hear a wail emanate from somewhere deep inside of myself and then I can't stop them, the tears, rivers of them. The first sight of this majestic mountain range has me sobbing like a child. My companion asks, 'Am I okay', and I laugh while sobbing,
"I never thought I'd get here."
"I never dreamt they were this beautiful...they really look blue...."
On and on I babble, for once the tears are present, but they are a manifestation that something... something good and joyful is happening within me. All of the cares and worries of my life seem to diminish, to melt away in the face of God's awesome creation.
Then last week, the night before the election. I am anxious and uneasy, I am ridden with worry about the country, things like ISIS, Ebola, my company has just announced a 25% reduction in the workforce. Did I make the right decisions, did I do enough? What is enough?
I stand in front of my bureau. I don't know what prompts me...I start to march in place, it feels good, I try one rhumba step, I try a cha-cha step and the next thing I know I am dancing. I am moving my hips, the muscle memory of 'Cuban motion', it comes back, it just feels so good. I am dancing the cha cha, the rhumba, east coast swing, west coast swing, some tango hustle, the cupid shuffle, the merengue, salsa steps. Oh I'm teary, but I'm dancing. Dancing with tears in my eyes...It's 30-40 minutes before I stop and later when I lay down, the worries that have beset me, they are nowhere to be found...I close my eyes and drift into sleep.
Friday, June 27, 2014
If Wishes Were Horses...
Right now I am supposed to be doing math homework. Right now I could be bowling a few and pounding some jello shots with my co-workers. Right now I could be binge watching the Walking Dead on Netflix. Right now though, all I really want to do is be inspired...
I miss writing. I miss having the time, the grey matter, the passion.
The inner critic in me says, 'Sheesh, you're difficult to deal with, first you began writing this as a whine-a-thon because you were unemployed and hopeless. Now you're gainfully employed and you are still whining...'
If C.S. Lewis is right and "We read to know that we are not alone", than maybe I write to know that I am still me and plugged into my thoughts. That I am not just the sum total of my job and my struggles with equations and integers, my journey through depression and therapy.
I am coming up on my 40th birthday and I think I've been dreading this day since I was about 13 and realized that one day I'll be 40. I think 40 is the yardstick by which I equally measure and beat myself with over my life.
My parent asked me the other day, noting it was a milestone birthday, what did I want for my birthday? They meant what trinket, what book, piece of jewelry, token of esteem did I want.
When I really pondered the question I realized what I really want can't be bought in any mall.
1. I want it to be 1980 again and to go once more to Farrell's Ice Cream Parlor in the mall with my Grandma and Grandpa G. But this time, I wouldn't care about the ice cream or having my name sounded over the loudspeaker and hear the siren and drum fanfare. I'd look deeply at the faces of my grandparents memorizing every line and wrinkle so I wouldn't forget. I'd hug em' tighter, listen more avidly, and savor every last second. Why youth is wasted on the young who can't possibly appreciate the moments for what they are is beyond my ken.
2. I'd like to be in love with someone who loved me back. For once to look in the face of someone whose face was as radiant with the promise of forever as mine. Someone who'd walk with me in the rain and not care, who'd be as overcome by Beethoven's Fifth, Schubert's Ave Maria, and Handels' Messiah, who'd thrill to the poetry of John Donne, Sonnets From The Portuguese and laugh at Shel Silverstein and Erma Bombeck. Someone who'd be just as happy eating a few M & M's on a park bench or sharing a glass a wine and a plate of spaghetti in each other's company than at the finest restaurant.
3. For more time. I'd like a few extra hours. Maybe a 26 hour day. So I wouldn't always be so behind. Maybe for once I'd catch up or actually cross off a few things off my To-Do list at work that always taunts me.
4. To press the re-set button on a few relationships. Maybe like a computer system restore, I could go back in time before all the viruses and junk corrupted things. So I'd be closer to my sister, my best friend from childhood, a few friends from various jobs who I didn't really value enough at the time to work on preserving the friendships.
5. Go to see Duran Duran and U2 in concert. I never have and as a Gen X'er, I think this is the equivalent of a Baby Boomer who never got to Woodstock like he wanted to.
6. I'd like to make it all the way through War and Peace, just so I could say I read it. Kind of like Sarum, by Edward Rutherford. I read the whole damn thing, I can't remember a thing about it, but I like saying that I read it!
7. I always wanted to get my picture taken with Mickey Mouse. I never have and as a devout Floridian, that's akin to blasphemy.
8. I want to travel to Maine, Alaska and Nova Scotia. To take the train through the Hudson River Valley. Come to think of it, I just want to travel somewhere on a train, period. It might be that I have watched too many movies from the 30s-40's, but to me train travel always seems romantic.
9. For time travel to be possible. I think I might be happier in less modern times. Plus I always wished to see Art Deco when it was really real, not just in movies, maybe I could meet my screen idols, William Powell, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Clark Gable, Greta Garbo, Myrna Loy, Jean Harlow, Carole Lombard, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Jean Arthur, and Barbara Stanwyck.
10. To have the time to really pursue my passions, to become a better writer. To spend more time on Ballroom Dancing, maybe actually compete.
If wishes were horses...this is how I'd ride.
I miss writing. I miss having the time, the grey matter, the passion.
The inner critic in me says, 'Sheesh, you're difficult to deal with, first you began writing this as a whine-a-thon because you were unemployed and hopeless. Now you're gainfully employed and you are still whining...'
If C.S. Lewis is right and "We read to know that we are not alone", than maybe I write to know that I am still me and plugged into my thoughts. That I am not just the sum total of my job and my struggles with equations and integers, my journey through depression and therapy.
I am coming up on my 40th birthday and I think I've been dreading this day since I was about 13 and realized that one day I'll be 40. I think 40 is the yardstick by which I equally measure and beat myself with over my life.
My parent asked me the other day, noting it was a milestone birthday, what did I want for my birthday? They meant what trinket, what book, piece of jewelry, token of esteem did I want.
When I really pondered the question I realized what I really want can't be bought in any mall.
1. I want it to be 1980 again and to go once more to Farrell's Ice Cream Parlor in the mall with my Grandma and Grandpa G. But this time, I wouldn't care about the ice cream or having my name sounded over the loudspeaker and hear the siren and drum fanfare. I'd look deeply at the faces of my grandparents memorizing every line and wrinkle so I wouldn't forget. I'd hug em' tighter, listen more avidly, and savor every last second. Why youth is wasted on the young who can't possibly appreciate the moments for what they are is beyond my ken.
2. I'd like to be in love with someone who loved me back. For once to look in the face of someone whose face was as radiant with the promise of forever as mine. Someone who'd walk with me in the rain and not care, who'd be as overcome by Beethoven's Fifth, Schubert's Ave Maria, and Handels' Messiah, who'd thrill to the poetry of John Donne, Sonnets From The Portuguese and laugh at Shel Silverstein and Erma Bombeck. Someone who'd be just as happy eating a few M & M's on a park bench or sharing a glass a wine and a plate of spaghetti in each other's company than at the finest restaurant.
3. For more time. I'd like a few extra hours. Maybe a 26 hour day. So I wouldn't always be so behind. Maybe for once I'd catch up or actually cross off a few things off my To-Do list at work that always taunts me.
4. To press the re-set button on a few relationships. Maybe like a computer system restore, I could go back in time before all the viruses and junk corrupted things. So I'd be closer to my sister, my best friend from childhood, a few friends from various jobs who I didn't really value enough at the time to work on preserving the friendships.
5. Go to see Duran Duran and U2 in concert. I never have and as a Gen X'er, I think this is the equivalent of a Baby Boomer who never got to Woodstock like he wanted to.
6. I'd like to make it all the way through War and Peace, just so I could say I read it. Kind of like Sarum, by Edward Rutherford. I read the whole damn thing, I can't remember a thing about it, but I like saying that I read it!
7. I always wanted to get my picture taken with Mickey Mouse. I never have and as a devout Floridian, that's akin to blasphemy.
8. I want to travel to Maine, Alaska and Nova Scotia. To take the train through the Hudson River Valley. Come to think of it, I just want to travel somewhere on a train, period. It might be that I have watched too many movies from the 30s-40's, but to me train travel always seems romantic.
9. For time travel to be possible. I think I might be happier in less modern times. Plus I always wished to see Art Deco when it was really real, not just in movies, maybe I could meet my screen idols, William Powell, Cary Grant, Jimmy Stewart, Clark Gable, Greta Garbo, Myrna Loy, Jean Harlow, Carole Lombard, Humphrey Bogart, Lauren Bacall, Jean Arthur, and Barbara Stanwyck.
10. To have the time to really pursue my passions, to become a better writer. To spend more time on Ballroom Dancing, maybe actually compete.
If wishes were horses...this is how I'd ride.
Monday, June 2, 2014
Maybe Ephiphanies Are A Bit Over-Rated
Have to make a confession here, I'm usually only inspired to write this thing when I am down or depressed or currently, using it as a crutch to prop myself up while I rationalize things.
For anyone reading my last post, I apologize if you did. I probably should have done the ladylike thing and delete it, but the subversive in me rears up and says, "Hey, while the post had a depressing overall tone, everything in it was true and honest!"
I'm depressed.
It's hard for me to admit things like this even to myself. Part of me wants to conceal that fact with the determinedly saccharine-coated positivity of one of the Disney princesses, "Whistle a Happy Tune"...while surrounded by a bevy of my helpful furry friends. But all apologies to Disney (I'm a big fan), that doesn't work in real life.
As is my wont, a few weeks ago, I had another couple of epiphanies. One was the moment I found myself in a beginners' college math class (trying to finish what I started) and realized that I was older than everyone else in the room including the Professor. Things have changed since I last walked the campus. My classes take place in a building that didn't exist back then. I now walk to my car along a
sophisticated lighted breezeway that has landscaping facing a pond with a fountain water feature that glows with colored lights. It's a far cry from the dank dusky halls where bats literally roosted in the eves and people hung over the balconies getting in one last drag off a cigarette (not me) before classes resumed. Not anymore. Now if you light up anywhere but sanctioned 'smoking permitted' areas, campus police in their Keystone Kops-esque vehicles swarm over you like hungry dieters over the last jelly doughnut. The place is scattered liberally with recycling receptacles and where vending machines used to dispense nearly undrinkable coffee, tea, hot choc and soup (all of which tasted like coffee) now they have an eco friendly café that hawks veggie paninis and fair-trade coffee.
How much would you hate me if I admitted I liked it the way it was? Before it became all sustainability conscious, when the library actually contained books instead of banks of computers. Yes, they have approximately 20 rows of shelves (I counted them), two (2) of which are full of DVD and CD's. But it's a far cry from the nearly eighty (80) they used to have and most of the books that are left are nearly anthropological relics of the 70's and 80's. No more stacks, no more microfiche. No more senior citizen 'library ladies', just volunteers who are all younger than me and can never help me with anything I actually want, like a copy of Thackeray's 'Vanity Fair'. My God, when did we quit reading or teaching the youth about literary classics? I'm just a sad relic who doesn't really want to read the latest installment of The Hunger Games or the newest fad book about vampires or the undead on my Kindle.
I'm depressed. I'm about six (6)weeks from my 40th birthday and when it was suggested that perhaps a party should be gotten up in my honor, I had to decline citing no friends to attend it. Or spouse, or children.
Forty. A sad woman who struggles with math, spends what would be a small fortune in a third world country on beauty aids and salon visits to halt the signs of aging, concealers under my eyes, highlights in my hair. I'm hating it and it isn't even here.
I'm depressed. I'm about to lose the best boss I ever had, the re-doubtable O'Malley. I work in a department that prefers my younger assistant temp to me. Who left me off the invite list for a co-worker's surprise birthday party. Who they never ask to lunch. I keep wondering what I did to inspire such treatment.
Every day I wake up and the only thing that motivates me to get moving to my job is the fear of poverty and unemployment.
I'm depressed, I guess I can finally admit it.
I am hoping that the catharsis of writing this will enable me to face it.
That this will lead me to the solution.
I am tired of saying I am depressed...I'm tired
I'm tired of pretty much everything, except God, my cats, 80's music and old movies...
Maybe that's enough to start with...
For anyone reading my last post, I apologize if you did. I probably should have done the ladylike thing and delete it, but the subversive in me rears up and says, "Hey, while the post had a depressing overall tone, everything in it was true and honest!"
I'm depressed.
It's hard for me to admit things like this even to myself. Part of me wants to conceal that fact with the determinedly saccharine-coated positivity of one of the Disney princesses, "Whistle a Happy Tune"...while surrounded by a bevy of my helpful furry friends. But all apologies to Disney (I'm a big fan), that doesn't work in real life.
As is my wont, a few weeks ago, I had another couple of epiphanies. One was the moment I found myself in a beginners' college math class (trying to finish what I started) and realized that I was older than everyone else in the room including the Professor. Things have changed since I last walked the campus. My classes take place in a building that didn't exist back then. I now walk to my car along a
sophisticated lighted breezeway that has landscaping facing a pond with a fountain water feature that glows with colored lights. It's a far cry from the dank dusky halls where bats literally roosted in the eves and people hung over the balconies getting in one last drag off a cigarette (not me) before classes resumed. Not anymore. Now if you light up anywhere but sanctioned 'smoking permitted' areas, campus police in their Keystone Kops-esque vehicles swarm over you like hungry dieters over the last jelly doughnut. The place is scattered liberally with recycling receptacles and where vending machines used to dispense nearly undrinkable coffee, tea, hot choc and soup (all of which tasted like coffee) now they have an eco friendly café that hawks veggie paninis and fair-trade coffee.
How much would you hate me if I admitted I liked it the way it was? Before it became all sustainability conscious, when the library actually contained books instead of banks of computers. Yes, they have approximately 20 rows of shelves (I counted them), two (2) of which are full of DVD and CD's. But it's a far cry from the nearly eighty (80) they used to have and most of the books that are left are nearly anthropological relics of the 70's and 80's. No more stacks, no more microfiche. No more senior citizen 'library ladies', just volunteers who are all younger than me and can never help me with anything I actually want, like a copy of Thackeray's 'Vanity Fair'. My God, when did we quit reading or teaching the youth about literary classics? I'm just a sad relic who doesn't really want to read the latest installment of The Hunger Games or the newest fad book about vampires or the undead on my Kindle.
I'm depressed. I'm about six (6)weeks from my 40th birthday and when it was suggested that perhaps a party should be gotten up in my honor, I had to decline citing no friends to attend it. Or spouse, or children.
Forty. A sad woman who struggles with math, spends what would be a small fortune in a third world country on beauty aids and salon visits to halt the signs of aging, concealers under my eyes, highlights in my hair. I'm hating it and it isn't even here.
I'm depressed. I'm about to lose the best boss I ever had, the re-doubtable O'Malley. I work in a department that prefers my younger assistant temp to me. Who left me off the invite list for a co-worker's surprise birthday party. Who they never ask to lunch. I keep wondering what I did to inspire such treatment.
Every day I wake up and the only thing that motivates me to get moving to my job is the fear of poverty and unemployment.
I'm depressed, I guess I can finally admit it.
I am hoping that the catharsis of writing this will enable me to face it.
That this will lead me to the solution.
I am tired of saying I am depressed...I'm tired
I'm tired of pretty much everything, except God, my cats, 80's music and old movies...
Maybe that's enough to start with...
Friday, March 21, 2014
Progeny Challenged
Sometimes in life, it's better to take the easy way out.
I can't tell one of my family members something hard to say, so I thought I'd explain it away in my blog. Here in this world, I am safe, no stammering, no searching for words, a place where I can't hear the judgement in their voice on the other end of the phone.
This whole thing started pretty innocently, a random cell phone call. Even though, I was at work, I picked up the phone. I was issued an invitation. An invitation to a child's birthday party. Truth be told, it was a bit of a second-hand invite, but an invite it was nevertheless.
And before I could stop them, the words were out of my mouth, "Thanks, but I'd rather be hung from the neck than attend a kid birthday party". Even as I write them, inside I'm cringing. Why do I have to be so curt, so unfeeling, so macabre? Gallows-humor and a child's birthday party make strange bedfellows. Surely, I could have found a more graceful way of saying it.
Here's the thing... the statement isn't true.
No, not the whole being hung thing and equating that with attending a birthday party which goes without saying...
It isn't true because in some ways I want nothing more than to be there, being on of 'those people', the 'normal' ones all pumped up about gorging on cake and playing in bounce houses. Cooing about the birthday(ee)," look how cute he/she is.. my how they've grown..!"
But things like that died along time ago in my world. I avoid children, purporting to be a misopedist of sorts. I avoid anything that reminds me of my own perceived failure, my pain.
For in my mind, a failure I am. In society's eyes I am. Do you know how many articles there are about the 'selfishness' of couples and of women in particular, who don't have children?
I do.
In a rare moment of 'sharing' at work when I attempted to explain the hollowness of life without children, I was lectured for being inherently selfish and counseled to consider artificial insemination or adoption. When I objected on the grounds that I didn't feel up to raising a child on my own as a single woman, that I would prefer to be married, I was curtly advised that fact alone served as proof of my 'selfishness'.
Despite being a devout believer, I avoid churches. You see churches are chock full of happy mommies and daddies. More pain= more failure. When you go to church as a single, you are immediately slotted as such 'A Single' (it's a miracle they don't print that on your visitor badge or make you wear an identifying button). Labeled as such, you are encouraged to go to 'Singles' events in the hope that you can meet a compatible 'Single'. Then in the fullness of time, dating, etc. you can upgrade to the 'Engaged Couples' class, where upon marriage you ratchet up to the 'New Marrieds' class and then eventually migrate into the general congregation of happy families who queue up to pick up their kids in Sunday School. I often wonder what churches make of a malcontent like the Apostle Paul, who advised against marrying unless you 'burned', rationalizing that being free from the duties of marriage and children left you with more time for communion and fellowship with God.
I'd almost suggest that someone somewhere come up with a church denomination that caters to singles...I can almost see the book, the T-shirt, the new phenomenon being touted on late night infomercials, forget Jabez' prayer, or the Purpose-driven life, now it's SCC's (single Christian churches). Of course, the next thing you know, the ACLU would be down all over it, calling it discrimination against the happy families. I am picturing the Fox News coverage, the debates, the infighting, O'Reilly weighing in. Jimmy Fallon mocking it on Late Night TV...ugh...
So, in the end, that's why I can't go to the birthday party. I can't stand the failure, the lack of spouse, the lack of progeny. It's why I hug the cats extra tight, run to the vet every time they sneeze twice, why I hate Valentine's Day, why I have nothing to post on Facebook, and it's why I am going to stop explaining.
I hope that now you understand.
I can't tell one of my family members something hard to say, so I thought I'd explain it away in my blog. Here in this world, I am safe, no stammering, no searching for words, a place where I can't hear the judgement in their voice on the other end of the phone.
This whole thing started pretty innocently, a random cell phone call. Even though, I was at work, I picked up the phone. I was issued an invitation. An invitation to a child's birthday party. Truth be told, it was a bit of a second-hand invite, but an invite it was nevertheless.
And before I could stop them, the words were out of my mouth, "Thanks, but I'd rather be hung from the neck than attend a kid birthday party". Even as I write them, inside I'm cringing. Why do I have to be so curt, so unfeeling, so macabre? Gallows-humor and a child's birthday party make strange bedfellows. Surely, I could have found a more graceful way of saying it.
Here's the thing... the statement isn't true.
No, not the whole being hung thing and equating that with attending a birthday party which goes without saying...
It isn't true because in some ways I want nothing more than to be there, being on of 'those people', the 'normal' ones all pumped up about gorging on cake and playing in bounce houses. Cooing about the birthday(ee)," look how cute he/she is.. my how they've grown..!"
But things like that died along time ago in my world. I avoid children, purporting to be a misopedist of sorts. I avoid anything that reminds me of my own perceived failure, my pain.
For in my mind, a failure I am. In society's eyes I am. Do you know how many articles there are about the 'selfishness' of couples and of women in particular, who don't have children?
I do.
In a rare moment of 'sharing' at work when I attempted to explain the hollowness of life without children, I was lectured for being inherently selfish and counseled to consider artificial insemination or adoption. When I objected on the grounds that I didn't feel up to raising a child on my own as a single woman, that I would prefer to be married, I was curtly advised that fact alone served as proof of my 'selfishness'.
Despite being a devout believer, I avoid churches. You see churches are chock full of happy mommies and daddies. More pain= more failure. When you go to church as a single, you are immediately slotted as such 'A Single' (it's a miracle they don't print that on your visitor badge or make you wear an identifying button). Labeled as such, you are encouraged to go to 'Singles' events in the hope that you can meet a compatible 'Single'. Then in the fullness of time, dating, etc. you can upgrade to the 'Engaged Couples' class, where upon marriage you ratchet up to the 'New Marrieds' class and then eventually migrate into the general congregation of happy families who queue up to pick up their kids in Sunday School. I often wonder what churches make of a malcontent like the Apostle Paul, who advised against marrying unless you 'burned', rationalizing that being free from the duties of marriage and children left you with more time for communion and fellowship with God.
I'd almost suggest that someone somewhere come up with a church denomination that caters to singles...I can almost see the book, the T-shirt, the new phenomenon being touted on late night infomercials, forget Jabez' prayer, or the Purpose-driven life, now it's SCC's (single Christian churches). Of course, the next thing you know, the ACLU would be down all over it, calling it discrimination against the happy families. I am picturing the Fox News coverage, the debates, the infighting, O'Reilly weighing in. Jimmy Fallon mocking it on Late Night TV...ugh...
So, in the end, that's why I can't go to the birthday party. I can't stand the failure, the lack of spouse, the lack of progeny. It's why I hug the cats extra tight, run to the vet every time they sneeze twice, why I hate Valentine's Day, why I have nothing to post on Facebook, and it's why I am going to stop explaining.
I hope that now you understand.
Wednesday, January 1, 2014
On New Years' Day
It may be downright un-American, it's probably contrary, and maybe even sacrilegious to admit this but I've never been a big fan of New Year's as a holiday.
To me, it's always seemed to be much ado about what is basically the act of buying a new calendar and turning to a fresh page. As Chris Farley once said in what is about my favorite comedy sketch of all time, about living in a van down by the river, "Well Whoop De Friggin' Do!"
To add insult to injury, New Years always seems to be the moment when I have to come down off my Christmas high and come back to reality with a bump. It means taking down the tree, packing away the Santa Snoopy that dances, my Nutcracker men, my favorite holly printed tablecloth, making sure the Baby Jesus and His Family are all tucked away in their special box...you get the picture.
I gave it a valiant effort last night. I stayed up, yes I occasionally 'listed' to one side of the couch and jerked awake again when I realized I was drifting. I unearthed the champagne flutes, the ones that are only used once a year and thus have to be rinsed and polished to get rid of the dust and that slight smell like cream rinse.
I endured the inane commentary of the cable news hosts who'd clearly had more than just 'a' glass of Asti Spumante.
Then came a whole segment on 'Resolutions'. And that tore it..my sore spot, the New Years' Resolution. I've always resented the whole concept of the New Year's resolution.
Amazingly though, I kept my resolution for 2013. And I completed it last night. I'd made it a goal to read the entire Bible in 2013 and in the final hours of 2013, I read the last chapter in Revelation.
It wasn't so much a resolution though, than a promise. A promise that I made to myself and to God.
And as I turned the last page, I realized that somewhere along the line, it quit being merely a resolution and it had become a habit, a way of living. A lifeline at the end of a day, a time set aside for just God and I.
There were days when I resented it, days where I admit I missed my readings completely and I would read like mad in the days that followed to make up for my lapses, days when the words were just that words on a page. I remember being angry sometimes because I thought it would be a life-changing experience and I didn't feel any different. I thought it would make me love people more, be more patient, less critical and judgmental. Hah!
If anything, I became more critical...watching the series "The Bible" on the History Channel last spring, I annoyed fellow watchers by constantly correcting the dialogue when and where they had taken certain artistic licenses, "Hey, so and so, didn't say that, actually it was...."
I remember becoming irrationally angry with the Israelites when reading the prophets in the Old Testament. Essentially, by about halfway through, I made the Pharisees look tame!
What I've actually learned most though, through this experience, in the final analysis... surprised me. The thing I most learned is... Hint: I still can't name all the prophets in order.
The answer is perseverance.
That when you fall down, get back up. That if God doesn't quit on me, "being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it" (Philippians 1:6), I shouldn't quit either on Him or on myself.
So in these days of 2014, I'll not make a resolution, but rather a promise to myself to persevere, in my job, (even on the days where nothing goes right), in my relationships, in my stewardship, in my health, and in my quest for happiness and for joy.
I wish nothing less for you as well.
To me, it's always seemed to be much ado about what is basically the act of buying a new calendar and turning to a fresh page. As Chris Farley once said in what is about my favorite comedy sketch of all time, about living in a van down by the river, "Well Whoop De Friggin' Do!"
To add insult to injury, New Years always seems to be the moment when I have to come down off my Christmas high and come back to reality with a bump. It means taking down the tree, packing away the Santa Snoopy that dances, my Nutcracker men, my favorite holly printed tablecloth, making sure the Baby Jesus and His Family are all tucked away in their special box...you get the picture.
I gave it a valiant effort last night. I stayed up, yes I occasionally 'listed' to one side of the couch and jerked awake again when I realized I was drifting. I unearthed the champagne flutes, the ones that are only used once a year and thus have to be rinsed and polished to get rid of the dust and that slight smell like cream rinse.
I endured the inane commentary of the cable news hosts who'd clearly had more than just 'a' glass of Asti Spumante.
Then came a whole segment on 'Resolutions'. And that tore it..my sore spot, the New Years' Resolution. I've always resented the whole concept of the New Year's resolution.
Amazingly though, I kept my resolution for 2013. And I completed it last night. I'd made it a goal to read the entire Bible in 2013 and in the final hours of 2013, I read the last chapter in Revelation.
It wasn't so much a resolution though, than a promise. A promise that I made to myself and to God.
And as I turned the last page, I realized that somewhere along the line, it quit being merely a resolution and it had become a habit, a way of living. A lifeline at the end of a day, a time set aside for just God and I.
There were days when I resented it, days where I admit I missed my readings completely and I would read like mad in the days that followed to make up for my lapses, days when the words were just that words on a page. I remember being angry sometimes because I thought it would be a life-changing experience and I didn't feel any different. I thought it would make me love people more, be more patient, less critical and judgmental. Hah!
If anything, I became more critical...watching the series "The Bible" on the History Channel last spring, I annoyed fellow watchers by constantly correcting the dialogue when and where they had taken certain artistic licenses, "Hey, so and so, didn't say that, actually it was...."
I remember becoming irrationally angry with the Israelites when reading the prophets in the Old Testament. Essentially, by about halfway through, I made the Pharisees look tame!
What I've actually learned most though, through this experience, in the final analysis... surprised me. The thing I most learned is... Hint: I still can't name all the prophets in order.
The answer is perseverance.
That when you fall down, get back up. That if God doesn't quit on me, "being confident of this, that He who began a good work in you will be faithful to complete it" (Philippians 1:6), I shouldn't quit either on Him or on myself.
So in these days of 2014, I'll not make a resolution, but rather a promise to myself to persevere, in my job, (even on the days where nothing goes right), in my relationships, in my stewardship, in my health, and in my quest for happiness and for joy.
I wish nothing less for you as well.
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