In answer to your questions:
Yes. I did just quote a Backstreet Boys song.
Yes. It is on my iPod.
Yes. I put it there on purpose.
Yes. I do like it. A lot.
So there.
I am cheesy. I am proud.
I just wrote a very long, intended to be artful, sensitive and informative e-mail to my father and my siblings that use e-mail. Felt compelled based by what I felt was the watershed moment of the whoring out of Terri Schiavo's pain by just about everybody (as an insightful LA Times editorial made clear today, even in death she won't be allowed to rest, her memory peddled to the highest bidder looking for lists of folks to call for contributions to conservative causes) - from the Republican right, the indefatigable red-staters, the people looking for media attention wherever they can get it, and ultimately, her own family, who could never comprehend the idea that they saw only what they wanted to see, and that the daughter and sister they once knew and loved abandoned them over a decade ago. They couldn't see past the understandable absorption and selfishness of their own pain and let the shell of her that remained to go free. I would never want this to happen to me. I wouldn't want to be anyone's accidental martyr, the symbol they take up to expose and exploit for their own purposes - whether it be by strangers with at-best careless regard for my humanity, or by loved one's blinded by love and pain making ill-advised choices in an effort to stem the tide of the rush of uncontrollable emotions.
I like vegetables. I do not want to be one. Should I end up in a persistent vegitative state - the consciousness that is me having assuredly been eviscerated - I do not want heroic measures. I do not want to be kept alive on a ventilator. I do not want to be kept alive on a feeding tube. I want to die with dignity. I want my organs and any other body party which are serviceable to be harvested and apportioned out to as many people as possible. I won't need them wherever I am going. I admit, I would not want to be an anatomy class cadaver or a cadaver farm resident, so once they take what they need from me, they should sew me back up and prepare me for cremation. And then that's it. Hopefully, my loved ones can find a nice pleasant place to sprinkle me. A place where they can return and be happy and think about the me that I was, the me that they loved. The me that was present. Not a vegetable me. I guess I should also note for the records, that at my wake, there better be a kickin' iTunes playlist going, with Backstreet Boys and G 'n R and Metallica and Beyonece and Lynrd Skynrd and Nelly and Garth Brooks and Edith Piaf and Moby and Britney and ODB and all the other good stuff (so clearly it has to be as weird and random as the person it is commemorating) and there needs to be a keg, a martini bar, and lots of laughing. I expect everyone to have really good stories about me. And everyone will have to wear the nicest shoes they own to the occasion (so hopefully it won't be anywhere muddy or outside).
But I am getting ahead of myself. I really just wanted that stuff out there because Terri Schiavo was 25 when she had her stroke or whatever it was that caused her unfortunate condition. No one really knew her wishes because, come on, she was 25 - who thought anything would or could ever happen to her. Things can happen. Better to be prepared and be clear.
But you see, I worried over whether to send the e-mail. Still a little worried about it now. Because I know, I know, I know they are going to freak out. Because no one likes it when I talk about death. Not even in a pragmatic, "because this is the circle of life, so let's just be open and prepared about it" kind of way. My mother has long been about 2 milleseconds away from sticking her fingers in her ears when I tell her that I want my organs donated when I die. I have been saying so since I turned sixteen and I stuck that little pink dot from my donor card on my drivers license. I never wanted any mistake about it. I want to be helpful and unselfish when I can, even if it is, literally, the last thing I do. It would give me solace. I would hope that it would give my family solace too. And it may - but for now such discussions, as well as today's e-mail are likely to set off panic buttons and alarm bells around the country.
You see - what they never want to say, but which I know they are all thinking, is that they are afraid that I am mentioning such a thing because I know something. And no, this is not their sudden faith in long dormant psychic abilities of mine which are going to allow me to predict my own demise. They believe, as apparently my last ex- did, that I am always a frayed nerve and step or two away from walking off the edge of a building and voluntarily crossing that great divide. Okay, euphemisms aside, I think they think I could be suicidal. Scary even to write.
Must pause after that one.
Okay. So let's get something straight. I am not, nor have I ever been suicidal. No ideation of the great beyond for me. Depressed? Scared? Bemoaning the weight of the slings and arrows of life at every turn? A sad sack with hysterical tendencies? An anxiety ridden jangle of nerves? Yes, yes, yes, a million times yes. But suicidal? Never. Not for a moment. Why? Because I hate death. It frightens me. I also really, really, really dislike blood. Especially mine. Seeing it makes me woozy. Physical pain - no so much a fan of that either. Ouch. Knives, guns, pills. Oooh - no! And, in the end, as much as I complain and lament (read: bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch, bitch) I am a an absolute sucker for hope. I truly do believe, and always have, that tomorrow is a new day. Now it is a rare occasion that you will hear me say anything so chirpy - to myself or to anyone else. But in terms of my metaphysical default-temperature settings, I am set at least to "curious" if not outright "sunny and forward-looking." I want to see how this life turns out. I couldn't have predicted the twists and turns it has taken thus far, and I don't believe I have even gotten to the good parts yet. At least that is what I hope. And because I do, I couldn't just bow out now - no matter how much I feel like an open wound. Nothing ever stays the same. Frustrates me to no end, and yet it saves me every time. As abominable as I may feel, I know I won't always feel this way. I will feel this way again someday, but there will be a point of time in between, if only for a moment, that I won't. And that is worth it.
Not a quitter. Just not.
So given that, I think I am entitled and allowed to speak about death and the plans and arrangements I would like made in the event of my untimely passing without people having apoplectic fits (which they try to hide from me because they don't want me to think that they think I am a hari kari incident waiting to happen. Suckers. They are about as subtle as I am.)
I am a psychological and metaphysical mess, but I am here to stay. Everyone is stuck with me. Now I am not sure if, in the end, that is really a comfort (be careful what you wish for guys! :)), but it's true.
Thursday, March 31, 2005
Wednesday, March 30, 2005
Trippin'
Love pops up in the most unusual of places.
My theory has always been that a splendid lifelong, mad and passionate love affair (which doubles as a marriage, life raft, and vessel for procreation and/or the cherished and ubiquitous presence of a continual travel companion) begins with a great story. One which you can carry with you and tell with ever-more relish as the years go by and the inquiries more awed at the achievement of it all.
I was once told, quite rightly, that it is not the story that is important, but the people and their relationship.
True enough, peanut gallery. But maybe, just maybe, we are both right.
Because love, whatever its form, always takes you by surprise. You never see it coming. Bumping into the stranger on the street, whose eyes you looked into with a million apologies as you try to help him pick up his lunch from the ground, and whose eyes you will look into again years later with a million hopes and dreams fulfulled as you recite your devotional wedding vows - a surpise! The childhood classmate, who used to pull your pigtails, who you run into again after all these years at high school reunion, who after the spark of reconnection, becomes a constant in your life - a surprise! The new roommate of an old roommate of yours, met when you went to return a lamp mistakenly packed away in your stuff in your last move - bam, sparks - a surprise! Even fulfillment of years of love, devotion, and unrequited sentiment (yes, s/he finally woke up and smelled the coffee - and it was you!) you never knew it was going to happen (you hoped, prayed, and promised your first born child and/or healthy long term chia pet for it) let alone when. You were, in a word, surprised!
Guess that is always why they say that it happens when you aren't thinking about it. I hate this statement, but mostly because I know it is true and I know that I can do nothing but think about it. Trying to ignore one's singleness is like trying to ignore the 800 pound gorilla in the room. Or the 50 other married/involved/affianced couples milling about. So I despair because I can't envision not thinking about my singleness. After all, how effective is it to be thinking hard about not thinking about being single? Perhaps the concept is not as self-defeating as it appears. Maybe it is a mistake to think about this "when you are not thinking about it" as a long stretch of time, as in the "I am not thinking about being single and wanting someone to hold my hand and help me zip up my dress (and unzip it too) when I am away on vacation" era of CLC's life. No, maybe it is more of a crevasse-dwelling concept. It can wend its way into those moments here and there, where your mind becomes distracted ("Did I remember to lock the door when I left this morning?" "Do I have enough quarters to do laundry tonight?" "Tastes great or less filling?") if only for a few moments from the eternal quest for personal plurality.
Hey - the other truism is that timing is everything. So if that is the case, my surprise love story can easily fit into the slim crack in the veneer of my obsessive-singleness, right? [Sorry, as noted before, it is spring, and upon my return from the purgatory of trial it appears everyone is in love. Lil' bit envious. So it manifests itself here.]
Anyway....
After a not so short digression - back to my original premise: Ideal love is premised on a good story. Why? (1) Love takes you by surprise. Always and without exception. And surprise always makes for a good story because surprise is, by definition, the unexpected. The original template may be one people have heard before, but the ingredients, the lovers and the spices they bring, are always new, intriguing and captivating. (2) In a emulation worthy relationship, the story is always great, because it is not just an opening montage (not just "how we met") it is the entire movie (or more importantly, "how we have chosen to stay together"). And it is there where it becomes clear why it appears that those with the best relationships are those with "good stories" - it is because their relationship as it is now, informs the story of the relationship and how it grew and grows. Relationships that are in the present time mundane or destructive lean so heavily on the scented perfume laden stories of their beginnings, that the cracks in the story and the lives intertwined within it are readily apparent - to everyone.
Good storytelling - requiring belief, patience, dedication, and a lifetime of devotion.
My theory has always been that a splendid lifelong, mad and passionate love affair (which doubles as a marriage, life raft, and vessel for procreation and/or the cherished and ubiquitous presence of a continual travel companion) begins with a great story. One which you can carry with you and tell with ever-more relish as the years go by and the inquiries more awed at the achievement of it all.
I was once told, quite rightly, that it is not the story that is important, but the people and their relationship.
True enough, peanut gallery. But maybe, just maybe, we are both right.
Because love, whatever its form, always takes you by surprise. You never see it coming. Bumping into the stranger on the street, whose eyes you looked into with a million apologies as you try to help him pick up his lunch from the ground, and whose eyes you will look into again years later with a million hopes and dreams fulfulled as you recite your devotional wedding vows - a surpise! The childhood classmate, who used to pull your pigtails, who you run into again after all these years at high school reunion, who after the spark of reconnection, becomes a constant in your life - a surprise! The new roommate of an old roommate of yours, met when you went to return a lamp mistakenly packed away in your stuff in your last move - bam, sparks - a surprise! Even fulfillment of years of love, devotion, and unrequited sentiment (yes, s/he finally woke up and smelled the coffee - and it was you!) you never knew it was going to happen (you hoped, prayed, and promised your first born child and/or healthy long term chia pet for it) let alone when. You were, in a word, surprised!
Guess that is always why they say that it happens when you aren't thinking about it. I hate this statement, but mostly because I know it is true and I know that I can do nothing but think about it. Trying to ignore one's singleness is like trying to ignore the 800 pound gorilla in the room. Or the 50 other married/involved/affianced couples milling about. So I despair because I can't envision not thinking about my singleness. After all, how effective is it to be thinking hard about not thinking about being single? Perhaps the concept is not as self-defeating as it appears. Maybe it is a mistake to think about this "when you are not thinking about it" as a long stretch of time, as in the "I am not thinking about being single and wanting someone to hold my hand and help me zip up my dress (and unzip it too) when I am away on vacation" era of CLC's life. No, maybe it is more of a crevasse-dwelling concept. It can wend its way into those moments here and there, where your mind becomes distracted ("Did I remember to lock the door when I left this morning?" "Do I have enough quarters to do laundry tonight?" "Tastes great or less filling?") if only for a few moments from the eternal quest for personal plurality.
Hey - the other truism is that timing is everything. So if that is the case, my surprise love story can easily fit into the slim crack in the veneer of my obsessive-singleness, right? [Sorry, as noted before, it is spring, and upon my return from the purgatory of trial it appears everyone is in love. Lil' bit envious. So it manifests itself here.]
Anyway....
After a not so short digression - back to my original premise: Ideal love is premised on a good story. Why? (1) Love takes you by surprise. Always and without exception. And surprise always makes for a good story because surprise is, by definition, the unexpected. The original template may be one people have heard before, but the ingredients, the lovers and the spices they bring, are always new, intriguing and captivating. (2) In a emulation worthy relationship, the story is always great, because it is not just an opening montage (not just "how we met") it is the entire movie (or more importantly, "how we have chosen to stay together"). And it is there where it becomes clear why it appears that those with the best relationships are those with "good stories" - it is because their relationship as it is now, informs the story of the relationship and how it grew and grows. Relationships that are in the present time mundane or destructive lean so heavily on the scented perfume laden stories of their beginnings, that the cracks in the story and the lives intertwined within it are readily apparent - to everyone.
Good storytelling - requiring belief, patience, dedication, and a lifetime of devotion.
Tuesday, March 29, 2005
Blurban Dictionary
In another twisted paean to my on-going devotion to words, I present - the Blurban Dictionary: A meditation of the multiple meanings of the little words that float in and out of our every days lexicon.
Feeling a rhyming theme. So here goes:
Late:
To my parents, who have preternaturally taken on a fondness for the early bird special, though they neither live in Florida nor go out for dinner, and are at least ten years away from retirement, "late" means any repast indulged in past, gasp!, 5 pm. (We had easter dinner at 4. They tried to play it off like it was a special holiday thing, when it is okay for normals to have dinner during Days of Our Lives, but I know better. Last time I was home, on a random January weekend day, we had dinner at 3:15 pm. I kid you not).
To my fellow lawyers, who are apparently so distrustful of their own Circadian rhythms that they have paid over $100,000 to live by someone else's clock, "late" is somewhere between midnight and 4 a.m. (if it is a work day) and yawns inevitably start coming fast and furious accompanied by a disturbingly genuine (either naivete or caffeine-brain damage induced) statement that "I don't know why I am so tired" around 8:15 pm (if it is not a work day).
To my fellow female singletons, who have been lucky enough to have fulfilled their own personal nookie quota recently but who did so only after a half-dozen martinis and have later realized only after the fact that that discarded condom in the trash was used solely for the purpose of making limbless balloon animals which at the time seemed hilarious and libido-enhancing, "late" means four days past your cranky, bloated ground zero where the only sign of crimson in your life is the heightened color in your cheeks due to the rising anxiety of your being involuntarily re-named "Mommy."
Date: At one point on the continuum, pragmatic indifference: "date" simply considered a point of reference on a calendar. Moving farther down on the continuum, unbridled joy: "date" contemplated with a shrill "yay!" and considered virtual hand-clapping inducing event, which precipitated much shopping, a lot of estrogenic mulling and discussing, and which, upon it's execution, come what may (good or bad) always made for a good story.** At the other end of the continuum, peals of hysterical laughter: "date"? Huh? What is this you speak of? Ah, like the Loch Ness and the Big Foot? Any pictoral proof of such concept? You and your silly ideas - next thing you know you will be saying we can put water in plastic bottles and sell it to people... for money? Or that you could sell coffee for $4 a cup... and people would buy it? Or that the start of Predator would all eventually have successful political careers as governors of states... in America?
Hahahhahahahaha.
**Except, of course, when the limbless balloon animal incident was involved. That was just dumb.
Mate: 1. Friend. 2. Spouse. 3. Military member. 4. Nookie. Lots of nookie. 5. All of the above. Hmmmmmm.....
Fate:
Future; Feature; Fantastic; Fervent; Fabulous; Feeling; Filling; Fractious; Fashion; Forward.
Art; Able; Astonish; Amaze; Apply; Adhere; Acknowledge; Aspire; Apple; Aplomb; Agape; Add.
Tryst; Treat; True; Tread; Taken; Toasted; Testing; Talisman; Talk; Told; Top; Twist; Tune.
Excellent; Edible; Exigent; Eccentric; Esoteric; Excitable; Ebullient; East; Ember; Escape; Effort.
Hate: I am not sure that I know what "hate" is. The word, much like its counterpart "love," is unapologetically overused in our society. What does it mean to hate or love something or someone - when you make the same declaration about a person that you make about someone putting foam in your cafe latte? Maybe they are the same thing, and can be weighed the same way, but the implications are a little disturbing. On that scale, that would make you either very passionate about everything or, alternatively, very passionate about nothing. The words are used so much they mean nothing. At least they no longer communicate any depth of feeling.
I don't think I truly know what "hate" is. Like "love", I think "hate" is a feeling so strong and so compelling that it can never be described directly, so it is only ever described and/or invoked in the face of the absence of things. I am just as guilty in this overuse category, and thus I puzzle through this quandary myself.
For instance, I "hate" my job. I "hate" many of the partners. I "hate" myself. But is any of this true? Do I actually "hate" all of these things/people? I cannot be certain, but I suspect it isn't the case. "Hate" is so loaded, I don't think you can carry it with you, without disaster occuring. It would burn right through you. You would become chilled and distant if you were to survive its parasitic ways. I am many things, many things I am not happy with, but I am not chilled, distant, nor burnt through.
I particularly abuse the word in relation to myself. It is a favorite shorthand for the feelings towards myself. But it is not really hate I feel. I feel nothing but ambiguity towards myself. This ambiguity in turn feeds directly into a swollen river of fear whose onslaught can only be fought with anger. I need to be angry in order to function in the face of my fear. And I refuse to be angry with anyone, and so I turn it inward. Angry with myself to keep myself functioning, but the pressure of the anger is nearly as great as that of the fear.
Anger, fear, frustration, and, yes, "hate" all need to take a vacation.
Gate: Gifted and Talented Education? A Christo exhibit? A technology monopolist? An entrance? An exit?
Feeling a rhyming theme. So here goes:
Late:
To my parents, who have preternaturally taken on a fondness for the early bird special, though they neither live in Florida nor go out for dinner, and are at least ten years away from retirement, "late" means any repast indulged in past, gasp!, 5 pm. (We had easter dinner at 4. They tried to play it off like it was a special holiday thing, when it is okay for normals to have dinner during Days of Our Lives, but I know better. Last time I was home, on a random January weekend day, we had dinner at 3:15 pm. I kid you not).
To my fellow lawyers, who are apparently so distrustful of their own Circadian rhythms that they have paid over $100,000 to live by someone else's clock, "late" is somewhere between midnight and 4 a.m. (if it is a work day) and yawns inevitably start coming fast and furious accompanied by a disturbingly genuine (either naivete or caffeine-brain damage induced) statement that "I don't know why I am so tired" around 8:15 pm (if it is not a work day).
To my fellow female singletons, who have been lucky enough to have fulfilled their own personal nookie quota recently but who did so only after a half-dozen martinis and have later realized only after the fact that that discarded condom in the trash was used solely for the purpose of making limbless balloon animals which at the time seemed hilarious and libido-enhancing, "late" means four days past your cranky, bloated ground zero where the only sign of crimson in your life is the heightened color in your cheeks due to the rising anxiety of your being involuntarily re-named "Mommy."
Date: At one point on the continuum, pragmatic indifference: "date" simply considered a point of reference on a calendar. Moving farther down on the continuum, unbridled joy: "date" contemplated with a shrill "yay!" and considered virtual hand-clapping inducing event, which precipitated much shopping, a lot of estrogenic mulling and discussing, and which, upon it's execution, come what may (good or bad) always made for a good story.** At the other end of the continuum, peals of hysterical laughter: "date"? Huh? What is this you speak of? Ah, like the Loch Ness and the Big Foot? Any pictoral proof of such concept? You and your silly ideas - next thing you know you will be saying we can put water in plastic bottles and sell it to people... for money? Or that you could sell coffee for $4 a cup... and people would buy it? Or that the start of Predator would all eventually have successful political careers as governors of states... in America?
Hahahhahahahaha.
**Except, of course, when the limbless balloon animal incident was involved. That was just dumb.
Mate: 1. Friend. 2. Spouse. 3. Military member. 4. Nookie. Lots of nookie. 5. All of the above. Hmmmmmm.....
Fate:
Future; Feature; Fantastic; Fervent; Fabulous; Feeling; Filling; Fractious; Fashion; Forward.
Art; Able; Astonish; Amaze; Apply; Adhere; Acknowledge; Aspire; Apple; Aplomb; Agape; Add.
Tryst; Treat; True; Tread; Taken; Toasted; Testing; Talisman; Talk; Told; Top; Twist; Tune.
Excellent; Edible; Exigent; Eccentric; Esoteric; Excitable; Ebullient; East; Ember; Escape; Effort.
Hate: I am not sure that I know what "hate" is. The word, much like its counterpart "love," is unapologetically overused in our society. What does it mean to hate or love something or someone - when you make the same declaration about a person that you make about someone putting foam in your cafe latte? Maybe they are the same thing, and can be weighed the same way, but the implications are a little disturbing. On that scale, that would make you either very passionate about everything or, alternatively, very passionate about nothing. The words are used so much they mean nothing. At least they no longer communicate any depth of feeling.
I don't think I truly know what "hate" is. Like "love", I think "hate" is a feeling so strong and so compelling that it can never be described directly, so it is only ever described and/or invoked in the face of the absence of things. I am just as guilty in this overuse category, and thus I puzzle through this quandary myself.
For instance, I "hate" my job. I "hate" many of the partners. I "hate" myself. But is any of this true? Do I actually "hate" all of these things/people? I cannot be certain, but I suspect it isn't the case. "Hate" is so loaded, I don't think you can carry it with you, without disaster occuring. It would burn right through you. You would become chilled and distant if you were to survive its parasitic ways. I am many things, many things I am not happy with, but I am not chilled, distant, nor burnt through.
I particularly abuse the word in relation to myself. It is a favorite shorthand for the feelings towards myself. But it is not really hate I feel. I feel nothing but ambiguity towards myself. This ambiguity in turn feeds directly into a swollen river of fear whose onslaught can only be fought with anger. I need to be angry in order to function in the face of my fear. And I refuse to be angry with anyone, and so I turn it inward. Angry with myself to keep myself functioning, but the pressure of the anger is nearly as great as that of the fear.
Anger, fear, frustration, and, yes, "hate" all need to take a vacation.
Gate: Gifted and Talented Education? A Christo exhibit? A technology monopolist? An entrance? An exit?
Monday, March 28, 2005
Ignoring the 800 Pound Gorilla
So I have decided to take a new approach. All my issues, all those problems I conveniently imagine and then mentally super-size, all that Gen xyz.com angst? Yeah, I am just going to ignore them. Not forever. But for the next couple hours. Just need a little peace and quiet in my head for right now.
So the 800 lb. self actualization gorilla thumping its chest, generally creating a scene and making an utter nuisance of itself? Yeah, it is just not there.
Won't acknowledge it. Not gonna do it.
La - La - La! I can't hear you!
And well, if that fails, I will just blame all of my problems a la B.L.B. on the newsmedia...
You, you, you AND you....
Damn the paparazzi and the hangers on... always making my life so difficult.
So in this headlong dive into ephemeral ignorance, I will do what I always do, make a list:
Running List: The Good, The Bad, and the Very Ugly.
Good: A true victory in the ever continuing quest of the perfect merger of carbonated water, aspartame, red dye #4 and phenylketonurics - the new Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. Damn tasty!
Bad: Though I had thought that nothing could top "Venus and Serena Williams: Fashion Designers" clearly, I spoke too soon.
Ugly, Ugly, Ugly: And while I am feeling rather snarky and have happened upon the choice topic of the Williams sisters, here is my unsolicited two cents: They are NOT cute. I don't care how many times people choose to describe them as "wondrous" and "breathtaking" (which I would like to note is exactly how the ugly baby in Seinfeld was described) they are not attractive women. They look like men! And, as I have begun meandering down this road of bitchiness, I may as well continue... the Olsen twins - also not cute. Smaller, but still not cute. For the life of me, I cannot figure out which is the one that is supposed to have an eating disorder, because, much like the aforementioned Marc Anthony, both of these little ladies look like they sprang directly from the Gollum family line. In addition to which, can anyone explain to me why two teenagers with more money than God, dress in a way that makes Ally Sheedy's character in The Breakfast Club look like she was wearing fitted clothing? Hmmm, let's see - anyone else?
Lightning round:
- Paris Hilton: Not blonde, not blue eyed, not talented, oh and given her keen resemblance to a squashed bug, not cute.
- Kevin Federline: He appears to expressly be trying to cultivate the "I just went on the Jerry Springer Show and all I got was this stupid Tee Shirt" look. Puzzling given his newfound wealth. Oh wait, of course, I forgot, he married for love. D'oh!
- Adrian Brody: Wasn't he in those Yo Quiero Taco Bell commercials a few years back?
- Mick Jagger: ugh!
So the 800 lb. self actualization gorilla thumping its chest, generally creating a scene and making an utter nuisance of itself? Yeah, it is just not there.
Won't acknowledge it. Not gonna do it.
La - La - La! I can't hear you!
And well, if that fails, I will just blame all of my problems a la B.L.B. on the newsmedia...
You, you, you AND you....
Damn the paparazzi and the hangers on... always making my life so difficult.
So in this headlong dive into ephemeral ignorance, I will do what I always do, make a list:
Running List: The Good, The Bad, and the Very Ugly.
Good: A true victory in the ever continuing quest of the perfect merger of carbonated water, aspartame, red dye #4 and phenylketonurics - the new Diet Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper. Damn tasty!
Bad: Though I had thought that nothing could top "Venus and Serena Williams: Fashion Designers" clearly, I spoke too soon.
Ugly, Ugly, Ugly: And while I am feeling rather snarky and have happened upon the choice topic of the Williams sisters, here is my unsolicited two cents: They are NOT cute. I don't care how many times people choose to describe them as "wondrous" and "breathtaking" (which I would like to note is exactly how the ugly baby in Seinfeld was described) they are not attractive women. They look like men! And, as I have begun meandering down this road of bitchiness, I may as well continue... the Olsen twins - also not cute. Smaller, but still not cute. For the life of me, I cannot figure out which is the one that is supposed to have an eating disorder, because, much like the aforementioned Marc Anthony, both of these little ladies look like they sprang directly from the Gollum family line. In addition to which, can anyone explain to me why two teenagers with more money than God, dress in a way that makes Ally Sheedy's character in The Breakfast Club look like she was wearing fitted clothing? Hmmm, let's see - anyone else?
Lightning round:
- Paris Hilton: Not blonde, not blue eyed, not talented, oh and given her keen resemblance to a squashed bug, not cute.
- Kevin Federline: He appears to expressly be trying to cultivate the "I just went on the Jerry Springer Show and all I got was this stupid Tee Shirt" look. Puzzling given his newfound wealth. Oh wait, of course, I forgot, he married for love. D'oh!
- Adrian Brody: Wasn't he in those Yo Quiero Taco Bell commercials a few years back?
- Mick Jagger: ugh!
Friday, March 25, 2005
Productivity? I Say "Nyet"
Gingerly stepping back into the rhythmn and swing of my old life.
Sitting here amongst the trappings of such life. The refuse of my work - done, undone and yet to be done - stranded in little sacrosanct islands, pristine in their disorganization, all across my desk. They are, of course, untouched. Personal errands also requiring attention - from bills to taxes to appointments to correspondence - also lay lethargically about. Starving for attention.
My hope in coming back to the office sooner that planned was two-fold: (1) fend off my rising anxiety, and (2) to kick-start my attention to the personal errands, if not the mundane administrative work matters, by forcing myself into a situation of structure.
No such luck.
Am currently just ADD'ing everthing. A quick glance. One second, two - and move on. The most urgent things attended to. But only with great pronouncements of weariness, heard by no one, but made nonetheless. Just wipes me out.
Lazy, lazy, lazy.
Knew I was getting this way at home. Now I know it is truly set in. Overcoming such ailment will be a slow process.
What I wasn't prepared for was the overwhelming rush of anxiety and loneliness which would accompany my return. With no immediate deadlines, and the one's farther off being conveniently pushed aside, I have a lot of time to think. At home I drowned out this silly thinking impulse with television and/or books. At work there is internet, but it is not all that effective given the aforementioned ADD approach which has set in. I have little patience for much more than a headline, a caption, and perhaps an opening paragraph.
Both of these feelings are rather unexpected and not well-founded. I am sure I am not alone and I ought not be anxious (though that fear of firing, ironically, always looms large). And yet...
Walked around for about an hour at lunch today to calm myself. The sunshine and the movement definitely helped. I ate lunch by myself outdoors on a plaza (in front of what has to be the world's ugliest fountains - it looks like an ultra-magnified version of the rusty, neglected pipes nestled in the bowels of some cheap third-rate interstate motel, which were it more highly-trafficked would charge by the hour, but which charges by the night because it must take'm where it can get'em. Christened as "art," I am sure the city paid and arm and a leg for it.) As I sat and ate, no reading material to shield me from the world (though with iPod firmly in tow so as not to be wholly unprotected from the outside world. "I am not alone. It's just me and my music. See unlike Britney, the music and I are friends....") I thought it was a great and rare opportunity to people watch. Ah, yes, that timeless passtime which everyone claims to love, but which I think is really an excuse to make up for lack of reading material. Anyway, people-watch I did. This would be great. Fodder for my creative process. I could imagine the lives people live - constructing and deconstructing at will. If I can't control myself, I certainly can control these strangers - from afar and without their knowledge and consent. Sure.
Problem #1: I apparently don't have much of an imagination, as I never really got past the fact that most people's shoes really did the rest of their clothing, no matter how nice, a disservice. A sadder array of footwear you will never see. Ratty, discolored, attempts at chic which played out as garish. Not good. That and the fact that there are a lot of couples around. Many of them gay couples. Took a moment for quick sexual self evaluation (all mental, no physical touching involved - don't want to scare the tourists after all). Then scolded self for having zero sexual attraction to women, and thus further limiting sparse dating pool. Am gay man trapped in woman's body apparently. Just love men. No way around it.
Problem #2: Once again apparently (and as I have noted many a time before, no good ever comes of a sentence that begins with "apparently" - as it, usually, prefaces a story about a night of heavy - okay, let's be honest, torrential - drinking and subsequent and multiple bad acts which ensued and usually are not recalled by said person, me) I have no interest in other people. I am just obsessed with myself. My psychosis is odd that way. I simultaneously loathe myself and yet I just can't get enough about talking, thinking and obsessing about myself. Can you be co-dependent with yourself? Am I my own enabler? Apparently (damn, there's that word again!) I am. If I were not so attached to my misery and so caught up in my own vanity, I would go back on the meds, as my sister pretty much begs me to do every time we speak. I can't put anything past her. She knows all my little tricks. My hemming and hawing. She knows my motivations, my fears, my paralysis. And, I suppose, in the end, she does know what is good for me. I do too. But currently, it is residing in my "personal errands" pile. Unattended to and gathering dust. Oops.
In a touching moment of valuable candor the other day, she explained to me that, even for those who love me and who value my wit and intelligence and for some unexplained reason, my company, my self-loathing always shines forth in a blinding brilliance, which is so powerful it obscures everything else. So much so that no one - no one - fails to notice it. Every single person I have ever met knows that I hate myself. It is a secret I carry that isn't a secret. The only person who ignores it, who isn't always hyperaware of it, who just lets it go, who isn't always disturbed by it... is me. Shocking to hear. Really.
One of those things where you may say it. Say it all the time. Say it to yourself. Even say it to others. But to hear it from someone else. It is bracing.
Okay, so the absolute hatred of myself and everything I do, am, stand for, touch etc. is kind of a road block to happiness. I suppose.
It is one of those things I am "going to have to let go of." It is a security blanket that does me no good. I have kind of plateaued in my efforts on working on this and need to get back on track and centered. Back on my road to self-discovery and treatment thereof. All of that being said and acknowledged, is it completely unreasonable to desire some love and affection at the same time? Maybe it is the springtime - all that sunshine and the crisp, unbowingly beautiful days. Just makes me want someone special. If not even someone to date, just a prospect. Someone whose image and memories of their attentions which I can turn over and over in my mind, like a smooth stone, just as a pleasant distraction). Mmmmm. Would be nice. But no. There is no one. No one.
Even the survey of perfect strangers upon the plaza. What is likely a healthy mix of professionals and tourists - from near and far, hither and thither - revealed no one I could even begin to imagine would be right.
Have to wean myself off of the pretty men thing. And the tall man thing. And the young man thing.
So what am I left with? Short, fat, bald, dumpy, mediocre, marginal and unstimulating in every way? Okay, maybe I have gone too far.
Truth of the matter is, I look at the search for a better half as similar to that of looking for a new apartment/house etc. Keeping in mind this is only a rough analogy, I promise that if you bear with me, it is not as coarse or dehumanizing as it seems:
When you are looking for new place to live, you make a list (mental or physical) of everything you want - what city it should be in, the preferred neighborhoods, amenities you want, the price you are willing to pay etc. As you go through the actual process of searching, getting out there and looking around at what the market has to offer, what is available, and what is actually realistic within your price range, everything on the list starts to take on a three-dimensional saliency it had not formerly had.
In strong relief, there are those things you must-have, the deal-breakers so to speak, and the things you thought you absolutely had to have, but which in fact you can, easily or not so easily, do without. For instance, in my last apartment search, I really wanted to live near the water in a particular section of town (I do) in an apartment with a victorian window pane and a fireplace (my room has both) with moldings around the ceiling (also have that). I had also thought I could not live without parking or in-unit washer/dryer. I have a washer/dryer in my building (one for all of us) but not in-unit. I do not have parking, but arranged for renting it at an alternate locale (and actually no longer need it now). I am so pleased with my living situation and how fabulous my roommates are that I shudder to think what would have happened had I decided to nix the whole thing based on lack of parking or washer/dryer.
So after that long drawn out analogy, the point is this: I don't think there is any harm at all in looking for all of the things that you want. You must become realistic as time goes on (wanting everyone to look like Jude Law is unrealistic, and showing someone the door because he snores is illustrative of a disconnect from reality) however that does not mean caving in, giving up, throwing in the towel, or moving forward with something or someone for whom you have reservations. You know what you want. And to want it is okay. I don't know what my perfect person looks and acts like, what he does, what he likes, where he comes from, where he is going. You know why? Because I haven't met him yet. He will be who he is. I cannot make him that way. If there is one thing I know, is that I don't know everything. I try to do what is right. But especially where it is my own best interests which are at stake, I often tend to falter. My present-day vision lapsing. Clarity coming only in retrospect. There have been a number of folks who I have tried to anoint "the one," the one who is "perfect for me." Know what? Not "perfect" just because they liked me (or didn't as the case may be). Always something missing. I was blindsided.
So I have to have my list, and I have to be flexible, but I have to always be mindful of the deal breakers. Especially this one: I must feel like a priority in my relationship. Now in practical terms, this may not (and should not) play out as my winning out every time and some poor man having to serve as an indentured servant to me, where my interests come first and he can do nothing without me. That is not life. And that is not a healthy relationship. The idea is that you want someone who wants to include you when possible. You are a part of their life, just as they are a part of yours. While there should be no smothering, there should also be no compartmentalization. As a wise friend recently said to me in response to my lament that I did not understand why anyone would want to be the one who "wears the pants in the relationship" and that in fact there should be "no pants-wearing" when relationships are involved (can you tell that the nookie-fairy has not visited me in quite a while? Freudian slips everywhere): "Relationships should be a three-legged race." Right she is. That is what I want. A three-legged race partner. If they are funny, smart, handsome, creative, self-supporting, and nominally sensitive (though not too sensitive b/c that is just creepy in guys), oh and of course, tall - it wouldn't hurt either. But I'll know it when I see it - what I will compromise on (Tom Cavanaugh rather than Tom Cruise suits me just fine) and what I won't (a Colin Farrell-approach to life - no thanks! An Ashton Kutcher-airhead - probably can't manage that in the long run. And well, okay, the height thing is probably a rigid requirement. Doesn't have to be really tall, but at least as tall as I am - preferably around 6 feet. Just because. It is not just a vanity thing, it's a karma thing. Think about it: How many short man/tall woman couples do you know that have worked out? Tom and Nicole - finis! Verne Troyer and his 6 foot 3 inch yoga instructor/model wife - kaput! Miss Piggy and Kermit have a very rocky relationship and I have my doubts about the everlasting love between Long Duc Dong and his "hot stuff girlfriend" as well.)
In any event, I will sit and wallow now in the idea that I have impossible standards. I will never find anyone who fits them. And anyone who comes close doesn't like me or is taken, so.... (this way maybe I can fool the powers that be in the universe that I have actually given up so that maybe I will perchance run into such a fellow sometime soon...)
So, alone it is then.
Still, would rather be alone than settle.
Did it once for four years, won't do it again. Ever.
Sitting here amongst the trappings of such life. The refuse of my work - done, undone and yet to be done - stranded in little sacrosanct islands, pristine in their disorganization, all across my desk. They are, of course, untouched. Personal errands also requiring attention - from bills to taxes to appointments to correspondence - also lay lethargically about. Starving for attention.
My hope in coming back to the office sooner that planned was two-fold: (1) fend off my rising anxiety, and (2) to kick-start my attention to the personal errands, if not the mundane administrative work matters, by forcing myself into a situation of structure.
No such luck.
Am currently just ADD'ing everthing. A quick glance. One second, two - and move on. The most urgent things attended to. But only with great pronouncements of weariness, heard by no one, but made nonetheless. Just wipes me out.
Lazy, lazy, lazy.
Knew I was getting this way at home. Now I know it is truly set in. Overcoming such ailment will be a slow process.
What I wasn't prepared for was the overwhelming rush of anxiety and loneliness which would accompany my return. With no immediate deadlines, and the one's farther off being conveniently pushed aside, I have a lot of time to think. At home I drowned out this silly thinking impulse with television and/or books. At work there is internet, but it is not all that effective given the aforementioned ADD approach which has set in. I have little patience for much more than a headline, a caption, and perhaps an opening paragraph.
Both of these feelings are rather unexpected and not well-founded. I am sure I am not alone and I ought not be anxious (though that fear of firing, ironically, always looms large). And yet...
Walked around for about an hour at lunch today to calm myself. The sunshine and the movement definitely helped. I ate lunch by myself outdoors on a plaza (in front of what has to be the world's ugliest fountains - it looks like an ultra-magnified version of the rusty, neglected pipes nestled in the bowels of some cheap third-rate interstate motel, which were it more highly-trafficked would charge by the hour, but which charges by the night because it must take'm where it can get'em. Christened as "art," I am sure the city paid and arm and a leg for it.) As I sat and ate, no reading material to shield me from the world (though with iPod firmly in tow so as not to be wholly unprotected from the outside world. "I am not alone. It's just me and my music. See unlike Britney, the music and I are friends....") I thought it was a great and rare opportunity to people watch. Ah, yes, that timeless passtime which everyone claims to love, but which I think is really an excuse to make up for lack of reading material. Anyway, people-watch I did. This would be great. Fodder for my creative process. I could imagine the lives people live - constructing and deconstructing at will. If I can't control myself, I certainly can control these strangers - from afar and without their knowledge and consent. Sure.
Problem #1: I apparently don't have much of an imagination, as I never really got past the fact that most people's shoes really did the rest of their clothing, no matter how nice, a disservice. A sadder array of footwear you will never see. Ratty, discolored, attempts at chic which played out as garish. Not good. That and the fact that there are a lot of couples around. Many of them gay couples. Took a moment for quick sexual self evaluation (all mental, no physical touching involved - don't want to scare the tourists after all). Then scolded self for having zero sexual attraction to women, and thus further limiting sparse dating pool. Am gay man trapped in woman's body apparently. Just love men. No way around it.
Problem #2: Once again apparently (and as I have noted many a time before, no good ever comes of a sentence that begins with "apparently" - as it, usually, prefaces a story about a night of heavy - okay, let's be honest, torrential - drinking and subsequent and multiple bad acts which ensued and usually are not recalled by said person, me) I have no interest in other people. I am just obsessed with myself. My psychosis is odd that way. I simultaneously loathe myself and yet I just can't get enough about talking, thinking and obsessing about myself. Can you be co-dependent with yourself? Am I my own enabler? Apparently (damn, there's that word again!) I am. If I were not so attached to my misery and so caught up in my own vanity, I would go back on the meds, as my sister pretty much begs me to do every time we speak. I can't put anything past her. She knows all my little tricks. My hemming and hawing. She knows my motivations, my fears, my paralysis. And, I suppose, in the end, she does know what is good for me. I do too. But currently, it is residing in my "personal errands" pile. Unattended to and gathering dust. Oops.
In a touching moment of valuable candor the other day, she explained to me that, even for those who love me and who value my wit and intelligence and for some unexplained reason, my company, my self-loathing always shines forth in a blinding brilliance, which is so powerful it obscures everything else. So much so that no one - no one - fails to notice it. Every single person I have ever met knows that I hate myself. It is a secret I carry that isn't a secret. The only person who ignores it, who isn't always hyperaware of it, who just lets it go, who isn't always disturbed by it... is me. Shocking to hear. Really.
One of those things where you may say it. Say it all the time. Say it to yourself. Even say it to others. But to hear it from someone else. It is bracing.
Okay, so the absolute hatred of myself and everything I do, am, stand for, touch etc. is kind of a road block to happiness. I suppose.
It is one of those things I am "going to have to let go of." It is a security blanket that does me no good. I have kind of plateaued in my efforts on working on this and need to get back on track and centered. Back on my road to self-discovery and treatment thereof. All of that being said and acknowledged, is it completely unreasonable to desire some love and affection at the same time? Maybe it is the springtime - all that sunshine and the crisp, unbowingly beautiful days. Just makes me want someone special. If not even someone to date, just a prospect. Someone whose image and memories of their attentions which I can turn over and over in my mind, like a smooth stone, just as a pleasant distraction). Mmmmm. Would be nice. But no. There is no one. No one.
Even the survey of perfect strangers upon the plaza. What is likely a healthy mix of professionals and tourists - from near and far, hither and thither - revealed no one I could even begin to imagine would be right.
Have to wean myself off of the pretty men thing. And the tall man thing. And the young man thing.
So what am I left with? Short, fat, bald, dumpy, mediocre, marginal and unstimulating in every way? Okay, maybe I have gone too far.
Truth of the matter is, I look at the search for a better half as similar to that of looking for a new apartment/house etc. Keeping in mind this is only a rough analogy, I promise that if you bear with me, it is not as coarse or dehumanizing as it seems:
When you are looking for new place to live, you make a list (mental or physical) of everything you want - what city it should be in, the preferred neighborhoods, amenities you want, the price you are willing to pay etc. As you go through the actual process of searching, getting out there and looking around at what the market has to offer, what is available, and what is actually realistic within your price range, everything on the list starts to take on a three-dimensional saliency it had not formerly had.
In strong relief, there are those things you must-have, the deal-breakers so to speak, and the things you thought you absolutely had to have, but which in fact you can, easily or not so easily, do without. For instance, in my last apartment search, I really wanted to live near the water in a particular section of town (I do) in an apartment with a victorian window pane and a fireplace (my room has both) with moldings around the ceiling (also have that). I had also thought I could not live without parking or in-unit washer/dryer. I have a washer/dryer in my building (one for all of us) but not in-unit. I do not have parking, but arranged for renting it at an alternate locale (and actually no longer need it now). I am so pleased with my living situation and how fabulous my roommates are that I shudder to think what would have happened had I decided to nix the whole thing based on lack of parking or washer/dryer.
So after that long drawn out analogy, the point is this: I don't think there is any harm at all in looking for all of the things that you want. You must become realistic as time goes on (wanting everyone to look like Jude Law is unrealistic, and showing someone the door because he snores is illustrative of a disconnect from reality) however that does not mean caving in, giving up, throwing in the towel, or moving forward with something or someone for whom you have reservations. You know what you want. And to want it is okay. I don't know what my perfect person looks and acts like, what he does, what he likes, where he comes from, where he is going. You know why? Because I haven't met him yet. He will be who he is. I cannot make him that way. If there is one thing I know, is that I don't know everything. I try to do what is right. But especially where it is my own best interests which are at stake, I often tend to falter. My present-day vision lapsing. Clarity coming only in retrospect. There have been a number of folks who I have tried to anoint "the one," the one who is "perfect for me." Know what? Not "perfect" just because they liked me (or didn't as the case may be). Always something missing. I was blindsided.
So I have to have my list, and I have to be flexible, but I have to always be mindful of the deal breakers. Especially this one: I must feel like a priority in my relationship. Now in practical terms, this may not (and should not) play out as my winning out every time and some poor man having to serve as an indentured servant to me, where my interests come first and he can do nothing without me. That is not life. And that is not a healthy relationship. The idea is that you want someone who wants to include you when possible. You are a part of their life, just as they are a part of yours. While there should be no smothering, there should also be no compartmentalization. As a wise friend recently said to me in response to my lament that I did not understand why anyone would want to be the one who "wears the pants in the relationship" and that in fact there should be "no pants-wearing" when relationships are involved (can you tell that the nookie-fairy has not visited me in quite a while? Freudian slips everywhere): "Relationships should be a three-legged race." Right she is. That is what I want. A three-legged race partner. If they are funny, smart, handsome, creative, self-supporting, and nominally sensitive (though not too sensitive b/c that is just creepy in guys), oh and of course, tall - it wouldn't hurt either. But I'll know it when I see it - what I will compromise on (Tom Cavanaugh rather than Tom Cruise suits me just fine) and what I won't (a Colin Farrell-approach to life - no thanks! An Ashton Kutcher-airhead - probably can't manage that in the long run. And well, okay, the height thing is probably a rigid requirement. Doesn't have to be really tall, but at least as tall as I am - preferably around 6 feet. Just because. It is not just a vanity thing, it's a karma thing. Think about it: How many short man/tall woman couples do you know that have worked out? Tom and Nicole - finis! Verne Troyer and his 6 foot 3 inch yoga instructor/model wife - kaput! Miss Piggy and Kermit have a very rocky relationship and I have my doubts about the everlasting love between Long Duc Dong and his "hot stuff girlfriend" as well.)
In any event, I will sit and wallow now in the idea that I have impossible standards. I will never find anyone who fits them. And anyone who comes close doesn't like me or is taken, so.... (this way maybe I can fool the powers that be in the universe that I have actually given up so that maybe I will perchance run into such a fellow sometime soon...)
So, alone it is then.
Still, would rather be alone than settle.
Did it once for four years, won't do it again. Ever.
Wednesday, March 23, 2005
Did'ja Miss Me?
So it has been a while.
It feels strange to have been away from here for so long. I had actually gotten so good about regularly checking in, it feels not quite right to have stayed away so long, while at the same time it feels just to the left of odd to be back.
Sort of a twin homecoming of sorts.
I have resolved to go back to work tomorrow. I had made some waves about not making my way back till this coming Monday, which would still be one day short of three weeks of leisure. But sitting it out till then is just not sitting well, with me or with anyone else. Not that work is harassing me to be back. Far from it. And maybe that is part of the problem. I fear going back in anxiety of my inevitable dimissal. However, if I don't go back then I am inevitably dismissed anyway.
Odd.
Paradox: Fair is foul, Foul is fair -
The absolute and paralyzing terror of losing a job that I unquestionably hate. Been that way for four years. Never changes.
Guess it is just another manifestation of the complete lack of clarity I have with regard to my life.
A friend of mine was just oh-so tactfully asked to leave their firm. They oh-so generously allowed a two month severance - standard for a "performancing out" - but then conditioned it on his sticking around (also standard, a gentlemans agreement to allow you to look for a job while retaining the trappings of your old job - copier, fax, postage, e-mail address) AND KEEPING UP HIS BILLABLES!!!
Hey - you just fired me, and you still want me to meet my hours - hey fuck you!
But I am getting a little off-track here. My first gut reaction when he told me was absolute joy. I was so, so pleased for him because he hated his job and he needed to get out and I knew he would never do it on his own. Never.
Why?
Because he's not a quitter. None of us Type-A's are. We don't quit. We bite our upper lip and we see them through. We later reflect on how the pain and the misery made us a better person for it. Protestant ethic for Christians, Jews, Muslims, and Haute Couture devotees alike. Problem is, while this approach has served us well to this point, through school, volunteer work, internships and the like, it doesn't work now. Why? Plain and simple answer is, because there is no longer any natural end.
Hate college? No matter what you do, it ends after four years (or five if you are at a big public school).
Hate your starter job after school? You can gracefully leave it for grad school - not shocking, not offensive - it is in fact expected and applauded as a step up. There is even a time line for that too - 2 to 3 years out of college.
Hate grad school? It ends on its timetable too. However, here is the rub... you have now invested all of your natural outs. The graduation dates have now come and gone. Natural absolution no longer exists. Multiple grad degrees, short of great courage and some outstanding reason (and/or scholarship) scream "lack of commitment to my life" to everyone. Accumulating the entire alphabet worth of titles after your name really impresses no one of any real significance. Ultimately they always just spell out "Compensating." Truly.
So now you are in this job that was predestined by your grad school of choice. You have a mountain of debt. You hate your job. And, well, you are stuck. It is an unending staring contest between you and the corporate man. It continues indefinitely till one of you blinks. For the Type-A's, try as they might, it goes against their very nature to blink first. So there they sit, physically deteriorating, bleary eyed, staring hopelessly into the eye of the evil empire. They should blink. They should get up. They should walk away. They don't.
Let me have a nervous break down. Will get carried out of here against my will. But at least I didn't quit.
Fire me. Shatter my ego. But at least I didn't quit.
Is it machismo? Is it trying to prove something to the world? Is the pursuit of the gold star so ingrained that one would risk life, limb and sanity to pursue it from a source one does not like let alone respect?
A little bit of each of these things, I am sure. But mostly, it is fear.
Fear of the unkown. Fear of where the next paycheck will come from. Fear of moving to another job and also hating it. Or worse, hating it more than you hated the first one.
Pick a job you hate, one which you spent six figures and three years to get, and which you were supposed to love and have consciously agreed to. You were not forced into a corner. All of this was conscious decision, conscious choice.
You chose this. You chose this. It rings through your ears like the insufferable moaning of a puragtory-bound ghost who you just can't shake. You chose this. You chose this.
You chose wrong.
That is what it means.
You chose wrong.
You chose really wrong.
And so there you sit. Paralyzed. Head in hands - Wondering how you can ever trust yourself ever again.
And that is why you don't move. You are crushed under the weight of the oppression of your own inertia. Self-fulfilling prophecy. Yes, it's true.
We hate being lawyers. But we are lawyers for a reason. We dot i's. We cross t's. We worry the be'jeezus out of every detail. We are overly concerned with office supplies. We are Type A. We like to make predictions. We are always looking back to the past to divine the present. Like reading tea leaves it is uncertain and usually futile, and yet we persist. We like order, stability, even if our jobs have none of these things. There is stability in the ever-present specter of work. We like rules. We are risk averse.
To be happy. To have the job, the lives, we want, there has to be risk undertaken. We understand that, we just have trouble undertaking it.
So we wait.
For the corporate man to blink and show us the door.
It feels strange to have been away from here for so long. I had actually gotten so good about regularly checking in, it feels not quite right to have stayed away so long, while at the same time it feels just to the left of odd to be back.
Sort of a twin homecoming of sorts.
I have resolved to go back to work tomorrow. I had made some waves about not making my way back till this coming Monday, which would still be one day short of three weeks of leisure. But sitting it out till then is just not sitting well, with me or with anyone else. Not that work is harassing me to be back. Far from it. And maybe that is part of the problem. I fear going back in anxiety of my inevitable dimissal. However, if I don't go back then I am inevitably dismissed anyway.
Odd.
Paradox: Fair is foul, Foul is fair -
The absolute and paralyzing terror of losing a job that I unquestionably hate. Been that way for four years. Never changes.
Guess it is just another manifestation of the complete lack of clarity I have with regard to my life.
A friend of mine was just oh-so tactfully asked to leave their firm. They oh-so generously allowed a two month severance - standard for a "performancing out" - but then conditioned it on his sticking around (also standard, a gentlemans agreement to allow you to look for a job while retaining the trappings of your old job - copier, fax, postage, e-mail address) AND KEEPING UP HIS BILLABLES!!!
Hey - you just fired me, and you still want me to meet my hours - hey fuck you!
But I am getting a little off-track here. My first gut reaction when he told me was absolute joy. I was so, so pleased for him because he hated his job and he needed to get out and I knew he would never do it on his own. Never.
Why?
Because he's not a quitter. None of us Type-A's are. We don't quit. We bite our upper lip and we see them through. We later reflect on how the pain and the misery made us a better person for it. Protestant ethic for Christians, Jews, Muslims, and Haute Couture devotees alike. Problem is, while this approach has served us well to this point, through school, volunteer work, internships and the like, it doesn't work now. Why? Plain and simple answer is, because there is no longer any natural end.
Hate college? No matter what you do, it ends after four years (or five if you are at a big public school).
Hate your starter job after school? You can gracefully leave it for grad school - not shocking, not offensive - it is in fact expected and applauded as a step up. There is even a time line for that too - 2 to 3 years out of college.
Hate grad school? It ends on its timetable too. However, here is the rub... you have now invested all of your natural outs. The graduation dates have now come and gone. Natural absolution no longer exists. Multiple grad degrees, short of great courage and some outstanding reason (and/or scholarship) scream "lack of commitment to my life" to everyone. Accumulating the entire alphabet worth of titles after your name really impresses no one of any real significance. Ultimately they always just spell out "Compensating." Truly.
So now you are in this job that was predestined by your grad school of choice. You have a mountain of debt. You hate your job. And, well, you are stuck. It is an unending staring contest between you and the corporate man. It continues indefinitely till one of you blinks. For the Type-A's, try as they might, it goes against their very nature to blink first. So there they sit, physically deteriorating, bleary eyed, staring hopelessly into the eye of the evil empire. They should blink. They should get up. They should walk away. They don't.
Let me have a nervous break down. Will get carried out of here against my will. But at least I didn't quit.
Fire me. Shatter my ego. But at least I didn't quit.
Is it machismo? Is it trying to prove something to the world? Is the pursuit of the gold star so ingrained that one would risk life, limb and sanity to pursue it from a source one does not like let alone respect?
A little bit of each of these things, I am sure. But mostly, it is fear.
Fear of the unkown. Fear of where the next paycheck will come from. Fear of moving to another job and also hating it. Or worse, hating it more than you hated the first one.
Pick a job you hate, one which you spent six figures and three years to get, and which you were supposed to love and have consciously agreed to. You were not forced into a corner. All of this was conscious decision, conscious choice.
You chose this. You chose this. It rings through your ears like the insufferable moaning of a puragtory-bound ghost who you just can't shake. You chose this. You chose this.
You chose wrong.
That is what it means.
You chose wrong.
You chose really wrong.
And so there you sit. Paralyzed. Head in hands - Wondering how you can ever trust yourself ever again.
And that is why you don't move. You are crushed under the weight of the oppression of your own inertia. Self-fulfilling prophecy. Yes, it's true.
We hate being lawyers. But we are lawyers for a reason. We dot i's. We cross t's. We worry the be'jeezus out of every detail. We are overly concerned with office supplies. We are Type A. We like to make predictions. We are always looking back to the past to divine the present. Like reading tea leaves it is uncertain and usually futile, and yet we persist. We like order, stability, even if our jobs have none of these things. There is stability in the ever-present specter of work. We like rules. We are risk averse.
To be happy. To have the job, the lives, we want, there has to be risk undertaken. We understand that, we just have trouble undertaking it.
So we wait.
For the corporate man to blink and show us the door.
Monday, March 07, 2005
Day 21: Tribal Council (A Retrospective)
Voted off the island. Good for them. Better for me.
"Outwit, outplay, outlast," my ass. No $1M bounty at the end of this ordeal.
As such, for winning this "Outburst, Outrage, just plain Out," is more like it.
So did I learn anything?
No.
(Okay, I lied. Yes, I did. Documented as follows, in no particular order:
"Outwit, outplay, outlast," my ass. No $1M bounty at the end of this ordeal.
As such, for winning this "Outburst, Outrage, just plain Out," is more like it.
So did I learn anything?
No.
(Okay, I lied. Yes, I did. Documented as follows, in no particular order:
- Red Vines are addictive
- When I do not sleep, hysteria ensues. For all.
- I am currently profoundly disconnected from my body. I feel like I am a foreign entity occupying some odd unfamiliar vessel. My time off would be best spent trying to reconnect (connect?) with my body.
- My friends... there are just no words to describe. Precious, dear, cheerful, resilient and kind. Everyone of them in their own unique way. Hands outstretched in support, always - even through the haze of their own tumultous road traveled. Never am I jusitified in complaining about being let down by such a collective. Blessed am I. Profoundly.
- Uncomfortable as I may feel in my present condition, I am lucky. It could have been much worse. The potential for permanent physical damage to myself was a genuine possibility had this continued much longer.
- I estimate that the toll of this experience (physical & metaphysical) has cost me roughly 2 and a half years off of the total length of my life. No amount of compensation is enough to bring it back. So what recourse? Make the most of the road ahead. Need to cram at least two and a half more years of life into the allotment of days I have left.
- I want to find my inner rock star. Wearing the hair shirt and swinging the cat o' nine tails at myself routine is getting old (not to mention, unbearable).
- In the cat-and-mouse game, need to show Mr. Big who's really the cat. Need to believe it myself first.
- I will quit my job. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow. But soon, and for the rest of my life...
- Most partners at a law firm are much like infants, they can do very little of real practical import for themselves. And even if they do know how, they still prefer for others to do it for them.
- The phrase "thank you" can be rendered meaningless (if not outright offensive) if it is used to punctuate each and every sentence one speaks.
- Walking into a room, looking around, and then walking out - over and over again, day after day - is odd. Not to mention rather insulting for the apparently meaningless and unimportant residents of said room.
- In close quarters, everything is politics. Most especially anything surrounding mealtimes.
- In stressful situations, it is possible to feel profound hatred for people you do not know.
- Living is a hotel is expensive and, after about a week, not fun.
- Roomservice is not all that. Really.
- Trial is a mad, mad social experiment, put forth by some power that be with a very sick sense of humor.
- People are funny, difficult, mean, impatient, goodhearted, remarkable, insouciant, cranky, empathetic, silly, crabby and wonderful - all at the same time.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Interesting...
Something cool I read in another blog called The Rabbit Blog. I have attempted to permalink it here, but not having faith in my experimental and thus tenuous technological skills, I have also embedded a link to such blog below. Note, as is my custom here, I have also bolded my favorite parts (7 years of higher education ruined me - can't read anything without a literal or figurative highlighter):
Excellent advice.
Funny and true, but...the green-eyed waitress don’t want me. The raven haired lawyer, she’s married. That go-jus, smart, funny Asian graphic artist I fell for harder than I’d fallen in a long time is a hardcore drunk and she’s engaged to a drummer and ain’t interested. I want her happy – who doesn’t want happiness for the people they care about? – but this has “trainwreck” stamped all over it in indelible ink, and there’s nothing to do about it but watch it play out and hope she’ll survive the crash. The research assistant has lots and lots of cats – lots -- and a little dog she keeps in her bag. It pokes its nose out like the tip of a neurosis iceburg. The nice divorcee across the hall wants to talk about Sweet Baby Jesus. Incessantly. Might be fun, but do you want to live next to it once it goes all Old Testament wrong?The nice chica at the not-for-profit and her whole posse are all hearing each tick of “A Clockwork Biological” going off in their heads like mortar fire: They. Must. Mate. Now. They are...The Sperm Hunters.
That woman at the gym looks long eyes at me. She’s huge. Sorry, but it matters. The last blind date couldn’t make anything like intelligent conversation; actually scared her...and I only brought my road game. The red-head friend who jumped the line after my divorce turned out to be every bit as bipolar as I thought she was. And could not control her temper. And was both remarkably uptight and remarkably incompetent in bed. And crazy about me,
but she’s back to being a friend now, and that is a 1:00 a.m. phone call I’m never going to make. This isn’t just a bit of my own narrative; it’s the story of any number of people I know who aren’t bloodless cost/benefit calculators. It’s the asymmetry of the field of battle that’ll wear you down, y’know? Render you a little risk-averse. Them as you want, don’t want
you. Them as want you, ain’t wanted by you. I wish it were as simple as “Go For It”, but it isn’t. I wish the folk wisdom of “he/she will come once you stop looking” were true, but it's
not. Maybe sometimes, but don’t count on it to catch you when you fall. So a loud Amen! to “faint heart never won fair maiden” and a loud Amen! to “Dum vivimus, vivamus!” And, for that matter, amen to the sentiment and high ideals of socialism...as they exist in theory.
But please don’t lose sight of the fact that human nature and conditions out in the real world can be a whole lot trickier and crueler than theories anticipate.
Driftglass
Dear Driftglass,
Wrong. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. "Find someone who you can love passionately,
dickcheeses, because it's fucking important to love and be loved" is not a theory. It's a way of life. The fact that conditions in the real world are cruel and tricky no more disproves the wisdom of believing in true love than the fall of the Soviet Union disproves Marx's theories about the corrupt, alienating nature of high capitalism.
Who would deny that conditions in the real world are cruel and tricky? Don't fucking talk to me about cruel and tricky, unless you want to hear about multiple failed experiments in cohabitation, starring a line-up of the wishy-washiest, flinchiest stoners ever to walk the planet in search of a big bag of salty snacks and a "Law & Order" marathon.
Mistakes were made. There were errors in judgment. Some blamed bad timing. Here's the thing: I didn't get out fast enough, ever. Instead, I wept and tore my hair and delivered rousing self-righteous monologues about the importance of commitment and building a belief in each other and accepting each other's flaws. Blah blah blah boringcakes! No one wants to be converted, least of all a flinchy stoner who'd rather watch Sam Waterson tsk-tsking another crime which so clearly reflects the sorry state of the human animal today. I've been involved with lots of men who were wrong for me, and I was wrong for them. What does that say? It's hard to find the right person. All the more reason to redouble your efforts, as opposed to sitting on your ass, sipping on a big cold beer, whining to your friends about how this chick's a psycho and that chick wants a baby.
Love, my little dumplings, is worth the effort, and the effort lies in cultivating the right attitude about the world around you. Believing in your fucking place in the world, being a little bit romantic about your qualities, feeling good about what you bring to the table at your job, with your friends, wherever - these things matter. You do the things that make you
feel like a rock star. You stop berating yourself around the clock for everything you aren't doing, and start congratulating yourself for the little things you get right consistently. You
recognize just how worthy of love you are. It's not that difficult, just pay a little attention to some of your nicer qualities for once. Do the things that make you proud of yourself. And then, other people have nice qualities, too, and you notice these more than you notice how they fit into one or another cliché. You open your eyes a little. The green-eyed waitress might not like you, but her friend really does, and she's sort of funny and actually pretty cute and
it's not really that scary when she cries, for some reason. It's touching, even.
A good director can make an audience fall in love with anyone, just by revealing this or that little quality that makes the person glow, or this or that weakness that makes the person feel small. Start looking at the people you meet through a filtered lens. That doesn't mean you'll date the alcoholic or the mother with three insane kids who just filed for bankruptcy. It just means you're open to what's there, you're interested, you want to know more, you're not rushing to categorize and label every human you meet according to how they're sure to eventually disappoint you.
Look, you can still have a fucking sense of humor. You can still complain. Jesus christ, fuckwhackers, it's not like I'd ever keep you from complaining. Complaints? Them's salty snacks for the soul! But if you're more aware of cruel tricks than you are of magic, honkies, you're fucked. You have to believe that good things are waiting around the next corner, no
matter how many corners leave you empty-handed. Every time I buy a lottery ticket, I'm
pretty fucking sure I'm going to win. I look up the numbers online the second they're available. Sometimes I even tune in for that moment when the numbers are announced, so I can watch each number come down the shoot and cheer each one, so that I'll discover that I won millions at the very moment that it happens. Keep in mind, I'm not an optimistic person,
and I've probably played the lottery about 10 times total. But mostly I buy a lottery ticket so I can spend the day imagining that I'll win.
This is what I believe: If you imagine that you might just fall madly in love at any moment, it's far more likely to happen. Then, of course, you have to make sure he's not a fucking pudwhacker or a jerk or someone who'll drive you nuts or someone who'll never commit because he's indecisive and kind of child-like. Fuck, most people are child-like. He just needs to believe in you. Make sure she's interesting to you, and that she fucking believes in you, and wants you, and loves you, dipwings.
We've all been through all kinds of bullshit. But believing in love makes love possible, and deciding that it's impossible is fucking stupid. Getting hurt is no big deal, idiots. I've been hurt and hurt and hurt and hurt. Every time it's easier. You have to keep leaping, keep throwing yourself in. Find someone who's worthy of your crazy mind and your stupid notions and your filthy urges and your homemade waffles with blueberries on top. Fuck the flinchy and the fault-finding! Find someone who's fun and moody and sweet, someone who knows how to listen and apologize, someone with opinions about everything, someone who can't help but tell you how great you are, often. I know you can do it, fuckwieners. I'm counting on you.
In the meantime, make yourself some fucking waffles, and feel good about all the things you have to offer, because love does sometimes end, and the more you celebrate who you are, no matter how strange and messy, the more love you'll have to give and receive. Love, love, love. And if someone breaks your heart and leaves you for your best friend, find someone else to love. It's everywhere. It's all over the fucking place. Go get some, you dumb pumpkins! Stop collecting data and drawing conclusions, and start burning a little brighter.
Days 19 & 20: "Jo, go do...whatever it is that you do"
FREEDOM!!! (as of Tuesday)
Pulled aside yesterday and told I was extraneous (in a good way - though, even if it wasn't - ask me if I care) and thus free to leave anytime after Monday. So first thing Tues, I blow this popstand. Like Martha, I leap forth to freedom (even have an ankle bracelet myself, as I will have to be "on call" for the remainder of the trial).
In the intermediary, I have been committed to actually attending the legal function that has brought me down here. Head of firm inquiring early this morning as to why he never sees me in court.
Oh sir, been busy. Will be there first thing tomorrow.
Am such a wussy.
In other news: Can focus on my broken Lenten promise (one of many) and just go back to bitching incessantly about being single. The gauntlet had sort of precluded that, till I actually consciously decided to so, because things were so bad, that even talking about my permanent spinsterhood seemed preferable to debating the merits of hotel banquet food, dissecting political infighting, or, God forbid, actually focusing on issues.
So - though trying not to, am still smarting from what continues to be my natural talent for bringing love and monogamy to my former dalliances (though, of course, never with me). Sitting around listening to description of new better half of former halfling of mine (more or less) is, for lack of a better term, painfully nauseating. Yes, it wouldn't have worked anyhow. No, it doesn't make it any easier.
It's not that he didn't want to get married. It's that he didn't want to marry me!
Hell, not even looking to get married at this point.
Just looking for a date + with someone I like + who likes me + is willing to be seen in public with me + on multiple occasions + major holidays.
Is that too much to ask?
Don't answer that. I fear the response.
Damn, this is such a buzzkill to my "escape to freedom" elation.
Pulled aside yesterday and told I was extraneous (in a good way - though, even if it wasn't - ask me if I care) and thus free to leave anytime after Monday. So first thing Tues, I blow this popstand. Like Martha, I leap forth to freedom (even have an ankle bracelet myself, as I will have to be "on call" for the remainder of the trial).
In the intermediary, I have been committed to actually attending the legal function that has brought me down here. Head of firm inquiring early this morning as to why he never sees me in court.
Oh sir, been busy. Will be there first thing tomorrow.
Am such a wussy.
In other news: Can focus on my broken Lenten promise (one of many) and just go back to bitching incessantly about being single. The gauntlet had sort of precluded that, till I actually consciously decided to so, because things were so bad, that even talking about my permanent spinsterhood seemed preferable to debating the merits of hotel banquet food, dissecting political infighting, or, God forbid, actually focusing on issues.
So - though trying not to, am still smarting from what continues to be my natural talent for bringing love and monogamy to my former dalliances (though, of course, never with me). Sitting around listening to description of new better half of former halfling of mine (more or less) is, for lack of a better term, painfully nauseating. Yes, it wouldn't have worked anyhow. No, it doesn't make it any easier.
It's not that he didn't want to get married. It's that he didn't want to marry me!
Hell, not even looking to get married at this point.
Just looking for a date + with someone I like + who likes me + is willing to be seen in public with me + on multiple occasions + major holidays.
Is that too much to ask?
Don't answer that. I fear the response.
Damn, this is such a buzzkill to my "escape to freedom" elation.
Friday, March 04, 2005
Day 18: Beach Boys, Poet Laureates
We come on the SLOOP JOHN B, my grandfather and me
Around Nassau town we did roam, Drinking all night got into a fight,
Well, I feel so broke up, I want to go home.
So hoist up the John B sails, See how the main sail sets
Call for the Captain ashore and let me go home,
Let me go home,
I wanna go home, (yeah, yeah)
Well, I feel so broke up, I wanna go home.
The first mate he got drunk, broke in the Cap'n's trunk,
Constable had to come and take him away,
Sheriff Johnstone, why don't you leave me alone, (yeah yeah)
Well, I feel so broke up, I wanna go home.
So hoist up the John B sails
See how the main sail's set
Call for the Captain ashore and let me go home, (Let me go home)
I wanna go home, (Let me go home)
Why don't you let me go home (Hoist up the John B's sail)
I feel so broke up I wanna go home(Let me go home)
The poor cook he caught the fits and threw away all my grits,
And then he took and he ate up all of my corn,
Let me go home... Why don't they let me go home?
This is the worst trip I've ever been on.
So hoist up the John B's sail
See how the main sail sets
Call for the Captain ashore
Let me go home, (let me go home)
I wanna go home, (let me go home)
Why don't you let me go home?
Around Nassau town we did roam, Drinking all night got into a fight,
Well, I feel so broke up, I want to go home.
So hoist up the John B sails, See how the main sail sets
Call for the Captain ashore and let me go home,
Let me go home,
I wanna go home, (yeah, yeah)
Well, I feel so broke up, I wanna go home.
The first mate he got drunk, broke in the Cap'n's trunk,
Constable had to come and take him away,
Sheriff Johnstone, why don't you leave me alone, (yeah yeah)
Well, I feel so broke up, I wanna go home.
So hoist up the John B sails
See how the main sail's set
Call for the Captain ashore and let me go home, (Let me go home)
I wanna go home, (Let me go home)
Why don't you let me go home (Hoist up the John B's sail)
I feel so broke up I wanna go home(Let me go home)
The poor cook he caught the fits and threw away all my grits,
And then he took and he ate up all of my corn,
Let me go home... Why don't they let me go home?
This is the worst trip I've ever been on.
So hoist up the John B's sail
See how the main sail sets
Call for the Captain ashore
Let me go home, (let me go home)
I wanna go home, (let me go home)
Why don't you let me go home?
Thursday, March 03, 2005
Day 17: Surrealer and Surrealer...
So I took a sleeping pill last night - slept till 2 today and then went to the gym. Feel somewhat better.
But that is not the interesting part...
So there I am - sweating away at the gym - very sweaty as I tend to get (on the elliptical) and out of breath as my time here in the gauntlet has made me quite out of shape, but anyway, so there I am just sweating away, and there are a couple other people there (an older gent, a middle aged lady) and then this hot, hot, hot (mmm, tobasco) guy walks in.
Ooh, yeah.
So tall. So cute. So pretty.
And he gets on elliptical next to me.
I am of course, self conscious, and put a little more oomph in my work out as one is wont to do when a good looking person is working out next to you. So I finish on the elliptical. I get on the bike.
Start reading USA today.
Flip, flip, flip.
Land in the sports section.
Reading, reading, reading.
Ooh - article on Andre Agassi playing in Davis Cup even though he is 35 etc. A must read given the spotting of the man leaving the local lavatory the other day. Hmmm, there is a picture.
Oh, there is Agassi in the pic. Still bald.
Oh there is Patrick McEnroe in the pic. Nothing too special.
Oh there is Andy Roddick in the pic. Still hot....
Oh there is Andy Roddick on the elliptical!!!! In the gym!!! Right in front of me!!!
He was next to me the whole time.
So there I am peeking out behind the newspaper looking at him...
Andy on elliptical,
Andy in the pic,
Andy on elliptical,
Andy in the pic...
And so it went for the next 22 minutes and 47 seconds of my stationary odyssey on the bike. Looking at the pic, looking at him, looking at the pic, looking at him.
And to allay any questions from the peanut gallery, here are 3 stock answers, do with them what you will:
(1) No I did not ask for his autograph.
(2) Yes I was embarassed by what I looked like.
(3) As sexy as my impression of a melting snowman with a potbelly may have been, he has not, as of yet, asked me to marry him. Gonna give him some time though.
Utterly surreal.
But that is not the interesting part...
So there I am - sweating away at the gym - very sweaty as I tend to get (on the elliptical) and out of breath as my time here in the gauntlet has made me quite out of shape, but anyway, so there I am just sweating away, and there are a couple other people there (an older gent, a middle aged lady) and then this hot, hot, hot (mmm, tobasco) guy walks in.
Ooh, yeah.
So tall. So cute. So pretty.
And he gets on elliptical next to me.
I am of course, self conscious, and put a little more oomph in my work out as one is wont to do when a good looking person is working out next to you. So I finish on the elliptical. I get on the bike.
Start reading USA today.
Flip, flip, flip.
Land in the sports section.
Reading, reading, reading.
Ooh - article on Andre Agassi playing in Davis Cup even though he is 35 etc. A must read given the spotting of the man leaving the local lavatory the other day. Hmmm, there is a picture.
Oh, there is Agassi in the pic. Still bald.
Oh there is Patrick McEnroe in the pic. Nothing too special.
Oh there is Andy Roddick in the pic. Still hot....
Oh there is Andy Roddick on the elliptical!!!! In the gym!!! Right in front of me!!!
He was next to me the whole time.
So there I am peeking out behind the newspaper looking at him...
Andy on elliptical,
Andy in the pic,
Andy on elliptical,
Andy in the pic...
And so it went for the next 22 minutes and 47 seconds of my stationary odyssey on the bike. Looking at the pic, looking at him, looking at the pic, looking at him.
And to allay any questions from the peanut gallery, here are 3 stock answers, do with them what you will:
(1) No I did not ask for his autograph.
(2) Yes I was embarassed by what I looked like.
(3) As sexy as my impression of a melting snowman with a potbelly may have been, he has not, as of yet, asked me to marry him. Gonna give him some time though.
Utterly surreal.
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
Days 11 - 16: I'm a Nobody, Get Me Out Of Here
Yes, the allusions to the reality TV shows continue fast and furious.
I am playing out my own version of "The Swan" but in reverse. Feel so gross. Corpulent. My clothes hurt. My body aches. My extremities, particularly my feet, are starting to fall asleep at regular intervals. Maybe because the rest of me cannot sleep? My body is sleeping in shifts now in order to keep me functioning?
Disfigured as I feel, I force myself to look into mirror a couple times a day just to make sure that I still have a soul. Still there, barely, lacking in luster and sheen, sadly worn, but still exisiting.
The obsession with meals continues. The currents of conference room life center around the fact of life that is meals. We have been liberated from hotel banquet catering. The fish-truck is banned. But in place of the continual complaints have been places the hours of speculation as to where the next meal should be ordered from, who should order, when and how. Sad. That is really the highlight of the day. Prisoners, dreaming of food. The joy taken in the breaking up of the ennui of the day, whether the meal be steak or gruel.
Please sir, may I have another.
What else?
The 30 foot radius of my life, as limited as it is, apparently still manages some star power. Conference room, hotel room, gym - all on the same floor. Prone to exaggeration as I may be, this is an accurate portrayal of my life. Okay, maybe 100 foot radius, but not much beyond that. Trust me. So in this expansive background to life, our view from the conference room, with the door open, is people going in and out of the mens' room. Not exciting, and in fact rather disturbing, when all of a sudden you are intimately familiar with the timing and proclivities of your bosses' bathroom habits. But that being said, we had a star sighting: Andre Agassi. Davis Cup HQ is just down the hall. So apparently we have had tennis luminaries around all week. (Someone saw Andy Roddick, thank god, it wasn't me. In my bloated hunchback of Notre Dame phase, I just wouldn't be that into it...) So yes, it is true: Even tennis gods use the potty, like the rest of us mere mortals.
What else? There is something interesting about being locked in a room with five other people. Always a social experiment even under the best of circumstances. Even more so when everyone is sleep deprived. Wholly fascinating when it is co-workers. Also an issue when one has made the mistake of after-hours fraternizing with one of them. Guess this is why they tell you to be careful and avoid that type of thing. But who knew you could end up in such close quarters with them? Guess I should have.
Which reminds me - this situation is functionally equivalent to living with your bosses. And that is nothing short of, well, tremendously weird. Seeing one said boss in gym. Sweating. The aforementioned bathroom habits thing. Eating every meal with them. Not good, not good at all.
This really hit me on Saturday morning as I literally dragged myself into a team strategy meeting. We had been instructed to go out an have a good time - and so I, and 5 others did, 30 cocktails, 3 bottles of wine, and a bottle of champagne later - a nice Mortons dinner having been revisited with the porcelain god (well, not quite that far - I decided, apparently, to keep some souvenirs of it on my suit). I was not feeling good. Not feeling good at all.
*Moan* "Oh I am dying inside."
HANGOVER OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. Makes for a tough enough Saturday morning. Now try sharing that with 6 of your immediate bosses - including the chairman of your firm. Once again, not good. Not good at all.
Would that they would fire me. Or that I were willing to quit. Or that I wouldn't feel so guilty about bailing on the team by quitting. Though I suppose that I will have to keep my job in order to finance my personal trainer that I am going to need to make my transition back from Bridget Jones weight to normalcy.
This is only the half way point.
Damn this sucks.
You know there is something wrong when you work all day long, without leaving the building, without really stopping for meals, and you look up at the clock and see that it is 1 am and you think that is early, that you have at least 4 good hours left to go yet.
OMG.
Pardon my adult onset Tourrette's (that I have also developed as a result of conference room life - I am not suitable for the outside world in any way shape or form), but this is fucking insane.
I am playing out my own version of "The Swan" but in reverse. Feel so gross. Corpulent. My clothes hurt. My body aches. My extremities, particularly my feet, are starting to fall asleep at regular intervals. Maybe because the rest of me cannot sleep? My body is sleeping in shifts now in order to keep me functioning?
Disfigured as I feel, I force myself to look into mirror a couple times a day just to make sure that I still have a soul. Still there, barely, lacking in luster and sheen, sadly worn, but still exisiting.
The obsession with meals continues. The currents of conference room life center around the fact of life that is meals. We have been liberated from hotel banquet catering. The fish-truck is banned. But in place of the continual complaints have been places the hours of speculation as to where the next meal should be ordered from, who should order, when and how. Sad. That is really the highlight of the day. Prisoners, dreaming of food. The joy taken in the breaking up of the ennui of the day, whether the meal be steak or gruel.
Please sir, may I have another.
What else?
The 30 foot radius of my life, as limited as it is, apparently still manages some star power. Conference room, hotel room, gym - all on the same floor. Prone to exaggeration as I may be, this is an accurate portrayal of my life. Okay, maybe 100 foot radius, but not much beyond that. Trust me. So in this expansive background to life, our view from the conference room, with the door open, is people going in and out of the mens' room. Not exciting, and in fact rather disturbing, when all of a sudden you are intimately familiar with the timing and proclivities of your bosses' bathroom habits. But that being said, we had a star sighting: Andre Agassi. Davis Cup HQ is just down the hall. So apparently we have had tennis luminaries around all week. (Someone saw Andy Roddick, thank god, it wasn't me. In my bloated hunchback of Notre Dame phase, I just wouldn't be that into it...) So yes, it is true: Even tennis gods use the potty, like the rest of us mere mortals.
What else? There is something interesting about being locked in a room with five other people. Always a social experiment even under the best of circumstances. Even more so when everyone is sleep deprived. Wholly fascinating when it is co-workers. Also an issue when one has made the mistake of after-hours fraternizing with one of them. Guess this is why they tell you to be careful and avoid that type of thing. But who knew you could end up in such close quarters with them? Guess I should have.
Which reminds me - this situation is functionally equivalent to living with your bosses. And that is nothing short of, well, tremendously weird. Seeing one said boss in gym. Sweating. The aforementioned bathroom habits thing. Eating every meal with them. Not good, not good at all.
This really hit me on Saturday morning as I literally dragged myself into a team strategy meeting. We had been instructed to go out an have a good time - and so I, and 5 others did, 30 cocktails, 3 bottles of wine, and a bottle of champagne later - a nice Mortons dinner having been revisited with the porcelain god (well, not quite that far - I decided, apparently, to keep some souvenirs of it on my suit). I was not feeling good. Not feeling good at all.
*Moan* "Oh I am dying inside."
HANGOVER OF EPIC PROPORTIONS. Makes for a tough enough Saturday morning. Now try sharing that with 6 of your immediate bosses - including the chairman of your firm. Once again, not good. Not good at all.
Would that they would fire me. Or that I were willing to quit. Or that I wouldn't feel so guilty about bailing on the team by quitting. Though I suppose that I will have to keep my job in order to finance my personal trainer that I am going to need to make my transition back from Bridget Jones weight to normalcy.
This is only the half way point.
Damn this sucks.
You know there is something wrong when you work all day long, without leaving the building, without really stopping for meals, and you look up at the clock and see that it is 1 am and you think that is early, that you have at least 4 good hours left to go yet.
OMG.
Pardon my adult onset Tourrette's (that I have also developed as a result of conference room life - I am not suitable for the outside world in any way shape or form), but this is fucking insane.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)