Work/life Balance And Other Little Lies We Tell Ourselves...

I am neither sure of the length nor the eloquence of this post. It is overdue, simply because I have been so remiss in my posting duties for months now.

So am I singing the same old tune? Is the woe-is-me-aria fundamentally unchanged, if only perhaps an octave or two higher?

Hard to tell.

Early reports are fuzzy, and colored by sheer exhaustion.

So much so, that I don't even have the energy to make this post even remotely eloquent or original. I have no energy to do anything. But eat, of course. Always that.

I am excited by the new job; it is an evil I didn't know, and, without doubt, it is evil; but it wears a new and more pleasant face, and I find myself a lot more interested in what it has to offer me. What it has to offer me is primarily an avalanche of work. Interesting work, but an avalanche nonetheless. Hard to make scintillating cocktail party conversation when buried under approximately eighty-seven metric tons of snow.

But the days do go by more quickly when both busy and engaged. But herein lies the problem. My heart's desire has never been to be engaged to my work. I need to find some dupe of a man willing to have me for that (still looking for just the right pigeon).

But here I molder in the office.

I have a date this week, but with my father. Not helpful.

Traveling for work next week. Then back again. Moldering in the office again I am sure.

A boy moratorium was recommended to me recently. I decided it was a good idea, then proceeded to have every fleeting thought of that morning dedicated to a particular young man. Subconsciously, I believe I have decided that the only way to actually effectively impose this moratorium (and increase my work face time/productivity) is to just continue eating relentlessly till they are going to require Richard Simmons, a camera crew, a wrecking ball and the jaws of life to come pry me from my office. Wonder if the plastic surgeon who has to surgically remove me from my Herman Miller aeron chair will be as cute as Julian McMahon? (See, even extreme obesity and workplace construction interventions are not enough to preserve the moratorium. This is hopeless.

For all the random kvetching about a little bit of this and perhaps some more of that, my biggest worry is this: in about 6 months, I am going to have no friends at all. Not in the "we are shunning you because you are an asshole" type way, or the "wow, you are odd. Go away" way. But more because I am working so much, my current friends lives don't lend themselves to very much flexibility either, and my new workplace colleagues (who I suppose I unfairly expected to become friends) are all rather far removed from me. They are busy, and, for those who haven't seen it first hand, there is a certain amount of hierarchy at a law firm. To some extent it goes out the window, but it is always there and present nonetheless. Especially when one is senior (read: me - the lawyer older than dirt, practicing since there were only 10 laws and they were all chiseled into stone tablets. Thou shalt not copiously overhire. Thou shalt not buy a flashy car that will thus put you on the first to be laid off list. etc.) and everyone is a fresh newbie (2001? That's a movie, right?)

The best part about starting a new job for me is also that I happen to have a hypenated last name. Thus, in any new social context once you get to a particular age, there is an assumption you are married. So much so that people simply inquire "What does your husband do?", "What did your husband think about you coming here?" or my favorite, "So when do we get to meet your husband?"

How about when I do?

My parents are married. I am not. Get with the program.

Then there are the sad looks. All accompanied by that head cocked to the side (alluded to so eloquently years ago on Friends), and the little sigh, "Oh that is too bad. Don't worry it will happen for you someday." And what has become the omnipresent follow up, which is also my favorite: "Well, I guess you are just very focused on your career."

Today my secretary asked me if I was concerned about whether I was going to be able to have babies since I was waiting so long.

I told her that I figured if I waited long enough, my babies would be teenagers by the time I got around to having them and then I would not have to worry about potty training them.

I am not sure that was witty or even remotely funny. In fact I am sure that it wasn't. But I figured it was just a victory not to remain slackjawed and dumbfounded in the face of such a statement.

Seriously, what is it about me that screams: "Come make comments on the ruins of my lovelife and your perceived waning of my reproductive years." Is the thought of my uterus turning to dust before their very eyes really reason to send people into a plastic-sheeting-and-duct-tape panic?

Why?

You would think people would be grateful that I wasn't reproducing. Like a bad virus, the world will ultimately be better off if I just run my course and inflict misery on the fewest amount of people possible.

As to the marriage/dating thing. Well, they are right on that count. My life is pretty useless otherwise. Very lather, rinse, repeat.

No, I do not need to be a strong independent woman. Yes, I do need a man to be a happy one, though.

Yes, I realize Gloria Steinem is sending out a posse to retrieve my head at this point.

Then again, apparently fish do need bicycles. Ms. Steinem has been married for a number of years now, I do believe.

My problem (because really there is only one.... ummm, that I care to discuss right now) is that I have a hard time drawing boundaries, anywhere, anytime, in any aspect of my life. It is all or nothing, all of the time. I am into him... well, then I am way into him, so much so that thoughts of him governs the tides of my moods. I am working... well, then I am working crazy-balls-out all the time, or I sit at work being completely useless because I absolutely am so exhausted/cannot concentrate. I am social and going to most everything I am invited to, or else I am hiding in my house hoping deciding how I can go about my life without having to actually be seen by anyone.

I am overwhelmed. I am tired. I do not have any answers.

That makes me sad. And it pisses me off.

If I had the energy to really care.

Caffeinated Delusion...

Yes, my Starbucks cup is talking to me again. And, as it is talking baseball, I am certainly listening.

Tumult, sudden unwarranted busts of piety, and a drunken episode of kicking and screaming worthy of rockstar proportions, all melt away in the face of some pithy baseball wisdom.

Today's caffeinated quote comes to us via Rob Neyer, an ESPN columnist whom many are devoted to, but whom I can typically take or leave. Sir, you are no Peter Gammons. Of course, neither is he Joe Morgan, hence I quoteth (quoth?) him here:

THE WAY I SEE IT #97

It's often said that baseball is life,

or is like life, or that going to a

baseball game is like going to

church. Piffle. Baseball is like

baseball, and that's plenty good

enough because nothing else is

quite like baseball.

True enough, though my sappy little heart would also add the following Roger Angell quote to the mix:

Hold a baseball in your hand ...

Feel the ball, turn it over in your hand;

hold it across the seam or the other way,

with the seam just to the side of your middle finger.

Speculation stirs.

You want to get outdoors and throw this spare and sensual object to somebody

or, at the very least,

watch somebody else throw it.

The game has begun."