The Simple Life: Just Dance

There are certain joys that choices or circumstance takes out of your life.  They can occur during any point in your life for any myriad of reasons.  Sometimes they lie happily in the past as a memory of times gone by, while at other times they nag at you as you move through life, the what-ifs that flash through your dreams or line the pages of a journal.  When the nagging thoughts become loud enough, or your life becomes quiet enough, to heed them you should.

For me, this joy was dancing.  Which, if you know me at all now, might seem comical. 

But look at those ladies…those are some happy hippos. And despite advanced years, permanently torn ligaments in both ankles, far too much weight, and a bone chip floating around in my left knee I want to dance.

When I was a young girl I danced ballet, and danced well.  I was always the youngest in my class, put on pointe when I was 8.  My, at the time, father loved the arts and encouraged me in my love of all things classical. He would play the soundtracks of Swan Lake, Cinderella and Nutcracker as I twirled about the house in my costumes on any given school night.  I was allowed, and even encouraged, to be that rare combination of iron and air that a female dancer must have.  All the familiar rituals of the dancer made me happy, the hair being pulled into a bun, the muted pink tights followed by a leotard…the official uniform of Dance.  I can still remember the fresh leather smell of new shoes as I sewed on my elastic straps…and later the smooth pink satin ribbons onto the stiff pointe shoes, bending and whacking them against the floor until the box fit my ever growing toes.  

But as seems to be the nature of “growing up” all things and hobbies must have a purpose.  It was quickly evident that while I loved dancing I was not a performer.  My routines would be perfect in the studio, but put me on a stage and I froze.  I was not going to be a dancer because I was not a performer.  For me this was completely acceptable, but for my mother this officially dropped me in the, “no longer worthwhile for your future” bucket. However, my father was still very much on my side and so I danced on.  Until they divorced.  And just like that the arts were gone from my life.  The season theater tickets were gone. The classical music was gone.  The tutus were gone.  Without him the practicality of my mother’s side won over.  All of the sudden I was too tall, there was no career in this, there was no scholastic advancement in prancing about.  It was to be given up. Replaced with something more relatable…sports.  And so the soft pink shoes were replaced with Nikes, the leotard with t-shirts and the brightly lit studios with the glare of gym lights.  I was a kid, it was fine. Go along to get along…and sports provided the same positive affirmation as dance, with the additional bonus of looking good on transcripts if I excelled through junior high and high school varsity (which, of course, I did). 

Looking back it was a smart move on my mother’s part.  My mother is good like that. Keeping the long term game plan in mind for how to be a success.  Dancing would not have lead anywhere. And with distinctly non ballerina breasts sprouting and ruining my triple pirouettes who knows if I would have continued to dance for much longer anyway. 

But what-if….what-if the folks hadn’t divorced and the arts had stayed up-front and center in my family’s list of priorities. Would I still have developed into the pragmatic, logical, task oriented person I am today?  Or would I have become more artsy?  That I really have no clue about.  What I do know is that here I am 20 years later, having jumped through the hoops of life and at a point where I want to do something simply for the joy of it. Not for where it will get me or it’s applicability to future avenues of success.  But simply for the feeling it brings me. 

I thought the answer to reaching that feeling was yoga.  I was doing my sun salutation and realized that I loved the movement…but that the mat was far too confining, the music far to sedated, and the joy far too muted.  And so I folded it up, changed the music, and dragged a chair to the middle of the room.  Lightly placing my hand on the “bar” I closed my eyes and it all came flooding back to me. The gentle warm-up routine in the five positions (well actually just four, my thighs and out-turn have fifth position out of my reach at the moment).  The forward and backward bends that stretch all the way to your fingertips. And I smiled. 

There is no stage other than the 12 feet of my living room. My audience of one, a bored canine, is really all I can manage, and even then I feel she is a bit judgmental with her yawns and up cast eyes.  There are no pink tights or slippers (nor should there be). And there is definitely no social benefit to this activity.  But there is the simple feeling of joy for its own sake. And that bit is wonderful.

Cheers
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The Simple Life: I am not disposable

With great life changes come the ability to see with much more clarity than you have when mired down in the slogs of your established day to day life.  Trends that you couldn’t shake because you were already tied into a routine are gone.  The fresh start allows you to reset and be the person that you weren’t able to before.  And I’m not advocating running away when things get tough, I’m talking about even after you have done all you can, and still find yourself pushed into a role that you cannot escape, or at least can’t escape without major damage to your social structure.

With the new simple life comes one such fresh start. That I am not disposable. 

Towards the end of my old life this trend escalated into a teetering tower of obviousness that not even –I- could not ignore.  I had put myself in a position where I was seen as disposable by many of my friends.  At some point along the way I had entrusted my time and heart with people who, apparently, saw things as a one way street. 

The thing with these sorts of people is that when you pull the emergency break, or try and take a turn, or put on your metaphorical hazard lights, they do not slow their party train to acknowledge you are no longer aboard. In some cases they even toss their detritus at you to lighten their load while chugging into the horizon.

It would be easy enough to say that these are callous or bad people.  To push off the blame as being their problem and that nothing is wrong with you.  But that would be a short-sighted erroneous evaluation of the situation.  When you join a social group there is an unwritten agreement that you move as a collective most of the time.  You know your importance, or lack thereof, in the pack by who controls its movements.  When the leader slows, the pack slows.  When the omega slows, it gets eaten.  It’s a basic and driving principle of social interaction, nothing new there.  My insight is that somehow I am an alpha omega. Not to be confused with the “alpha and omega”…talk about a god complex, but an alpha omega.  I enhance the true alpha's status but in no way control the ship.  This is a great position so long as I’m onboard with the prime directive of the herd.  It is a horrible position to be in for two reasons.

First, there is a perception of strength that lets people believe that I will always land on my feet and succeed.  A double edged sword because, while that is usually true, it comes at a great cost that few will acknowledge.

Second, with no true social standing in and of myself, any life troubles leave me standing alone.

Both of these things have occurred in the last year of my life.  Strong friendships dissolved, for their own reasons and unwilling to be shared in such a public domain, and when left standing alone I reset my course and landed on my feet. 

This pattern has repeated in my life and instead of blinding seeking a new social group I find that I am flying solo for a bit and asking the “why” questions.  “Why do I seek these friendships out?  Do I really want to be in such a dynamic, or is it learned behavior?”  This time feels like a sacred moment in my life, with the literal and metaphorical distance to breathe and grow.  In Shakespeare’s word I have heeded the call to “get thee to a nunn’ry” and figure yo shit out ho. (that last bit is a modern day translation).

It has been a blissful respite.  Recently, I found myself rushing back home to my sanctuary from a friend’s gathering because I missed my fortress of solitude.  Despite the state highway 100 feet from my door, there is a quiet here that I have been needing.  The home is safe and lovely and mine alone to read and think and write.  My job peaceful and providing all the surface level social interaction my extrovert side needs.  I swap stories with new people every day, but know that I am not tied to any obligations as a result of that time together.  I do believe I have put myself in a time out until I learn to care for the right sort of people (for me…that definition is different for everyone).  That new friendships will be built in baby steps of time and interactions rather than one sweeping wave of integration.    That I am not disposable, and I will stop putting myself in situations that treat me as such just because it’s what I’ve always done. 

“We cannot solve our problems with the same thinking we used when we created them.”
~ Albert Einstein

Eastern Standard Time: Is that village or town?

I can't imagine what moving to a new state was like prior to our lovely smart phones with built in GPS.  I have lived and died by that little gizmo the past few weeks as I travel around finding all the day to day spots.  You don't realize just how many places you go in a given week without thought until they are all removed.  You need coffee....yea, from where?  Picking up groceries, meeting friends at a bar, grabbing a bite to eat.  Each of these tasks is no longer hopping in the car and driving, it's hopping in the car and grabbing your phone to get directions before starting the car. Like I said, thank gawd for that phone...Can you remember the day when we relied on verbal directions given by our friends over a landline!?  When Thomas Brother's were in the back seat of every car in case you -really- screwed up and missed a turn because the "McDonald's on the left" had shut down.  Crazy times.

 This particular move it is even more exacerbated by the village/town/city structure of the east coast.  On the west coast it's pretty simple.  There is the name of the town, and if you don't belong to a town you are simply in an unincorporated county. 

Out here on the east coast, where colonialist lived and the idea of America and its states grew up around them there is a decidedly more complex answer to the "where do you live" question.  Locals do not bat an eye and clearly all understand each other's answers to that question.  I, with my west coast lag, had a decidedly more stumbled approach when learning my way.  Below is a graphic that is for example purposes only.

As you can see when someone says, "oh it's in Goshen".  It can mean several things.  It can mean the village of Goshen, which we would call a town center, or it can me the larger town of Goshen.  Also, the city of Middletown (cities are defined as more than 50,000 citizens) is located in the town of Goshen.  Please note, that "village" "town" and "city" all have clear and distinct meaning out here with definitions based in historic or population rules. 

I alone, with my west coast eyes, seem to find this an amusing way to structure things.  Cities should not be within a town. Towns by definition are smaller than a city!  Right? Oh silly west coast girl.

When I ask a clarifying question to ensure I'm heading to the correct place people often raise eyebrows and look around to see if my caretaker has lost me...because everyone seems to know what to call "a place" even if that "place" to a stranger like me, actually has three names.  And in a place that calls New York City people "Citidiots" being marked as an outsider is not aways a great thing. 

So far, this has been the most marked difference between the west and east coasts in terms of getting around. 

From all of the villages I have visited I can say that they are all of the same structure, but there doesn't seem to be a chain store anywhere to be found.  They each have a diner, usually named after the village they are in, a couple of neighborhood bars, bakery, hardware store, salon, deli, maybe a gas station, and a smattering of mom and pop restaurants. Oh and a big freakin' church, it's always the tallest thing in town by quite a bit.  The really old kind, back from when the church wanted to make you feel small and not included in god's great plan unless you showed up and paid your alms.  If you want the comforts of Applebee's or Target you must get out of the village and go to a city...which of course means you are still in a town.

Eastern Standard Time: Why I went

So as most of you know I have completed my cross America trek, winding 3000 miles through snow, mountains and Great Plains to transplant myself to the small village of Goshen, New York.  When starting this journey I did not think much of it. Yes to deconstruct one’s life and start anew, as much as one can while still keeping your sense of self, is not something most people do.  But people’s reactions are beginning to convince me that such vagabondery is unheard of in this day and age. People’s reactions have been interesting.  There has been a lot of “wow you’re brave, I could never do that” which I don’t fully understand. I don’t see it as a particularly brave thing to do.  Other reactions which have been more comical are in the vein of “what crimes did you commit?”, “who are you running from”.  Perhaps these people have watched too many Lifetime movies, or are the 12 remaining fans of Ashley Judd films.  But when faced with the same questions so often in these few weeks it has given me lots of time to figure out the “why” behind chucking everything in a car and setting out.  It’s not that I am running from something. It’s that I am searching for something… a place of belonging.  A place of acceptance. And with each passing year it feels like the terrain of that magical land grows a bit more elusive…rapidly reaching the level of requiring magical objects or events to be found.

There have been lovely multi-year stretches where I was happily ensconced in an urban tribe.  If the tribe were being described on the Nature channel I would usually be defined as the quiet alpha female.  I do not lead the party, I am not the loud one, but am usually there behind the scenes, the one that plans, observes, and captures moments for others with a click of the camera. But each time it has come to an end. The details of the how/why are my private thoughts, but each time has taught me a good number of lessons which continue to shape my personality to this very day.  I think right now I am working on the lessons of “you are too hard on yourself”, “your perception is just one version of the truth,” and in the words of one particularly missed friendship, “you think too much”. 

And so with this mindset I took advantage of the one thing being completely unattached has…mobility.  With no family in country, no urban tribe, no friends in crisis, a job that brought no satisfaction other than a cavalier attitude about money, I left.  It’s just that simple.  There are friends that I will (do) miss and a job to find…but there is no more thought to it than that.  And so eastward I went, to a safe harbor of good friends in this tiny little village of 5,000 people.  Where you talk to the neighbors and run into friends on Main Street over your morning cup of Joe…not a single Starbucks or chain restaurant in sight.  I am falling in love with the charm of the east coast…the history of the buildings, gentle rolling hills that are shockingly green, the brusque nature of blue collar mentality that seems to be a mainstay of its people.  It’s a lovely little spot.  Its ways are different enough to remind me multiple times a day that I am, “not in Kanas anymore,” but whether this is the magical land I am looking for is still being determined.  As it should be…I have only been here a mere 10 days.    And friendships are best when tempered with time and context.

Cheers

This is what happens when you watch the Coal Miner's Daughter

I ran across this today. It was an attempt at a some country song lyrics that were rattling around my head months ago after watching the Coal Miner's Daughter  (one of my favorite "old" movies).  There might also have been a bit of whiskey involved that night; and by "might", I mean "definitely", and by "a bit", I mean "I lost count".  
The lovely Hannah Hart has "My Drunk Kitchen"....I tend to have "My Drunk Choir...of one"  but without actually recording and subjecting myself to others. So here it is as poetry....but if you get hollerin' up a tune in the spirit of Patsy Cline or Loretta Lynn, press record and send it my way. Cheers!

DO-OVER MAN
You’re flowing out of me like nicotine
And still you stay with me like parlor ink
Memories of warm coffee in shadows of concrete
Secrets and conversations where we used to meet
Laughing in the light of a summer country fire
Cutting through the bullshit of my walls and thorny  briar
It was 3am when I realized I’d just found a friend
And the days of my lonely wandering came to an end

I’ve stopped asking questions and I’ve stopped watching actions
(Cause) it’s clear to me, you and “sorry”, have never met
It’s a world of fresh starts and dealin’ your new hand
You’re a runaway and do over man.

When the tarnish of truth starts rusting out your suit
And the lies pile up like common junkyard loot
You look at me, oh so sweet and tell me it ain’t true
Don’t believe those lies, don’t trust your heart
Babe I’m an honest man to guard your land
and those words you quote are all second hand

I’ve stopped asking questions and I’ve stopped watching actions
(Cause) it’s clear to me that you and “sorry”  have never met
A world of fresh starts and dealin’ your new hand
You’re a runaway and do over man.

Coming back, believing you was a damn sorry plan
With lessons learned and earnest eyes you seemed a new man
But your line of credit in my heart was quickly used
Here meet my friend, shake her hand, and that was my cue
I didn’t ask, you didn’t say, you just went fadin’ away
your coward’s way to say, yea…I did it again

 I’ve stopped asking questions and I’ve stopped watching actions
(Cause) it’s clear to me, that you and “sorry” have never met
A world of fresh starts and dealin’ your new hand
You’re a runaway and do over man.

Yes you’re a runaway and do over man.

Adventures in Unemployment: Grocery Outlet Bargain Market

Grocery Outlet Bargain Market…..did you read that or sing song it?  It’s a catchy little jingle for the individually owned and operated thrift grocery store that houses the cast offs from the major food chains at clearance prices.  They are scattered about the greater Seattle area. Often tucked into lower end strip malls, they can be found in tandem with other high class establishments such as The Dollar Store, a rundown bowling alley, and cheap fast foods.

I have always driven past them with only the lowest level of recognition at what it was, it’s cheery sign always in contrast with the downtrodden and haggard people walking into them.  But with my new status of unemployed, a meager budget, and an empty cupboard I decided to go on an adventure and see what this was all about.

List in hand and drove my trusty car past the Whole Foods and PCC, past the shiny red Safeways with their glossy everything and shiny yellow sale tags and pulled into the Bargain Market parking lot.  Sure enough, there was the Dollar Store right next door, next to that a questionable Vietnamese restaurant with faded photos of food that never quite look the same when they come to your table.  Expectations were being met, welcome to the lower class! The cars in the lot were few and made my run of the mill RAV look quite illustrious.

Offering to take the cart of a woman in the parking lot who had just finished packing her wares into her car I receive a smile of thanks.  She, for all appearances, is completely normal. Just another suburbanite mom doing the best she can on this random Tuesday afternoon.  Pushing into the store I am greeted with two simultaneous sensations – Bargains!  Thrift shop smell!

Every person in their life should have a period of time in their life when their clothes were purchased from thrift stores, by necessity not novelty.  It’s a good thing because it teaches you the value of money and budgeting.  It may have happened when you were a young kid with struggling parents, or fresh out of school with a head full of dreams and an empty bank account.  But if you were one of the lucky ones to know that period of life you know that there is a smell that comes with a thrift shop. As though along with the worn threads and soles the prior occupant’s scent lingers on each piece, combining into one massive generic scent that is somewhat indescribable yet instantly recognizable.  Things here have been used and reused.  Tags highlighting your savings aren’t torn off and tossed to be replaced with the next batch sent over by corporate and posted by next Wednesday sale.  They are handwritten, in sharpie...somewhere in the back you know there is a glee club, cheerleader personality from the 90s who is using her previous spirit day skills to create the signage for this store.  In truth I find it somewhat endearing, comforting.  There is no pretense and the honesty of the place is right up front.  We give you the best deals we can and forget the fluff.

In the front of the store are odd “not grocery” items…think Target.  Random kitsch and odds and ends that do not fit into any category of the main aisles of the store. There is an old man shuffling through some winter plaid shirts. He definitely fits my preconceived notion of what I would see in this store.  I start reading the prices of the bulk items up front seeing if this really is a bargain.  I’m pulled from my inquisition by an inquiry from a lovely middle aged woman, “Anything I can help you with?”

“No, just here to fill up the cart,”

“Okay if you need anything or have any questions let me know, my name is May,” and she continues on her way. I do believe I just had better, or at least on par, customer service at Bargain Market than most shiny chains.  Things are looking up. 

I go slowly through each aisle, reading tags, seeing if it really is a “bargain” or if they are just blowing smoke.  Each tag has their “Bargain price” followed by (their assertion of) the normal price you would pay for an item.  Some items are a real steal, but they are not all as great as you would think.  The store clearly has a mix of surplus items at great discounts blended with less great offerings that are similar or the same as going to a major chain.  As a cast off grocery store you do not have a full inventory so your list is most liking not going to be completed in this one stop, for example I needed baking soda.  They do not have baking soda, they do not have a baking aisle at all.  I stumble across a section of spices in between cereal and cracker.  But there are no bright orange boxes bearing the flexed arm and promise of being universally good for you. This trip is clearly becoming a hunting expedition rather than an exercise in productivity or efficiency…but hey, when you are unemployed time is no longer your most valuable asset. It’s a definite shift in my mind set. 

“Excuse me sir, can you tell me where those Ritz crackers got moved to?”

“Sorry ma’am, we sold out of those yesterday,”

“Okay, should have grabbed them when I saw them. Thank you,”

MORE customer service!  Knowledgeable staff…what is this little world I’ve tripped into?  It’s relaxed and easy breezy and every person in here is polite.  Looking at the people I realize that I all of us are bargain hunting and shopping more slowly to do it. There are a few woman like me in the store, clearly bargain hunting in their heels and , and there are some more people who look as though this is their main store…but even the kids are well behaved. There is none of that frenzied “get outta my way” that I encounter at the normal stores. Humph. Interesting.

Straight ahead produce and dairy!!  Ohhh this is what I’ve been really curious about.  Produce does not lend itself to deals. Produce is a non-negotiable entity…its window of ripeness firmly dictates that you have 24-72 hours in which to purchase it.  In my head I had Les Mis visions of peasants weeding through moldy cabbage heads, “ohh look Francesca…barely any weevils in this one! We shall serve it for Sunday dinner.” 

It wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t great. I passed over most of the fruit as it looked older and was a hodge podge of small quantities.  My bag of potatoes (10lbs for $1.99) definitely has some age on it.  In the days since this I have found that they are perhaps a little softer than they should be, a little more care required to cut out any dark spots.  The bag of apples I picked up with the express purpose of making applesauce, which was a good call because they were also soft.  To eat them raw would have caused definite flashbacks to my after school days at the YMCA when they threw a mushy apple, two graham crackers and 3 oz. of Tang at you for your snack.

Now the cheese section was a real treat.  Clearly cheeses lend themselves to bargains…and whoa Nelly jackpot!!!  Sure the standards were there generic Kraft American, ubiquitous medium cheddar, but the real delight was on the upper shelf.  Havarti, Parmesan, Gouda, Mozzarella….all super cheap.  I suppressed a squeal lest my enthusiasm key in other shoppers that this was a freaking amazing deal. I did not want to be trampled by more experienced bargain shoppers who would steal my cheese before I could squirrel it safely into my cart.  My eyes flitted right then left to ensure that I didn’t need to engage in bulk grab and go method to avoid being trampled in a stampede of cheese aficionados.  I was safe.  More importantly, my cheese was safe.  Apparently there were no other rabid cheese lovers there this day…the only hands that reached down into the case were there for Kraft and…shudder…Monterey Jack (the most useless of cheeses).  Visions of homemade lasagna floated in front of my head…ricotta, parm, and mozz all tumbled into my cart.  Sandwiches and snacks – well helllllo Havarti, smoked gouda, and brie.  Salads – join the party of curds you beautiful Blue and Feta.  I was officially on a foodie high, pushed even higher by the fact that I had about $60 of cheese in my cart for about $25.  This one section alone made the whole trip worth it.  I stumbled away from the cheese case in a glow that only happens for two reasons…sex and cheese.  Though never together, that would be gross.

After the cheese it was a quick stop in the freezer section, very good deals to be had there. Though I will say this was the most varied in terms of deals. Some things were a steal, and others were not discounted at all. I think this is where they assume that people who want their pizza pockets and bagel bites are going to buy them no matter what.  But for me, if it didn’t have a sale tag it didn’t go in my cart. That said, I had bags of frozen veg and dinner meals that went into my cart.

With a very full cart, more than I can remember buying in recent time…I went to check out. Again, great customer service…quick efficient and courteous…couldn’t have been more pleased.  The whole cart pictured below was just over $100.  The receipt indicated that I had saved $120 “off retail”.  To put that into perspective I could blow $100 in TWO bags of groceries at Whole Foods.

Feeling a little more like an urban huntress than I had any right to, I strutted to my car and loaded my embarrassment of riches into the back.  So much food, relatively little cost, I might have just been bitten by the Bargain Market bug.  The recipes were already swirling around in my head.   

I looked over at the Dollar Store.  I have never been to a Dollar store, perhaps I should take a look.  Nahhhh…I will save that for another day. For another adventure in unemployment.

Unemployment Overview:  This is great to restock your cabinet with basics and cheeses and freezer foods.  It’s not great for a complete shopping trip.  Chips and sodas were either not present or not any great deals with only very few exceptions.  I personally would not get meats there because they didn’t not have organic or better in the meats section…though there was plenty of meat available and it looked fine if you eat Foster Farms, Jimmy Dean kind of things.   Will I shop there again? Most definitely…maybe even after I get a new job.

Cheers!

 

Smile...you are loved.

Tis the day of love…a time to embrace all that is sentimental and wonderful.  Somehow this day has turned into the days of the have and have-nots. Which I have never understood.  I can see how it would happen, understand it in fact.  My household was not like many this day where gifts were exchanged between all and it was a celebration of love.  Valentine’s Day was for my mother, from her husband.  There would be no note, chocolates, or flowers for me the daughter.   When my beaver-cleaver friends (you know, the sort that came from stable homes, had game nights, and family was what you turned to, not ran from) would tell me about their valentine’s it all sounded so lovely that I remember that sentiment much more than my own household memories.  It seemed the message that sticks about this day is that it is a day for love, not a day for lovers.  And so most years I embrace it and use it to tell those special to me how loved they are.  My personal view is that Valentine’s Day is to love what Thanksgiving is to food and family.  I’m thankful for all of those things everyday….it’s just that on the holiday you verbalize your thanks.

This year however I thought I would find myself a bit saddened by this day….There is not one family member within this country.  I am single. Key friendships have been decimated through my own and other’s actions. I don’t even have an ICE (in case of emergency) contact.  My life is very small right now…a handful of amazing friendships, all happily coupled, thrown across the USA and that is it.   I should be completely down in the dumps. I should be crying into a pile of cookie crumbs and an empty frosting container.  And yet, from some unknown place, there is this positivity and optimism surging through me. 

I’m loving this day.  I’m loving the flowers and cards, the little kids with boxes of candy hearts and colorful envelopes, PDAs all up in this place!  Sign me up for all of it.  It’s clearly a sign that this shedding I’m doing (house, possessions, jobs, etc.) is moving me in the right direction.  My happiness is pervasive. My hope growing.  By no longer trudging through my life with the path stretched endlessly before me I am finding happiness in the possibility of “what if”…  Life is now a meandering path running through streams, across the sands, up the sheer face of a mountain cliff, through English gardens, and skimming over crisp snow. What if I went over there? Who will I meet, what will happen?  And so today, despite the smallness of my current life, my “what if” says to you, “happppppy Valentine’s day!” Tell those you care about how much they mean to you because they deserve it.  They deserve it every day, but today open that mouth, take in breath and let those vocal chords vibrate with the resounding sound of love in all its forms.

Cheers –J

 

 

 

Adventures in Unemployment: The Start

I quit.  I simply up and quit.  A job, a great six figure job in a climate where people are struggling, loosing homes, and scrapping by was blithely tossed out the window.  The benefits were good, the job not that hard, but after 20 years of doing the right thing I looked around and realized this is not the life I wanted to live.  So with a little money in the bank, no chance at unemployment to supplement me, and no clear plan or path to happiness, I sent in my resignation with 24 hours notice.

Reactions have crossed the spectrum from “are you insane?” to “omg. You are my hero”.  Frankly neither of those extremes apply to how I feel about things.  Life is seemingly long and short all at once.  It presents small windows of opportunity for change with minimal disruption to others.  This window was screaming, “Tear down the house and start fresh!”  The family obligations are gone, there was no one to support (kids, friends in need, etc.), minimal financial overhead, and a nest egg was sitting there ready to fall back on.  So why not jump?   A life of doing the right thing and falling in line has its rewards to be sure.  You have security, the 401K gets funded, and you are part of normal society, Mon – Fri productively trudging to your little job, and slamming your social life and me time into the two days that are your own.  The path of your life is stretched long and straight in front of you for miles/years. 

For the last year or so that path has been frustratingly boring. Predictable. More of the same “right thing” that I have done for so long.  Working non-stop since 17, college w/ jobs, career job lined up before I graduated, and then work nonstop until three weeks ago. And this nagging thought would not stop pestering me…”why are you doing this?”  In the morning when I awoke, in the car, in my dreams at night…”why are you doing this?”  And I had no good answer.  To support kids? No, no kids.  To support family? No they are retired and well-funded.  To be able to buy whatever you want? No, I’m not really into material possessions or “toys”.  The only answer I could seem to come up with was, “because it’s what’s expected of a successful person.”  The only answer that seemed to garner a yes was not because of my motivations in life, rather a measure of what others defined as a successful life. 

Slow pause of epiphany.

Sooooo what happens if I throw that out the window? What happens if I cease to scamper down this predefined path of American capitalism that someone has deemed the right life to lead? 

The need to quit, and immediately, became my mantra.  But, being responsible, the real work had just begun.  Time for analysis. Time to slice and dice funding scenarios, risk tolerance, and yes…even external opinions of friends and family. The Libra in me placed each pro and con on the scale, weighing, balancing all of the factors, worst and best case scenarios.  In the end the choice was overwhelmingly clear.  I could do this.  I could jump and I would probably be okay.  I awoke one morning a few months later with the utmost of clarity, I was free to jump. 

Regardless of the outcome of this little experiment, that morning will always be held precious in my life.  The crystal clear certainty, the airiness of freedom, the sheer possibilities that unfolded before me took my breath away. 

And thank goodness my assuredness was so strong, because my company did not want me to go. They routed me through HR, through benefits….explore this option, perhaps this would give you the break you need and then come back.  Sure it was tempting…but it wasn’t what my brain told me I needed.  My inner voice very clearly said, “This is not a leave of absence to recharge and return.  This is a stick of dynamite to the house you have built.”  I want to tear my lovely house down to its concrete slab and rebuild.  I am not ungrateful or feel that I have wasted my life until this point.  Quite the contrary, the life I led up to this point was perfect for me and my needs.  Sizable student loans were paid down, assistance was able to be given to my family and friends in their hours of need, the 401k was seeded early and now simply needs time to grow, homes were purchased, trips taken, and tabs picked up for the group.  It was a lovely little life. Key word “was”.

Perhaps this is what people have called a midlife crisis; it could be, though I dislike the label.  A crisis implies doom, something that needs to be staunched immediately so that everything can return to normal.  That is quite the opposite of what I feel. This is something that needs to be explored, given breath to and let roam.  It could be that, like a well-trained horse, I return to the stable and settle back into the same sort of job. Or I could end up being a bartender in some obscure seaside town. It is all unknown to me at this point. The important bit, the absolutely thrilling bit, is that for the first time in 20 years of working there is a choice. 

I get the feeling that my radical notion of “choice” is not so radical to many others.  They raise an eyebrow as if to say, “well haven’t you had the ability to choose your whole life?”  and yes, they would be correct.  I did, technically, have the ability to choose my whole life. But I never had the bravery to act on it I suppose.  The expectations for my life were presented quite clearly by my parents and pleasing my parents was important.  The path was - excel in school, find a career, be successful, by a home, fall in line.  Even to this day I can clearly remember the disappointment my parents had in me when I decided not to pursue a master’s degree.  This was not the plan.  They both hold masters and/or doctorates and the notion that their only child was stopping at a bachelor’s was a bit appalling.  There was much consternation on their part that I would be dropping out of academia at this pathetically low level.  That was only offset with a sigh of relief as I gained employment in the IT field before graduating and they realized that I would not be flipping burgers and wasting my life.

By the way…“Wasting your life”…what the hell does that mean?  This is not a rhetorical question, I would genuinely be interested to know what people’s definition of this is to themselves.  To me it implies that there is a quantitative measurement of usefulness, and its corollary a measurement of uselessness.  But what are those measurements?  The older I get the more they have shifted.  Is it money?  Is it contentedness in life?  Is it reputation or accolades from your chosen profession?  And is it only for certain predefined “worthy” professions?  In my youth I suppose I would have looked down on a person who didn’t make a lot of money and didn’t have many notable possessions.  Their general happiness was a secondary variable.  Now, it seems to me that contentedness, being happy in one’s day to day existence, is the primary variable in the equation of life.  So if you are a hillbilly in a cabin, fishing and reading all day, living off the land…is that wasting your life?  Or is it the CIO toiling away for 90 hours a week at a start-up that is wasting her life?  Without asking them about how content they are I wouldn’t be able to tell you. 

 It has been a couple weeks and I am ready to start exploring options.  The power down stage is completed…I have slept as much as I want, read my backlog of books, watched TV, caught up on neglected friendships, come to peace with friendships that have been lost, contemplated life and my strengths and flaws.  For the moment I feel clearer about my life than I have in a long time.  When you push away the daily grind it’s amazing how clear the big picture becomes.  Those Europeans have it right…a vacation isn’t 1 or 2 frantic weeks with massive work before you go, and backlog waiting for you upon your return.  It’s a 4 week get away every year to chill the eff out.  It’s been three weeks for me and it’s amazing how refreshed my brain feels.

That’s it for now. Enjoy the day and be kind to each other.  Cheers.