She was ebullient, beautiful and bossy. She'd burst into a Spanish song without notice and then translate the lyrics for us, whether we were interested or not. She would not hesitate to ask people to move out of the seat she'd "claimed" by leaving something on the table in front of it. She'd talk on and on but get annoyed if she stopped and someone else began talking.
And she was a drama queen. When she was upset about something (or usually, someone), she'd literally take to the couch, moaning, all the while proclaiming that she didn't want us to worry about her, that we should just eat and laugh as usual. Eventually she would, faintly, ask for a bite of food or a drink of water, delighting in the way friends would scatter to meet her needs.
So why do we miss her so much?
She had the hugest of hearts. She'd be the first to cry with you over the death of your pet whom she'd never met. She dispensed hugs more often than she dispensed prescription meds. She'd bring a present for any occasion, or just "because". She rejoiced when one of us had something good happen to us.
More than food or drink, she loved music and dancing and laughter. She could never stay sad for long and would laugh louder and longer than anyone else once her tears dried. She's the person you'd expect to see dancing on the bar before night's end and you'd know it wasn't because of alcohol - she got high on life.
Her exuberance was infectious. And when she cared about you, you knew she cared from the bottom of her enormous heart. Yes, she had faults and quirks and eccentricities, as all of us do. I see that as a positive. After all, when we truly love someone, we love them not only in spite of their flaws, but because of them, too. After all, most of our flaws are flip sides of our virtues - you don't get one without the other.
So her delight in being the center of attention was simply a component of her larger-than-life personality, her dramatics a way of embracing life to the fullest, her bossiness a way of corralling all of us who were "hers".
Today, I'd happily cede my chair to her, even if she hadn't "claimed" it. I'd be delighted to hear those torch song lyrics translated again. And I'd let her talk the entire hour if she wanted to. But what would be truly wonderful would be if I had the luxury of knowing she'd be doing those things again and again - the luxury of being able, occasionally, to be irritated by them.
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Friday, April 1, 2011
Regrets
In my line of work, I hear a lot of people talking about their regrets. The marriage they regret. The divorce they regret. The marriage that didn't happen that they regret.... So I recently got to thinking about what I regret. I mean, really regret, not just times I think I probably should have done something differently. And you know what? I can only think of a couple of small instances and those are all about how I treated someone badly when I was in a bad mood.
Although some might argue that I should, I don't regret any of my past relationships. Even the worst ones gave me some amount of pleasure (and gave me an excuse to avoid the dating pool for a bit - always a plus!) From some, I learned about life; from others, I learned about myself; from all, I learned about tolerance.
There are paths I might have chosen that would have been positive ones and sometimes I went another way because of fear or apathy or because I didn't know better. But if I turned away because of fear, or any other reason, that's where I was at that point. It's perhaps unrealistic to think I could have chosen differently, and impossible to know for sure that I should have.
The larger point, of course, is that focusing on regrets is always useless - unless it is a means to learn a better way to do something in the future - and then it becomes a focus on learning and improving, rather than regretting. After I (finally) ended a drama-filled relationship of five years a couple of decades ago, my father said to me how sad it was that I had "wasted the best years of [my] life" on that relationship. I gather I was meant to regret investing so much time on a man who actually was rather a waste of air, but all I could think was, "Really?? Those were the best years of my life?? So what about the decades that lie ahead? It is time to go bungee-jumping without the cord?"
Have I ever dated another man with that particular set of flaws? No. Have I had other drama-filled relationships? Yep, and one of those remains the best relationship I ever had. (Granted, my criteria for "best relationship" may not be the same as that used by 99% of the population.)
Nonetheless, I think the important thing to do is to try to live so as to avoid regrets. Possible? LOL! Of course not, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. I also think we tend to regret the things we didn't do far more than we regret the things we do. So here are some things I'll never regret missing - because I haven't missed them:
sky diving
riding a mechanical bull
singing karaoke in a crowded bar
moving across the country with two suitcases, no job, no apartment and no friends
taking trapeze lessons
dancing on a bar
changing careers ... several times
I'd love to see others' lists of the things they've made sure they'll never regret missing. I might even steal from them to add to my own.
Although some might argue that I should, I don't regret any of my past relationships. Even the worst ones gave me some amount of pleasure (and gave me an excuse to avoid the dating pool for a bit - always a plus!) From some, I learned about life; from others, I learned about myself; from all, I learned about tolerance.
There are paths I might have chosen that would have been positive ones and sometimes I went another way because of fear or apathy or because I didn't know better. But if I turned away because of fear, or any other reason, that's where I was at that point. It's perhaps unrealistic to think I could have chosen differently, and impossible to know for sure that I should have.
The larger point, of course, is that focusing on regrets is always useless - unless it is a means to learn a better way to do something in the future - and then it becomes a focus on learning and improving, rather than regretting. After I (finally) ended a drama-filled relationship of five years a couple of decades ago, my father said to me how sad it was that I had "wasted the best years of [my] life" on that relationship. I gather I was meant to regret investing so much time on a man who actually was rather a waste of air, but all I could think was, "Really?? Those were the best years of my life?? So what about the decades that lie ahead? It is time to go bungee-jumping without the cord?"
Have I ever dated another man with that particular set of flaws? No. Have I had other drama-filled relationships? Yep, and one of those remains the best relationship I ever had. (Granted, my criteria for "best relationship" may not be the same as that used by 99% of the population.)
Nonetheless, I think the important thing to do is to try to live so as to avoid regrets. Possible? LOL! Of course not, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. I also think we tend to regret the things we didn't do far more than we regret the things we do. So here are some things I'll never regret missing - because I haven't missed them:
sky diving
riding a mechanical bull
singing karaoke in a crowded bar
moving across the country with two suitcases, no job, no apartment and no friends
taking trapeze lessons
dancing on a bar
changing careers ... several times
I'd love to see others' lists of the things they've made sure they'll never regret missing. I might even steal from them to add to my own.
We'll always have Prague
I have a love/hate relationship with traveling. I love being someplace different, seeing the sights, meeting the people, eating the food. I hate being away from home, living out of a suitcase, sometimes eating bad food. In the days prior to a trip I basically refuse to think about it (I pack and make all the arrangements but it's sort of like making out a will when you're young and healthy - I'm getting ready but it's not like I'm actually going anywhere!) and when thoughts of the upcoming adventure do intrude, they are pushed aside by thoughts such as "Why did I sign up to do this? I don't want to go anywhere!"
Given my curmudgeonly nature, one might reasonably assume that I never get much farther than my front porch, but one would be mistaken. Periodically, my wanderlust side triumphs over my couch potato side in this ongoing war, and I book a trip. I recently returned from a 10-day journey to Sofia, Bucharest and Prague.
The traditional Bulgarian food is fabulous. And unlike many European countries, they even have a national traditional salad! In many ways, the city still seems very poor, but someone must be shopping at the Dior and Prada stores!
From what I'd read, I actually wasn't expecting much of Bucharest. The guidebooks even said there isn't much to see there. The guidebooks clearly are trying to keep the tourists out of this city so the authors can have it for themselves! From the Parliament Building (the ironically named "House of the People" by the narcissistic leader who built it) to Ferdinand and Maria's summer castle (a ways out of the city, but so worth the trip), the eye simply cannot absorb all the beauty that artisans and craftspeople throughout the ages have created. And many are still creating beautiful things, such as tablecloths that I at first avoided, thinking they'd cost a week's wages, only to find out they could be had for the price of a pizza lunch.
Given my curmudgeonly nature, one might reasonably assume that I never get much farther than my front porch, but one would be mistaken. Periodically, my wanderlust side triumphs over my couch potato side in this ongoing war, and I book a trip. I recently returned from a 10-day journey to Sofia, Bucharest and Prague.
Don't ask why this particular itinerary, just accept that I had some resemblance of a good reason for choosing it ... whether or not I actually did. These may not all be at the top of everyone's must-see list but they should be.
So what did I find there? Sofia is a charming city filled with ancient buildings and new high rises. We stumbled on the oddest changing of the guard I've ever seen, were impressed by the complexity of the peasant costumes (all hand-made, of course, but full of delicate embroidery and beading) and would round a corner, looking for a restaurant, and happen upon a round church.
The traditional Bulgarian food is fabulous. And unlike many European countries, they even have a national traditional salad! In many ways, the city still seems very poor, but someone must be shopping at the Dior and Prada stores!
From what I'd read, I actually wasn't expecting much of Bucharest. The guidebooks even said there isn't much to see there. The guidebooks clearly are trying to keep the tourists out of this city so the authors can have it for themselves! From the Parliament Building (the ironically named "House of the People" by the narcissistic leader who built it) to Ferdinand and Maria's summer castle (a ways out of the city, but so worth the trip), the eye simply cannot absorb all the beauty that artisans and craftspeople throughout the ages have created. And many are still creating beautiful things, such as tablecloths that I at first avoided, thinking they'd cost a week's wages, only to find out they could be had for the price of a pizza lunch.
Yes, we also did a couple of the kitschy tourist things, too, such as eating at Dracula's Castle Restaurant. Where else can one get dinner and a bite on the neck by a stranger?
And finally, we caught the train to Prague. This is my third visit and I'm starting to view it as a home away from home. In my opinion, it ties with Venice as the most beautiful city in the world. (No, I haven't seen them all, but I can still express an opinion.) It's become so popular I feared that it would have also become prohibitively expensive, but no - one can still eat a ridiculous amount of fabulous food for $15 and one can buy one's (third) Bohemian glass chandelier without feeling the need to start skipping meals.
There are more wonderful places to visit than my couch potato side will ever allow me to see, but I've seen enough to have favorites. You can have Madrid. Feel free to keep Rome. And as for Paris - well, I'll always have Prague.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
I am Puma
"Cougers" have been in the news lately but it's time for them to move over. There's a new cat in town!
Puma is the new term for female pole-dancers over the age of 40. Apparently I've been cutting-edge for a couple of years now, and didn't know it. I'm still trying to absorb what being cutting-edge feels like. (Sore? Out-of-shape? Old? Nope, don't want to go with any of those.)
When I joined this craze (movement?), everyone snickered when I said I was taking pole-dancing classes. Some seemed appalled. No longer. With a name attached to us - a cool, strong, feline name at that - no one dares to laugh!
I throw out names of pole tricks (Gemini, Extended Thigh Hold, Superman) and spins (Carousel, Butterfly, One-Legged Fireman), thrilled that I not only speak this foreign language, but can actually demonstrate it. Understand, this isn't something I expected to take up - not in my 40's, 30's or even 20's. I'm the least athletic girl around. Remember grade school sports teams? When everyone got "picked" by the two teams? My best friend, Mary, and I were always the last ones left and we weren't so much chosen as used as leverage. "I'll take Mary if you'll take Susan - after all, you got Cheryl." Do I remember this with shame? With sadness? No; I always felt sorry for the team that got stuck with me. Not only was I that bad at sports, I couldn't have cared less. I was always the kid whose mother was yelling at her, "Put down that book and go outside and play!" My idea of hell was any sort of exercise that didn't involve music or mattresses (only slow music at that).
But here I am, with actual arm muscles that are not only visible, but useful, and abs that allow me to climb a pole, lean all the way back, stretching my arms to the floor, then easily pull myself back up to a sitting position. I bear no relation to the woman I have always been. So who the hell am I now? No - wait - I just found out. I am Puma. Hear me roar!
Puma is the new term for female pole-dancers over the age of 40. Apparently I've been cutting-edge for a couple of years now, and didn't know it. I'm still trying to absorb what being cutting-edge feels like. (Sore? Out-of-shape? Old? Nope, don't want to go with any of those.)
When I joined this craze (movement?), everyone snickered when I said I was taking pole-dancing classes. Some seemed appalled. No longer. With a name attached to us - a cool, strong, feline name at that - no one dares to laugh!
I throw out names of pole tricks (Gemini, Extended Thigh Hold, Superman) and spins (Carousel, Butterfly, One-Legged Fireman), thrilled that I not only speak this foreign language, but can actually demonstrate it. Understand, this isn't something I expected to take up - not in my 40's, 30's or even 20's. I'm the least athletic girl around. Remember grade school sports teams? When everyone got "picked" by the two teams? My best friend, Mary, and I were always the last ones left and we weren't so much chosen as used as leverage. "I'll take Mary if you'll take Susan - after all, you got Cheryl." Do I remember this with shame? With sadness? No; I always felt sorry for the team that got stuck with me. Not only was I that bad at sports, I couldn't have cared less. I was always the kid whose mother was yelling at her, "Put down that book and go outside and play!" My idea of hell was any sort of exercise that didn't involve music or mattresses (only slow music at that).
But here I am, with actual arm muscles that are not only visible, but useful, and abs that allow me to climb a pole, lean all the way back, stretching my arms to the floor, then easily pull myself back up to a sitting position. I bear no relation to the woman I have always been. So who the hell am I now? No - wait - I just found out. I am Puma. Hear me roar!
Sunday, February 20, 2011
I'm in crush!! Make it stop!
Remember your first crush? How old were you? What did he look like? What made it special?
I remember mine, though I suppose this should be embarrassing - probably on a lot of levels! I was a bit young - three or four - and I had a crush on our paper boy. From all accounts, I had good taste - he was smart, cute and personable. (And gay, but that's a story for a different post.) Seems my parents had been trying to get me to stop using my pacifier, believing that I was too old for it, but I was devoted. One day, however, the paper boy told me that I was too big to use the pacifier and it wasn't becoming. I put it down without a backward glance and never picked it up again.
My next crush came about in kindergarden. Starting a lifelong trend, I developed a crush on the only Jewish (and gay) boy there. His mother and mine held out hope for years that this would actually lead to a romance somewhere down the line.
But I grew older ... and went into first grade. There, there were three boys who wanted me to be their girlfriend. (What is that nonsense about boys thinking girls have cooties until they reach puberty??) Two of the boys used to fight over me at recess every day. So which one did I choose? The third one - who brought me candy - of course. (None of the three were gay, so I had to resort to other methods of choosing.)
There were numerous other crushes, some of which had bittersweet endings such as the fifth grade boy who was moving away and who insisted on giving me his used notebooks as we cleaned out our desks at the end of the year; that seemed a weird sort of "present", but I took them - and spent the next few months swooning over all the "Mike loves Susan" and "Mike + Susan" notations that filled them.
Some ended sadly, with no indication of shared interest. One or two ended with a couple of dates. But the feeling was alway the same. That first moment of realizing that his presence made my heart beat faster, my eyes light up. Those hours of day-dreaming and creating scenarios in my head that led to his cliched declaration of love. The extra primping on days when I might run into him.
And - they're back!
Of course, at some point I realized that there are crushes, and there are show crushes. The latter is a concept everyone in theatre understands, even if they don't admit it. The major difference between the two is that "real" crushes develop out of nowhere, based on the person himself. Show crushes often develop from the heightened intensity of the work the actors are doing, the camaraderie born of late hours, emotions unleashed while in character, and the need to quickly form bonds that must feel real in order to appear real.
One feature of show crushes is that they often end with the closing curtain on the final performance. Someone I lust over night after night during the rehearsal and performance stage appears to me as dull, unattractive or annoying once the show closes. That doesn't mean that these crushes are silly. In fact, they can add a layer of zest to performances as a crush can make one feel more alive and cause one to work harder to impress the object of one's crush.
So - to bring us up-to-date, about a year ago, I did a show and early on developed a crush on one of the men involved. First, he's not my type. (Okay, he's Jewish, but he's not gay, nor does he have the "look" that attracts me. He's not even the larger-than-life, someone with whom I can share the spotlight type.) Second, he's not interested in dating shiksas. And third, there is a HUGE age difference. Even I, who have no problem dating men who are over a decade younger than I, see this particular age difference as daunting (from my perspective) and insurmountable (what I imagine his perspective to be, were he to consider it). But did this prevent me from finagling a seat next to him during notes? Did it stop me from seeking him out to work together during set construction? Did it keep me from finding ways to get him all to myself for stolen moments of breathing in only the air he breathed? Pshaw! It did not.
Still, shows, as do most things in life, come to an end and I figured I'd look back with fondness on this chap who had given me hours of day-dreaming pleasure as well as some charming conversations and witty exchanges. I assumed I'd be happy to count him as a friend as the crush immediately dissipated.
Alas! It's now a year later, I've seen him numerous time since, and not once have I looked at him and thought "How cute that I had a crush on him. Of course, I can't see why, now, but it was fun for a while." Instead, I look at him and think about running my fingers through his hair and wonder what kissing him would be like. Once in a while I dream about him. While sleeping. And I still finagle ways to sit next to him when a group of us gets together.
I keep waiting for him to reveal some fatal flaw that will dissolve this crush. For him to tell me that he never writes thank-you notes (though I know for a fact that he does) or that he undertips waiters (nope - 'fraid not) or disdains recycling (I've no evidence about this one, so I hold out hope - but scant hope). Instead, he shares my values, is thoughtful and unfailingly considerate of those around him, is generous and respectful, extremely intelligent yet humble, funny and unusually talented, responsible, fiscally capable, trustworthy, honest, polite and helpful. And he is straight!!
Okay. Given all of these characteristics, it's probably too much to expect that my crush is going to go away. And I'm realistic enough to know that it's not going to go anywhere else, either. But what a feat! I've managed to find the perfect guy! A guy who, a year into our friendship, still has not exhibited any close-to-fatal flaws. A guy who just seems to get better and better. I've finally managed to choose wisely. It really would be too much to expect that I could actually have him, too, wouldn't it?
I remember mine, though I suppose this should be embarrassing - probably on a lot of levels! I was a bit young - three or four - and I had a crush on our paper boy. From all accounts, I had good taste - he was smart, cute and personable. (And gay, but that's a story for a different post.) Seems my parents had been trying to get me to stop using my pacifier, believing that I was too old for it, but I was devoted. One day, however, the paper boy told me that I was too big to use the pacifier and it wasn't becoming. I put it down without a backward glance and never picked it up again.
My next crush came about in kindergarden. Starting a lifelong trend, I developed a crush on the only Jewish (and gay) boy there. His mother and mine held out hope for years that this would actually lead to a romance somewhere down the line.
But I grew older ... and went into first grade. There, there were three boys who wanted me to be their girlfriend. (What is that nonsense about boys thinking girls have cooties until they reach puberty??) Two of the boys used to fight over me at recess every day. So which one did I choose? The third one - who brought me candy - of course. (None of the three were gay, so I had to resort to other methods of choosing.)
There were numerous other crushes, some of which had bittersweet endings such as the fifth grade boy who was moving away and who insisted on giving me his used notebooks as we cleaned out our desks at the end of the year; that seemed a weird sort of "present", but I took them - and spent the next few months swooning over all the "Mike loves Susan" and "Mike + Susan" notations that filled them.
Some ended sadly, with no indication of shared interest. One or two ended with a couple of dates. But the feeling was alway the same. That first moment of realizing that his presence made my heart beat faster, my eyes light up. Those hours of day-dreaming and creating scenarios in my head that led to his cliched declaration of love. The extra primping on days when I might run into him.
And - they're back!
Of course, at some point I realized that there are crushes, and there are show crushes. The latter is a concept everyone in theatre understands, even if they don't admit it. The major difference between the two is that "real" crushes develop out of nowhere, based on the person himself. Show crushes often develop from the heightened intensity of the work the actors are doing, the camaraderie born of late hours, emotions unleashed while in character, and the need to quickly form bonds that must feel real in order to appear real.
One feature of show crushes is that they often end with the closing curtain on the final performance. Someone I lust over night after night during the rehearsal and performance stage appears to me as dull, unattractive or annoying once the show closes. That doesn't mean that these crushes are silly. In fact, they can add a layer of zest to performances as a crush can make one feel more alive and cause one to work harder to impress the object of one's crush.
So - to bring us up-to-date, about a year ago, I did a show and early on developed a crush on one of the men involved. First, he's not my type. (Okay, he's Jewish, but he's not gay, nor does he have the "look" that attracts me. He's not even the larger-than-life, someone with whom I can share the spotlight type.) Second, he's not interested in dating shiksas. And third, there is a HUGE age difference. Even I, who have no problem dating men who are over a decade younger than I, see this particular age difference as daunting (from my perspective) and insurmountable (what I imagine his perspective to be, were he to consider it). But did this prevent me from finagling a seat next to him during notes? Did it stop me from seeking him out to work together during set construction? Did it keep me from finding ways to get him all to myself for stolen moments of breathing in only the air he breathed? Pshaw! It did not.
Still, shows, as do most things in life, come to an end and I figured I'd look back with fondness on this chap who had given me hours of day-dreaming pleasure as well as some charming conversations and witty exchanges. I assumed I'd be happy to count him as a friend as the crush immediately dissipated.
Alas! It's now a year later, I've seen him numerous time since, and not once have I looked at him and thought "How cute that I had a crush on him. Of course, I can't see why, now, but it was fun for a while." Instead, I look at him and think about running my fingers through his hair and wonder what kissing him would be like. Once in a while I dream about him. While sleeping. And I still finagle ways to sit next to him when a group of us gets together.
I keep waiting for him to reveal some fatal flaw that will dissolve this crush. For him to tell me that he never writes thank-you notes (though I know for a fact that he does) or that he undertips waiters (nope - 'fraid not) or disdains recycling (I've no evidence about this one, so I hold out hope - but scant hope). Instead, he shares my values, is thoughtful and unfailingly considerate of those around him, is generous and respectful, extremely intelligent yet humble, funny and unusually talented, responsible, fiscally capable, trustworthy, honest, polite and helpful. And he is straight!!
Okay. Given all of these characteristics, it's probably too much to expect that my crush is going to go away. And I'm realistic enough to know that it's not going to go anywhere else, either. But what a feat! I've managed to find the perfect guy! A guy who, a year into our friendship, still has not exhibited any close-to-fatal flaws. A guy who just seems to get better and better. I've finally managed to choose wisely. It really would be too much to expect that I could actually have him, too, wouldn't it?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Is Anyone Hiring
Since things are iffy with my job situation, I've been doing what I do best - figuring out all the possible worst case scenarios. Now I don't just look at the downside - I look for possible fixes. First, it occurred to me that I might find two roommates and they could each rent out one of the "real" bedrooms. Surely I can live in the over-sized closet that delusional real estate agents list as a third bedroom. Granted, I can't even fit a full-sized sofa in there, much less a bed, but I can sleep on the love seat. When one can't afford food, maybe one gets shorter as well as thinner? Come to think of it, possibly I could rent that room out, too, and live in the walk-in closet if that won't disturb the renter for the master bedroom.
Second, I search for job possibilities. Naturally, no one in my field will hire me, regardless of my advanced degrees and years of experience. In fact, I'm sure there are no jobs in my field. Anywhere. So I take note that Macy's is hiring. And surely I could drive a pizza delivery truck! Given my complete klutziness, I think waiting tables would be a hospital room waiting to happen, but I could be a hostess. I know how to smile and I could probably show people to a table if I don't have to carry anything more fragile than menus.
Or I could just accept that I'm a loser and give up and move back to my hometown and live with my father and annoy him. I would be a hermit and never go out, just cook for my father (who hates my cooking) and read long Russian novels about lives filled with gloom.
Well, even I finally got bored of thinking about my doomed future and decided to think about what happened when past jobs ended. One of my early jobs was with a small newspaper in New York. The two owners ran the place and one of them was bucking for worst-karma of the century. (Shortly after I left the job, the building where the paper was housed caught on fire. The fire department evacuated the building and as this was happening, this particular owner called in. When he was told what was going on, he informed the staff that if any of them left their desks, he would fire them! That's the kind of charmer he was.) I only stayed at the job for a month, but left with some great stories, one of the best being about my departure. I gave the (other) owner two hours notice. As I was walking out, the receptionist said to me, in all seriousness, "I can't believe you're leaving! You've been here so long." A month. (We did have several people who would start at 9:00 and quit by 11:00, so I understood.)
Thing was, I didn't have another job lined up. Nada. I'm living in NYC, a somewhat expensive locale, and I was suddenly, and of my own volition, unemployed. Did I tuck my tail between my legs and flee? No. I cried for a couple of days, but had another job by the end of the next week.
A few jobs later (this was when I was young and had jobs - not a career), I was working for yet another despicable character. In truth, most of my bosses have been wonderful, but the monsters do stand out. He walked into my office and asked about a project I'd been assigned. As I'd been asking for clarification from him for weeks, and had gotten nothing, I'd made no progress. He threw a file at me and stormed out. I typed up my resignation, picked up the phone, made a call and said, "I'm leaving my job. Have anything for me?" Told that I'd start something the following week, I waited until 5:00, walked into his office, put my resignation on his desk, and left the job.
Problem is, when one is just starting out and has the youthful delusion of nothing but happy endings, one is more excited than terrified by endings. Aside from the comfort of ignorance and the fact that, actuarially, one has more years ahead in which one can fail (or succeed), is there really much difference between being in one's twenties and being in one's ... more than twenties? Granted, it's been years since I led my entire non-unionized department in a walk-out to protest work conditions (which we were successful in changing), but it was only last year that I took a trapeze class. I still take chances, even if they are different ones. And while I now more fully realize the enormity of possibilities for failure, I also more fully realize the inevitability of change and the certainty that nothing remains all good - or all bad.
Thus, with my somewhat tempered perspective, I'm trying to look at the best-case scenarios as well as the worst. Nonetheless, I have that "roommates wanted" ad composed, even if only in my head.
Second, I search for job possibilities. Naturally, no one in my field will hire me, regardless of my advanced degrees and years of experience. In fact, I'm sure there are no jobs in my field. Anywhere. So I take note that Macy's is hiring. And surely I could drive a pizza delivery truck! Given my complete klutziness, I think waiting tables would be a hospital room waiting to happen, but I could be a hostess. I know how to smile and I could probably show people to a table if I don't have to carry anything more fragile than menus.
Or I could just accept that I'm a loser and give up and move back to my hometown and live with my father and annoy him. I would be a hermit and never go out, just cook for my father (who hates my cooking) and read long Russian novels about lives filled with gloom.
Well, even I finally got bored of thinking about my doomed future and decided to think about what happened when past jobs ended. One of my early jobs was with a small newspaper in New York. The two owners ran the place and one of them was bucking for worst-karma of the century. (Shortly after I left the job, the building where the paper was housed caught on fire. The fire department evacuated the building and as this was happening, this particular owner called in. When he was told what was going on, he informed the staff that if any of them left their desks, he would fire them! That's the kind of charmer he was.) I only stayed at the job for a month, but left with some great stories, one of the best being about my departure. I gave the (other) owner two hours notice. As I was walking out, the receptionist said to me, in all seriousness, "I can't believe you're leaving! You've been here so long." A month. (We did have several people who would start at 9:00 and quit by 11:00, so I understood.)
Thing was, I didn't have another job lined up. Nada. I'm living in NYC, a somewhat expensive locale, and I was suddenly, and of my own volition, unemployed. Did I tuck my tail between my legs and flee? No. I cried for a couple of days, but had another job by the end of the next week.
A few jobs later (this was when I was young and had jobs - not a career), I was working for yet another despicable character. In truth, most of my bosses have been wonderful, but the monsters do stand out. He walked into my office and asked about a project I'd been assigned. As I'd been asking for clarification from him for weeks, and had gotten nothing, I'd made no progress. He threw a file at me and stormed out. I typed up my resignation, picked up the phone, made a call and said, "I'm leaving my job. Have anything for me?" Told that I'd start something the following week, I waited until 5:00, walked into his office, put my resignation on his desk, and left the job.
Problem is, when one is just starting out and has the youthful delusion of nothing but happy endings, one is more excited than terrified by endings. Aside from the comfort of ignorance and the fact that, actuarially, one has more years ahead in which one can fail (or succeed), is there really much difference between being in one's twenties and being in one's ... more than twenties? Granted, it's been years since I led my entire non-unionized department in a walk-out to protest work conditions (which we were successful in changing), but it was only last year that I took a trapeze class. I still take chances, even if they are different ones. And while I now more fully realize the enormity of possibilities for failure, I also more fully realize the inevitability of change and the certainty that nothing remains all good - or all bad.
Thus, with my somewhat tempered perspective, I'm trying to look at the best-case scenarios as well as the worst. Nonetheless, I have that "roommates wanted" ad composed, even if only in my head.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
Musings on Happiness
Several years ago, I realized that there are three areas of my life that largely determine my emotional state at any given moment. These are not necessarily the most important, as family and health top that list, but they are crucial to what I deem my "happiness". The three are: career, love life, and theatre life, in no particular order. (Obviously, career encompasses both enjoyment and solvency.)
In order to be less-than-miserable, I need for one to be working well. In order to be well content, I need for two to be in good shape. As I can count the number of times I've had all three going right at the same time on one ... well, finger ... that's a level of bliss I dare not expect.
For a while now, though, none of the three have been going well (granted, I decided a few years ago that relationships are something I don't do well and so gave them up) and I've been pressed to probe deeper in order to keep my head above gloom.
Taking a cue from Julie Andrews, I've been relying on some of my favorite things and thought they are worth listing ... even if they have little to do with raindrops on mittens.
Here are some of the things that keep me from despair:
Snuggles with my cats
Daydreams
REALLY good chocolate
Laughter with friends
My father telling me about the women who flirt with him
Perfecting a trick on the pole that has eluded me
Remembering the words to a song I used to love
The sight of a beautiful chandelier
A warm towel after a shower
A book that is difficult to put down
The first sip of a good glass of wine
Seeing a friend whom one rarely sees but misses terribly
A good hair day
That sexy dress still fitting
A place to wear that sexy dress
A client who says you've made a huge (positive ) difference in their life
A candlelight dinner - even if it's solo
A day without a technology problem
Knowing all the laundry is done for at least a week
Going to bed without setting the alarm clock
A gorgeous guy who flirts with me, even though I know I'll never see him again.
If I never act (on-stage) again, and if my job totally falls apart and I wind up unemployed and possibly homeless, I hope to remember these things that got me through some tough times ... and I hope to develop another list to get me through that.
In order to be less-than-miserable, I need for one to be working well. In order to be well content, I need for two to be in good shape. As I can count the number of times I've had all three going right at the same time on one ... well, finger ... that's a level of bliss I dare not expect.
For a while now, though, none of the three have been going well (granted, I decided a few years ago that relationships are something I don't do well and so gave them up) and I've been pressed to probe deeper in order to keep my head above gloom.
Taking a cue from Julie Andrews, I've been relying on some of my favorite things and thought they are worth listing ... even if they have little to do with raindrops on mittens.
Here are some of the things that keep me from despair:
Snuggles with my cats
Daydreams
REALLY good chocolate
Laughter with friends
My father telling me about the women who flirt with him
Perfecting a trick on the pole that has eluded me
Remembering the words to a song I used to love
The sight of a beautiful chandelier
A warm towel after a shower
A book that is difficult to put down
The first sip of a good glass of wine
Seeing a friend whom one rarely sees but misses terribly
A good hair day
That sexy dress still fitting
A place to wear that sexy dress
A client who says you've made a huge (positive ) difference in their life
A candlelight dinner - even if it's solo
A day without a technology problem
Knowing all the laundry is done for at least a week
Going to bed without setting the alarm clock
A gorgeous guy who flirts with me, even though I know I'll never see him again.
If I never act (on-stage) again, and if my job totally falls apart and I wind up unemployed and possibly homeless, I hope to remember these things that got me through some tough times ... and I hope to develop another list to get me through that.
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