Set Your Phasers to Stun

DAY TWENTY-SIX: The Pauper's Belle Epoque

If we take a look at our lives, we can all probably figure out certain phases we went through.  No, I'm not referring to that weird phase where all you did was listen to Fuel.

I can't be certain this is Fuel.  But I can be certain that Wannabe Donnie Wahlberg's
facial hair just negated any orgasm I've ever had.

I'm talking about real genuine life phases.  If our lives were significant enough, I would be referring to these as "eras."  But as an adult in the midst of maturation (and thus starting to realize I'm not, in fact, the center of the universe, and my life holds little significance within said universe), I refuse to apply a word with such grandiose connotations to such a small meandering thought.

But enough with justifications!  Let's get to the point, Williams!

I was talking to a friend of mine last night who recently relocated from Chicago to New York City.  We were discussing the move and what she liked about New York versus Chicago and how she was adjusting to her new life.  And while trying to compare the two cities, she justified the importance of Chicago because she did so much growing up during such an essential time in that city, so it will always hold a special sort of significance.

That significance holds a fondness in her heart.  Regardless of the lows that complimented the highs of that phase of her life.  Is it because we have an innate tendency to let nostalgia tint our perspective on the past?  If that's the case, then I'd have any semblance of a desire to relive high school.

I do not.

But that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the hell out of my high school years.  I was a mess of a person.  But without being such a mess, I wouldn't have grown up to realize how ridiculous I was, and thus, moved away from the immaturity and cries for attention that birthed most of my problems.  It felt like the end of the world at the time, but now, it's rife with comedic potential.

Perhaps the mark of a completed life phase is this fondness.  A realization that everything within that phase has gotten you to where you are right now.  And the ability to blur the pain into the good so it becomes something you can live with.  For that, you have to be somewhat thankful of the shit you plowed through* to get here.

*Andy Dufresne picture omitted for redundancy.

And so I look back on my phases.  

My childhood: Carefree and healthy.  

My adolescence: Oh dear Ferg, thank the godless heavens that social media wasn't a thing back then.

My early twenties: A wandering cesspool of indecision, bad decisions, and lazer vision**.

**Lazer vision included for verbal synergy. 

And so where does that leave me now?  What phase of life am I entering?  How will I know when it's over?

For now, while I'm still optimistic. While I'm still at peace with my decisions. While I can still find the creative discoveries within the crevices of my brain flaps innervating, I will steal from the French. I call this my Belle Époque. A phase that couldn't be possible in my life without the drudgery of the others.  A phase that will have it's ups and downs.  A phase that will hopefully sprout some of the most personally and individually fulfilling moments of my life.  

Let's just hope that the end of my phase isn't the individual's equivalent of World War I, whatever that may be.

I have a feeling this guy knows.
I have a feeling this guy knows all too well.

Yes, and...

DAY TWENTY-ONE: The Pauper Improvises

A long time ago, I remember seeing this teenaged girl doing improv.  In the era of "Whose Line Is It Anyway?" (where the points don't matter), she stood out as a young, fearless improviser.  During a game of "Party Quirks", she was deemed the quirk "thinks she's invisible."  And in a moment of seamless improv-ed beauty, she stood in a corner, boomed her voice over the party, and declared "I am God" before stifling back laughter in character.  We were all rolling in fits of laughter ourselves.  And for some reason, I still remember that*.

As I grew older, theater became less and less a part of my life.  I wasn't performing, and I was rarely going to see any new shows.  And college brought out a competitiveness in theater that I just didn't have the stones to contend with.  But no matter how much I distanced myself from that world due to insecurity, I never could shake it fully.  My years of performing ignited a fire within, and insecurity isn't the bucket of water tossed over the flame that one might think it is.  In fact, insecurity is more like a glass lid.  You place it over the flame and slowly watch it dissipate until all you see is smoke.  But if you lift the lid quick enough, the flame survives and flickers.

Until this bitch rears her gaping maw, that is...

This is all to say that I've been thinking of that young girl a lot lately.  As I have gotten back into improvisation, I realize how difficult it really is to be that whip smart.  Not just to come up with some witty turn of phrase, but to come up with something universally funny based on the situation, the irony, or the sincerity.  And I'm having difficulties understanding how it seemed so easy for her.

I'm not going to pretend that I've yanked the tablecloth out from underneath my faithful readers.  Yes, the young ingenue I've discussed is simply a teenaged version of myself.  This is not to toot my own horn, but I was weirdly good at improv when I was younger.  And considering how insecure I felt during every day life as a teenager, this is a feat that as a secure and confident 26 year old trying her hand at improv once again, I simply cannot wrap my head around. But for some reason, nothing I did on stage was ever embarrassing.  It was my security blanket.  My bowl of tomato soup.  The only place I ever felt I belonged.  And when you feel like that, the plebes from your other world just don't matter.

I've tried my hand at little bits of improv during my year of writing courses.  I've attended free Second City seminars where I suddenly felt like throwing up when asked to walk around a room and assume the identity of a princess with a drinking problem or a troll who is a prima ballerina.  I've vamped during scene readings and "Fucking with the Audience" sketches.  But I have yet to feel that same sense of belonging that I once held so essential to life.

And then last night happened.  During improv, we finally moved beyond the mirror games and Zip, Zap, Zops of the level A world and got to create our own characters and dialogue.  And something very strange happened to my body.  I suddenly found myself volunteering in the first group of one of these games.  And even weirder yet, a suspicious lack of hives.

I suddenly didn't feel this mental block that just a few short weeks ago kept me from being able to brainstorm any sort of object work outside of clay molding a bottle of Maker's Mark.  That fearlessness crept over my body.  The desire to do something I loved conquered the fear of looking stupid.  And I threw on my best Fargo accent and created a happy couple taking polaroids and eating wieners at a cocktail party.  What seemed like an impossibility every day for the past year has suddenly become my current reality.  Am I back to where that young girl was?  Well, not nearly.  But she's still in here somewhere.  She's just trying like hell to push that glass lid off before it's too late.

All Aboard at Anticipation Station

DAY SEVENTEEN: The Pauper Gets Butterflies

It's been a lot of big girl talk of late.  Don't get me wrong, it's been feeling amazing to finally talk like a big girl, but as the countdown to my last day of work nears, the butterflies in my stomach start flapping harder and harder.  They've emerged from their cocoons like an angry Mothra.

With possibilities on the horizon, a vacation booked, a wedding to attend, a Fiona Apple to see; I certainly have a lot to keep me busy in October.  But October isn't really the concern.  If I was concerned about my savings within my first month of unemployment, then I probably would not have been able to venture down this path.  But the cold stink of November and beyond is what has me worried.

Not surprisingly, things at work have gotten much more tolerable since I told them there's really no reason to scold me anymore for things that aren't my fault because, hey, I'm throwing up my two finger salute and peacing out.  It's almost enough to make me think that maybe I could just stick it out until I find something that pays me to be creative.  But then I look at the kind of work I've put out since my proclamation, and I know this is right.

It still doesn't change the fact that this time next week, I won't be getting my Sunday night jitters.  That feeling of impending doom lurking over most nine to fivers.  It doesn't change the fact that I won't be seeing the same people I've spent the majority of my past two and a half years with.  It doesn't change the fact that I still have punch cards at Freshii and Protein Bar that I haven't filled.  And damn it, I deserve my free South Acai'd smoothie!

The thing about routine is most people need to break it up at one point or another.  Interrupt the drudgery of the every day.  Because otherwise we might as well just be real life extras on The Walking Dead.  But the reason we stick to routine is because of the comfort it offers us.  The knowledge that even though things may not get much better, they still won't get worse.  It's a security blanket that most people can't give up.  And I'm just thankful that I realized ignoring my passions is actually my rock bottom.

I didn't include any pictures.  So instead I just Googled "dog on a motorcycle."
For the more visual readers.

No More Living in a Material World

DAY TWELVE: The Pauper... Realizes She's a Pauper

Anyone who is privy to my lifestyle (and wardrobe) could probably tell you I'm not a material person.  Shopping is something to do out of grudging necessity.  There are items in my closet that predate some of the tweens hashtagging about Miley Cyrus on Twitter.  If there are holes in my clothes, only then will I buy new ones sew patches into them.  It's the rules of frugality, and it's just about the only thing I have that proves my Arab roots.

Ready for the weekend

But the thing about realizing your paychecks will soon cease to directly deposit safely into your checking account is that you start to realize what you spend on everything.  For instance, I have been saving money on transportation by riding my bike everywhere in lieu of buying a CTA pass.  Hurray!  Save 100 bucks a month!  However, the bike chafe on these sweaty Indian Summer days tells me I need to make some new purchases.  A new seat would probably be good.  Perhaps invest in some real biker shorts.  Oh, and let's not forget the egregiously painful and rock hard bike "tape" the former owner of my Schwinn decided to strap on.  Maybe I should do something about that...

And then my mind wanders.  

I don't have much in the way of interview clothes, do I?  Although a smart cardigan and sensible shoes really show off that paralegal flare, perhaps they don't scream, "Hire this cool, young adult!"

My make up is starting to hit that point when I wonder at what point make up expires.  I should be okay as long as it doesn't burn, right?  Ah, the question every young man asks before walking into an STD clinic.

It's a good thing I'm focusing on my career goals and not on getting a boyfriend, because these bras are on their last leg... er, cup.  Because I'm a lady, (and because my parents are now privy to this blog) I'm not going to continue further on this one.

Sure, I can get along through life without all these things.  But the one thing I've never really sacrificed - even when it's Tuesday and I realize I have twenty bucks in my bank account - is going out with friends.  Dining, drinking, throwing our heads back in fits of fiendish laughter.  Those are the things I truly enjoy in life.

Until now, I have to tell myself.  Remind myself.  Because there will be a lot less of those moments in my life for the next few months.  But I have to remember that I'm not losing the fun in my life.  I'm simply replacing it.  Replacing the splurge-fueled dining experiences and late nights of debauchery with something more fulfilling in my life.  I'm replacing fun memories (or in the case of late night debauchery, a lack thereof) with a future.  A future of happiness that I don't have to rely on others to provide.  A future where sitting alone on a Friday night in front of my computer typing away as a storm of ideas floods my mind will be more satisfying than shots of whiskey or a mouthful of sashimi.  And just maybe I'll find a way to have them both.

This kid's already half way there.

Either that or I'll find my way back to the financial district of Chicago as a lady of the night.  But don't worry, Mom and Dad, I'll probably just end up as a hooker in the vein of Liz Lemon.

A Kid In The Hall

DAY TEN: The Pauper Lights a Fire

This past week has been a creative resurgence.  The majority of my time outside of work was spent at Second City, either taking class, taking in a show, listening to Dave Foley talk about writing, or watching my very own co-creation be brought to life by some fantastic actors.  This life?  This is the life I want.

So what a bummer my Saturday was when I came down from all this motivation.  I finally told my parents about my decision to leave my job, and I heard nothing that even remotely sounded like criticism.  I was showered in praise, support, and admiration.  And perhaps the best thing I could have heard, "You made the right decision."

After that, it was time to get down to the writing.  But I sat in front of my screen with my scene from our new show searing its blandness into my face.  It desperately needed a rewrite like a desert needs the rain like this guy needs a mountain of ice cream after indulging in some durian.  But nothing was coming to me.  And I remembered Dave Foley quoting Dorothy Parker in the writer's salon, "I hate writing, but love having written."  

Why can't you just be better, words?!

So I did what any self-respecting writer would do during a blockage.  I ordered and ate a Papa Romeo's pizza, added toppings until my order reached the delivery minimum, watched some reruns of Friends, and called it an early night, hoping tomorrow would bring a fresh take on the obstacle at hand.

And this morning, I took another piece of Mr. Foley's advice.  He had said that he would do his best writing in the morning.  He would wake up, and lay in bed thinking about what he wanted to write, even falling in and out of sleep.

And that's what I did.  I allowed myself to think about it, and forced myself to write before I did anything else.

Though only now have I remembered there was one other thing I started this morning.  Oops.

Something glorious happened.  My brain was firing, and I completed the daunting task of a rewrite in less than an hour.  If you think about it, it makes perfect sense.  Your brain is firing like crazy while you are dreaming.  (I myself dreamed that I was pregnant with triplets.  I am to believe the father was Papa Romeo.)  So why not take advantage of those energized synapses and write the moment you wake up?

To this, I say, happy funemployment to me!  How much more satisfying will life be when I wake up and churn out work product than when I wake up and am a product of work?

The Switch

DAY EIGHT: The Pauper Gets Turned On

There's a reason why an illuminated light bulb universally represents an idea.  Don't believe me?  Type "idea" into Google and search images. 

This guy is especially enlightened.

If there is a more apt representation of emerging from the darkness of a quandary or conundrum, mankind has yet to touch upon it.  And though I will try not to over-generalize for the masses, I can personally attest wholeheartedly to the fact that there has been no deeper, darker pit of despair in my 26 years than figuring out why the hell I've been put on this sodding rock.

And this week, I managed to find the switch in my labyrinthine brain.

It's not like it hasn't been on my radar.  I have spent the better part of my life fantasizing about being an actress.  Hell, I even fantasized myself into an Academy Award win at the tender age of seven (take that, Tatum O'Neal!)

But I after a certain point - some time in college when a paralyzing audition shattered my confidence - I figured I just wasn't cut from the same cloth as the people who "make it".  So I shunted out those ludicrous notions of following my dreams.

And then in post-college, 2009 economy boom crash, I materialized a new dream: make just enough money to support myself; working at a job where it feels like lampreys have latched onto my innermost desires.  Tedium for everyone!  Huzzah!

But this week, I found the switch.  And I turned it on.  

During an exercise in my improv class, my teacher told us to clear our thoughts.  That in order to be creative, we need to remove the roadblocks in our minds.  And on September 3, 2013, I removed the giant redwood that plummeted onto the corner of Serotonin and Synaptic Vesicle shortly after that disastrous collegiate audition.  And I realized that I don't have to settle for tedium.  Nobody does.  Why should I believe that I can't "make it?"

There's no way to know for sure if I get to travel down the path I've dreamed of: writing, performing, being generally kick ass.  But I'm going to fight like hell.  The light's finally turned on.  Now it's going to be a lot easier to navigate this labyrinth.

We'll see about that, Williams.  We'll just see about that.

Baby Step: Check

DAY FIVE: The Pauper Casts Her Stone

The hard part is over?  Can we ever say that when we have no idea what the future is going to hold?  What I can say is that my decision has been made.  I tendered my resignation at work, and if my heart rate over the past few days is any indication, at least one hard part is over.

So the game is officially in play.  My current job will soon be but a distant memory.  I took the risk, but now I must put in the hard work it will take to accomplish the goals I want.  I made a decision and set it in motion, and now I shall see if I am really cut out for this whole risk-taking avenue of life, or if I will come crawling back to my job like a feeble minion cast away from the Kingdom of Payday.

But for right now, I will allow myself to enjoy this feeling.  The feeling of taking my life into my own hands, however foolish it may seem.  The feeling that I am in control of my fate.  The feeling of knowing I will never allow myself to settle into a life of mundanity and unhappiness.

Kind of like this.  But (thankfully) with just a metaphorical "river of shit"

So what now?  In the immediate, I am going to dinner with a friend and indulging in Turkish cuisine and a bottle of wine to celebrate.  But tomorrow?  Well, tomorrow I have a thousand and one opportunities that I will try my damnedest to either cease or create.  But the wonderful thing is, for the first time in four years, I know that tomorrow marks a countdown instead of an endless march.