That Barrel-Chested SOB

DAY FIFTY-THREE: The Pauper Times It Right

“Put your hand on a hot stove for a minute, and it seems like an hour. Sit with a pretty girl for an hour, and it seems like a minute. That's relativity.” - Albert Einstein

Time.  Friend or foe?  Hero or villain?  Protagonist or antagonist?

One of the reasons I quit my job was because I never felt like I had enough time to do the things that I wanted to do.  I was emotionally exhausted by the end of each work day (being a human chew toy will do that to a person.)  So my goal from the minute I walked into my second story apartment was to shut down.  Make an easy dinner.  Pour a glass bottle of wine.  Binge on 30 Rock reruns courtesy of our great, red friend.  There was never any time.  Or at least never the right kind of time.

And here I am, fifty-three days post-decision.  And time has become my mortal enemy in lieu of the barrel-chested companion my heart craved.  

Brought to you in RealD by Time.

Suddenly, there's simply too much of it.  It sits there mocking me for not getting things done.  The financially responsible side of me panics on a daily basis and spends most of the day applying for jobs.

The truth is, I can't say that last statement in earnest.  Yes, there's the panic that hits me in the midst of catching up on Homeland (a lunchtime respite) when my mind wanders into the regions of remembering that rent is due tomorrow while my plane ticket to London shouts insensitive slurs on my credit card bill.  My stomach both drops and jumps inside its connective tissues.  But that's not the whole truth.

Failing at finding a job is the easier option.  If I can't find a more interesting job that I at least somewhat enjoy, it's the easier pill to manage down.  Because it's really just something I want.  But to fail at writing.  To fail at the only thing that really feels like it matters in my life right now.  To fail at my passion.  It's not really something I feel like I can handle.

And so I wait.  I procrastinate.  Until the panic turns into fuel.  Until the rejections turn into some form of mental cocaine.  Until I simply can't handle it anymore.

Happy Halloween, everyone.  I'm not dressing up because right now, I can't think of anything scarier than exactly what I'm doing right now.

Except hillbillies.  Nothing scarier than hillbillies.

To A Poet

DAY FIFTY-ONE: The Pauper Returns

There's something about returning from vacation that is one of the most unsettling feelings you can experience.  We've all experienced it.  It's this hardened pit stuck in your core that slowly seeps its way into your esophagus until you feel like you might actually choke on your own anxiety.  You get to have the highest of highs; seeing beautiful sites, spending time with loved ones, and simply being away from the doldrums of responsibility.  But when you return, you are reminded of the every day.  The ordinary.  The doldrums of responsibility.

Because of this common feeling, I figured I had concocted a solution to the Back in Town Blues.  I quit my job, and then I bought a plane ticket out to London to see my family.  My thought process being, I'll come home from vacation and still be on vacation.  I don't have to drag myself into an office that fills my every essence with self-loathing.  Instead, I can still sleep in.  Still go take a random walk around town.  Still do whatever I want and ignore the doldrums.

But what I did not anticipate is that a more fearsome sense of anxiety lurked around the corner of my return.  A one-two punch to the gut that makes the hardened pit of returning to work life seem like a game of patty-cake with your two-year-old niece.

I'll begin with the first pang.  Imagine being surrounded by undying love and support for two weeks straight.  Not simply some tangential love that you know always exists, but actually feeling it, seeing it, and touching it.  Feeling the embrace of your parents that you haven't felt in close to a year.  The look in their eye when you say something that you know they are proud to hear.  A look and a feeling that can't be replicated via Skype, no matter how hard our scientists and engineers try to put our lives online.  Imagine all this love that you anticipate as you walk out of customs at Heathrow; the thrill of seeing your mother giddy as a, well, mother who hasn't seen her daughter in nearly a year.  And then contrast that with the feeling of walking out of customs at O'Hare International Airport 12 days later.  A long flight that you can still feel in your legs 3 hours later.  Your hair is greasy - not seeing a point in showering that morning.  And you walk out of customs to signs of fanfare for other passengers.  The same terminal you've greeted many a visitor in the past, but now you must make your own personal walk of shame to the taxi cab line because you are too exhausted to drag your stupid suitcase all the way to the train.  It's a feeling of emptiness.  Of loneliness.  Of realizing the best things in life are fleeting.

But even worse is the moment a newly unemployed young writer walks into her apartment and realizes there truly are no more excuses.  Vacation is over.  It's time to write.  And forcing yourself to get up every morning and maintaining this amorphous schedule is probably the scariest thing I've ever faced.  Scarier than Disney World's Alien Encounter ride at 10 years old.  Scarier than pulling the ripcord on Daredevil Dive.  Scarier than getting my heartbroken.  If I fuck this up, it's not because I'm not talented (I've finally convinced myself that isn't true).  No.  If I fuck this up, it's because I didn't try my damnedest.  Failure will only happen because of laziness or fear.  If I fuck this up, I have no one to blame but myself.

Dear reader, please excuse the ramblings.  I spent about 8 hours pondering what I wanted to write (and watching "The Way Way Back" and reading "Gone Girl", and staring out the window while listening to my ipod, but who's counting?)  But dear reader, one thing I highly recommend if you ever find yourself flying over top the snowy peaks of Greenland and Northern Canada, please do yourself a favor and put down the Candy Crush, pause "White House Down", and just take it in.  Preferably while listening to some Nordic band who really knows their lyrical way around snowy atmospheres.  My drink of choice: First Aid Kit.  It is breathtaking.

The Footnotes of Our Lives

DAY FORTY-TWO: The Pauper Makes a Footnote

There's a reason reality shows typically have some sort of writer credited.  It's because reality itself isn't all that interesting.  As I sit on my couch in my pajamas at 12:40 p.m. on a Thursday, I can tell you this statement is chock-full of truth.

Time in a lifespan is relative.  It's why I can remember at four-years-old a terrifying nightmare my brother told me he had about a monkey popping a balloon and screaming at him, but I can't remember what I had for lunch one week ago today.

Though if routine has anything to say about it, odds are on the turkey sandwich's side.

Our lives are marked by moments, footnotes, and events.  It's only in retrospect that we can differentiate.  A first kiss to a 14-year-old girl on the bleachers during a football game can seem like a monumental event.  But twelve years later, after hundreds of other kisses - some meaningful, some regretful, some forgotten - that kiss loses its impact.

Is there any way that we can determine the significance of an event in the moment?  For an alcoholic, an event can be as simple as that first lonely swig of the bottle, and the comforting warmth the liquor can bring.  But it can also be an intervention, trip to the hospital, or horrific car accident that can symbolize an important life event.  Or perhaps none of these amount to much beyond extraneous bills and continuing down the path of destruction.  The thing is, we will never be able to tell in the moment what a moment means to us.

I've been going on and on about this monumental decision I made.  Whether stating it in blog form or blathering to my family at a recent wedding, I've been describing this event as the turning point in my life.  But there's no way of knowing this to be true.  On the one hand, this could be my break from the monotony of a thankless office job, and I can figure out my true calling.  On the other hand, this could be the moment my development became arrested, and I meander through life working odd jobs just to pay the bills, but never amount to much more than a common prole.

You often hear success stories where people make a pivotal decision to pursue their dreams.  I heard that Halle Berry was homeless, that J.K. Rowling took her child and escaped an abusive husband in the middle of the night, or that Elizabeth Berkley actually threw crystals on the stairwell of her rival to ensure a starring part in a Las Vegas showgirl revue.

That last one was possibly a fictionalized account.

You hear these stories, and it simply seems like some sort of footnote on that person's life.  Like it wasn't much of a struggle because, hey, look where they are now!  It's often read as such a small moment building toward the final outcome.  But I've started to imagine what those moments must have felt like.  Those decisions people are forced to make in order to make their lives better, or at least tolerable.  And even if it winds up as a footnote in an interview or on a Wikipedia entry, it meant something much larger to the person who lived that life.

But for right now, my monumental decision has passed.  I'm out of work, and I can't change that decision.  Right now, I'm just experiencing the doldrum of the day in and day out.  Attending comedy classes and rehearsals at night, but spending the majority of my days either reading about screenwriting, writing, or watching episodes of 30 Rock for inspiration.  It's not much of an interesting life at the moment, but hopefully it will go down in my history books as a little footnote on the path to greatness.

Surrogate City

DAY THIRTY-FOUR: The Pauper Says Goodbye

Family is a fluid term.  Yes, the images conjured that immediately leap to mind with the word are often the mother, father, offspring and perhaps a cute little furry creature in the corner.  We all have this family.  It's a blood relation formed the moment of conception.  But through our lives, we formulate new families as we branch on our own.

Sometimes, when your immediate family, say, moves to another country, or you move to another city; its the blood bonds that keep you together.  But their absence means that you need to supplement your familial belonging with something new.  For twenty-somethings branching into their own lives, this often means a circle of friends.  Classmates (at a school of improv), or your job.

Today I said goodbye to one of my families.

For most people, work is what we do day-to-day to receive a paycheck to support ourselves.  We do the daily grind of nine to five not necessarily out of passion for the job at hand, but because the compensation is what we need to do the things that supplement our lives.  But when you are at this supplementary life situation, you don't realize that the day-to-day drudgery actually fills most of your life.  It's simply what you do.  It's not until you leave your post that you realize you've actually formed a family with your co-workers.  You see these people more often than your biological family, your friends, or your sweet as hell kitty that nestles on your chest the moment you lay down for a binge session of "Breaking Bad" on Netflix.

But your work family is your family.  It's the people you see for an average of 40 hours a week.  Compare that to anyone else in your life.  Even a roommate can come up short.

Today I said goodbye to my work family of over two years of my life.  I've done this multiple times.  But today was different.  Today was a family I deserted for selfish reasons.  A family who loved me enough to throw me a surprise party in the conference room and share their feelings on why they would miss me, but how excited they were to see me pursuing my dreams.  These are people I have clocked in just under 5,000 hours of my life with.

The thing about work families is that most of us spend our time with them doing something we find necessary to live our "outside lives."  But we spend so much time with them during this time that we often forget to seek them out during our "off" work periods.  That doesn't diminish the relationship, but rather takes it for granted.  Like a couple hitting their seven year itch, our work families are always simply there.  So even when you've prepared for months to say goodbye, you never really realize it until the week beyond "vacation time" has passed.

Where does this leave you?

As someone who has spent most of her life moving around and adopting new families, you would think this comes easy.  A natural acceptance of life much like gaining weight and getting UTIs.  But it doesn't get easier.  It simply gets different.

It's hard right now.  And it will be hard to ensure this family lasts in my life.  But what I know right now is this: I rode my bike home from Second City tonight and saw a Skid Steer (a construction vehicle that caused the accident of a major case of ours.)  And I cried.  Why did an industrial piece of machinery force emotions out of me reminiscent of Shirley MacLaine in "Terms of Endearment"?  Because I knew I would never have to care about that piece of machinery again.

And the emotions I felt at that moment proved in me that the difficulty in saying goodbye to one family I've cherished will pale in comparison to the happiness I will feel in my new adventure.

But from the cheap seats, I say, "Goodbye my loves.  I hope we can do lunch.  And maybe we can grab a beer."

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.