Relationships

An Honest Confession

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Call it narcissism, pride or just the plain, old fear of humiliation… but I have been withholding information. Real-life information that I could be writing about instead of waiting for either divine inspiration or for Lee, the neighbors or Stanley the cat to do something blog-worthy.

I have shared all sorts of embarrassing, self-deprecating information here but for reasons that I am not entirely sure of, I have been avoiding the subject that is probably weighing the heaviest on my mind as of late. My job search. I HATE looking for a job. I know, who in their right mind enjoys it anyway, right? But seriously… I really do hate it. And I feel like I have had a lot of experience in this arena, given that I have moved exactly four times in seven years.

I am frustrated that my phone is not getting blown up by every ad agency, retailer, newspaper, magazine, publisher or corporation to which I have sent my resume. But every day as I ritualistically rush to open my email, checking for word that I am indeed the most desirable graphic designer in the Greater Columbus area… Lee reminds me that I’ve been looking for less than two months (to be exact) and that I WILL find something when the time is right. He also smiles, tells me to stop worrying and chill… And then we watch the latest episode(s) of Wicked Tuna on Nat Geo or Real Time with Bill Maher. Thankfully, Lee is the calm and cool to my cracked-up and crazy.

Even though it has taken me exactly 258 words thus far to get to the REAL point of this post, I felt it was imperative to share with you my heartfelt frustration over the job search and just get that part out of the way. See, this entry is not actually about my feelings over the failure to secure kickass employment at the moment. But rather about WHY it is I’ve been so reluctant to share those feelings at all.

I guess it is one thing to share a story about the simultaneous appearance of acne AND crow’s feet or how I managed to ruin something as culinarily simple as mac and cheese. But it is entirely DIFFERENT to write about something of actual concern to me. There really isn’t all that much fun in appearing weak or vulnerable and admitting that something actually (and not in a fun way) kind of scares you.

I think the biggest reason that I’ve been afraid to put my admissions of fear “out there” for the world to read is that, as a woman (sorry ladies for what I’m about to say… but it is often true) I have been party to juicy conversations, discussions, gossip-fests, etc. regarding the misfortunes of others. For reasons somewhat unbeknownst to me, other people’s misfortune can oftentimes be a source of happiness to some.

Now, I’m sure there are deep-seated sociological and psychological implications in said behavior such as finding one’s own worth to be greater only when basking in the blueish cast of another’s less-than-stellar circumstance. I’m sure it’s quite similar to what your mother taught you about people who try to keep other people down in order to build themselves up. Whatever the reason, the fact remains that it is there. And that has been enough. Enough for me to be hesitant in sharing the truth about a real concern regarding my future.

Yet my hope in writing this is to once and for all peel back the covers on my own insecurity, step in front of anyone—friend or foe—who may or may not have my best interests at heart… and keep right on writing anyway. I’ve been withholding now for far too long.

A Supporting Role

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One of the reasons I have been writing so little these days is that I am currently leading a very small existence. And a smaller existence does not typically lend itself to interesting adventures, misadventures, witty observations or deep philosophical epiphanies.

It has, however, offered a few “A-Ha” moments along the way.

A lot of language gets thrown around about our own personal “journeys” and how important and unique they are. And especially how we must make the MOST of OUR journey and do everything in our power to ensure that OUR journey is the BEST journey it can be. Stop by any newsstand these days, take a peek at the women’s magazines especially and you’ll see what I mean.

But last weekend as I reflected on my scaled-down activities as of late… the week now behind and the one that was in front of me, I got to thinking… maybe my existence isn’t always about MY journey like the world would have me believe. Maybe, at times, I am merely playing a part in another person’s journey. End of story.

The smaller existence I am referring to is that I currently have no “real” job offering me zilch when it comes to my own daily, defined purpose. There is no need to get things dry cleaned these days or to attempt the nitty-gritty navigatation of office politics. Since I am not around the water cooler or the break room, there are very few people to discuss the media circus and lunacy that is the presidential campaign or Snooki’s fitness for motherhood.

Currently my job—which I must mention, is one that I gladly volunteered for—has been to help provide and manage the care of my soon-to-be father-in-law in the wake of his wife’s sudden passing. And let me tell you that for me this is an entirely new experience. I have no children and have worked in an office all of my adult life… providing me ZERO experience in caring for another person.

This new experience includes (but is not necessarily limited to): Making repeated (often maddening and fruitless) phone calls to various outside entities designed to help in situations such as this one. Ensuring that he gets his medicine on time, all day, everyday. Making sure he eats or is offered some healthy food throughout the day. Keeping him company by sitting on the porch making small talk, petting the cats that he loves to feed and laughing about the things the neighbors do.

I know I’ve sort of stated this before, so forgive me if this post feels a bit redundant. I told you I didn’t have a lot to write about these days. But it did occur to me that this “season” in my life is not about me. The world teaches us that we must be the star of our own show — all the time. Well, I am here to tell you that this doesn’t appear to be the case.

Sometimes our name is NOT one that will appear at the top of the playbill. Sometimes there will be little, if any, applause. Sometimes ours is merely the role of supporting character… and the majority of our time will be spent behind the curtain.

The Backseat of the Bus

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Being a self-sufficient, single woman with no children for the majority of my thirties, I have been allowed to be—shall we say—selfish. There is no mistaking the fact that it has been “all about me” for quite some time now and honestly I have, admittedly, had no problem with that.

Life is pretty simple and things tend to go “my way” when I am the only one making the decisions and calling all the shots… for myself. For example, I have thus far used some form of the words “I” or “me” NINE times in this entry. See what I mean? (OK, make that 10).

So if being in the driver’s seat has been my status quo for so long — you can only imagine the adjustment that might be required if or when the time comes that said seat should be forfeited for any reason.

With the recent loss of my fiance’s mother, I have found myself in a brand new seat. As I struggled, after the first two weeks, at the advent of my new seating assignment, my mother said to me: “Joanna, it is time now for you to take a backseat on the bus.”

Of course she was referring to being the support person for someone whose needs are far greater than my own. Her words have been such a perfect reminder of precisely what my role is right now. And her wisdom and way of thinking has inspired me to fully embrace the responsibilities that accompany the view from the back.

It has been from the vantage point of this new place that I have begun to “see” many new things for the very first time.

I have seen that…

  • It is much easier to push than to pull, therefore helping someone from behind rather than in front.
  • I am capable of caring more for another person than I ever dreamed possible.
  • Suddenly I have all the strength I need to do what is necessary for the other.
  • The world exists largely in that which lies beyond my own reflection and it is a whole lot bigger than I ever thought it was.
  • I can be much more useful offering a hand in someone else’s journey when I am not so focused on the drama, flaws or calamities of my own.
  • The obstacles I thought were mountains usually are mere molehills.

So as it turns out — the view from the “back of the bus” really is the one that offers the best perspective of all.

Interrupted

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Of all things, it was a simple basket of laundry and the unopened April issue of Martha Stewart Living that got to me the most. Yes I knew that she was gone. Or I was—at the very least—attempting to wrap my mind around her sudden, unexpected and premature departure. But these small, mundane pieces of normal, daily life suddenly served as monumental reminders of a life interrupted.

When my mother-in-law-to-be passed away a little over a week ago, plans were being made while food and condolances began arriving. All sorts of larger details pointed to the devastating reality that a wonderful, caring wife and mother was taken from us way too soon. And yet I wandered around her home… finding myself entranced by the littlest things.

Bread crumbs of regular life have a way of lining a path through grief — making it utterly impossible to forget that time is capable of standing still. We are shaken. Taken firmly by the shoulders and put in our place by a power that is far, far greater than anything we can comprehend or imagine. We are reminded that we are not immortal. We are reminded just how fragile life truly is. We are reminded that time is a finite thing.

And then an intriguing thing happens.

Our perspective changes. Dramatically.

The regular worries of this life don’t weigh quite as much. Former frets and concerns suddenly seem petty and paper-thin. The slight we experienced by someone we thought was a friend loses it’s sting. The opinions of others don’t matter anymore.

You see, as I found out a week ago… death has an uncanny way of clearing away the cobwebs in our minds to make room only for that which matters NOW. Living fully. Living intentionally. Giving our energy and attention to those who deserve it most. Not wasting one, single ounce of it on futile people or endeavors. And finding every bit of joy and beauty there is to be found before our living too, is interrupted.

Form vs. Function

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“OK, but if we get the shelves, are we going to actually use them to store stuff? Or will they be full of candles and picture frames and all of that decorative crap?” Lee queried in a recent discussion about living room decor.

“Well, I just want them to look nice. You see it’s not entirely about the function of a thing… the way it looks is equally important.” I stated in a somewhat desperate tone. Hoping not only to merely be understood… but to convince him that my way, was indeed, the right way.

You see, it is all a matter of form vs. function. And it is a topic that has entered probably 75% of our conversations as of late. I care about the form… The way things look, they way they feel, the mood, the tone, the overall aesthetic, etc. etc. But he, on the other hand, cares about ONE thing and one thing only. He cares about function… The way it works. And since he is a man, his thinking tends to be more black and white than my “various shades of gray” female thinking. Thus, in HIS mind… a thing either works or it doesn’t.

“… and if you do put the candles on that end table, are they going to be the candles you don’t burn but just sit there doing absolutely nothing besides ‘look pretty’?” Lee continued when the subject shifted from shelves to end tables. I couldn’t help but giggle as I wholeheartedly agreed that they WOULD be the candles which I do not burn. At last count I had around 30 of them. All sorts of different shapes, colors, shades, textures and sizes that are far too unique and look way too nice as room accents to EVER bring a match near their precious, little wicks.

“Those candles are very important decorative elements. I could never burn them. Besides, that’s what the Glade scented candles are for anyway.” I returned in my candle collection’s defense. I’m not sure when I’ll stop buying them. At the moment I have absolutely no idea where any of them actually are. Though I have a strong suspicion that they’re most likely packed away in a box or boxes labeled “FRAGILE – CANDLES.”

“… I don’t care if you want to put my favorite neck pillow and the remotes in one of your baskets (extra emphasis on the word BASKET because I also happen to have a million of those as well) … just please put them somewhere close enough for me to access them. I don’t want to have to take a taxi just to get to them.” He said as he mimed reaching down to grab a pretend remote and point it at the TV.

“Don’t worry,” I whispered in a soothing-but-sarcastic tone “no matter what I do, or where I put them… I’ll make sure you’re able to get to the remote without the use of public transportation.” And I smiled as I left the room.

Honestly? They probably WILL be in a basket or some other stylish container that I picked up at Target, Bath & Body Works, or the “Beyond” part of Bed, Bath and Beyond. And they WILL be easily accessible. But they will also look damn good while they’re sitting there.

140 Miles to 4 Feet

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That is the approximate size of the distance gap that has existed between Lee and me for over two years. It is also the one that we closed yesterday when I pointed my car south and drove to my new home. I was greeted with a hello kiss and my very own garage door opener. And I thought the diamond was a big deal! Do not be deceived my friends. Though vastly less expensive—when all is said and done—a garage door opener always trumps a diamond.

We are learning that there are plenty of things to adjust to about being together under the same roof for 24/7/365 that we couldn’t possibly have known otherwise. Even as I type this, I am acutely aware of the fact that I am completely UNAWARE of the fact of how numerous these “things” actually are. I am just choosing to live blissfully in denial for now. How can I not when we currently just keep looking at one another, popping in and out of rooms and exclaiming HOW WONDERFUL it is to NOT be on the phone for an hour every night?

My job right now is to move into this previous bachelor pad and work on making it our home. Piece of cake, right? The towering boxes currently occupying BOTH parking spaces in the garage beg to differ. But I’m not gonna lie, it IS nice to make my own hours and show up for “work” in sweats and a tee.

I don’t mind trading out the ritual of catching up on email first thing in the morning with a yoga session in the living room. Or worrying about which drawers to place jeans in vs. socks. I love that I showered and put on make-up today for the sole purpose of shopping for a new pharmacy, choosing one from the four that lie within a one-mile radius of the house. (Oh yeah, and I did kinda want to look nice for my man when he came home from work too.)

If you’re at all envious due to any of the above statements… please don’t be. Make no mistake. This “honeymoon period” of getting acquainted with the neighborhood and new digs will soon end. It is then that the job search shall commence. An arduous task holding absolutely ZERO appeal. For that will be my full-time job until I sign my name on someone’s dotted line, promising to show up on time every morning and do my very best at whatever they ask of me for at least eight hours a day, five times a week in exchange for what I hope to be a nice, healthy paycheck… and some decent breakroom coffee.

But in the meantime, I think I’ll just enjoy my simple existence with a little psychic slumber and adjust to the new distance gap… as my purple yoga mat beckons and the cell phone sits silently on the table.

Pulling the Plug

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JUST DO IT. How hard can it be? Just turn off the computer and pull the plug already! My mind yells at me as I take inventory of the last few boxes full of random things like bottles of half-empty nail polish, tanning cream, mis-matched socks, leftover lightbulbs, dusty cat toys and shirts I no longer wear because I forgot I even had them.

I’m at that point where I’ve begun taking those GIANT black garbage bags and filling them with stuff. The really, REALLY random stuff that I won’t even waste the words to mention. Except for those words… The ones I just typed…

Anyway, the house is empty. And for some strange reason it looks smaller than it did when it was filled with all my worldly possessions. Why is that? My footsteps echo through the vacant rooms and nail marks dot the expansive blank walls where my favorite things once hung. How could it possibly feel smaller when everything is gone?

Tomorrow I will start a brand new chapter as I officially move into my “new home” with my future husband and am surrounded by all of that “stuff” that made this place feel bigger. Somehow I suspect it will have the opposite effect in my new space…

Ahhhh the joy of stepping over and around boxes and digging through stacks of cardboard and Rubbermaid trying to find that sweater that I MUST have to wear with those jeans and so on. Searching with grave desperation for my favorite travel mug… sappy rom-com DVD… or the book in which I had 10 more pages left to read.

But it will all be worth it when I can—after two years of hour-long phone conversations every night, Skype marathons and seeing one another every other weekend—finally lay down on our couch and drift off to sleep, knowing that “goodbye” is a word no longer in our vocabulary.

September 11: 2,000 Miles Apart

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I wrote the following story around September 11th of this past year—the 10th anniversary—but have not had the luxury of time to finish it until now. Although I know I could wait until September 11, 2012 to share it with you all… I feel like it doesn’t really matter. We all remember where we were that day. It is a topic that enters many, many conversations that I have with people to this day… on any given day of the year. It is an event none of us will soon forget and there are as many accounts of this infamous day as there are people on the planet.

This one is mine.

And hers. Thank you Jan for allowing me to share just a part of your story…

I was so proud of her for moving out of Ohio and embarking on an adventure all her own. With no job she decided to roll the dice, take a chance and move to New York City.

Brave girl, I thought. I admire her. I envy her. This experience will change her life forever… even if she winds up right back where she started… in the Buckeye State. She will have had the time of her life.

In the summer of 2001, she and a friend took an apartment in the heart of Manhattan’s financial district. Two blocks from the World Trade Center. Two blocks from what would soon become the site of the worst attack ever to occur on American soil. But of course, during the long, sunny days of summer in the city, the events of that fateful day couldn’t have been further from her mind.

Though job hunting, she still found plenty of time to go shopping and enjoy some big-city glam. I still remember the new clothes and trendy haircut she showed me once while we were both back on our home turf, visiting our families at the same time. She was a New Yorker now. And, as Carrie Bradshaw would say: She looked fabulous.

On a random, mid-September, Tuesday morning the sound and vibration from the first explosion woke her from a dead sleep. Eventually she made her way to the rooftop of her building to see what was happening. Not long after, another collision convinced her this was, indeed, not a dream. Fire and smoke and chaos reigned.

2,000 miles away in southern New Mexico it was a little after 6 a.m, Mountain Standard Time. I had gotten up like every other day, set my feet on the floor and flipped on the news. A plane had hit one of the World Trade Center towers and, like many others, I thought it an accident and hoped no one had been seriously injured. That was, until I watched—on live television—a second plane smash into the other tower. I was immediately sick. I knew this was no accident.

On the drive to work the news informed me that a plane had crashed into the Pentagon and another into a field in Pennsylvania. Reports were also coming in that people had been spotted jumping from the twin towers. And it felt as though the sky was falling. In many ways… I suppose it really was.

My thoughts immediately turned to her.

I had no cell phone in 2001, so I began driving faster to the office to use the phone. Miraculously, when I rang her apartment, she answered—practically hysterical. Because of the news coverage here and the power outages there I quickly realized I was more aware of what was happening from a technical standpoint. She, much more aware than I of what was happening from a sensory one.

With 24-hour news coverage, instantaneous broadcasting, cell phones and the internet, technology had shrunken our world in such a way that even from 2,000 miles away I knew what was happening at the very same moment she was witnessing it. A voice yelled down my hallway: “The second tower just collapsed.” As I simultaneously heard her cry out the same words through the phone lines.

As she saw it begin to fall, her voice was gripped with terror and disbelief. She would soon report that her windows and view was becoming blackened from the overwhelming billows of ash rolling through the streets, swallowing everything in their path.

I told her that they were reporting for people to grab what they could from their homes, including towels or clothing to place over their mouths and noses and get out—NOW. We said our good-byes and hung up.

Later that night—from a hotel room in Albuquerque where I had traveled to on business—I spoke to her parents and found that she had safely arrived at a friend’s beach house on the Jersey shore. They had walked all the way there, relying on the kindness of strangers along the way to give them masks and bottles of fresh water.

And I thanked God she was OK. And as I later learned of all the people who never got to speak to their loved ones, let alone KNOW whether or not they were OK or gone forever… I thanked God that I was fortunate enough to speak to her in that life-changing moment from 2,000 miles away.

Jan and I at an Ohio State tailgating party. November, 2011

 

The Last Day

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When you’re actively employed—waking up early to the nagging of the alarm clock and slogging to work day after day—one cannot help but imagine that the day will inevitably come that is their “Last Day of Work.” Whether it be to retire, begin a new job or explore a life/career change… we imagine it will be miraculous and glorious with the choirs of angels singing and the clouds parting and all that jazz.

Well, dear friends and readers… today is that day for me and so far there are no choirs of angels or parting of clouds. Now, bear in mind that I have never and I mean NEVER left a position without another similar or better position waiting in the wings. Or at the very least several promising interviews on the books and resumes scattering the earth like propaganda leaflets being dropped by plane.

I have always worked. Since I was 15 years old I have held down at least one and as many as four different jobs at a time. So I never, in my wildest dreams, thought I’d be leaving a job with a generous, comprehensive benefits package behind in pursuit of “whatever happens.” But this time… THIS time is unique.

This time I have a supportive and encouraging man in my life who sees my full potential and recognizes that “it will be OK” if I don’t find that dream replacement job tomorrow. Words cannot express the peace and joy with which his calm confidence fills me.

In the interim, my plan is to try my hand at domesticity. (Please pick up reading wherever you left off after the laughter has stopped.) Martha Stewart I am not, but that doesn’t mean I cannot learn the artful ways of the domestic goddess. Right? You’re still laughing aren’t you? Until the dream job comes calling I plan to take full advantage of the opportunity to get back in shape and keep a home. I’m serious.

Ten of the 50 pounds I recently lost have moved back in and taken up residency on my ass and both of us abhor the wallpaper in the living and dining rooms. It’s officially time to tackle my fear of the oven and its cousin, the stove. My wardrobe needs a good looking over and some serious organization.

The jury is still out on whether or not I’ll miss the office gossip, dressing up for work each day and talking to other professionals… but I suspect there will likely be a bit of a honeymoon period for me, my sweats, my yoga mat and the cat. I promise to take as many of you who care (or dare) to join me along on this new expedition—and with the whole domestic goddess goal in the mix—I can also promise that it shan’t be boring.

All I Ever Really Needed to Know (About Sharing My Life With Another Person) I Learned in Kindergarten

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After a lengthy discussion about where the couch, recliners, end tables and lamps would go I paused and asked him a question. “We’ve each been on our own for so long now, do you think it will be hard to adapt to sharing our ‘space’ with one another?”

“I hope not.” He cautiously replied. “I hope that I’m an easy person to live with. Then again, no one’s been around to tell me otherwise. I might be a total jerk.”

I laughed, as I knew that he was too good of a person to be a jerk to live with. I’m certain we’ll annoy one another with our unique habits and differing needs for personal space… but that’s all part of learning how to go through life with another person. The topic then led me remember that famous writing by author Robert Fulghum called All I Ever Really Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten. Because it’s really all the exact same stuff packed into a different framework.

The following is an excerpt from his writing:

Most of what I really need to know about how to live, and what to do, and how to be, I learned in Kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate school mountain, but there in the sandbox at nursery school.

These are the things I learned: Share everything. Play fair. Don’t hit people. Put things back where you found them. Clean up your own mess. Don’t take things that aren’t yours. Say you’re sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat. Flush. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced life. Learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work some every day. Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into the world, watch for traffic, hold hands, and stick together.

My personal Top Ten List of the points, however that REALLY stand out:

  1. Share (this MIGHT be the hardest one of all)
  2. Play fair (or fight fair I suppose also applies)
  3. Don’t hit people (DUH)
  4. Say you’re sorry (even if you’re not sure who’s wrong)
  5. Flush (and put the seat down, please)
  6. Live a balanced life (in my opinion… “Balanced” means play ALWAYS outweighs work)
  7. Take lots of naps (so you don’t kill each other)
  8. Watch for traffic (or trouble)
  9. Hold hands (no matter who is looking)
  10. Stick together (no matter what)