Spoiled Only Child

Don't even know what to call this

I really need to get my act together over here. I have fallen into a total funk. I am mopey, blah, emotionless, pathetic. I find myself listening to "Jack and Diane" on the radio — you know, "Life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone" — and thinking how true, how true. I am all weary resignation around here. I need to slap myself across the face and snap out of it.

It all stems, as usual, from stress about work. My god, I am sick of going round and round over the same problem, year in and year out, and never getting any closer to a solution. How is it that I have spent two years going to career counselors and applying for jobs and "making contacts," and I am no closer to getting out of this job? How could that possibly be? My thoughts about the situation have become completely counterproductive. I can think only of what I don't want to do. I don't want to work here anymore; it is just too damned depressing. I don't want to work long hours or get up early or commute more than a few miles. I don't want to sell things. I don't want to be imprisoned in an office.
If we're being honest here, I really don't want to work at all. I'd like to take walks in the sunshine and drink cocktails on the porch. That's what comes to mind when I think about what I want to do.

But of course, I have this standard of living to maintain. And then I wonder whether I am just a coward, allowing this tidy life to hold me captive, and maybe I should just screw it all and move to [insert someplace cool here] and live some kind of Jack Kerouac-type adventure. Really LIVE life, you know? Lean forward into the next adventure. But then of course I am nowhere near ready to take that kind of leap, and maybe it's all just a mirage anyway. Maybe the idea that I could be happier living someplace else, or doing something else, is just bullshit. Maybe your problems and neuroses just follow you wherever you go. I mean, look at Jack Kerouac. He went batshit crazy and drank himself to death, so maybe the whole dharma bum lifestyle wasn't exactly the key to perfect happiness. He was living the true and authentic life. He wasn't imprisoned by his need for a slice of the middle class American dream. And he wasn't happy either.

I guess what I don't understand is why this all feels so hard. Why do things seem so scary? Why do I feel like a prisoner? Why is it so fucking hard to just be happy?

Whine, whine

Can I just complain for a minute? I'm always trying to be all "let go of my worries" and "focus on my breath," but today I just feel like having a good old fashioned whine. So here goes... I was all excited about spring and envisioning clear sunny days full of brilliant spring blossoms, and how it was going to bring some magical rebirth for me, the economy, the world, I don't even know what. But instead it has been cold and dreary and rainy and the spring blooms seem less spectacular than ever. (Yes, I know it is only March, but in my corner of the world spring blossom season is more than halfway over by now.) And now I have that little edge of a sore throat and headache that tells me I am probably getting a cold. No! This is not how spring is supposed to go.

Oh, and my employer has finally announced who is being laid off. And it's a lot of people, people who are my friends, people who have worked here 25 years, people who have given a lifetime to this place. Those of us who were not axed are having our pay cut by nearly 10 percent, and there are no guarantees for the future. Our entire company going bankrupt is a very real possibility. This office has become an extremely depressing place, far more so than before, which I didn't believe was even possible. Sometimes I am just so tired of coming day after day to a place filled with unhappiness, so sick of having no idea where to go from here. I feel so completely stuck in a rut that I am vaguely jealous of those who were laid off.

I am looking out the window, and of course it is another gray and rainy day. The forecast says it's going to be this way most of the weekend, and they're probably going to cancel the neighborhood Easter egg hunt that Mia's been looking forward to all year. Will someone please tell me that this is all going to be over soon? That happy days really will return? Please?

Letting go

"Throw my troubles out the door. I don't need them anymore."   —Bob Dylan

I finally did my little worry release ritual. It was almost a week ago now, but I'm finding I don't have much to say about it. I guess it is rather self-explanatory. I wrote my biggest worries on balloons. They were: Career, Money, Sleep, Failure and The Future. And then I walked to the Rose Garden and stood in the same spot where I got married  almost six years ago, and I let each one of them go. I watched (and tried mostly unsuccessfully to take pictures) as the wind carried them over the treetops and out of sight. Money briefly got stuck in a tree, but after a few minutes the wind yanked it loose and took it away. I can't say that any magic happened, or that God spoke to me, or that I was instantly happier than I had been the moment before. But I do feel that I am worrying less, remembering that shit happens whether or not you worry about it, recognizing that worry doesn't help me move forward. So goodbye worries, I don't need you anymore.

March snow

After this long cold winter, I have to believe that spring is just around the corner — and that it will be more beautiful than ever. I have come to see the winter as a tangible sign of the hardships we are going through as a nation. Am I naive to think that spring will bring new hope for me and for us all?

Brief encounters with the law

I still haven't done my worry ritual, because it's been miserable and rainy and that does not go with my plan of standing peacefully in a garden and releasing my worries to the universe. But I wanted to share this little vignette from my weekend.

We are pulled over by a cop on a cold, gray and rainy morning. Expired registration. Who knew? (Turned out the whole problem was caused because I was delinquent on my car taxes. The outstanding bill: $1.52. Glad I have the law to keep me in line.) As we sit and sit and sit and sit, waiting for the cop to return with our ticket, Mia pipes up, "I need to go potty." Perfect. We establish that she really needs to go right now, that she cannot wait. So we try to get out of the car, and get shouted down by the cop who is about ready to shoot us and even runs up to the car and demands to see Mr. SOC's hands to make sure he doesn't have a gun. This guy is holding us prisoner in our Honda Civic with a 3-year-old about to wet her pants because of an expired registration. I love the law!

Eventually, the cop releases me and Mia from the car to go to the bathroom while he continues berating Mr. SOC and demanding to know what he is doing with his hands. We happen to be pulled over right next to the police station, so I get the officers to grudgingly to do us the immense favor of allowing us to use the toilet in their public building, and then we head back to the car in the cold rain. Mia is, as always, dawdling and looking for puddles to step in, while I am trying to get back to our warm car ASAP. After we get back to the car, my step-son describes how we looked during our journey. Me: head down, face scrunched, pulling Mia's arm, grimly determined to get out of the miserable weather. Mia: strolling along, beaming 1,000 watts. I think this scene pretty much sums up the difference in how we see the world.