My Morning Muse

When I think back on my mid twenties, I remember being  bitchy, overworked, and totally disillusioned. The hope and optimism I had coming out of college was bitch-slapped out of me after my first feeble attempt at moving to the city and trying to find a job, and certainly didn’t return after a stint of teaching (i.e. “giving back”) or in corporate education (i.e. “giving back + $$”) or in an urban school district (i.e. “if the kids don’t shoot you, the superintendent will make you shoot yourself”). But it wasn’t all dark and dismal. Ok, it was, but add to dark and dismal a few martinis, and I could be the life of the party. I was the gal co-workers could rely on for shit-talking  and long lunches, the chick that had no problem discussing how she would fuck the VP of Finance during company meetings, the first lady of blacking out and doing karaoke at company functions. Sure, when I was alone, I was terribly depressed and anxious all the time, but all that could be channeled into creating this borderline self-destructive persona that was fun and liked.

But then it got old, and I got a therapist. In what could be described as my late-mid-twenties, I embarked on a personal development journey to destination: happiness. I started therapy; I worked out more; I cut back on hours at work; I applied to grad school; I wrote more. I learned a lot about myself during this time, like why I hated men and how to anticipate my intoxicated anxiety attacks and subsequent breakdowns. The sublime tension between my old self and my new recognition was fuel for much of the work I did.  

Currently, my personal development cruise ship is docked as I approach my 29th birthday. The voyage isn’t over, but I’m trying to test out being on solid ground. I wrapped up therapy, finished grad school, added yoga to my workout ritual, and tried to start a business with my husband. I am happy, I am calm, I am . . . vacant. When catching up with friends, I have nothing to say. I just smile absently and say things are good. I have nothing to write about. Nothing pisses me off. What is there to talk about when you work from home and get to workout midday and eat well and sleep in. Fucking nothing, for weeks at a time. I know, boo-hoo, poor me. But the thing is I’m afraid that my bitchiness and anger was my life force, and now that it’s gone I am an empty shell, a well-balance, peaceful empty shell. For me, there is an inverse relationship between happiness and productivity. 

What is wrong with the hubby moving the flatscreen into the bedroom, then curling in bed, watching four movies, and ordering pizza? Nothing. Nothing at all.

Whilst I have been trying to cut down on my binge drinking, every now and again overindulgence just sneaks up on me. This usually happens when I start drinking early (like Friday afternoon happy hour), don’t eat, “pace myself” on martinis for 5 hours, and wake up the next morning having no idea what happened. Things like touching someone’s balls at a networking event or hitting on the (straight) woman I’m out dancing with can happen on such nights. But the blackout and bad behavior makes sense mathematically in these cases and can even be predicted, as in x number of drinks * y number of hours out/food intake= % of blackout.

Which is why this weekend I was so amazed at my ability to defy the odds and blackout in a record 2 hours! Further surprise is that I did it for under $50. This is unprecedented, but worth figuring out just for the sheer cost savings. So here are the circumstances of the night; further experimenting will need to be conducted in order to determine true causal relationships.

1. Start the night dehydrated.
2. Eat, but not too much. This will lead you to believe you will be ok, even when that’s not the case.
3. Go out late. Getting started at 11pm is just the catalyst you need to drink faster than you otherwise would.
4. Don’t say no to shots. Feel free to mix liquors as well.

I would provide more, but I don’t remember much after that. While blacking out is never fun, the two-hour sprint binge actually results in less spending, milder hangovers, and a shorter window of time to embarrass yourself in. This might be my new drinking plan of choice.

Dear Blog,

I am so ashamed. I watched American Idol 3 nights this week. It’s bad that I watch the show, but, you know, guilty pleasures. It’s worse that I started watching in the beginning of the season, when I tried to make a strict rule about not watching until they got down to the final 12, because who are they to take up 6 months of my life with this stupid crap? But I got sucked in. The worst part, though, and where the deep shame really comes from, is watching the results show. It’s total bullshit, just another hour to sell more Coke ads. But somehow I ended up watching it last night while waiting for LOST to come on. Like I need to watch an hour of crappy beat-boxing, losers crying, Ryan Seacrest trying to be suspenseful, and tear-infused singing. It’s embarrassing, but I’m addicted. I might actually have feelings for the contestants this season (other than wanting to have sex with the kid with dreads. That’s totally acceptable.).  Ugh.

I like the phrase “Think Globally, Act Locally.” I’d like to coin a new one: “Think Collectively, Act Individually.” I’ve been thinking about this because I’ve had a bit of guilt around my lifestyle lately. I’m fortunate enough to work from home, and thus have had a lot of time for personal development. Over the past two years, i did a year of therapy, finished grad school, and have been running and practicing yoga. It’s great to be able to workout everyday, to be selective about what I eat during the day, to be able to write when I want (which, turns out, is not that often). I’ve been really happy and motivated most of the time. But, like all good anxious ex-Christians, I feel guilty about enjoying my life this way.

In the past, I have taken on more noble endeavors. I have been an inner-city high school teacher. I have worked in inner-city school districts. These careers did not bring me joy or satisfaction. In fact, I spent most of the time feeling like I could never be successful or fulfill my potential or have an impact in these environments. There was just too much chaos and widespread systematic failure to make change. Yet, these choices felt more honorable, less selfish.

My current path, conversely, is deeply satisfying personally and professionally. While in other work environments I spent most of my time working on looking productive and together and organized, working for myself forces me to face my own shortcomings and be accountable to myself and my potential. I no longer spend most of my time comparing myself to colleagues, and instead have to focus on my own skills and progress. I also have a lot of freedom to do things I want with my time. And while this choice may not be an benevolent as other career choices I’ve made, I feel less discouraged, depressed, and hopeless than I have before.

I don’t think my current lifestyle is having a direct positive impact on society, but I also find that my outlook and perspective hasn’t much changed. I still deeply believe in access to education and equality. I am happy to be in a higher tax bracket and pay more for services to others. At the core, I believe in social responsibility and am happy to share any kind of wealth, monetary or otherwise, with others. I just don’t want to directly provide services any longer. And I’m starting to see that there are benefits to me developing personally.

I’m trying to be ok with working on myself for awhile. Maybe forever. So I’m going to act for myself to actualize my potential and achieve my goals, but always think of others and give what I can and make choices that have the least negative impact on the world. Right now, that seems like the most responsible thing to do.

I’m seriously concerned that I’ve forgotten how to flirt. I’ve been married now for almost three years, and being out of the game has definitely had a negative effect on my skills. Now, I’m not sure that I had amazing skills in the first place, but a remotely attractive female doesn’t really need to to get attention from guys. Really, I’ve just stopped paying attention.

Case in point: dude at coffeeshop. There is this adorable curly-haired blond that pours my coffee in the early morning. We’ve flirted for the past nine months. And by flirt, I really just mean get nervous around each other. I don’t know if it’s the sunny weather or my cute green t-shirt, but this morning he took it to the next level. He walked by me, patted my arm, and said, “how are you today?” I was so taken aback by this new move that I just crapped my pants in response.

Ok, I didn’t really. But I certainly didn’t take advantage of the window of opportunity he opened (I’m hoping that he likes me for my ridiculous nervousness). What would I have to gain for nurturing this flirtation even though I’m married? Anyone asking that question is retarded. A morning flirt is just the thing needed to energize you and boost your confidence for the whole day. I stand to gain much from this relationship.

Further, I don’t have anything to lose. I’m MARRIED, so I already have someone who loves me and all that crap. So how is it possible that I’m nervous around coffeeshop dude, who is probably five years younger than me, when really if I were rejected, it doesn’t matter?

I can only conclude that I’m rusty. Terribly out of practice. So I’m going to start practicing my game. Maybe I’ll even start dating. I’m gonna get my flirt on.

I am annoying the shit out of myself today. The last 4 days, really. I totally haven’t done anything productive, except make Kris a video for his birthday, which, while fun and creative, doesn’t necessarily count as work. The problem, I think, is that it’s so easy to get stuck in my own head while working from home. In an office, I was always pleasantly distracted by everyone else’s shortcomings, inefficiencies, moronic ideas, and bad days. Now I have nothing to observe but my own flaws, and they are not pretty.

The other day, another distracted day in fact, I closed my eyes at my desk and asked myself how I imagined spending my day if I considered myself “successful”. The answer was writing. Of course, it has always been writing. I wrote my first poem at age five. I only remember the last line: “There are no more bubbles except just for me/how lucky, how lucky, how lucky can I be.” I mean, genius. Obviously a riveting piece on bubbles. Years later, I promptly abandoned the whole writing dream when I wasn’t immediately given a job as a magazine editor out of college. Remember how pleasant the early 20s were? I got a forward once when I was 24 or whatever about the “quarter life” crisis. Oh, how it resonated with me. How gay. So I did what all frustrated writers do - I became an English teacher. And then I did what all people who hate kids do - I worked in the corporate sector. And then I did what all people who hate working in the corporate sector do - I went to work in non-profits. And then I did what all people who have no idea what the fuck they are doing with their lives do - I applied to grad school.

So, five years, several different career attempts and a master’s degree later, I find the bulk of the work I do for our startup venture is writing. Which should be thrilling, invigorating, inspiring even. I feel like I should wake in the morning and kiss the earth that I can spend the day writing, be it on subjects I have varying degrees of expertise with. No matter. I can write. No more meetings. No busy work. No asinine coworkers. Just me, my computer, and my words.

What was that last part? Oh, the words. Fuck, that part sucks. Because I did not give myself the chance to pursue this dream earlier, I am totally unprepared for what to do when I get stuck. What to do when I have nothing to say. What to do when the writing sucks, or is just so-so. So I spent this morning wishing I had a meeting to go, so I could pretend to be doing work. Pretend to be present, productive. But while it’s pretty easy to fake it in an office, it is hard to lie to yourself at home. When the same word count is on the document at the end of the day.

I either need a magic productivity pill or the incredible ability to lie to myself. Fast.

“Bless me father for I have sinned. It’s been four and half months since my last cut and color.”

This confession ran through my head this morning on the train, while I, unkempt and overgrown, sat across from a dead-sexy man on my way to the salon. Over the past four months, more has changed than the length and root color of my hair. I started working from home, which partly justifies my shagginess and overall lowered interest in my appearance. But across from this hot man in motorcycle boots, I suddenly regretted my new look.

This remorse only intensified when I got out at my stop downtown. It’s been awhile since my daily trek to the financial district for work, and as I walked to the cute little neighborhood of South Park, I encountered more hot people on their lunch breaks. It’s not that I don’t see any hot booty in my neighborhood. It’s just that I live in the Mission District, where the hipsters gather to be condescending and makeout. Historically, I’ve been into the hipster look, but lately I’m getting bored with the skinny-jeaned, greasy-haired underemployed types. But you know what is hot? Take that same skinny, scruffy hipster, put him in a button down and dress pants, and give him a job at a techie startup downtown. That’s the kind of eye candy that gets me hot on the way to get my haircut.

As I venture to start an online business with my husband, I am becoming more aware of, and concerned about, my identity online. I started thinking about this because I have another blog with a photographer friend of mine with my name all over it. I just wrote a silly list of my funniest mistakes in my sex life, which I think would be perfect for the blog, except that I don’t really want someone doing a Google search on my name to come across a post on how cute my clit is. Published writers can talk about their clits and get away with it. The rest of us are just sluts with day jobs. So it’s time to consider my virtual persona.

The first step is to fix any potential negative representations floating in cyberspace. For example, my drunk photos on MySpace are not exactly good pre-interview material. And I guess I shouldn’t add the cute photocopy guy from work to my LinkedIn profile. While adorable, he might not be the best person to get a cold call from a hiring manager. It’s time for some housecleaning of my social networking and blog profiles.

The next step is to craft a public personality for all to see. One blogger uses the same photo for all her profiles to create consistency and to enable her readers to identify her in different spaces. Note to self: contact photographer friend before taking this step. There are a number of good suggestions available, so I’m going to be experimenting over the coming months.

All this seems to be a lot of work when I’d rather be totally anonymous or truly authentic, but it’s hard to hide from Google. It’s just better to put on a good face.

I’m a late-twenties married woman who’s been feeling old and lonely lately. Why? Because I’m starting to lose my single friends to insanity and my coupled friends to conformity.

Let’s start with my single friends. While the crazy comes in all kinds of forms, one thing is consistent - single women in their late-twenties and early thirties are scary. One of the classic archetypes is the whiskey-drinking, sharp-tongued party girl who is “focused on her career” and “doesn’t want a boyfriend.” And to prove it, she fucks married men, and really anyone else for that matter. While some see this as empowered sexuality and all that crap, what they tend to not see is the late night tears and drama when that brave persona disappears as she faces going home alone. The other version of the single woman is the one with such naked desperation for a boyfriend that she thinks she’s in love with every man she meets. Had a chat with a guy at the coffee shop? She’s at home knitting him socks, going on and on about how he’s different. I understand that relationships make people crazy, but it does put a strain on friendship when every conversation is focused on her boyfriend-du-jour, and that your input is not welcome because you’re “married” and “wouldn’t understand.”

Not that my friends with spouses are baskets of fun, either. I get together with my “married” friends about 3 times a year, because that seems to be the amount of time we can rip ourselves away from our husbands. The conversations are fun, full of shared stories of the trials of living with men. You know how annoying it is when he leaves whiskers on the bathroom sink? Your husband grabs your friends’ boobs too? (OK, admittedly, I haven’t found anyone who shares this with me yet). Every get together ends with, “Oh my god, this was so fun. We have to have a girl’s night!” Great, right? Yeah, except that in order to make girl’s night happen, planners are retrieved, dates scrutinized, husband’s needs weighed, until girl’s night is 3 weeks away, from 6-8, because they already have plans to see some new movie on release night. Any girl’s night that requires an Outlook invite and a month’s planning really seems to defeat the purpose.

What happened to the glorious days in college when we just conformed to each other’s insanity, and went through the same craziness together? When I could look into a girlfriend’s eyes and say that maybe he is the one, or that you’ll meet someone else, and actually have some degree of hope? Or when boyfriends were a Monday - Thursday thing, and the weekends were about drinking with the girls and going out. I guess I long for the days when we were kind of on the same playing field, before our paths diverged on the boyfriend no-boyfriend path. I don’t even want to know what happens when babies are introduced. I can’t afford to lose anymore friends.