Splashdown

  Everyone belongs to a statistical club.

  Of course, the statistic is never the full measure of a person - I still consider most math and numbers part of the Axis of Evil - but if I were a statistician, I'd almost like to think a person's numbers is like a membership in one exclusive club or another.  Sorta like the Yacht Club. Or the Stonecutters.

  For instance, I'm part of the "Young Author" club, very exclusive, as only one in ten people will ever write a book in their lives, let alone two.  I'm part of the "Divorced by 30" club, a little more populous, as four in ten first marriages will end in divorce in Canada.  You can also throw me in for the Canadians of Trinidadian and Tobagonian ancestry, 50,000 people and counting, representing 0.15 of the Canadian population.  Of that, I'm one of only two authors in this group - Neil Bissoondath being the other - and may in fact be the next Ian Hanomansing if my acting and TV work progresses well. 

  And, within a few months, I'll be joining another growing club, one which includes 41% of the population aged 18 to 36 in its membership: the Boomerang Club. 

   Friends, Romans, Countrymen...I am moving home.

   (And yes, I'm aware I didn't provide accurate citation format for those numbers.  Citations are for Democrats.)
  
   This is a tough decision, but it's a necessary next step to accomplish some of my bigger life goals. 

   Normally, this is the point that I spend a ton of time and wordspace justifying my decision.  Strangely, I could give a crap what people think about this today.  My one year lease is up at the end of February, and while I could leave it alone and go "month to month" on my apartment, there is a window of opportunity to walk away.  And walking away is what I'm going to do.

   I've been living away from home for a decade now.  I moved out to live on residence in 2000, moving back home for the summer of 2001 only to head back out to my apartment with my ex for our third year at McMaster.  I've been away from home ever since. And, of course, for the past year, I've been living completely on my own. 

   It was all time well spent, and with a few tiny exceptions, I have no regrets about my independent living.  At this point in my personal development, it's hard to go back and say it was for nothing.  It all served a purpose, and just like other parts of life that have fulfilled what they were meant to fulfill, it's time to let it go....

  Okay, I can see this won't get much further than flowery New Age affirmations without some more concrete explanations.  And there are two: I need more spending cash now on things other than renting a place where I spend most of my time sleeping; and freeing up my apartment enables me to not feel like I'm held hostage by my current day job.  Now to explain the explanations.

   The advantages are clear: more money means debts paid, savings boosted, vacations - the type of travel I spent all my twenties fantasizing about but never actually got to do - and more of the material "stuff" that I've gone too long without. 

   Moving home with the 'rents and my sisters isn't a permanent thing. Frankly, our egos are all too big and our lifestyles too different for that to be sustainable for too long. It will also involve some commuting to work for a while. The disadvantages are clear. But whether I go home for four months and return to a cheaper rent, or whether I stay there a year, I'm still going to have to take this first step regardless. This simply happens to be the time that the opportunity has presented itself.

   Then there's the matter of my work anxiety.

 I suppose this is mostly my fault.  After all, I've been trying to find my niche in the economy for the past five years, ever since I got my first full time job.  Each time, I found something to complain about, and in two such cases, it was enough for me to leave the position altogether.  However, just as the Boy Who Cried Wolf learned to his regret, I'm now being serious when I tell you that this position is starting to undermine my self-confidence.  I simply am not a "fit" where I am, and everyone senses it. It really is only a matter of time before my bosses turn their full attention to replacing me.  The wolf is gonna get me sooner or later. Serious this time.

  Moving home provides immunity against my fear of losing everything in the event that they go for the "sooner" option. It gives me flexibility and a sense of freedom that I'm not risking everything by speaking up and speaking out. It will remove the feeling that I must stay put in a job, give me the feeling of freedom to pursue other opportunities.  There's nothing worse than feeling trapped.

   Moving home also lets me interact with more people in my day-to-day who aren't work colleagues.  Much of the time, the only people I interact with are the ones who are busting my butt.  I get chewed up, spat out, and made to feel like an idiot all day, and then I go home to an empty apartment, stressed out with no one to talk to.  Hanging out with friends helps, but it's not enough.

   My family, for our differences, is my tribe, my community.  I can at least go home and interact with a group of people who I know love me unconditionally, who believe in me, who appreciate my abilities, and who have much the same living conditions I do: very clean, no big parties, no drugs or alcohol floating around, no debauchery.  Some guys can feel at home in a party house: I'm not one of them. 

   And yes, moving home gives me the freedom to quit, if it comes to it, and still have a place to sleep. Some of my former in-laws and friends somehow managed to take the two instances in my otherwise uninterrupted 14 year work history where I quit jobs that were making me unhappy and declared me "unable to hold a job".  As such, I've had an axe to grind in putting up with the crap in my current workplace.  But it's making me miserable and the concerns of former in-laws and former friends are pretty low down on my priority list.  Moving home opens up the possibility of a rest period while I pursue other opportunities.

  Of course, my apartment is lovely.  It's in a great neighbourhood that I love, with good, friendly neighbours, and I do love where I currently live.  Most importantly, it is mine.  But I get the sense that this place has served its purpose in the greater scheme of my own life.

   Had I decided to move home a year ago, when my marriage ended, I would have felt all the more the failure.  I had another axe to grind: I had to show to myself that I could survive completely on my own.  Now that axe is pretty sharp, and I don't need to worry about proving my ability to live independently to others, or myself.  I can go home knowing that I'm able to come back out here again when I choose to.

  Had I not moved here, I doubt my book would have been finished, or turned out the way that it did. Burlington is a nexus of prosperity and a high quality of living, and the downtown around Brant and Lakeshore provided me with prime inspiration for my protagonist's own life, even if it's not by name.  An artist needs a vibe of prosperity, and that's what I got while I was here.

 Had I not moved here, I never would have taken that walk through the vendors at Ribfest and gotten involved with Film/Comm Talent, starting this new journey.  Had I not moved here, I never would have dated that girl who lived around the corner, and had that kiss that really renewed my own feeling of worth as a good partner. 

  Make no mistake.  This place helped manifest the best case scenario in a transformative year.

  But now, I am here, and the things I want to accomplish require me to say goodbye to Burlington, with thanks.  This will be the first time I'm leaving a place that I'm still in love with, heart and soul.  As I said, one of the toughest decisions I've made in recent years, and those years have had their moments, that's for sure.

  Too often, we hold onto things that served us in the past when they're well beyond their expiration date.  That doesn't invalidate their previous benefits: just means you need to get a new carton of milk is all.  

  Ironically, by choosing to pack it in for a while and go home, I feel even more empowered than I thought I would be, because it's a clear choice that I am making for myself.  In so doing, I avoid joining other statistical clubs: the Society of Working Poor; the I've Never Seen Europe Support Group; not to mention the Ancient Mystic Society of Unhappy Office Workers. 

  This isn't a failure to launch.  This is a deliberate de-orbit, a time to come back to earth for a while for a refit, so that I can land among the stars the next time I head up there.  And reach them I will.

  Splashdown's in two months.  Time to get ready.

Stepping Stones

  This week should see my first calls from the agency for acting auditions.

   It seems like I've been waiting on this forever, ever since Labour Day when I happened to chance upon the two recruiters in Burlington.  Sometimes I get a small worry that I've oversold this to people.  I mean, I had one person in the last week ask me "besides acting, what do you do?" and yet I haven't even been to an audition yet!  Still, if ever there was an application of the "act as if" principle, it's this.  I'm going to take this one heads on and see where it leads.   I'm excited!

   Creative people are difficult to place in a capitalist economy.  It's probably why so many artists grativate towards socialism or communism: if the basic necessities of life were taken care of by the community, then it would free up artists to explore their craft without fear of homelessness or starvation, whatever it might be.  I can definitely see that appeal.  Sadly, while that could be the way things go in the future, at the present, creative men and women are still having to wait tables, serve coffee, lug boxes, or push paper in offices to support the basics of life to follow their dreams. 

   When they do succeed, though, they succeed big.  It's the difference between Harrison Ford the Carpenter - the job he held to pay the bills; he'd met George Lucas when the director hired him to fix his cabinets - and Harrison Ford the A-List Film Star.  If you look at the percentages of artists living almost obscene affluence thanks to their craft and those struggling for rent and food....well, I'd rather not.  As one of Ford's more famous characters, Han Solo, once remarked:

"Never tell me the odds."

    Off the top of my head, I've held something like nine jobs in my fourteen year work history.  Two were logistics clerk positions; one was a warehouse co-ordinator for a marketing company; one was as an office customer service rep; two were pure administrative clerical gigs; two were as a warehouse material handler; one was as a virtual concierge (in an office, but not doing administration); and one was in sales. 

   Out of the nine, I was happiest in the concierge and the sales gigs.  I only left the concierge for the better shift and pay of government work, and - I'll admit - the presence of a union to keep the man at bay (my new thoughts on unions are a whole other entry altogether).  I only stopped working the sales job because the company itself was shady and disintegrated, resulting in a layoff (I enjoyed the work, though).

   I liked them because they appealed to my creativity, because they challenged me to think outside the box, to use my unique talents.  It's a satisfaction I can't get in government.  Here, there is nothing outside the box.  The box is everything.

    There's a lingering convention in the way Western culture - and the American workforce paradigm in particular - views careers, and that's the idea that you're supposed to find one career for life.  It's that 1950s ideal of the man who works for a loyal company, for fair compensation, who gets rewarded for his efforts if he shows effort.  He sticks with the company for 40 years, then retires with a good pension. 

   Flashforward to the Great Recession...hell, even before.  The 1950s vision is only a memory, and a laughable one at that.  Not only has the economy grown more unstable, but several new work paradigms have emerged.  One of them suits the artist very well: the job as a growth experience, as a stepping stone. 

   You start a job with a great level of excitement, stay as long as the gumption stays with you.  Enjoy your time.  When the gumption runs out, and the job feels like an existential drag, or when you no longer see any chances to move up, start finding something else.  Send out the resumes, do the interviews, and when you get an offer for a new place, tender your resignation at the old, and start again.

   In a way, it's more natural than sticking with the same job for decades.  In nature, there are many species of fauna that will habitate one place for a while, and then migrate to greener pastures when the habitat no longer supports them.  Western culture, for all its greatness which I do admire and defend, seems wont to impose artificial expectations on work, as it does other aspects of life.  Why should anyone stick with something long after it's outlived its usefulness?  When it not only stops providing satisfaction and a feeling of purpose and belonging, but actually starts working against your happiness? 

  The reflex of the traditionalists, of course, is to slap back with the other extreme: you don't want a string of fifteen jobs on a resume.  You don't want to show you're non-committal.  To them, I say this: employers are non-committal.  Way more than their workers.  They won't hesitate to let you go if it serves their interests.  You shouldn't hesitate to drop them in favour of something new if they no longer serve your interests, as long as you do so in a professional manner that prevents too much damage on either side of the arrangement.

   When we say we're in a new economic reality, we need to appreciate that this reality now changes on a daily basis, not a generational one.  Most of the gray hairs for whom I work and who still cling to the old 1950s vision of career will never accept that, nor will their younger disciples for whom life has indeed been a straight and narrow path of relative ease.  Adaptability and knowing when to leap are two qualities I'd advise any young person entering the workforce to develop, no matter what they studied in school, at no matter what level. 

   Above all, I say to these kids: don't look for your career to define you as it has previous generations.  Instead, try to resist the tendency to label yourself and others you'll meet by what they do, and focus instead on the experience of life as a whole, in which "career" is only one thread in the tapestry.

   Your career, like your relationships, like your health, like other parts of your life, should all have one thing in common: they should be accurate reflections of the strongest version of Who You Are. Present tense. That is, they put you in the zone and give you a zest for life, make you excited to wake up in the morning to face the new day.   Doesn't matter what the job is, whether it's in your trained field or not, as long as it contributes to your overall joy.  When it stops doing so, look for something else that's more in line with Who You Are, however you define it, wherever you find it.

   I'm mindful that I'm now as excited about acting as I was about starting my current job, as I had been about the virtual concierge, about many of the jobs that ended up burning me out over the years. I haven't left my day job, and don't plan on it, for all of the shortcomings it has of low creative satisfaction and the social isolation. But I'm no lifer: my boss knows that, and if this new adventure turns out to be lucrative and personally fulfilling enough, I'd be silly to stick with a sure thing that fails to satisfy on both counts.

   How this turns out remains to be seen. That's why it's called "risk". Stay tuned.

***UPDATE: For those of you who have expressed concern, even criticism, that I shouldn't write this for fear that current and future employers may Google me, read this.  Frankly, any employer who would seek that much control over my thoughts and feelings does not deserve my services.

My Nervous Breakdown, Pt 2

(cue pre-intro theme from "Battlestar Galactica")

Previously, on Dispatches from the Alternate Universe:

"I sit up in bed in a state of pure awareness, not completely sure what I am hearing. Then my brain reconciles the sound. Heavy breathing. Two people. My neighbours are having sex at 5:43am on the other side of that wall.....This is the last straw."

"I had asked my boss to leave an hour early on Wednesday. Typical arrangement requires me to make up the time I take. Tuesday, I showed up an hour early...Boss... that this arrangement wasn't what I thought it was, and that I likely came in early for nothing."

"This was a thirtysomething Wednesday, my first, and it was boring and sad. The kind when you only think about lost baseball games and Fs on report cards and missed opportunities....was this all there was?"



"5:54am. They haven't stopped at all. And I'm angry. Determined....I get out of bed and start my day, determined to stop letting life kick my ass. Determined to make a change...."



***

Thursday

Thursday begins well. 

Spurred by the late night sexcapades of my nympho neighbour, I am set to get back in the vibe and be a productive individual. Today is the begininng of a special project that I am not allowed to talk about in detail, save that it's something that my boss has given me ownership of.  I am ready to kick ass.  And asses are kicked today.

I'm also excited for two other reasons. After work, I'm going shopping for clothes for a photo shoot I am doing on Saturday for my upcoming work in advertising and commercials.  I am getting professional head shots done and this could be the start of a whole unexpected chapter in my life. 

I'm also due to meet with my BFF - let's call him Dom to prevent undue and inadvertent libel, though I may have mentioned his real name here somewhere - for coffee afterwards.  He has been travelling through Europe for the past three weeks, and I want to hear about how his trip went.


 
As I do my shopping, I can sense a manic energy running through my system.  This isn't necesssarily a good thing, because I've felt this before, and it usually precedes a huge crash.  No matter, I'm getting new shoes, new pants, a new blazer....all things I've needed to complete my wardrobe.  They won't all get used, I know this, but at least it's done, and I'll be equipped for any type of event. Shopping can be a temporary salve during a state of life crisis. 

I come home, head into my bedroom and drop off the stuff in my closet.

And I hear them again!  It's 6:34pm.  This time, she's really raunchy, and sort of a turn-on.  My female BFF Alice suggests that I ask to join them, but that's not in the cards for me.  I barely have enough courage to talk to a girl one on one for just me: a three-way (and a devil's three-way, at that) is out of the question.

Still, it's like a determination refresher that motivates me to go to the gym and experience the mother of all workouts (which I do).

I return, shower, change, and head out to meet Dom. 

Dom's been there for me pretty much forever, but especially since the drama started with my breakup and divorce from my ex.  As single men, we formed part of an endangered demographic in our circle of married and long-term-partnered friends, and as "nice guys", both of us are accustomed to the pitfalls and vicissitudes of post-school dating while not being a douchebag.




I go to the cafe a little early, and find out that my other friend - again, let's call him Rick for anonymity's sake - is working that night down the street and will come over to meet us when he's done.  He's also recently left a relationship, but was starting something up with a girl at his job that was going somewhere.  Rick, too, has been a loyal ally in this dangerous world of singledom, and though at the time, I simply treat this as a casual coffee with buddies with no overarching symbolism, it occurs to me afterwards that these are my wingmen.

Dom shows up, and it's good to see him again.  His trip to Europe was kick-ass, and he's got an energy about him that's basically vintage Dom, except ramped up 15%. 

And I rapidly find out why.  He's now got a girlfriend that he met on the tour.

My face must have lit up like a Christmas tree! Awesome news!  I mean, Dom's probably the greatest guy ever, and if there's anyone who deserves excellent karma for years of being true to himself, putting in his best all the time with the people around him, and looking for a relationship where he can be authentic in all ways, it's him.  I am very excited for him, and wish him all the best!

Rick shows up, and we talk for a bit . Turns out, he too, is now off the market (well, at the time, sort of) and was deliberating on what to do next.  We shoot the shit for a while and I go home at midnight. 

Though it occurs to me at the meeting, it doesn't really hit me until I go to bed (now wary of ANY sound coming from the other room).

I am probably the only single man in my group of friends.



Still, as I drift off to sleep, I do fall back on my own New Age philosophical leanings.  Things that happen in your life also have symbolic meaning, as well as literal. 

 My apartment, for example, is either clean or cluttered depending purely on my mental state.  I'm quite direct in my symbolism - for others, a clean apartment is a sign they're avoiding dealing with other issues, whereas for me it's a sign that I am bringing my surroundings into alignment with my calm and organized mindset at the time - and so I realize something that, in my lingering mania, gives me hope.

  Sex is happening three feet away from me.  My best friends are now experiencing either the start of new love or are seeing opportunities for love right before them.  The universe is surrounding me with the very experiences I wish to have, have been looking to have again for many long months now.  It's only a matter of time before it's my turn.  Not much longer to wait.



  On that thought, I fall asleep.  And yet, outside, in the dark, my apartment is a complete mess.

  Friday

  If I'd known how the day was going to end, I would have probably slept in a little later.  For the first time in two days, no sex from the other side of the wall.  Good.

  I get to work, and today's the day that I am to finish up my project and get the arrangements made.  Part of this project involves collating a significantly large number of documents that, in turn, require organizing.  I figure I can get all of this done myself, impress my boss, and be a champion.

  I don't count on the involvement of the other middle manager in the office.  Let's call her MM.

   MM is hyper organized.  It's her thing.  And she's a nice lady, personally (aren't all the evil bosses nice people outside of work matters?).  But she is organized to a fault, way past the border of OCD.  And I'm about to feel her wrath.

   Leaving my project for lunch, I return to find that she has taken over my collating piles, reorganized them, and is now telling me what to do down to the last detail.  I can't go to my boss for advice because she isn't back until Monday.  Nor can I protest, partly because it's insubordination and I have two weeks left on my technical probation, and because she is offering me critical help.

    The workforce has this phenomenon that I can't quite name, in which there's no practical reason why you should be unhappy for some policy, someone's help, someone's directives, but where there's something wrong where you can't put your finger on what it is.  And for me, I realize that MM has taken away my bragging rights for getting the project done myself. 

   More than that, I also know that if there are any discrepancies, my boss will blame me for it. 

   Worse yet, MM is altering my original directives given to me by my boss, and I am working on complete faith that this is what my boss really wants. 

    MM issues one last reorganizing directive that, if I am to complete, requires me to stay late to ensure completion of the project, then leaves.  By this point, I am demotivated, stressed, and despairing, because my boss already has me on the hook for schedule issues.



   I am damned if I do, damned if I don't.  If I leave on time, the project will not be finished, and I will hear about it Monday.  If I stay late, I will hear about it on Monday.  I decide to stay late, sending Boss an email explaining the situation. 

   As I finish the set-up though, it dawns on me: nothing I ever do will impress my boss.  Her management style is the old school one in which the only feedback you receive is when you do something wrong.

   I am an intelligent human being doing peon work, and being treated accordingly.  I have no upward momentum, and nowhere else to go.  But I'm forced to stay because I need money.

   In the stressed out, demoralized atmosphere of my mind, the usual levvies that allow me to separate home issues from work start to crack. As I finish up my email and start for home, the leaks get bigger.  More chunks fall out from the levvies and the fluids begin to gush and mix together.

   I am single and divorced and alone and lonely.  Everyone is in a relationship but me.

  I am an intelligent, university-educated Arts major doing work that I am overqualified for and bored by, but that I need in order to pay my bills.

  I am trying to please a boss for whom nothing will be good enough.

  Everyone else is living what I want to have: love, and sex and babies and houses and success.

  And I am 30 years old and one week and nowhere near where I thought I would be in life.

  These elements swirl together, gathering momentum, and create a perfect storm in my mind that only breaks when I get home. 

  The manic energy spikes....then, ultimately....CRASH!

 I get into my apartment and just lose it.  When Jody has a nervous breakdown, it becomes rather epic.  Status updates abound.  Text messages fly.  I call everyone to vent.  I allow myself to cry, a behaviour which I've internalized as not being "manly", which I don't even do on my own half the time, but which is just too much to repress any longer.  I lose my typical cheer and optimism and become all about the cloud, not the lining.

For about two hours on Friday night, I alternate my time between venting out the strain, scaring the shit out of my friends and family who mistake the venting for my imminent demise, and just completely losing my shit.  Like most violent storms, though, it's over with quickly, but while it's falling, it's intense and dramatic and scary.

  But then, it's over.

 The comparison between the end of a nervous breakdown and a storm is apt.  The stillness and sheer awareness is the same, the feeling of energies dissipated, of a mess that's left behind now requiring clean-up.  Silence. 

  I get up from the couch, now in the dark.  I look around.  The place is a mess.  But I feel better, if not a little puffy and stuffed up.  I make a few phone calls, talk to a few people who have seen my updates and are worried about me.  The first glimmerings of gratitude and light appear: I am lucky to have the people that I do, people who care about me.  Who love me, even when I can't understand why they do.

  I sit for a while, idly browsing the web, start to put a few things away here and there, but otherwise, not doing much else.  The storm's passed.



  Flashforward: The Weekend

  I feel relieved to have these feelings out.  The weekend is here.

   Saturday, I pack up half my closet, clean myself up and head to Toronto for pictures.  There, I'll visit an actual celebrity photographer in a real artsy loft, the kind I've only seen on TV.  He is friendly and delightful and makes me feel right at home.  I'll chat with a make-up artist who's worked with the big stars all over the world as he gets me ready for my head shots.  He'll tell me that he's been doing work for over twelve years, and that he has confidence that I will get lots of work.  As I leave, he wishes me well and says, "See you on TV." 



  I drive home through Toronto's busy Distillery and then through the Entertainment District.  I feel the energy of a city I have always loved to visit, and may be seeing more of soon.

  Afterwards,  I'll have a belated birthday party afterwards with some of the people I care about most in the world willing to buy me drinks and laugh with me. 

   Sunday's sunny and warm: perfect hangover weather for walking and doing nothing, enjoying the sun and breeze.  That morning, Rick will have crashed at my place and I'll drive him to work at the bookstore where I've applied for seasonal work.  After browsing some books, I'll decide to take a ballroom dance class starting in January. The school is within walking distance of home, and they say partners are not necessary for the group lessons. 



   I'll spend much of the day giving my brain a rest, nursing a slight hangover, indulging in just sitting under a tree, walking through grass, looking at clouds that remind us of the infinite vastness of sky and the wind-chopped waters of an inland sea that leads to the ocean. 

  I'll meet with my baseball team for our last beer call together.  I don't know it on Friday, but I'll win Rookie of the Year from my coach Julius, another good friend I'm lucky to have.   Tuesday, I start floor hockey again.

  At that same gathering, I'll buy a stag and doe ticket for November, another opportunity to have fun and meet new people, possibly someone who'll be special.  Another whim decision, unexpected, and new, like my decision to work in talent.  A psychic told me this summer that the next special girl I meet would be at an unexpected party in the winter.  Could this be it?  We'll see. I tend not to believe most self-proclaimed psychics, so I'm not going to expect anything.  But I can hope.

  The day will end with this blog entry.  Tomorrow I return to work, and whatever trouble I may find myself getting in, if at all, despite my best efforts.  But I'm not going to spin my wheels anymore for no reward.  I will do what's required, focus with all my best, and then walk at the bell.  Become what we all expect of a typical government worker.

  I'll be living with my 30s for the next ten years, so I'll have to get used to it.  It'll take time, but what else can you do?  30's typically a difficult year for most people in those unexpected ways. This is just my time to deal with it.

   And as my friend Rick has been telling me for a while, I just have to be patient that I'll find someone, and find something to do to enjoy my time in the meantime. If I'm in the flow of experiences I enjoy, I won't need to worry about the interpersonal dynamics of approaching girls or not approaching them: we'll meet each other halfway.  And it won't feel like work.



 Nervous breakdowns happen to everyone, even me. Not often, but this one was a long time coming, and now that it's passed, I still feel that calm that follows.  It won't last, of course - nothing lasts - but at least for now, I can just sleep the sleep of the tired and the lucky.

   It's unrealistic to feel grateful and joyous all the time, but at least I can be conscious of the stormy days, be aware of things as they happen, and try to get through them with a minimum of damage to self, surroundings, and reputation.  The contrast of pleasure and pain makes life.

  This breakdown cleared the air.  Eventually, I'll be grateful for it, but in the meantime, I'm happy with just not being ashamed of it.

   9:40pm as I write this sentence.

  I now go to bed and sleep, turning out the lights on an apartment that's clean once again.

  Let's see what the neighbour chick's got in store tonight.

My Nervous Breakdown, Pt 1

(Preface: this is very closely related to Allie Brosh's the Sneaky Hate Spiral.  Click here to read before continuing if you haven't already.  If not, I bid you continue)

5:43am.

That's what the BlackBerry screen says.  5:43am.  My alarm's not set to go off for another hour or so.  I was dreaming deeply, of markets and sunsets in faraway places. 

So why am I up? 

Then I hear it.  Muffled, intermittent, human.  Heavy, from behind the concrete wall that my bed backs onto. 

I sit up in bed in a state of pure awareness, not completely sure what I am hearing.  Then my brain reconciles the sound.  Heavy breathing.  Two people.

My neighbours are having sex at 5:43am on the other side of that wall. 

Three feet of concrete separates me from their hot and heavy, yet somehow I can hear it. 

This is the last straw.

Flashback to Tuesday

The first work day back from the Thanksgiving weekend began poorly.

The preceding week, I had asked my boss to leave an hour early on Wednesday, before my two day vacation, then Thanksgiving weekend..  Typical arrangement requires me to make up the time I take.  I had offered to make up the time before Wednesday, but my boss advised me that she prefers I "do it afterwards".  I interpreted this to mean that my very next shift I am to show up early.  This has been the process at other workplaces I've been at.  Of course, this thinking made an ass out of you and me (mostly me)....

Tuesday, I showed up an hour early, only to find that my government building was still closed, business hours having not begun.  Fortunately, I found an unlocked door and made my way in.  However, the elevators are also locked until 8:00am, meaning that unless I have a special base pass, I can't actually access my floor.  Again, fortunately, some kind souls working extra - like me! - showed up and took me to a floor three stories above mine. 

That's okay, I thought, I'll just take the stairs down to my floor.  And I made it to the stairwell.  And I descended to my floor.  Only to find that the door to my floor was, in fact, locked.  I tried other doors on other floors, only to discover a rather unfortunate truth: I was stuck in the stairwell. 

I checked the time.  7:36am.  Not bad, boss isn't usually in for a while yet.  I suddenly remembered the phone number for security, called the guard, identified myself, and asked him to come up and unlock the door.  He did so, and I gained access to my office.

Boss was not in, so to give her some proof that I did my best to be in an hour early, I sent her an email (those are time-stamped, right?).  45 minutes made up, will make up the other 15 somehow later.

Boss never came in.  In meetings out of the office all week.  But she was checking her email.  Two hours later, I got a reply.  Essentially said that this arrangement wasn't what I thought it was, and that I likely came in early for nothing.  I sighed heavily, rubbed my eyes, went on with my day, mostly conscious.

Nine hours later, I headed home.  Around the afternoon, I developed a headache.  Intense, like little lightning storms striking my skull.  It developed for no reason whatsoever, as the rest of the day had gone well, but then it was followed by stomach queasiness and a general feeling of "what the fuck" flowing through my veins and nerve endings.

I'd had plans to go play floor hockey that night, but instead I came home and lay down, napped for a good two hours.  Though I would eventually get up and get the wherewithall to go to the gym and do mild cardio, my evening, for all intents and purposes, was shot.  The headache and stomach sick vanished just as quickly as it appeared.  I had no idea why.

Wednesday

Wednesday dawned, and the day was slow, so I blogged. Coming home, I decided to go to the Second Cup and write for a few hours.

Outside, an autumn rain, the equal and opposite of spring rain, fell in torrents, cold and bone chilling and dreary.  It was the dreariness that got to me, the type of weather that not only soaks your clothes but gets into your heart and pools, weighing it down.  My friends a city away from me, most of them, no girlfriend or wife to go home to, I felt sad.  True to my bilingual status, all I could think was "le sigh". 

This was a thirtysomething Wednesday, my first, and it was boring and sad.  The kind when you only think about lost baseball games and Fs on report cards and missed opportunities.  Where you dwell on wrong turns taken in the road that led you here.

Was this all there was?  We go through childhood and school dreaming about what we would be when we grew up, and I was none of the things I had dreamed about.  Not an astronaut, not a fighter pilot, not a police detective, not a cartoonist, nor a professor. An author, sure, but not successful in the financial and commercial sense, not yet.  A career in limbo then, working at a low level minion job where I am viewed as a peon - essential to operations, but not someone to be appreciated or thanked - to pay the bills until that success happens. 

The mood didn't get much better as I talked to Mom on the phone, laying out all the reasons for why my life wasn't going the way I wanted to.  "I like what you wrote in your blog," she said, "but I also know what you say to me when we talk about the same things.  You're trying to convince yourself as much as you are others when you do your motivational entries."

Mom's where I derive much of my crazy, I think, my different way of thinking about things.  And she hit the nail on the head, though I answered that even if I am doing this to convince myself of what I should be thinking, if it helps someone else deal with their shit, it benefits both of us.

But that night, I just felt generally stuck.  Making enough money at my job for food and shelter, but not enough for plane tickets, night school classes, or dance lessons: places and experiences where I could potentially meet Miss Right and thus restore my life to the normal function it had for over a decade.  I am no good single.  No one appreciates me at work, and I have no one at home to give validation that I matter as a human being, that I matter to someone else.

I'm also far more intelligent than the work I do, having passed up management jobs here and there throughout my twenties because, well, I've never seen any industry, any economic activity that I could devote 100% of my passion to.  Nothing about the management lifestyle lights me up except for the cash, which I'd gladly accept if I didn't have any responsibility.  I hadn't, however, factored in the hit that my self esteem would take by doing minion work when I'm way more evolved than most minions. 

And, of course, the 30 thing, which I realized was wishful thinking on my part to regard it as just another day. 

This was the mindset I was in on Wednesday night.  I went to the gym, came back, washed up, and went to bed, alone...again. 

As I tried to sleep through the mania that was keeping me up, I wondered why it was so hard to meet women my age. 

Myth#1 of all frustrated single "nice" guys like me is that there aren't women around.  Not true, I see them everywhere.  The thing is just approaching them.

Do women really like being approached by guys?  I can't get a satisfactory, absolute answer to this question.  I've always thought it was borderline creepy to just walk up to a random girl and say "Hi".  But apparently, that's the way to go.  I meditated on the paradoxes of dating: that girls will claim to want "nice guys" but will be turned on by assholes who will hurt them later; that if you go up to a girl with a plan, she'll deride your "agenda", but if you just flat out tell her you're interested with no games, she'll find you boring.

More excerpts from a book I've quoted here before by Lori Gottlieb called Marry Him in which all the fortysomething singles increasingly pine for the "nice guys" they weren't attracted to in their quarter life years, guys who are now married to the women who were saavy enough to lock them down when the getting was good.  Meditated on where those women were at this moment.

More contemplation: why is it so easy for almost every other guy I know to just approach a girl?  Why is it I can give speeches to crowds of dozens, raise the roof, flirt with cashiers and baristas, make friends with strangers, but I freeze when I see a girl at a bar I'm interested in seeing romantically?  This comes naturally to almost 90% of men out there.  I'm having to learn it from books. 

I contemplate entering the priesthood to simply remove the dating option from Jody's palette of options.  Not Roman Catholic.  Maybe Shaolin. I'll know kung fu.

Oh, and the fact that I've been an Aberdonian version of what Barney Stinson calls "The Sexless Innkeeper" for nearly a year, after having lived a decade of my prime years where access to sex wasn't in question. That was about the last thought I had before finally drifting off.

Around 1:45am or so, I finally fell asleep. 

Thursday

I'd only seen the girl next door once. 

Blonde, twenty five or twenty six, decent shape, somewhat nice, but like all other quarter-lifers, not terribly sociable, no small talk kind of thing.  Small talk and walking up to people to say hi is the domain of the older generation.  We said awkward hellos, took the elevator down to the parking garage, said goodbye, and that's it.  No other communication.

Until I hear her having loud sex on the other side of my bedroom wall with a boyfriend she had acquired.  And that communication is not only one-way, but unintentional.

5:54am.  They haven't stopped at all.  And I'm angry.  Determined. 

This is the closest I have physically been to that kind of energy in a long time.  It seems that the good things in life that I'm looking for are happening all around me, but not to me directly.  The universe is determined to screw with my life with its pernacious sense of humour.

Sexless Inkeeper my ass.

Time to stop feeling pathetic and alone.  Time to man up and head out there, stop being sad,and be awesome instead.  If life isn't going to give me what I want, then it's time to go out and take it!

I get out of bed and start my day, determined to stop letting life kick my ass.  Determined to make a change....

(To Be Continued....)

Virus of the Mind

At what point did we start defining ourselves by what we do and what we've got?

Among the big selling points of membership in my college Fraternity is that the skills you acquire and the network you're able to access will help you obtain the high profile, high income, high prestige career that you're looking for. 

This is true, in many respects, in which case I have to ask myself: just what the hell have I, in the last ten years since joining Phi Delta Theta, done with my life?

Four days into 30 years old, and I can tell you, it feels pretty much the same in my personal experience. 

And yet socially, it feels like I'm the slow kid in the class. 

Suddenly, I'm in a new bracket when I take Internet surveys (30-39 years).  I'm the same age that my parents were when they had two kids, a house, two jobs, and two cars, a comfortable life.

I watch TV and see favourite actors who are my age or younger; see ads for lawyers and doctors who graduated the year after I did; read books and magazines written by people five years younger than me and now enjoying the type of material success I still aspire to.

You get the idea.  Personally, it's no different.  Just another hash mark on the wall.  Socially, the culture expects me to have made more of my life than I have.  The culture would have me feel like the first few lyrics of a Nickelback song ("Feels like the bottom of the ninth and I'm never gonna win/This life hasn't turned out quite the way I want it to be").

But then, I ask myself, would I trade the self-awareness I've gained from having gone through difficult career adventures? Of trying and failing to fit my life into the prescribed mail slots that society and the economy have set up for me?

Would I trade self-knowledge for being a successful corporate executive?  Military officer?  Doctor? Lawyer?  Banker? 

And the answer is.....maybe.

Ignorance is bliss, right?  Haven't we all wondered what it would be like to be that asshole driving the convertible Mercedes down the road with the bleach blonde golddigger riding shotgun?  The one with personalized licence plates that read "$MyRide$" and shiny new rims that get replaced with every quarterly bonus?  Don't we all, on occasion, feel society's subtle criticism eating away at our sense of self-confidence and certainty?  Singer Heather Nova calls it "a virus of the mind".  It's definitely contagious, and resistant to most antibiotics.

It would certainly help me with online dating.  My OkCupid profile, frankly, is not that impressive, unless you're measuring from rock bottom (that is, that I bathe, I'm employed, I don't live in my parents' basement, etc..).  I have a job that's unsexy to the point of causing reproductive organs to actually retract.  I drive a dented Sunfire.  I rent.

Again, you get the picture.  I know my value as a person, but on paper, I'm not terribly marketable to the opposite sex (though admittedly, I'm not looking for the type of girl who likes only cars and money, either).

Would I trade this awareness?  Somedays, I would, if only so that I wouldn't be so aware of the lacklustre results of my life versus the ambitious goals I'd set when I was an undergrad. Surely, the unhappiest neanderthal in Plato's Parable of the Cave was the one who knew the shadows on the wall weren't reality: they were just shadows.  Imagine trying to live with the other chained troglodytes afterwards.  Man, they'd give you shit!

Then again, maybe we just need a more authentic definition of identity.

My dad is a trained mechanic and fitter, and that was his work when I was growing up.  Early memories of him involve not the work he was doing, but coming home with food and toys and movies for us kids to enjoy. That's who he was and is today.  He's a great man. 

And yet, I wonder how many people's impressions of him were based solely on what he did for a living? Would they have thought him a failure at life that he was a mechanic at 30 years old?  If so, they weren't seeing the whole picture.

Outsiders don't see inner qualities. The worst thing we can do is make ourselves the outsiders of our own lives. 

Notice that when you have family or friends that you really care about, boyfriends and girlfriends whom you love dearly, in most cases it stops mattering what they do for a living.  What matters more is who they really are outside of work, and how you feel when you're in their presence.  

Dating-wise, I'd be damned lucky to find an available girl my age or younger who sees who I am, without having to lead off with my lacklustre material achievements.  Friend and family-wise, I'm confident most people see my value outside of what I actually do to make money. 

And who am I, authentically, outside of society's prescribed definitions and expectations? 

I'm Jody Aberdeen.  And I can decide for myself what that means.

And I can also post a picture of Homer Simpson at the end of this entry for no reason whatsoever.  Enjoy!

Twentysomething

   So, typically my pre-birthday blogs tend towards the longer side.  One is in the works, make no mistake, but I'm going to save that for now, since it's unlikely to be done before midnight tonight.

   I'm turning 30 in three hours. Technically, I guess, I turn 30 at 12:45pm tomorrow, but I've usually marked my birthday at midnight. 

   I wrote in my first book, QLO: The Quarter Life Opportunity, that our twenties are our testing ground for adulthood, for the rest of our lives, in a way that later years are not.  Later years are supposed to be for the fulfillment of dreams, for "success", however you define it, and for truly "growing up". 

   Certainly, Twentysomething has been a proving ground for me, and I've learned much.

   Here are the highlights.  Young Padawans, take heed.

  What I Learned During My Twenties

  All plans fail.  No plans fail.  However you think your life is going to unfold, it's simply not going to go that way.  Period.  There will always be something unexpected that pops up and derails you.  Do not become addicted to your lifeplan.  Set a destination, yes.  Set goals, yes.  But never lose your spontaneity, your ability to adapt to change, because change will happen.  If you could predict it, it wouldn't be change. And would you really want to, anyway?

   And if something you pinned your hopes on doesn't work out, look for the benefit in what happened.   That's why no plan truly "fails": it's simply leads you to unexpected conclusions. Sometimes the victory isn't obvious until later.

   You can re-create yourself as many times as you want.  My identity has lived, died, and been reborn several times during my twenties, and it will continue to do so.  Never get too wrapped up in who you think you are, or attach too much importance to what others think of you.  You can re-invent yourself; in fact, whether you're aware of it or not, you're always reinventing itself, every minute.  Being conscious of this lets you do it with greater power and intention.  It keeps you feeling young while giving you the wisdom of age and experience.

   Authenticity matters, unless you're authentically an asshole.  "Be yourself" can be the worst advice to give to some people.  It enables stubbornness and close-mindedness in the worst of us, because you start to feel that you're entitled to be an asshat.  Wayne Dyer writes that "the only common factor in all of your past failed relationships to date is you.".  If you're not willing to compromise even a little, you get to keep what you defend, and so you won't grow.  I've learned this the hard way, trust me.

   Then again, if you're aspiring to better yourself, authenticity is key.  By that, I mean being aware of what you truly feel, what you really can and can't do, what you need to learn, and to be ready and willing to learn it.  "Fake it 'til you make it" can work, but it's far easier and smoother to authentically become the person you want to be.  How you do that, and the circumstances in which you do that, vary from person to person.  Just be aware of yourself.

   Why is this a twentysomething lesson?  Because it's preferable to internalize this and put it into practice before you become an old fart before your time.  Seriously, guys, I marvel at the bravado and sheer certainty of some of my younger friends, many of whom think they've got it all figured out at 22. Most of the time, they're just bullshitting, or puffing themselves up to impress.  Fuck that.  You're always most impressive when you're authentically walking your talk, not just talking about it.  Start now, guys and gals.  You'll be happy you did.

   Now is all that matters.  Readers will have noticed a theme in the last few entries. And it's so true.  You only get one chance at this moment.  Will you gloss it over?  Spend it agonizing that you're not where you're "supposed" to be in life?  Waste it by "thinking" about it?  No, being in the "now" means experiencing the moment.  It means feeling the moment, outside of thought.  Life then becomes a form of walking meditation.

   This has been one of the hardest lessons I've had to learn, but it's been persistent.  Everytime I've thought I'd shaken it, I turn a corner and there it is again, staring me in the face.  Make plans, yes.  Have ambitions, yes.  But while those plans are simmering, when it's just you and whatever it is you're doing, be present.  Two great books to help you: Eckhart Tolle's "The Power of Now", and Whitley Strieber's "The Path". 

   Why?  My twenties are not a collection of ten years, but of thousands of moments. Moments add up to a lifetime in our experience, because that's the biggest sample we can take in.  That's life, no matter how old you are, but learning it while young enhances the rest of your days. Better to be present in each moment than suddenly having awareness every few weeks and wondering where all the time has gone.  "Wow, September just flew by...."

   Allow, and let go.  My ex recently returned me to this awareness.  "Everything that's happened to me since I started over have happened when I just stopped stressing, let go, and moved on," she said.  Reconnecting recently, I discovered that, like me, she's had a stroke of good fortune that's helped her grow since our split. And it's true: sometimes you have to just let things happen.  Set your intention, do the work, and let 'er go.  Bill Murray sums this up brilliantly in What About Bob.  Despite never having been on a boat, he found sailing to be easy: "I just let the boat do the work, that was my secret." 

   Speaking of my ex....

   What's good is never lost.  I lost my grandfather, my childhood pet Benton, and split from my first and only love to date, in my twenties. Of those, my split from my ex was the most devastating.  And yet, I regret nothing.  She and I have built a new friendship, one based on distance, one far more grown up and mature than before, and one which is rare.  It's helped me avoid bitterness about "wasted time", and helped me realize that none of it was wasted at all.  My twenties, and hers, will always be the time of us, and I'm grateful for this. I know she is, too.  

   Experiences lived to their fullest remain with you, no matter the outcome. Grandpa's wisdom and love remain with me.  I'm two minds on whether Benny's actually reincarnated into my sister's new cat or if he's still hanging around - I still get visitations - but either way, a childhood pet stays with you for the rest of your life in some form.  And my ex and I have grown together, even if we've split apart romantically, and I feel safe in saying that we're both grateful for what we've had together as a couple, and what we'll yet experience as friends reborn.  All remains with me and more.  Gain this awareness in your twenties, and your thirties will be richer for it, for you'll have internalized the wisdom of elders while still young. 

   Which leads me to my last point of this shorter entry.

  Everything you do is worth it.  I mean everything.  Simple as that.

  30 is just a number.  30 is the new 20.  I've heard it all.  All ages are just a number.  It's how you feel on the inside that counts.  And yeah, I admit, every now and then, I still feel the desperation of Tolstoy's Pahom, rushing up that hill to catch the last rays of sunlight.  On occasion, I still feel lonely, nostalgic for the old days, regretful of past actions, guilty for not having made as much of material success as I could have had I been more "conventional".  The secret to conscious living isn't to always be happy 24/7, but to go with the ups and downs of all normal human emotions in full awareness of them. 

  But as these last few hours of 29 tick away, I realize that they're just hours. Tomorrow is another day for the rest of the world, so why not for me as well?  It's taken ten years of life experience, traumas, joys, pleasures, fears, suffering, and assertion, to realize that at every moment, at every place, I was exactly where I needed to be. 

  Each moment has the potential for surprise. And as I begin my thirties, I am ever open to the moments. 

  Because, in the end, all age is is just a number.

  Because, in the end, I am who I am and I am grateful for that. 

  Because, no matter what, I am where I need to be, right now.

  And because tomorrow is just another day.

  Happy Thanksgiving!

Tabula Rasa

So, here I am. Separated, soon to be divorced, at 29.

I wouldn't say I've lived an interesting life up until this point, but it hasn't been boring either. My ex was at the centre of half of that life, though, having met in high school and having spent all of our twenties together, all of the firsts of a couple - first kiss, first time, first place together - through university, job hunting, a brief marriage, and though now we're done, she's still special, and a friend to me, despite how things ended.

But ended we are, and so now I'm starting over.

We all get a clean slate at least once, a "do-over" as Billy Crystal's character in City Slickers assures us, and I'm lucky to have this opportunity now while I'm still young. I'm blessed to have my friends, my family, a great job with supportive bosses who have my back and where I can excel, excellent health, living in a community I love, with the talents that I have.

For much of my teens, my ex was my mission in life. I started crushing on her at 14 years old, but wasn't ready - physically, emotionally, spiritually - to ask her out. That didn't happen until 18, and by then, I had become someone I never dreamed I would ever be (and I've always dreamed big). Mission accomplished.

For much of my twenties, finding a career balance was my mission in life. I went from many jobs, and though people told me I was a flake and that I should "grow up" and stick to one thing, in the end, that diversity of experience was the thing that got me into the Public Service, and I don't intend to leave. I am secure, not only to live well, day to day, but to pursue my real passion of writing and becoming a best selling author. And I did it at 29 years old. Mission accomplished.

Now, with my thirties only months away, I have a chance at greater glory, the golden days of my life where I will truly make miracles happen. I have the chance to create my dreams, leave footprints in the faraway places of the world, build my own kingdom at home, and do it all while finding new whirlwind romances, and finding my next and hopefully last great love to brave the storms with together.

It's a great new beginning, the next great story of my life. Welcome to the first chapter.