Tag Archives: work

Mad Skillz.

You know what my husband is really good at? (Don’t be a perv.) I mean, like, he really excels at this. (Seriously, stop being a perv.) He’s really good at falling asleep. He’s like a high-functioning narcoleptic. Within mere seconds of turning out his light, the man is snoring. Now, me? I have to take a pill, wait an hour (during which time I read until my eyelids become heavy), then turn off the light and lay there. And lay there. And lay there. And I think about all of the things that I should have done, need to do, could have done better, things I said, things I shouldn’t have said, things I should have said better—and then I worry about not being able to fall asleep. And eventually, sleep comes.

Some people can just, like, do things. I have a friend from high school who literally decided to become a sculptor and became one. And he’s no chump sculptor—he’s extremely good. Guitar? No problem. He just went out, bought a guitar and taught himself. I went out and bought a guitar (purple, electric, in honor of Prince), and while I can play Horse With No Name like a motherfucker, I gave it up, because it hurt my finger pads.

I don’t like things that hurt.

My mother is extremely skilled at not trusting the post office. This is one of those things that, over the years, she has perfected, and really honed her skills at. At first, she would mail something and just trust that it would arrive. And then . . . I’m not sure, but I have to assume that one day that thing that was supposed to arrive never did. And now she has PTSD. Over the years, it has morphed from casual calls (“Honey, I sent you something today. Next time we talk, will you let me know if you got it?”) to an extreme tactical operation (“I am sending you a package. I will let you know when it is on its way. The minute it arrives, please release the flock of messenger pigeons that will confirm its arrival, text me, call me, and also send a vial of your blood so that I know it’s really you. Make sure you send it FedEx.”). She’s amazing at a lot of other things, too. Like suddenly she’s a watercolor artist—and she’s becoming too good for us, she’s so talented! But this post office thing? She’s wicked good at that.

Then there’s Rowan. He can spell better than a Harvard graduate. He’s all over it. No word is too hard. He’s also really good at protecting the “girls’ area” in the playground at his school from the boys during recess. (Never mind that he himself is a boy, and so by all rights should also be excluded from the girls’ area.) I can see why he relishes that role. He gets to be near a crowd of girls and allow them their space while at the same time being a part of it. Genius. Oh, and he gets to act like a dragon while he’s doing it, so it’s a win-win.

Luca is really good at talking about poop.

Then, alas, there is me. I’ve spent the last year searching for that thing that I can be really good at. It’s been a year of learning and trying a completely new role professionally, and for most of it, it’s been, er . . . really uncomfortable (Oh! And super fun!). Recently, when a friend asked how I was, I replied, ominously, “different.”  And it’s the truest response that I could have given at the time. For the last five months, I have been working full time at a place I love, with people I care about, doing work that has been challenging, but . . . not me. And while I have been hyper-aware of it not being me, I have been judging myself and trying to make it work, trying to adapt. I’ve been waiting to get used to a 50-hour-a-week office job, used to computer work and to doing things that I simply don’t know how to do. And while I am trying to make that work, I’ve been wondering, what is wrong with me that this is so hard? Why can’t I adapt? Why can’t I become this other person? Why can’t I manage stress better? When all along, I should have been asking myself, what is it about me that makes me unable to accept who I am?

Sure, I’m sensitive. I move slowly and need time to process things. I don’t like stress. And yes, I’m not a traditional person that is comfortable with a more traditional profession. I want to connect, and take time with people. I want to engage and offer people a different way of being in the world. I’m comfortable with that. I’m good at that. It’s important to me that the time I spend away from my family is of equal value to the time I spend with my family. And then, with the force of the proverbial smack on the forehead, I realized (yeah, yeah, I’m slow) that I’ve had it all along. That the career I thought I should leave was the career that was a perfect fit for me.

Dear SIPNEL.

So, now, I surrender. I know who I am. I know what I love and value. I know what I’m good at. I know that, no matter what, at the end of the day, I want to feel satisfied, and I want to feel peaceful. It doesn’t matter what other people want me to be, or what I assume other people value and expect of me. None of that matters. None of that should lead me. And truly, genuinely, I know that I can do anything. I just choose to return to my life as a massage therapist, a mother, a writer, a friend, and a colleague.

I just hope you’ll have me.

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Filed under Confessions.

Workin’ 9 to 9.

So, I’m up at the butt crack of dawn. The fact that I—a girl who usually requires a solid 9 hours of sleep and hates to do anything before mainlining her coffee—am up before the sun is is just, well, weird. The sun, apparently knows better than me. Weirder still that I wake up at 5am and think “I should probably get up and get some work done.” Not only do I think it, I do it.

Good god. I have gone mainstream.

I just have so much to do! All the time! It never stops! And the things that I get paid to do? Well, they’re fun! And I get paid! But, dudes. It’s really hard. In fact, life is hard. I’m talking, super hard. Although, to steal a quote from my good friend, Erica, it’s totally first world hard, which means basically that I can’t find a sitter for the boys. God, I am such a jerk.

Really, though. Being a working mother is really freaking hard. It’s hard to know where to begin, really. First though, I want to know why none of you told me! How come women have gone through life never being like “WHATEVER YOU DO! DON”T PROCREATE! IT’S REALLY FUCKING HARD!” Or, in this case, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD! WORKING AND BEING A MOM AT THE SAME TIME IS HARDER THAN PUTTING YOUR FIRST TAMPON IN!” I’ve been working since the boys were little, but as a massage therapist, which means that I worked 8 hours a week when it was convenient to me. I took most of the first couple of years off with the kids, and got hella lazy professionally. I see now though, that like a squirrel hoarding the nuts, I was subconsciously storing my drive to work and earn. And now, the floodgates have opened.

I mean, good god! I’m up and blogging at 6am! What is wrong with me? I’ve been so busy lately that I actually had to schedule time to write a post, for I fear that if I don’t, I will just stop writing, which would make the sunshine disappear, and a single tear drip down the faces of people everywhere. So, basically, this is a forced post, so as to avoid the entire world becoming depressed. Sort of like verbal constipation. Mostly I just wanted to use the word constipation.

Poop.

I don’t have time to go to the grocery store! Or clean my house! I used to say that my house was “hippie clean,” but now it’s more lik “homeless clean.” So, don’t like my floor, K? Actually, I would rather you lick my floor than my shower. Definitely don’t lick that. Sheesh. It’s so bizarre to be so busy and happy at the same time. Then there is the added oddness (those two words together make my eyes cross) of being in a position where people believe that you can do things that you don’t even believe you can do. That’s something I am trying to get used to.

Yet, what’s hardest for me is the great imbalance between the genders. When my husband has to go to work, he gets up, proceeds to spend 27.6 minutes doing god knows what in the shower (not exaggerating) [totally exaggerating -ed.], gets ready, and walks out the door. Don’t get me wrong. He helps me out in the morning and everything, it isn’t that he is a dick. It’s about how simple it is for him to go to work. The things expected of him are, really, quite minimal. He is the known breadwinner, therefore he goes forth to make the . . . er . . . bread. The process for me is a little different, and involves the hiring of many, many babysitters. And if I thought I was spinning plates before? Well, holy Moses. Now I’m spinning plates with my hands and feet, while also cooking dinner.

When I jump in the shower, I usually do it so fast that I bang into something and get a bruise. And then the children sense that I am in the shower and come forth to ask me to do things for them that are completely unreasonable, considering I am both naked and wet. (You want a picture of that, don’t you?) My showers last approximately 2.6 minutes, and in that time I not only manage to shower, but I also decide what I am going to wear, remember what things I need to do that day, and make a mental note of all the people that I need to call. The things I do while at home are never just those things. They are done while also doing 3 things at the exact same time. And again, I do them so fast, they usually end in an injury.

So, I don’t know. It’s funny. This new job sort of crept up on me, and has been sort of miraculous. It isn’t single-handedly responsibly for the busy, either. It’s life, it’s how it is. And then you have me, and the nature of . . . well . . . me. Two jobs, two kids, mandatory volunteering at their school, a house, a refrigerator that occasionally needs food in it, and you know what? I still decide to run for President of the Board at my kids’ school. Why? Well, I’ll tell you the long why in a different post, but I can assure you that it has something to do with the fact that I am insane.

But too busy to care.

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Filed under All of them.