Unemployed or on-vacation?

This is the question that's been plaguing me since the unfortunate event of my dismissal. Yes I know, I wasn't fired - I was merely restructured out of a job. Yet, these days, that certainly gets lost in translation as I parlay the news to friends, family and the general public. It seems that a lot more people are strangely curious about my employment status now that I find myself shit out of luck on the job front.

So how does a seemingly well adjusted, articulate young writer make a buck in this city? Is it re-jigging my life? My brain? Trading something in or up? Or merely letting go of everything?

Perusing through the dailies one thing is for certain. Successful writers are successful only after they have succumbed to the wrath of the powers that be. That to be successful (in terms defined by society and Webster’s) one must undergo hardship, chaos and general pathos. Tragic isn’t it? So I’ve lifted the ban that I’ve tacked on myself. I am no longer enslaved by mere verbiage. Instead, I’ve found solace within that very term.

I am woman, albeit an unemployed one, hear me roar!

Meow.

Okay, so perhaps the battle cry needs a little more oomph. But that's merely a technicality of life isn’t it? When one door closes another one opens - in some cases, it’s just a window. Not one of those beautiful see-the-ocean- feel-it bay windows where you can swiftly enter without crumpling up your new "take on the world" suit, not even a nicely sized see-the-world-through-this-hole window that you can make it through crinkle free but a grungy attic window. The type that requires a certain sense of agility to crawl through. I reckon being anorexic would also help.

Unfortunately blessed with a healthy gait, a dislike for crawling and a fear of creepy crawlies (that inevitably live in such environments) - I have decided to take this time off. Now, now, there’s no reason to freak out. It's not like im refusing to apply for jobs (both inside and outside the confines of the alphabet) but merely, to take things as they come along. To help my brain learn to let go of pre-conceived bliss that comes with a pre-requisite of achieving certain goals on a certain someone's deadline.

Reading through Oprah's magazine (she is my spiritual bible) I read an article that focused on goals, more specifically the benefit of lacking goals. It basically said that defined goals are similar to putting blinders on - they hinder you from seizing the day and exploring the back roads in life. Written based on the experiences of 200 successful entrepreneurs, philanthropists and business folk - it brings to light their journey to success. None of them ended up where they thought they would. None of them partook in the straight road instead winging it through a circuitous path to bliss. The pith is as follows: Being aspirational is okay. Being goal oriented is damaging. And in those 2000 words (no, I didn't count them - I mean I'm unemployed but I’m still not a loser - that's tomorrows task) I realized that's what I’ve been doing.

I've been waiting for my elusive "In a few years" - I’ve used and abused that term in the worst of times. I've cluttered my advertising existence with "well, its hard now and draining but in a few years I'll be happy"/ "I've gotta succumb to the decision makers now and stifle my spirit but in a few years it'll all be worth it". But honestly, will it? Will it really be worth it? Will I really find utter joy in being accomplished or will it merely open another window/door or mail slot into a world of more goals? OR at least chasing more goals. Will I ever be happy if my joy is dependent on achieving goals that are largely defined by the context my situation?

Any takers? Because I for one realized that no I probably won't. With a type A, obsessive-compulsive, extremist personality such as mine - happiness will always evade me. Always. Because I wouldn't know how to recognize it after all the hunting, chasing and stalking of those very goals. See the vicious cycle? It’s scary how much control my brain has over my life. It is. Especially because my brain wants to control the world without ever giving me the chance to take a chance. Without ever realizing that to write I must be inspired by smelling the roses or the coffee or the stench of putrid poo (whatever the case may be). My brain has me trapped.

So I’m going to take a break. Re-program my brain waves. Let myself realize that if I happen to fall into something that isn't advertising - that's fine. That perhaps that is what life is. Finding a lot and making a garden.

Although considering my sore-nurturing skills - this promises to be a task in and of itself.

So for the next few weeks - I’ll be filling this space with a lot more writing and a lot less hiding.

I tend to do that - hide when my goals are threatened. God, you'd think they control me. Maybe that's why writers/artists/us creative types have such a hard time before we embrace success. We tend to let our goals, our perceptions of joy, our over-blown grandiose productions of what life should be and what happiness should mean overshadow the reality of it all. We miss out on real things because we're preoccupied in the imaginary. Escapism at its best.

While my imagination paints a happily ever after only in advertising - I wonder if I could find that happily ever after in other things. Time is of the essence people - and if the sagging breasts aren't a great indication of that - the tiny lines that cocoon my peepers of times past certainly is.

Explore my little minnow - that's my new mantra. Let’s see how long this gimmick lasts. Because if I know my brain, and I do, it rarely settles for life without a deadline driven plan.

I am forcing my brain into introspective mode, aka vacation mode. Woo-hoo time to bust out some flip flops and a girly magazine. And a small piece of scrap paper in the event I feel the need to re-write my five year plan.

hrmph. There it goes again. Oh brain, why won't you ever listen to pinky.

Until tomorrow, god bless.