For the graduates

It’s April 1^st, better known as April Fool’s Day, a holiday that has never been a particular favorite of mine. I can pull a prank, sure- and even take one with relative grace- but somehow covering a floor with small cups of water, fitting tape over a toothbrush, or calling random numbers to ask if the recipient’s refrigerator is running has never seemed to be the height of comedy to me. Then again, with pop culture producing such gems this year as the movie Jack and Jill and a resuscitated version of the television show Punk’d, maybe I should just be thankful that things aren’t worse. (By the way, since Ashton Kutcher has officially fallen out of public favor—as a side note, I’m not superstitious, but if I worked on 3 ½ Men I would seriously be thinking of getting out of there—MTV has hired a new host for Punk’d. Here’s a hint: it’s Justin Beiber. Ok, so that’s less of a hint and more of me just telling you, but you know. The Beibs has made an interesting career move (i.e. down). Can I tell you my lifelong dream that just occurred to me in this moment? It’s that Justin Beiber would be on a season of The Bachelor. Which would mostly just consist of the women swooning audibly whenever he came into the room, and him wooing them via song and hair flips.)

Anyway, the whole point about opening with the time of year is to mark it as a moment for reflection. The end of the school year is coming up in May… a year since I graduated from college. And while I’m too aware of our page view count to think of this post as any sort of primer for this year’s graduates, it could, possibly, unexpectedly be viewed by someone completely unintentionally (much like the audiences of Jack and Jill). And I sort of hope that by working through everything I’ve experienced in the last year, maybe a coherence will begin to arise. That, or someone else will feel better that they’re not the only one who doesn’t have it all together yet.

Graduation day was pretty much perfect, really, everything it should’ve been: sunny and floaty and filled to the brim with short goodbyes and pictures and hugs that held the affection of years in fingertips. I hope this year’s graduates feel that immense pride that comes only occasionally and with public acknowledgment, and that they enjoy every single second of it. I also hope they don’t wear red T-strap heels like I did, because those babies will sink right down into the reception field. Take my word for it, your feet will not end up in any pictures; and if they did, people will not be thinking, What cute shoes, they will be thinking, She should have worn cleats.

So the graduation is perfect, as is, hopefully, the party afterward—whether you end up drinking wine in a hotel room late at night with your roommates, going to a friend’s wedding, or climbing the student union with your dormmates in fulfillment of some freshmen-year promise to yourself. And finally you finish saying goodbye… and you climb into your car to drive home, and your stuff is piled so high you can’t see out the back window, which doesn’t matter because you’re crying too hard to be checking traffic, anyway. I mean, it could happen this way, is what I’m saying.

It was a short drive for me, only a couple hours to get home to Kentucky, and by the time I pulled into that driveway back home, my life had changed. It’s widely acknowledged that graduating is a big deal in someone’s life; the accomplishment of four years’ work, the satisfaction (or adequacy) of your GPA or your honors; but I have come to think it is such a huge moment less because of the degree you have earned that day, and more because of what you have to do in the days after.

When I graduated from Taylor University, I left a community in which I was completely immersed and from which I derived a significant- and the most cherished- part of my dignity and identity. Maybe that wasn’t as healthy as I thought it was at the time. I knew who I was and how I fit; and then I left that place entirely and abruptly. I wasn’t prepared to rebase my self-image, self-confidence and self-worth in the context of completely different accomplishments and relationships. And not only was I not expecting that curveball; I had to hit that pitch on top of starting a new job- my first real job ever- and starting from Square 1 with $75,000 worth of student debt. In short, it was like I was being Punk’d by the Biebs.

I entered a workplace and established a daily routine entirely unlike any I’ve ever had, in terms of work and time commitment. For the first time, I’ve begun professional relationships, had clients, and interacted regularly with management. I restarted friendships from long ago and I began to navigate the way to stay connected with my friends from school.

The relationship I cared most deeply about ended in a heartbreaking and deeply dissatisfying way, and I had to figure out how to move on without resentment or bitterness clouding years of beautiful and edifying and sweet memories.

I have struggled to maintain my weight in the light of an entirely different, and much less active, lifestyle. I have changed my eating habits in a somewhat drastic direction (I am now a semi-committed vegetarian; an obvious choice for someone in a landlocked state, I’m sure you’ll agree). I have not been entirely successful; nor have I completely failed.

I moved back into my parent’s house and have been trying to balance pride and financial independence with the realities of loan payments and gas prices and (broken record) taxes. And underneath it all is this feeling that I am still waiting for life to really start.

I have never been perfect, or really beautiful, except in moments; and now those moments are fewer and further between. Life has been hard this year, really hard, and I didn’t come out on top in all categories. It’s hard to feel like I am failing in some way with the questions people ask (Are you working? Do you have your own place? What did you go to school for? Where is your boyfriend? Are you working in your field yet?); but there has to be a point at which what I’m doing is ok. Maybe this is pride pushing against the structures of real life, or maybe I’m more ambitious than I thought I was, or maybe I am missing a grand calling somehow. But how do you know what you ought to do? Providence must use the constructs of timing and opportunity. So, maybe the question is not why am I waiting, but how.

rkb

Quickster

I'm in the middle of deciding whether or not I want to take on a second job.  This job would be at the library, which sounds romantic and comfortably nerdy like a person such as myself; however, I would basically be costumer service (i.e. the person who checks out your books and helps you renew your library card).

That sounds like all kinds of boring.

Other than that, there's no prospects for me as of yet.

Oh, also, on the topic of my other job, I am constantly reminded of how I want another, better job when I go.  That doesn't mean I hate my job there, but I get paid next to nothing and yet they demand me to be there on certain days. This is my part time job.  When I tell a job I'm going to be out of town, and I don't expect to be paid for the day I am away, they should just let me go.  Especially for a part time job.

Anyway, enough negativity.

I know I teased this out in the last post, but I will be discussing what I think about Halloween--I'm just going to combine that with my philosophy on Christmas post, probably.  Or not, who knows.

Catch Up and Other Nonsense

So, I'm just going to say it; I ignored the fact that I had a blog for awhile.  But now I'm here, and you can't get rid of me.

Every time I go into work on the latter part of the week (Thursday-Saturday), I have this horrible nervousness.  My chest gets tight, heart pounds, you know, the whole enchilada of terror.  I hate going in on these days, not because I care about having my weekend free, but because these are the days I find out what my schedule is the week after next is.  Ugh, I hate finding it out, because half the time I'm not happy with how it's been scheduled.  I'm a pretty lazy person, to be honest, and I don't like it when they treat me like an actual worker.

Which brings me to my next crisis: the day after Thanksgiving, also known as BLACK FRIDAY.  Not only does my retail employer think that it's fine to make us get up at 3 am to get to work at 4 (and some employee's, like our Asset Protection guy has to get there at 2), but then assigns us 10 hour shifts.  Now, I'm stuck between my desire to never work that day ever and my integrity.  Of course I've requested the day off, but I don't know if that will be declined (probably will).  My only option then is just to call in and say, "Can't come, sorry."  Most of my co-workers think that, if I've told them I can't work that day, and I tell them I won't, it's okay because they knew from the start I wouldn't show up.  But isn't that... a bad thing to do?

Anyway, That's a month away, and hopefully it will all be straightened out before then.  My bosses aren't horrible people, and are usually pretty understanding.

Halloween is Monday.  I always used to participate as a kid--as Pinocchio one year, a dalmatian a few years in a row, black cat (without the sexiness) another, etc.  One or both of my parents always used to come with me.  Nothing can replace that feeling when you arrive home, candy sack in hand, and dump out all the glorious candy on the floor with that crisp plastic crinkle noise.  Then comes the sorting; chocolate candies were always keepers, but pixie sticks were out of there like underwear.  Sometimes I would keep the smarties, sometimes not.  But those Bit O'Honeys and Now and Laters, I would give to my mom, with the Tootsie Rolls of course.  I didn't really like chewie candies back then (still don't unless they are fruit flavored).

I'm pretty sure my parents didn't have to ration my candy, but maybe they did have final say on how much I could eat at one time.  There's only a few candies I will absolutely gorge myself on, but most of the time, I forget that I have them.  Christmas candy, for instance, has sat in my closet pretty much untouched for the better part of a year.  Not that I don't want the candy, but because I have this insane need to make it last until next Christmas.

Next time (tomorrow), I will continue my discourse of Halloween.  But now I feel like this may be getting too long if I say all my piece.

See you then.
M&y

Post Script

Today I was told I would be receiving a gumball machine in honor of my services rendered at my job. It's kind of like "employee of the month" but instead it's called "top producer."

So life isn't so bad after all.

I earn so little the gov't gives it back.

I'm writing this from home, on the couch with the comforter around my legs and the door open to the small back yard. That may seem strange to you--I'm an adult, I have a job. What am I doing home on a Wednesday morning with dogs sleeping around me and my pajamas still on as of this sentence?

Unlike my companion here, I don't have one of those "real" jobs. I work around somewhere between twenty-three to twenty-seven hours a week. And this is not one of those luxury sit-at-your-desk types of jobs either. I'm talking wearing Nike shoes with the little air pockets in them (because that's good for your feet?), walking around in a maze of aisle and racks, and using a walkie talkie job. My schedule is never set either, which maybe exciting to some, but is a pain to all others who pretend to have a life (me). The place I work really isn't important for the post, per se, but I am one of those people dressed in khakis and a red shirt who asks you, "Can I help you find something?" when you just want to be left alone.

The thing that I have been realizing is that most people I have talked to have at one time worked a retail job. That doesn't mean it's not still a source of shame for me, but it helps me be part of the commiserating club of people who have also worn athletic shoes to work and had to climb ladders for people who want eight cases of diapers that are in the back room. These are the people who look at me knowingly when I say I'm "fine" when they ask how my day is going. They are also the people who try their best to fold whatever clothing they were looking at to a shape similar to the pile under it. "Oh yes, I remember when I used to" etc etc. It's like catharsis, to see me sweaty and hanging clothing up. They survived it. Now they can watch me do the monotonous tasks that used to be their own.

Circle of life

I don't get to read Neruda at work, but sometimes I get to walk through the aisles and make sure everything is pulled forward and straightened up. Like last night, I stood in the toothpaste aisle, making sure all the slim boxes of Crest and Colgate where stacked up just so while still being in the right spot. This while a Nigerian man around my age tried to flirt with me.

That's the thing about my job, I get to talk to him and learn who he is all while doing my job well. I can stand and talk to "guests" (that's a better term my work developed instead of customer, because that's so forward, I guess) about products and then to other things as well, and still look busy. I get to talk. Talk all day and night and morning if I feel like it, because as long as I'm fulfilling my tasks, I'm golden. I interact with people and learn about their children, their ex-husbands and wives, and what they had for dinner last night. I experience humanity at it's lowest and finest, whether that's with a co-worker who acts like the queen of the shoe department (probably more on this later), or with the man who grins when I bring the bike out of the backroom that his daughter wanted.

I don't do anything important at my job, and I don't work enough to be "important" either. But at least I see people. That may not be as nice as a snug cubicle, but it's a start.

M&y

(I'm trying to have a cool little signature like Rebekah over here, so bare with me while I try a few things out.)

Another day, another (taxed) dollar

I’m two months into my first real job. By “real”, of course, I’m applying certain parameters to the job, since I have legitimately been working since I was sixteen. (Odd jobs, though, we’re not talking about salt mines here. And if anyone other than me had already mentally jumped to salt mines, I’m gonna go ahead and suggest that you read less Neruda and spent some more time outdoors.) At sixteen I had a job as a sales associate at a retail store (hated), from which I moved on to the public library (loved), and then carried a few different jobs during college, mostly working for my university.

             So when I say “real”, I mean a few, very specific things, meaning:

1.     Working full-time (40+ hours a week).

2.     Making a living wage (at least…theoretically. Once you factor in my student loans, I think I may actually be eligible for food stamps, and absolutely low-income housing).

3.     Developing an enormous aversion to taxation, even to the point of denying my dependence upon government-provided public goods (i.e. roads, mail, law enforcement personnel).

It’s kind of weird, working full-time. I never realized how much time it actually takes to be at work all day (and though it’s only 8 or 9 hours, it does feel like all day sometimes). And it feels strange that so much of my time and life experiences are starting to take place at work- away from my family, friends, and “real” life. I guess with a little more solipsism, work will start to feel more like real life and less like something I do in order to get back to my life afterwards.

So, obviously, I’m still figuring all of this out. I sort of feel the need to begin integrating my personality into my workplace so that my hours there feel less like lost time. I’ve found a couple things that have helped make me feel better about officially entering the workforce, though. (Not the least of which being able to use the phrase “the workforce”. It’s empowering, I think, for two reasons: one, it sounds like a lateral reference to Star Wars to me, and invoking a pervasive cultural phenomenon has never led anyone astray, right? And two, it also sounds vaguely cultish, which I can’t help but enjoy.)

                                    My desk at work

Decorating my workspace has been fun. I’m not talking full-size Beiber posters here (though I respect Beliebers; has anyone read his autobiography? That’s write- he’s already written one) I am talking about bringing some pictures of my family and friends, and a postcard from Quito that Hannah sent me. In addition, I posted this picture of the musical artist Darwin Deez next to one of my computer monitors. 

                                               You are my radar detector

Although I’m actually 90% sure that there’s an office rumor that I have a weird Al obsession, Darwin is staying. He makes me happy, and that counts for something.

I also try to find something fun to do during my lunch break. I saw a special on the news last week that recommended office workers Google a picture of a tree or stream and gaze at it for a minute during their lunch hour in order to rejuvenate, which kind of sounds sad to me. But the point is good to find something refreshing to do to make the day deepen. Poetry works for me. I’ll eat lunch and then read Levine until my day feels vibrant again. Maybe you listen to your favorite Beiber song. You know, whatever works.  

Maybe I’ll never feel totally myself at work; maybe that’s a good thing. I do think a level of detachment and professionalism is necessary and appropriate. But sometimes it leaves me feeling less than wholehearted. But perhaps not to be is to be without your being. Ok, now we all need to step away from the Neruda…

rkb