Back From the Dead
It's been a while.
I would love to regale you with tales of new sexual exploits, fortunes won and triumphs achieved ... but the real reason I haven't posted in more than seven months is one long, boring, mundane, never-ending
MID-LIFE CRISIS.
I started out 2011 unemployed, and that was both a blessing and a curse.
But it was nothing compared to rejoining the workforce.
I got a job. A job that I didn't want but took anyway because it was the only bus in sight to hop on. Riding a rickety bus filled with bad smells and vagabonds seemed smarter than joining meaner, smellier vagabonds in a homeless encampment under the 10 freeway.
So I sucked it up and trudged into a dirty, claustrophobic office that reminded me of my dad's hoarder house. To distract myself from the monotony, I started blogging again ...
... and then it hit me. If I scratched out the name of the company I worked for at age 24 and substituted the name of the new company, every career lament I'd written 15 years ago still rang true. As did the constant theme of loneliness and disappointment.
Life at the new job was bad.
Turning 40 was worse.
Forty forced me to face what I didn't want to face:
Still single.
Never married.
Never pregnant.
Nearly 12 years past my last serious relationship.
Five-and-a-half years past my last roll in the hay.
And in a job that seemed precisely as awful as my first real job out of college.
So I did what I always do when life seems hopeless ... munch on Snickers and Cheez-Its.
And look for a new job, since I now change jobs almost as often as I used to change men.
Flash forward another few months.
Lucky break! Another new job.
I built the new New Job up to be the Second Coming of Jesus, like I used to do with every new New Boyfriend.
I used it as an occasion to end life as I knew it. I left my apartment of seven years, said goodbye to 15 years of trendy West L.A. foolishness and moved to staid, laid-back La Canada Flintridge, where people talk about their kids and football instead of their auditions and plastic surgery.
I hoped I'd meet a NASA/Cal-Tech nerd, fall madly in love and live happily ever after.
So far, I haven't.
I've just worked a crazy amount of hours, availed myself too freely of the free M&Ms in the office kitchen and gone through my annual deep, dark, holiday depression.
So I'm back in familiar territory. Working too many hours. Trying not to be a bitch, but not quite succeeding. Popping thigh seams in my yoga pants as the pounds pack back on. And wondering if I'm really going to grow up to be the little old lady (or big, fat, diabetic old lady) who dies alone surrounded by cats.
Fortunately, the other side of this familiar terrain is being good at eventually climbing off the pity pot and putting myself back together:
Antidepressants. Makes me queasy and flatulent, but better than the alternative.
Yoga. Hard to do downdog when you're 50 pounds overweight and farting, but I'm showing up anyway (whether the person on the mat next to me likes it or not).
Meditation. Forcing myself to count 20 breaths and think at least one happy thought that doesn't involve premature death.
Weight Watchers. Eating three times my daily Points allowance, but at least I'm keeping track.
Creative expression. I've decided it's time to stop moping and write.
I'm resurrecting myself, and that means resurrecting my blog.
It's been a while.
I would love to regale you with tales of new sexual exploits, fortunes won and triumphs achieved ... but the real reason I haven't posted in more than seven months is one long, boring, mundane, never-ending
MID-LIFE CRISIS.
I started out 2011 unemployed, and that was both a blessing and a curse.
But it was nothing compared to rejoining the workforce.
I got a job. A job that I didn't want but took anyway because it was the only bus in sight to hop on. Riding a rickety bus filled with bad smells and vagabonds seemed smarter than joining meaner, smellier vagabonds in a homeless encampment under the 10 freeway.
So I sucked it up and trudged into a dirty, claustrophobic office that reminded me of my dad's hoarder house. To distract myself from the monotony, I started blogging again ...
... and then it hit me. If I scratched out the name of the company I worked for at age 24 and substituted the name of the new company, every career lament I'd written 15 years ago still rang true. As did the constant theme of loneliness and disappointment.
Life at the new job was bad.
Turning 40 was worse.
Forty forced me to face what I didn't want to face:
Still single.
Never married.
Never pregnant.
Nearly 12 years past my last serious relationship.
Five-and-a-half years past my last roll in the hay.
And in a job that seemed precisely as awful as my first real job out of college.
So I did what I always do when life seems hopeless ... munch on Snickers and Cheez-Its.
And look for a new job, since I now change jobs almost as often as I used to change men.
Flash forward another few months.
Lucky break! Another new job.
I built the new New Job up to be the Second Coming of Jesus, like I used to do with every new New Boyfriend.
I used it as an occasion to end life as I knew it. I left my apartment of seven years, said goodbye to 15 years of trendy West L.A. foolishness and moved to staid, laid-back La Canada Flintridge, where people talk about their kids and football instead of their auditions and plastic surgery.
I hoped I'd meet a NASA/Cal-Tech nerd, fall madly in love and live happily ever after.
So far, I haven't.
I've just worked a crazy amount of hours, availed myself too freely of the free M&Ms in the office kitchen and gone through my annual deep, dark, holiday depression.
So I'm back in familiar territory. Working too many hours. Trying not to be a bitch, but not quite succeeding. Popping thigh seams in my yoga pants as the pounds pack back on. And wondering if I'm really going to grow up to be the little old lady (or big, fat, diabetic old lady) who dies alone surrounded by cats.
Fortunately, the other side of this familiar terrain is being good at eventually climbing off the pity pot and putting myself back together:
Antidepressants. Makes me queasy and flatulent, but better than the alternative.
Yoga. Hard to do downdog when you're 50 pounds overweight and farting, but I'm showing up anyway (whether the person on the mat next to me likes it or not).
Meditation. Forcing myself to count 20 breaths and think at least one happy thought that doesn't involve premature death.
Weight Watchers. Eating three times my daily Points allowance, but at least I'm keeping track.
Creative expression. I've decided it's time to stop moping and write.
I'm resurrecting myself, and that means resurrecting my blog.
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