I now have two tattoos. Both about the size of a silver dollar.
Both kinda crappy. The first was a Celtic knot in homage to a pendant
from Scotland that I wore through high school. The intricate weaving has
since bled together to leave a sweat-me sexy blob on my hip. The
second, a desperate plea to my self to stop the madness. Immature, I know, but I branded myself a promise.
It started the spring of 2012, at 29 years old. Finally
graduating Cal State Bakersfield with a BS in Business Marketing. Okay,
okay. It's not physics. It's not law. It's not Berkley or Brown... But
man- you don't know what I've been through. I spent my 20's working
every weekend, paying my way through school, sometimes two jobs. Up
late, slinging booze, pretending to enjoy the company of assholes
treating me like a second-rate citizen. Turning down trips, parties,
and evenings out in the name of term papers and dinner rush
shifts. Investing in real-estate after the crash, buying a home on
the nice side of town at 25. Making grown-up decisions.
Changing majors from teaching, to psychology- to something that both
utilized my creative needs, and could make some real dough. My
mother would later tell me that I made some very wise choices, but
perhaps ignored what I truly wanted.
Spring of 2012, I 'm a month out from graduation. I'm in the interview
process for a major produce company; my foot in the door of the sales
department. No other graduates have found a job as quickly as I have.
I'm very lucky. Also- so panicked, that most days I'm on the verge
of barfing, or punching the next person to ask, "So what now?!" I
should be thrilled to be finishing this trying chapter that I've bitched
about for 9 years. But I'm not the barrel of monkeys I expect to be.
I'm anxious. Dreadful. I feel both lost, and glued to the tracks by
momentum.
Graduation comes, and I parade around with my square hat and get
thoroughly plastered like any over-aged college student worth her salt
does, yet the dread stays. "So what now?" All that hard work for a
goal. The goal is in, nothing but net, clean score, job on the way;
what's my beef? My good friend Kyra, whom I met working the seedy
steakhouse scene, was always a rather- bohemian character. I say
bohemian, because it is the sophisticated version of 'hippy.'
Kyra-the-sophisticated-hippy thinks this is my Saturn returning; the
either chaotic, or reassuring season in ones life every orbit, or 29.5 years. Maybe I need a new goal. Maybe it's the
structure and striving that keeps me going. I pick up cycling again,
join a team, and that summer I make it my mission to tackle every local
challenge available. I wake at 4 am, climb thousands of feet, ride 65
miles at a time, my wheel inches from the cyclists' wheel in front of
me, building myself the ass of back-up dancer. This is good medicine for a while.
Come fall, THE CAREER begins. I wear a Banana Republic wool suit. I
carry my coffee mug to my desk at 7 am. I have a badge, full bennies,
dual monitors, a chair that spins. Everything is going according to the
plan I laid out like first day of kindergarten school clothes. The
salary is competitive, yet I'll be paying some real taxes now, so I'll
get a roommate. I'll tend bar here and there, but I'll see what
real-life weekends are like. What do people do every Saturday
evening?! I envision laughter and live shows, dining out, beach
bonfires, carefree BBQs. I see some frozen imagery that looks a little
like a cigarette magazine ad. Attractive, worry-free folks mingling,
and being. On a Friday night.
A respectable career. Something that people innocently and insultingly call "a real job." A future.
Two weeks in at this opportunity filled mega-company, and I've declared
an outright war on the very nature of my day. Yes, my chair spins- and I
know- that's a huge deal. I'm not ungrateful for that. But as the dust
settles, and I see the tracks I'm following- I realize I've made a
grave mistake. I'm simply not the girl that's built to sit sweetly in a
grey padded cubicle for 40+ hours each week, eyes fixed on
spreadsheets, my soul withering with each manila filed, field trips to
the bathroom to play with my phone twice a day.
The atmosphere is competitive, and never the positive kind. Egos bloat
to overshadow others, loss of temper equals power, image is almighty,
and the more nonchalantly and expertly one lies, the more he is to be
admired. The days are spent hunched over inventory databases, and
chatting about golf scores through headsets in the phony voice of that
newscaster, Troy McClure, from The Simpsons. No creativity, little
face-to-face interaction. Vacations are still working, and I don't care
if little Becky is on stage for her first recital, if that phone rings,
you damn well better answer it. This group lives off kudos and
success. A real- 'live to work' environment. Which I get, if you love
it, and man- they fucking love it. You can tell from the smug smirk
after a big sale, by the saunter down the hall to the Starbucks machine,
the sarcastic barking to those lower on the pecking order, or when one
of them let slip, "everyone else in the company is jealous of our
department; we are KINGS." One particular salesmen, a native to the
small, poor, immigrant town that hosts our massive plant, eyed me one
afternoon over a beer with co-workers.
"You're weird, Katie. You're different." He slightly sneers, a look of
distaste crossing his upper lip. I look at his watch the size of a
small apple, and the meticulous attention to his brand embossed, pastel
polo shirt. I remember his habitual bragging, his stunted swagger and
his imminent divorce. I nod.
"That's okay," is all I say, thinking, "Thank God I'm not mistaken for one of you."
I start a ritual, unbridled sob each evening all the way down 99.
I don't just hate the job I've worked so hard to secure, but I kind of
suck at it too. Go figure, data entry just isn't this day-dreaming 'weird' girls'
cup of tea. Strapped to a desk, drooling at a screen. I look like an
extra off the 1984 Macintosh commercial. Mistakes can't be glossed over
with charm, or replaced by a beautifully crafted cocktail. Hard work
just doesn't fix a mis-shipped pallet of fruit. No, it costs some suit
upstairs some big, green, crispy bucks. My name is recorded in
some digital fuck-up file and emailed to my superiors. My self-esteem
plummets. Stress rages. Each weekend, because that generous salary
still doesn't match un-taxed tips, I flip my early-bird,
on-the-road-before-dawn schedule to tend bar til the wee hours for the
sake of the mortgage.
The mortgage. The large house and it's hoard of
domestic goods and solo honey-dos has become my own suburbian iron
maiden. Too many tablecloths, linens and towels. A weighty collection of
beveled mirrors and casserole dishes. Napkin rings. Spare furniture. Why do I have four TVs?
Pool supplies. Lawn fertilizers. A pump that needs replacing.
Sprinkler lines needing to be dug up and replaced. A broken AC in a
heat wave. Property taxes. Tree trimming. Grids of houses in the same
hues and floor plans. All of it, it smothers my airways with an
invisible pillow embroidered in the Morning Glory vines that never stop
taking over my yard no matter how often I hack at them. I tell myself I
have an acute case of White People Problems. 'Dear God! Whole Foods is
out of arugula!' Let's put on our big girl pants and figure out how to
fix this. But my throat is too tight. I tumble and scratch my way
down a long Wonderland tunnel of a dreary, predictable, cubed future. I
become anti-social. I can't get enough sleep. Melanie squints through
her cigarette smoke one night and flatly accuses me, "You don't belong
in an office, Katie."
A relationship softly ended a couple years ago when my boyfriend could
no longer stand living in this great, twisted country. Starting my
senior year at the university, I balked and declined the invitation to
join him as he sold his worldly possessions and took off to Costa Rica.
To live in paradise... and see what happened. His sister had ran
abroad after college to teach English in Germany. A childhood friend
now lives in Canada. Another in London. A writer friend tells me of traveling to Europe to
speak publicly and
run marathons. Spending his winters in Mexico writing his memoir and
deep-sea fishing. Recording music, hopping between the US coast lines,
popping up into Canada, writing a comic book, blah, blah, all this
excitement I'm not having- BLAH. I've grown envious of these people.
Traipsing about like they don't have a goddamn lawn to mow. Bastards. I always
envisioned myself traveling the world. Accomplishing great things. But
I was much too level-headed for a plan that ridiculous. Where is the
security? I mention to someone once that my ex boyfriend left
everything to go live in the lush and lonely South American jungles.
"Sounds like a smart one," they scoffed.
"Actually...yes. He's bloody brilliant."
Come the holidays, I'm so scared that I might soon be lost in my
stagnant swamp of self-pity, that on a whim, I stamp myself with a vow.
Another crappy tattoo; a compass rose on my inner wrist- not as easily
hidden as my first. To be conscience and of my direction. To go beyond
this dusty San Joaquin Valley, no matter the cost. Because apparently,
I'm a dramatic, 13 year old girl. You had no idea, did you. By spring,
I begin to feel fierce again. I paint again, and sell a piece in a
gallery in LA. I pick up running, and kick ass in a San Francisco half
marathon. I look for new opportunities, jobs, and roommates in new
cities, industries and weather zones. I start to actually DO something
about my life crisis instead of whining and waiting for Mom, or God, or
Prince fuggin Chumbag to pull me out of my pit of despair. Nearly a
year later, my friend Tim- a mischievous conservative- spies my new
accessory and says, "Real classy, Kate. Did you have to announce to the
world that you're still not a slave to the 'man'?" Keen guy.
One summer afternoon, I stand in the kitchen and chat with my brother on
the phone. He- as a much more adventurous spirit than I- suffers a
similar trial. His trial is cushioned by a beautiful baby girl and
devoted wife, but it's a bit of a harder cell. A marriage and offspring
have a way of capping your options. He tries not to dwell on this, but
I can hear the strain in his voice when he reminds me around the time
of my graduation, of my position. I have the freedom to do so much.
Things he might do were he in my shoes. I should not forget my
options. On the phone, he updates me on his long-time best friend,
John. John finished school with me, and spent some time backpacking
around Europe. He returned home, became certified in teaching English
as a foreign language, sold his shit, and took a single suitcase on a one-way
flight to China. CHINA, man. He didn't just move to Orange County, or
even Boston, like most of the local brain-drain phenomenon
participants. He picked up, and moved to freaking China. He loves it.
He may never return.
"That's so John." My brother and I sigh, pausing before one of us, not sure who, says, "I'm kinda jealous..."
"Me too..." Who said that?
My ears pop. Something in one of my chakras rattle (that's for you,
Kyra.). Clouds part, and some length of my intestine twitches.
"I could do that." My words drop, causing a poof of dust.
I could DO that.
I don't have a reason not to. I'm single. No kids. To be in that state
at 30 'round these parts is rare. What else have I been wanting but to
break free- Eddie Mercury style (kinda)- and find my adventure? I can
rent out my house. I can move abroad. Hell, for many years I'd wanted
to teach English, study the arts, travel in my off-time, trot the
globe. This could be my means. Some women talk of meeting their
future-husbands for the first time, and just...knowing. I'm the same kind of romantic. I fell in love with the concept the moment I considered it for myself.
I get in touch with China-John and he gives me the low-down. I read
everything I can get my Google hands on about teaching English as a
foreign language overseas. My sights are first set on the wine, art,
and food mecca, my dream destination: Italy. But after reading of the
immigration red-tape in Western Europe, I look towards South East Asia.
Thailand; the 'Land of Smiles.' Bangkok, the other 'City of
Angels,' offers both an old world culture still intact, any Western
convenience desired, some of the best cuisine to ever touch tongues, and
elephants jamming traffic alongside rickshaws and sky trains.
A boy I briefly dated, and still admire, once talked about making life
decisions. He said there is a time when one can toss the chips into the
air, and just see where they fall. One can do this for a while. Make
mistakes, see cool stuff. For most, there is then a point of no return. Whether
it be children, or marriage, or some other life change, there is a time
when one can simply no longer just throw their life chips into the air
to see what happens. I don't know where that line will be for me, but I
realize I'm on the side where I can do just that. Wait a few years, and
I might cross over. I might have to play it much safer, if I cross that
line.
I tell my family. I tell my closest friends. I contact a property
management company for my house, arrange to rent a room from my buddy,
Schub, around the corner, promise away furniture, schedule a yard sale,
and select my certification school. I give myself til Fall of 2014 to
save my money, make my arrangements, single-file my ducks, and buy a
one-way ticket. I expect patronizing compliance from my nearest and
dearest, but either I am blissfully blind to it, or they are downright
supportive.
One evening after cooking dinner for my family, I put clean sheets on
the guest bed for my visiting father. My brother, Robert, stands
against the door jam and watches me before coming to help make box
corners.
"You really need to do this, Katie." Rob looks intense. He sounds desperate.
"I know. I'm scared I'll fail. Scared I won't get it together. But more scared of not trying."
Melanie's first response is explosive. For her, anyway. Through her
typical stone-faced expression she scolds me, "You're gonna end up in
some Thai prison like Claire Danes in that one movie. You're gonna end
up some unknowing drug camel or something, and get put away and I'm not
gonna come rescue you. You can rot."
I tell her how safe Bangkok is, how it's the number one expat country
for westerners. I tell her about the paradise beaches, the food, the
palaces, the water markets. I tell her I feel good about this. For
some reason, this shuts her up for a moment. Probably because most every mistake she's watched me make, I made knowing it was a bad decision.
A few days later, a text comes through from Melanie. "What about your car?"
"I will probably sell it."
"Health insurance?"
"The schools provide it, otherwise international coverage is affordable,
and equivalent care is a fraction of the cost as it is here."
"What about your DOGS?!"
"My dad has agreed to take them on his ranch. They'll have more exercise."
Some time passes before the next text.
"This is what you are supposed to do. This is your destiny." And that, is what I call, a Melanie-blessing.
I will probably be swindled. I will probably be homesick. I will
probably get lost, get food poisoning, get stuck at the border on a Visa
run, and get caught in a monsoon. I will hopefully get to experience
all of these things because this is the kind of life I want to have led,
instead of racking up years alongside filing cabinets. Maybe a year in
Asia. Maybe skip over to Prague. Maybe return to the states soon,
maybe return later. I want to make a decision that I'm excited about,
instead of one that makes total, my-what-a-good-head-on-her-shoulders
sense. So give me one year, I'm throwing in chips.
So, are you still on track with all this?
ReplyDeleteMan, I'm trying! My goal is Fall. I rented out my house and moved in with my buddy to save up my best egg. I'm enroll king in my classes next week. Gotta make it work. Gotta.
ReplyDelete