Lil' bastard stealing my dance moves.

It’s been quite a while since I’ve penned anything for the blog at hand. In fact, it’s pushing two months now…quite a while indeed. While I’d love to say that–in that time–I’ve been studying for an adult spelling bee or learning to quilt, I have not. I’d prefer a geography bee anyway. Nor have I been reading more or painting more. If it borders on healthy, creative and/or productive, I haven’t been doing it. I did, however, give up on working out for a few weeks, develop a lasting friendship with the employees of Taco Burrito House (I changed my preferred late night burrito vendor), and invent–and accept–a challenge to spend more time horizontally…whatever you may take from that.

(Un)realistically, though, I was busy summering. It turns out that changing nouns into verbs isn’t just for the wealthy. It’s for the delusional as well. For me, summering entailed a lot of skin, liver and intestinal damage. And allegedly the lungs some, too, but you never know the lengths health insurers will go to deny coverage, so let’s leave that one out. Agreed? In witnessing the still-emerging photo documentation of my preferred season, the abuses are evident: my face growing continually closer to PBR can red with each weekend (I can easily make this comparison because rare are the photos in which one appears without the other…it makes for a pretty unexciting reversal of “Where’s Waldo”).

Of all components of Summer 2010, however, it wasn’t the tanning, the drinking, the eating or the not working out that captured its essence. It was the dancing. If there’s one thing I’m not, it’s a dancer. But shit, did I dance a lot this summer. I really hadn’t danced since my college days, when latching onto the hippie subculture in an otherwise stifling environment enabled me to perfect my off-beat gyrations to jams that lasted longer than most sitcoms. But that was ten years ago. I mean, I have all new skin cells by now. Now that’s a long time.

When dancing in Charlottesville music venues was a regular part of my college curriculum, I acknowledged–at the time–how much I loved it. I loved it so much that I came up with a theory about it (shocking, I know…it’s all theories and policies in Justinville). My take on dancing was that it served as a release. Obvious, right? More specifically, a release of all the joys we encounter on a day-to-day basis. Whether an awe-inspiring piece of artwork or a new and exciting relationship; a phenomenal meal or the anticipation of an optimistic future, we’re constantly absorbing elements of happiness, whether or not acknowledged. It’s pretty difficult to release the build-up of these experiences. Smiling and being nice to strangers has limited effects. Sometimes you have to physically shake the happiness out of your bone marrow. It works in the opposite direction, too, but the release of negative experience is scary movie watching, which I loathe. Subsequently, we won’t be discussing misery or those who manifest it in a passion for horror films. Judgment eyes.

As dancing–in my world–can only occur in times of happiness, its proliferation this summer past is a great sign. Perhaps I shouldn’t be surprised that, after a ten-year sabbatical, I had some joy stockpiled. My own little bomb shelter with shelf-upon-shelf of sunshine and lollipops, neatly arranged sequentially by expiration date.

I know what you’re thinking: with dancing skills like mine, I should invest in a good unitard, stretch out, and audition for Billy Elliot. A fair thought, but no dice. Actually, I have some sad news to share. My dancing hit a wall Labor Day weekend. It was as though a switch had been flipped, turning off my innate sense of rhythm. Okay, okay…so I’ve never really had rhythm; still, call me a Scissor Sister, because I don’t feel like dancin’. Have I cashed in my bomb shelter’s last ray of sunshine or the root beer Dum Dum I’ve been hoarding for the long Chicago winter? Or has summer officially migrated from verb back to noun? In either case, it just isn’t the same.

Perhaps, like college, this summer was simply the product of a unique time and (head) space, never to be repeated. Or, like the migration of nouns back to verbs, maybe my dancing shoes will be dusted off in 9 months or so. Or in 9 years. Who knows? Not me.

This summer was a master cleanse. No, really. The irony of routine toxicity aside, it was a period of great simplicity and release. It was summer as I remember growing up, with hot weather, close friends and endless adventures. I embraced the important, purged the irrelevant and identified the permanent. I can look back with fulfillment at some of the greatest months to-date. Better yet, I can even remember some of them.

So, while it may be a muggy day in late September, it is nonetheless time to put Summer 2010 to bed. It was a great run, but I’m ready for what’s next, which hopefully includes at least a pinch of health, creativity and productivity. With that in mind, take a cue from Kylie and “Get Out Of My Way.”

My actual faucet's identity has been protected.

My morning routine is much like my dog; rather lazy and set in its ways. Shower, dress, walk/feed the dog, walk/feed myself, pack my lunch and be out the door within 50 minutes of my alarm. With such monotony, it’s easy to notice–over time–life’s nuances: Eleanor’s varying temperaments, the CNN American Morning host’s continued inappropriate divulging of personal information and the way I tend to give up on my appearance by Friday of each week.

It’s probably these tiny differences between days and actions that make day-to-day life interesting. [I was about to use the word "bearable," but it's Friday. If it were Monday, "bearable" it would be.]

For those of you who knew me between the ages of 18 and 20, I hope you’re happy to hear that showering is now a part of that daily routine. Priorities change with time, I suppose, as does a desire to see Phish in as many venues of possible. That said, it’s really when I mix up my hosing-off drill that one such life nuance becomes noticeable: water temperature.

As a creature of habit, I tend to allow my faucet settings to remain static. I have a shower faucet with temperature settings independent of flow control (unlike the stand-in image, above) and I know that I like a nice mild-to-moderately hot rinser, so why mess with it?  If circumstances (read: impromptu weeknight bar crawls) arise, however, I may move my daily baptism in Irish Spring (Walgreen’s brand, obviously) to post-workout afternoon/evenings, which adds an entirely new task to wash, rinse & repeat–shower faucet calibration.

Undoubtedly due to the combination of plumbing limitations and my neighbors’ synchronized morning routines, the same faucet setting produces two varied temperatures between morning and evening lather-laden frolics. It’s a shock to the system, to say the least, when your expectation of tepid comfortability is met with scalding resistance.

The shower is an environment conducive to pensive reflection and this not-quite-a-phenomenon (my bar is pretty low for phenomena these days) has provided plenty of material.

I find calibration to be a large component of adult life.

Take, for instance, another phenomenon of late (keep in mind, that bar is really low)–revisiting relationships of yore. I used to think that I was the only one who has, in the past, referred back to my “Greatest Hits” album. You know, the relationships that–in hindsight–didn’t seem so bad.  It turns out that many of my nearest & dearest also have this in album their music libraries, just with different names (e.g. “Now That’s What I Call Relationships Now,” volumes 1-17, as seen on t.v.). It’s a rekindling of once-extinguished flames with the hopes of returning to all of the good without inviting back the bad.

I’ve learned, after many a’ trial & error, that these attempts are great in theory but…uhhh…unlikely in execution. It’s like getting into the shower at 8pm with the expectation that the water temperature will be just fine; that it’s just like a morning shower in that it will invigorate and start a new day. The difficulty, though, comes from the hot water heater having all day to recharge itself; to refill its bowels with an entirely new product…a product that can scold you.

Thus, calibration.

Expectations. Emotions. Empanadas. (I’m just hungry and need a third word that starts with “e.”) All of these things require a periodic shift relative to circumstances. They call for an understanding that things change–for the better and for the worse–and that adaptability is an evolutionary requirement. Sink or swim. Rinse and repeat.

The beliefs I held and the reactions I had in years past don’t resemble the ones I embody now. And they shouldn’t. The template I’ve created for my life (because, unfortunately, those aren’t included on the backs of diplomas or cereal boxes) has been reformulated and renamed over and over and over. And it should be.

So there it is. I now take life advice from and comfort in inanimate objects.

And, for the sake of full disclosure, I only wash & rinse.  No more repeating.

Baby Jesus doesn’t want me to have an iPhone 4g. I’m serious. I asked for a sign and…well…all signs point to “no 4g for you.”

I rarely, if ever, get hyped up about anything. Just check my pulse. I’m barely alive most of the time. In fact, the more that others really crave something, the more I refrain from it. Timely fads hold no weight in my scale of justice. I’ve never read or seen a Harry Potter anything. The same goes for those vampire movies that seem to be all the rage these days. I didn’t join Facebook until 2009 and it took me a year of owning a pair of skinny(ish) jeans before ever leaving the house in them. [The jeans were a gift, for the record. Or a hint.]

But the iPhone is different for me. It’s going to be my first. That’s right all of you “I’m on my 2nd iPhone already…I just needed the 3GS when it came out, so I upgraded.” Not me. I’m toting around a rusty Dinty Moore Beef Stew can and a spool of twine and wondering why no one ever calls. Well, it’s not quite that bad, but it’s bad. My phone was sort of cool when I got it 2.5 years ago. I mean, it had internet and a touch screen supported by a keyboard. It lacked an antenna and had a stylus. I felt pretty good about it at the time. When I took a job that didn’t require me to have email access on my cell phone, I decided to stick it to the man  and discontinue the internet service. “That’ll show AT&T,” I thought. Instead, AT&T showed me. They showed me how much they charge you for internet data when you don’t have a plan. They showed me that if you accidentally hit the email button on your phone’s facade, they’ll charge you. Each and every time. Over and over again.

So I went a step further. I decided that I’m savvy enough to get around this problem altogether by simply uninstalling the internet components of my phone. I mean, how hard can it be, right? [Note: I am not at all tech savvy. Today I had to ask the Chief Technical Officer of my company how to turn the conference room projector on. No joke. Although I made it into a joke to ease the awkwardness after-the-fact.]

That’s when my phone went from bad to worse. Not only did I undo its internet capabilities, I also managed to detach every one of my contacts’ names from their phone numbers. I had (and continue to have) a full list of contacts in my phone and numbers attached to them. When those contacts call or text me, however, NONE of their information shows up on the screen. Just the number.

Think about this for a minute. If I flashed a phone number–from any one of the many people in your life–in front of you, would you know whose it is? Do you know the last four digits of ANY of your friends’ phone numbers? How about your parents’ cell phone number. Do you know that? Call me Good Will-fucking-Hunting, because I do. But not because I want to. Because I have to. I’m not going to say I’ve been perfect in my pop-quizzes of “who is this calling me?”  There have been some debacles of mistaken identities. There has been some embarrassment. There have been some serious hurt feelings. Time and iPhones heal, though.

The time has come to step things up a notch. It’s time to save myself from the endless commentary from my peers as to the “vintage” nature of my cellular device. I really thought that now was my time to fully invest in the 21st century.

Baby Jesus disagrees. Baby Jesus doesn’t want me to have an iPhone 4g.

I prepared myself for June 15th like unloved children prepare for summer camp: with lots of snacks. I knew it would be a long day at the office, balancing day-to-day demands with online warfare against those die-hard competitors for the latest technology. Nerds. I was in-it to win-it, though. I had two internet browsers going, multiple tabs on each, waiting for AT&T’s site to load while populating Apple’s fields. I was a machine I tell you. A granola with banana and almond milk fueled machine.

By 10am I realized it wasn’t going to happen. I read how servers had crashed, how pre-orders had been suspended and how the BP oil leak was at fault (thanks, Anderson Cooper). By 11am a support group had been formed in one corner of the office. Stories were exchanged like great uncles talk about Korea. I was sad. Baby Jesus wasn’t on my side in this endeavor.

Even worse, I’ve all but given up on my iPhone 4g hopes. Today I had the opportunity to purchase one for delivery on July 14th but I didn’t. I thought about all of the things that could happen between now and July 14th. I could decide to live an Amish lifestyle by July 14th. I could have an accident that results in a metal-plated head that prohibits cell phone reception by July 14th.  Apple could come out with the iPhone 4GS by July 14th. I mean, who knows what I’m going to want to do by July 14th? I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t pull the trigger. I’ve become old and fearful.

And that’s the moral of the story. Baby Jesus doesn’t want me to have an iPhone 4g. Like haircuts of my past, there are some things that are just too cool for me and they are better left alone. Who wants all that fancy technology anyway? Life without GPS makes for more adventure. Video incapability makes you live in the moment. Phone numbers with names is so pedestrian.

Who wants all the fancy technology of an iPhone 4g? Not Baby Jesus, for one. He doesn’t want me to have one. He wants me to have tin cans, string, and an abacus. He told me so in a text message. I think it was him, at least. But I didn’t recognize the number.

The level of sadness that I felt upon hearing that Rue McClanahan had passed away was alarming. For someone who could be deemed “emotionally challenged,” it’s fascinating that my eyes welled up as though I had walked into the kitchen and witnessed someone eating my ice cream Snickers Bar (or would cheesecake be a more accurate example?). There I sat, at my desk, becoming choked up over my google search results. Losing Blanche Devereaux affected me. It continues to affect me despite feeling completely unaffected by most aspects of my life.

Why?

While it was only last night that I “spent some time with the girls” (those who have passed a Saturday night watching WE know the phrase well), that explanation for my feelings goes only so far. Shoulder pads alone give away the fact that the show has long been off the air, after all. Blanche, in reality, was like a friend I hadn’t seen in a long, long time; yet, I thought of her often.

The relationship between those four women goes beyond the marathon humor their characters masterfully executed. In my estimation, The Golden Girls was the forerunner of shows like Modern Family in its embodiment of the myriad definitions of “family.” It taps into that larger-than-you’d-ever-know demographic of those who have found familial comfort in friends rather than siblings; in those chosen rather than those inherited. In this, The Golden Girls found its subversive edge.

I was recently forwarded an article that argued that The Golden Girls is responsible for a generation of homosexuals. If true, that’s one hell of a legacy, Rue. As absurd as the essay was, its argument wasn’t that far off. While The Golden Girls did nothing to make gays out of straights, it did present a truism–that family, for some of us, is comprised of those we surround ourselves with, trust in and depend on, independent of biology–common amongst gay men and women. That this truth was illustrated by the shared lives of four aging, single women was a metaphor, perhaps, but it was also an entree into the more open and accepting world we all enjoy (and continue to struggle against) today.

The Golden Girls will undoubtedly live on as a timeless television show; yet, there was comfort in knowing that its players were still here…somewhere. While there’s no bringing Dorothy, Sophia or Blanche back, there is appreciating the precedent they set for my own family. My chosen family. And because of them–my family, that is–I know I’ll always be Golden.

In the mad dash I was making to beat Friday traffic, I failed to remember one thing–there is no beating Chicago traffic. Thirty minutes later, I found myself weaving through downtown, following detour signs leading to more detour signs. When I the highway finally found me, it took the duration of Talk of the Nation and Science Friday on NPR to finally see the bustling metropolis of Gary, Indiana. Say what?

Traffic eventually picked up and I made my trek to Ohio, which looks a lot like Gary, Indiana incidentally. I had never made the comparison, but fits.  As I drove through the tiny town my brother calls home, I was struck by two images–a house displaying a Confederate flag from its porch and a pickup truck with a bumper sticker that read “Obama Sucks.”  Two things: 1. The last I checked, Ohio was a free state during the Civil War.  2. Perhaps bumper sticker wit is in a recession of its own, but that message seems rather void of personality, doesn’t it?

It was at this point that I realized the theme of not only my weekend, but my life of late: Patience.

Thinking about my day-to-day life in the city (via the lens of trying to get out of Chicago), physical patience is a huge component. From not freaking out on overly-crowded trains and buses to biting my tongue when the couple ahead of me in the grocery store check-out waits until their order is fully bagged to whip out a checkbook (why not cart around you ink well and quill while you’re at it!?…You’re only in your 30s, for chrissake!), city life requires a ton of patience. It’s an obvious byproduct of fitting so many people into such a small space. It’s undeniably physical patience.

Small town patience is an entirely different beast, however. I know this well, as I worked in the field for 18 years or so. Back woods living–if you have an intellectual or empathetic bone in your body (or all of your teeth, for that matter)–requires unimaginable amounts of mental patience. Rationalizing others’ ignorance and bigotry without recommending state-wide sterilization is a virtue. As is not calling Child Protective Services when you see the “food” that parents feed their children and accepting “Mountain Dew Mouth” as a real medical condition.

Overall, my weekend trip to the buckeye state cast a light on my preference for physical patience. I will take a physically uncomfortable environment that supports liberal-minded diversity over geographic space any day.  Mental claustrophobia? No, thank you, I like mine physical. Trees are nice, but new ideas are nicer.

So thank you, Ohio. Thank you for first teaching me and then reminding me of how to be patient. And thank you cities of the world–San Francisco and Chicago in particular–for teaching me (and often reminding me) how to be patient without being complacent.

Jasper Johns, Flag (1954-55)

In third grade, my class did a project in which each student studied a state. Mine was New York. I was born in New York and–living in Virginia at the time–that was a very cool thing. Take that, Robert E. Lee.

Part of the project entailed an artistic re-creation of the state flag, or so I remember. In all likelihood, I had simply envisioned my project exuding grandeur (symbolized by an impeccably drafted state flag) and wouldn’t settle for anything less. The teacher would make a big deal over how wonderful my flag looked and how it really made my research on New York State rise above my classmates’ attempts at Vermont and Kentucky. Yes, I was that student. Apologies to those I stepped on along the way.

The problem was that my artistic rendering of Lady Liberty or whatever Greek ladies adorn the New York flag was not up to my own standards. And I freaked. If there’s one thing I can own, it’s when I make something that looks/tastes/smells (yup…you know what I mean by smells) awful. Even at age 8, I knew that the only state this flag was representing was a state of panic.

Luckily, I have a father who was obsessive–but not neurotic per say–about education. If I was studying George Washington in school, we’d go to Mount Vernon that weekend (not that it was all that far…we lived in Virginia, after all…but we were po’, which makes it more meaningful). If I wanted to be in band, we’d figure out a way to get a saxophone. Life was good like that. But back to New York. My dad stayed up late into the night drawing those Greek bitches for me. How long it took him, I have no idea. I was fast asleep. All I know is that I went to sleep with Lady Letdown and woke up to Lady Luck, because my flag looked amazing. In case I didn’t do so then, thanks Dad.

The byproduct of my gut-wrenching experience with the New York State flag made me realize something. I like simple flags. When I think about Jasper Johns’ paintings of the American flag, for instance, I become exhausted. I mean, do we really need all fifty stars on there? That’s a lot of work. Look at California’s flag; it has a bear on it. I don’t remember being good at drawing bears when I was a kid. Fish? Yeah, I could draw a mean fish, but a bear? That’s a tall order.

What this boils down to is that I should live in Japan. A nice red circle on a white background. And I love sushi. Done and done.

The ideas of flags, simplicity and parents doing their child’s homework make me think about “flags” in another sense–the kind that are cautionary. References to “red flags” pour out of my mouth like wine pours in (and that’s a lot). Whether in friendships, relationships, jobs or seat stains on public transportation, red flags are those ubiquitous indications that things just aren’t right. They can be slight or monumental, direct or obscure. The fact is, though, that they’re important. And symbolic. Sort of like a real flag.

For the longest time, all flags were red flags, or deal breakers for me. They would cause me to hastily end things, whether (again) a friendship, a relationship or a job. If things were feeling off, I was out. Then, over time, things changed. That artificial, obnoxious-doesn’t-begin-to-describe-it word, “sticktuitiveness,” comes to mind. Thanks but no thanks to the teacher who planted that seed of vile faux-cabulary that I can’t seem to shake. Regardless, red flags don’t seem to burn as hot as they once did. Perhaps it comes with age, similar to theories that time feels like it goes by faster as we get older because it becomes a smaller and smaller fraction of our  total lifetime. After so many red flags, I think my vision may be fading.

My red flag reexamination has proven a good thing. A healthy thing. While it has the potential to bite me, I’d rather be open, patient and understanding (within reason, obviously) than callous and fearful. My new outlook on flags is that they’re still popping up all around me, but their color isn’t evident at first. It’s like the terrorism threats at the airport. Flags can be yellow or orange or, sometimes, red. Sometimes they’re complicated, like New York and sometimes they’re simple, like Japan. The trick is to resist assigning them their color prematurely. And to refrain from underestimating your drawing abilities.

Life is full of flags; full of hints and warnings. We’re lucky to have them. But sometimes we need to color-correct them and other times we need to disavow them altogether. On the flip side, there are some that ought to be heeded. We’d be silly not to. It’s a fine line indeed.

While flag-burning may be protected under the First Amendment, we can really only protect ourselves from being burned by them.

Exhibit A

I mean, what did we ever do before email? Can you imagine Mad Men-style offices with typewriters? A legitimate use for United States Post Office? No way. It’s simply unfathomable. Email has changed everything.

Besides its mere existence, it’s also interesting to consider email’s evolution. I remember my first ever email address. Correction: I don’t actually remember it because it was through my high school and it had a ton of numbers in it and the domain had approximately fourteen words, all separated by periods. Weird. At any rate, did you know that people–once upon a time–would fax each other cartoons, jokes, etc. the way that people later began forwarding emails? Again: weird.

Even the older demographic has gotten into the email, which is kind of cool (maybe). I always imagine those Hughes Net commercials appealing to the old, retired couple that live in the country. It’s probably because the demonstration of download speed is a picture of a little girl with a balloon or something, which obviously appeals to grandparents. The old folks are suckers for anything grandchild related…we all know that.

My grandmother is no sucker, but she is one such computer proficient senior. She’ll check in with me from time to time, laying the “why do I never hear from you?” guilt on thick. It’s cool, though, and very much deserved. These emails are nice. I picture her making her once-a-day trip to her desk, turning on the computer and waiting, patiently, for the screeching sounds of dial-up to get her online. Don’t ask me why, but I just assume everyone over age 55 has dial-up internet. I balme it on the Hughes Net commercials, so feel free to correct me if I’m wrong.

Anyway, it’s pretty cool that the internet really is universal. What’s not cool, however, is how not everyone uses it in the same way. [Dramatic sigh.]

Enter Exhibit A, pictured above. These are a sampling of forwards from my Grammie. As you’ll see from the dates and the unread messages, I stopped opening her forwards sometime around June 2008. The gap in chronology points to the fact that I have deleted most of them as they arrive. Perhaps I should feel guilty about this. I actually do, but have perfected the squashing of that pesky “guilt” emotion as soon as it rears its needy head.

The truth is that I don’t feel I even need to open these forwards, as I know, from subject alone, what to expect. Or so I imagine. Let’s run down a few of these, shall we?

“FW: I love my attorney!” = Some cliche take on attorneys being sleazy, unethical thiefs.

“FW: Zip Lok Bags…….Tip of the Week…….” = Something I would potentially be interested in but am too distracted by whether or not “Lok” is the correct spelling to pursue. And the over-use of ellipse–it’s all too much for me.

“FW: All God’s critters” = There is no fucking way I’m opening this.

“FW: Cabbies” = Something racist.

“FW: Impaled by a Taliban RPG” = Something racist and right-winged (or is that redundant?).

“FW: WARNING…..809″ = If you get a call from this area code DO NOT answer it or that grandchild in the picture with a balloon will be killed. Instantly.

“FW: Please read quietly and send it on its journey” = Cyber spirituality is creepier than that guy in makeup singing to JonBenet Ramseys on TLC’s “Little Miss Perfect”.

Grammie, we’ve always had a unique relationship of respect whereby we can be honest with each other when no one else is. Let the humor I find in your email forwards continue that wonderful dynamic…so keep ‘em coming; I even started a separate email folder for them, just for shits & giggles.

I love you! (And I’m still in your will after this, right?)

While my overall consumption problem is epic, that’s nothing new. The greater reason behind my recently dried-up ink well is my new job. That’s right, people. A new job. NPR should come get their sound byte because my months of looking finally led to something pretty damn good. The Tide of Terrible has turned; if not for the entire country, at least for this Natalean life. All Things Considered, you have my number.

The rewards of stable and challenging employment are obvious; the process of getting here, however, was arduous. Searching, applying and interviewing for a new job proved a nerve-racking mind-fuck and, because of this, directly parallels my dating life.

It’s seldom discussed, but nonetheless true: the processes of interviewing and dating are one and the same.

From initially putting yourself out there and exposing your vulnerabilities to making the ballsy move of applying or approaching a potential match, interviewing is dating and dating is interviewing. By this standard, jobs are relationships. And relationships? They’re work. Makes a frightening amount of sense, doesn’t it? I think so, too.

As we all know, the worst–and I mean worst–part about both of these endeavors is the unexplained ending. The out-of-the-blue Houdinis; the ending because one party simply forfeits their appearance. “Things were going so well,” you think in disbelief after the second or–worse yet–third interview/date. Guess not. And here’s the hard part: accepting that it’s over and stop facebook stalking. They’ve moved on and the job posting isn’t on craigslist anymore. They both went with another candidate.

There’s a special place in hell for employers who don’t follow up with job candidates. That placeholder becomes increasingly cemented with additional interviews. Snub me after one interview? Fine. Spend eternity on an overcrowded city bus. Have fun. After three interviews? You’re so spending your next life as Kirstie Alley. Makes the bus look pret-ty nice, doesn’t it?

And with dating? The Houdinis? Well, I’m not all-too-familiar with how libel works and my bestie is a patent attorney, not a litigator, so I should probably leave that one alone. Consider yourselves lucky.

Having now completed this process (the job hunt, that is), there’s a peace that comes over me when craigslist is no longer in my web browser history. Career Builder is one less site I feel compelled to stalk each day. I can focus on other things, like when Bethenny Frankel’s baby is due.

The search for new professional opportunities also lends itself to some rather heavy self-reflection. Looking back at my work history, I realize that I’ve opted out of some pretty great opportunities with some great companies (and some very not great ones…*ahem*). The great ones would never have revealed themselves–even in hindsight–without the juxtaposition of the unsavory. They’re the ones I probably shouldn’t have given up on so quickly; the ones I should have realized, at the time, how good for me they really were.

Like I said, it’s seldom discussed, but nonetheless true: jobs and relationships are one and the same.

photo credit: Lauren Noe (presumably)

“The greatest epidemic affecting our society is loneliness.” It’s a theory that a friend of mine has frequently referenced, originally shared by one of his college professors. In his estimation, everything from obesity and chronic disease to abuse and neglect can be traced back to feeling lonely. It’s at the root of all that is wrong with the world.

While I don’t necessarily disagree with loneliness being a major player in whatever-the-hell is going on with the world, I’d like to throw another card on the table.

Delusion.

Perhaps I’m alone in this, but I can’t seem to escape the consequences of delusional mentalities…and I’m not talking about my own (we’ll get to those later). It really boils down to the discrepancy between reality and perception. While I completely get that “reality” is up for debate, I just so happen not to buy into most people’s definition of it. Even more, I’m pretty sure if we, as a culture, snapped the fuck out of our delusions, we could get some things done. Take care of business. Suffer from Shaken Baby Syndrome, maybe. But whatever. It’d be worth it.

This goes for the large scale (governmental beliefs that printing more money will get us through tough times, making the first cuts in education funding to arts programs, etc.) to the small scale (thinking that just because leggings are the trend, your ass looks good in them. It doesn’t).

On a personal level, the most frustrating instances have been coming from a delusional sense of having things “figured out.” By “things,” I mean one’s self, life in general, others, etc. Because here’s the thing—you don’t. While I can’t say that I do either, I can say that such delusional claims—in and of themselves—are an indication that someone has a long, long way to go.

Okay. Enough of the vague. Specifics. Here we go…

Anyone who uses the phrase “self-aware” to describe himself is a joke. As is his self-awareness. While he’s at it, he should go ahead and tell you how independent and humble he is. Because those qualities, when self-proclaimed, are totally legit. Right. It’s a fact. Like the Bible.

One who thinks that problems fix themselves is another one to stay away from. Whether they be health, emotional or psychological, these are problems that may be swept under the rug, but won’t make for a magic carpet ride. Quite the opposite. They make for a ride in a runaway Prius. Sorry ‘bout your luck, Toyota, and sorry about your delusions, people.

Overall, delusion is like the…uhhh…simple(?) minded person who learns a new word and subsequently uses it. A lot. Incorrectly. And mispronounces it. That’s what delusion is like.

Oh yeah. This is not to say I’m without delusions of my own. As promised, here are some of mine, should it make you feel better:

-My retirement plan is “money will find me.”
-Slow & steady wins the race.
-Buying a size medium t-shirt will motivate me to do more abdominal exercises.

And that picture above? It’s me. In college. Age 18. Talk about delusional—I thought those clothes fit me. And that I could like girls if I really, really tried.

See? I never said I’m exempt. But now I’m 10 years older and not a Toyota owner.

The gist of ballsy moves is putting one’s self out there. Putting dignity aside. Taking risks. Not risky risks, but risks with your pride. Approaching a stranger. Introducing yourself to someone out of your league. Going old-school and buying a drink for someone (this time, without roofying it).

To ensure that the Ballsy Moves, v.2008 took form, there were a few simple rules:

1. Each participant must make a minimum of two ballsy moves per week.
2. There must be a witness for each ballsy move, to vouch for its occurrence.

Of the three of us enrolled in this program of my shameless mind, the scoring of ballsy moves unfolded as follows:

Lonika, 0.
Jonah, 1.
Justin, 283.

What can I say? I took pride in my idea. Possibly too much so, but pride nonetheless.

There’s no doubt that ballsy moves was a schtick reflecting my boredom; still, I believe that there continue to be some valuable lessons in this exercise of the “awww, the hell with it.” If nothing else, it resulted in some great stories about Chicago characters summarized by their most memorable characteristic. Ask me about Class Ring sometime…I assure you, it’s a good story.

While I can’t claim that ballsy moves resulted in any tangible life benefits, it was undeniably a summer of realizations. Among them, that you can’t wait for life to happen. In that fine line between letting life find you and going on the hunt for it, I’d rather hold the compass than follow the leader. If “leagues” really do exist, I’d rather draft people to mine than be convinced of theirs. And, of all the harsh truths to be learned in life, I’d rather uncover them now than spend my days sweeping them under Ikea rugs.

The essence of ballsy moves has little to do with the moves themselves. It has more to do with movement in general. Change can only come with movement and while it sometimes requires approaching something new, it often calls for rejecting something old.

So, while it’s going on two years and countless ballsy moves later (I stopped counting mine some time ago), I’m happy to announce that—for one of us— the score has changed.

One of us has made our first (known) ballsy move. Better late than never, right?

Now let’s just hope he doesn’t wear a class ring.