Wednesday, January 28, 2015


It's okay to complain about my job, right? I mean, it's what adults do! Talk about the crazy weather, the dead end job, last night's sports game, the weather, how crazy the weather is, how much you are looking forward to the weekend/retirement/tonight's prime time season finale of that one show that everyone loves and talks about after they finish talking about how the weather is just one big crazy thing in our one small crazy life. And I do discuss these things with other adults, except for the sports game or retirement. And the weather is so so so crazy sometimes. And I purchased those penny loafers the other day, which was my gateway into the drab land of adulthood, so I guess it's perfectly acceptable for me to complain about my job.

But who wants to get onto my blog and read about my job? That was an example of slant rhyme, folks. Blog job. My job is my blog. I am a bored housewife and I've put all of my pent-up aggression and disappointment and general feelings of unease into my popular mommy blog. Look! Look at these fancy sugar cookies I have iced! And look! Look at my three blonde children with flour covering their noses as we sit around baking fancy sugar cookies in my relatably messy kitchen! But my kitchen is still fancy. Come on. I'm not poor or anything. I have a mansion in San Diego and I drink green juice and I wear yoga pants to the farmer's market where I buy the organic ingredients for my fancy sugar cookies for my fancy and popular blog. I am sad.

The above paragraph should probably be left out of this post, but there it is. And the last sentence "I am sad" was the mommy blogger character speaking, not me. But I guess I AM sad because I have clinical depression. So sadness is just a comfortable old shoe, you know? But lately I've been feeling more anger than sadness. I think I'd rather take the sadness. The anger feels dangerous and out of control. Not that I punch anyone in the face or even really do anything that would let the other, unfortunate victim of my anger know that I am angry, but I come close. I come close to just freakin' the fudge out and it worries me. And this is where the part about hating my job comes in.

I feel frustrated. Maybe frustration is what I am feeling, not anger. I am frustrated that I've allowed myself to take "whatever" jobs for, well, my entire life. I don't try too hard or at all. I just secure a job and squeak by on whatever they pay me. I forgot that I have a college degree. I forget that I have a lot to offer. I find myself stranded in places where I am not appreciated or even noticed. It's weird.

This could very well be my ego talking. It usually is. My ego has a booming voice that tends to drown out anyone else who might want to speak. Yes, I should be grateful I have a job. Yes, I know I can try harder. Yes, I should try hard right now at whatever it is that I am doing -- do the job and do it well and etc. I also need to stop blaming everyone else and feeling annoyed of my situation. It's entirely up to me to change my situation and, perhaps more importantly, my perspective. And my attitude! My damn attitude. If I am where I am and I hate it, I might as well try to act in a way that will eventually cause me to like where I am -- or at least tolerate it. It's all just temporary anyway. And I know deep down that punching a face or a wall or myself won't help anyone, especially my fist. I don't even know how to throw a punch, to tell you the truth. I'd end up looking ridiculous and maybe even a little adorable, which would only further escalate my anger.

So I go to work soon. I pray to the big guy/black woman/buddha above that I can be calm. That I can be brave in the face of banality. That I can discuss the crazy weather if I must and that I will do so with a giant, crazy smile on my face. Because it will be okay. It always is.

1 comment:

Scott Preston said...

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