Category: Life

I didn’t choose a life outside the daily grind. It chose me when I got laid off a month ago.

It’s crazy to think how much has changed since the day I received that detrimental news. I cried until I couldn’t cry anymore and I questioned myself until I felt like I was looking at a stranger in the mirror.

Like an earthquake, my world shifted violently. Then the shaking stopped. Like someone just flipped a switch.

With the stillness came a clarity that surprised me. I decided the layoff wasn’t the end of the world. It was the beginning of a new one…a beautiful world.

I’ve become an outsider. Literally.

Back in my retail days, I used to love having the wacky schedule—screwing off when everyone else was singing the Monday Blues. It almost feels like you’re playing hooky when you’re a 9-5 outsider. The forest trails are empty, and so is your favorite cafe. The quiet seems so special and fragile, and you seize every opportunity to enjoy it.

In a way I was damn lucky to discover this unexpected freedom as summer is taking its rightful place. Had I lost my job in the damp, dreary winter, I imagine this sense of joie de vivre would be harder to find.

Truth be told, being inside an office all the time (no matter how cool they try to make it with afternoon beers and indoor basketball) doesn’t suit me.

It works for some people, so I’m not knocking it. But I prefer to change up my location, to be free. And it’s funny how being a part of the daily grind doesn’t really allow that kind of behavior.

Even the hip companies with “flexible” arrangements question you when you’re coming and going. You can be kicking ass, but still they wonder whether or not you’re really working hard enough when you take a walk outside to breathe for a minute.

I always want to be outside—it doesn’t matter where. The grimy nature of the city, with its concrete mountains and electric stars, inspires me with its energy. The pretty nature of the woods gets me too.

All this newfound awareness comes with its own hazards though. Yesterday I stopped on the trail to marvel at the gorgeous, bell-shaped flowers below. I didn’t realize they were poisonous when I was inhaling them and (she smacks her forehead) petting their sinister petals.

I found out when I was looking them up to properly name the image for this blog post. They’re called foxgloves. As lovely as they seem, they contain a bouquet of chemicals that affect the heart.

Don’t worry, I survived. It’s just another part of being an outsider—learning to navigate the perils of these exotic circumstances of my new life.

I’ve been unleashed, and despite the run-in with toxic flowers, it feels pretty amazing. As a writer, I couldn’t ask for better inspiration. I’m observing everything in a different light and it’s a lot like being born again.

Each morning I sit on my patio and listen to the birds, starting a new day of unknown possibilities with my trusty laptop, which is habitually covered in cat hair. At work I used to listen to ambient music with nature sounds to calm me down. Now I feel so privileged to savor the real deal.

The birds sing loud and clear, because there is less to compete with—less to fear.

I’ve been really connecting with birds lately. As an outsider of the daily grind, I feel like one of them. No, I’m not pretending to fly and breaking a leg in the process, or chirping in front of my neighbor’s window. I’m not that crazy…yet.

But there is less to compete with and less to fear, so each day I’m soaring in my own way.

I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch
He said to me, “you must not ask for so much”
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door
She cried to me, “hey, why not ask for more?”
Oh, like a bird on the wire
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free

– Leonard Cohen, Bird on the Wire

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When we first started dating thirteen years ago, I said things that made it seem like I was trying to run him off.

I told him: “Never buy me flowers. They’ll die, so they’re a waste of money.”

Okay, maybe I was trying to run him off. I was twenty-one, and I was scared and lost. I covered up my vulnerability with piercings. I didn’t want to show anyone what I was really feeling inside, so I often chose pain as way to cope.

Mr. H didn’t let that fly. And even though I wasn’t ready for a love story, I didn’t have a choice.

Still, he was always careful never to buy me flowers. After a few years, I brought up the touchy flower subject.

Because, guess what? I wanted the man to buy me some damn flowers.

I remember him laughing, and saying that he was just doing what I told him to do. I explained that it was a barrier I had built to protect myself. Flowers were too sweet for a girl like me…and other nonsense along those lines.

Yesterday evening I got back from the grocery store and Mr. H had just come home from work. So busy in my own head, I didn’t notice them on the counter. I was putting away the groceries when he smiled his gorgeous smile and presented the beautiful, smelly bunch.

The man bought be some damn flowers.

At first I didn’t put two and two together. As many of you know, I got laid off from my job earlier this month. And though I have landed on my feet with a sudden leap into the freelance life, quite a bit of the brain fog from all of the changes this month has stubbornly remained.

So, I had honestly forgotten what day it was. Our 11-year anniversary.

I cried all over my flowers and all over him. He decided not to listen to my bullshit—he bought me something pretty and sweet that would maybe last a week.

Problem was…because of the no flowers rule, we don’t own a single vase. I spent about a half hour creating makeshift homes for my anniversary flowers, gazing at my wonderful husband that doesn’t listen to me through my happy tears.

I don’t really buy flowers, but at least I can write. So, Mr. H…

You know this already, but you are my everything. Every day I’m so damn thankful that you decided to love me.

When I smell these flowers, I think of the impenetrable sweetness of our love. And though these flowers will only live for so long, our love will never wilt.

One day we’ll return to the earth together, but our love will keep on living—reaching for the sun, all lovely and bright. In a world that badly needs a romantic revolution, our love will continue the good fight.

No, I’m not going to be that employee who bad mouths her employer for laying her off. It’s really not my style. Because you know something? Shit seriously happens.

I was somehow sane enough to wait to write anything. Last week I was pretty blue, and I didn’t trust the words that would pour out of my weakened spirit. Then I performed the classic “should I or shouldn’t I” blogging dance. Should I write about losing my job?

Even though I wasn’t at fault, I felt ashamed when I set my sad little box of desk belongings on the kitchen floor. Over and over again, I replayed any possible missteps I might have taken at my job over the past two years that led me here—to being let go.

I remembered how hard it was for me to find an empty box through my blurred, tear-soaked vision on my last day. I looked all over the damn office and I couldn’t even find one. So I dumped some random files out of the closest box on the counter and made a run for it.

All of last week I was trapped in the unforgiving fog of failure. As it lifted, I realized I needed to write about my experience. Because writing is my free therapy, and also, I know a lot of you out there can relate to losing a job.

I don’t believe writing about a layoff should be taboo. This post isn’t about blame or injustice, or any other negativity that is a waste of energy—it’s about living and learning.

Again…shit happens.

I have only lost one other job in my life. It was just after 9/11 and I was slaving away at the front desk of one of those big, boring chain hotels. The hospitality and tourism industry was hit pretty hard. Instead of layoffs, they trimmed the fat by finding excuses to fire their part-time staff.

That was me. And that was when I first learned how wonderful being fired can be.

Don’t get me wrong. I was 19, up shit creek with no savings, a full-time college student living at home but making just enough for my car payment, cellphone, and some junk food.

Like an unstoppable avalanche, that sudden life change prompted several more life changes. I packed up my stuff and moved to Texas to reconnect with my family and get the hell out of dodge.

I left behind a no-good, abusive boyfriend who was on his way to prison and never looked in the rearview mirror as my self-destructive self became smaller and smaller, until it finally faded in the distance.

About a year after living in Texas, I met Mr. H. And, this all happened because I got fired after a terrorist attack.

That was fifteen years ago.

This job was the first time I knew stability. For going on two years, I kicked ass every day. I really enjoyed what I was doing and I loved my team to pieces—so much that I truly felt like they were my second family. Believe it or not, this was my first salaried job in life.

So, yeah. I had finally found my place, a career path, and I felt pretty damn secure.

I certainly had no idea that Monday was going to be the last time I would laugh with my team. We were on an office scavenger hunt, as a reward for our awesomeness in Q1.

The next day I heard a word I had never heard before…severance. Because it was so foreign to me, I didn’t understand what he meant when my boss said it.

On Wednesday the news was shared with the whole team. I tried to wrap things up in between depressive fits. It was pretty impossible.

Thursday I packed up my things into the sad box I stole.

On Friday I was hungover from booze and emotions, sitting in my living room without knowing what to do with myself. You think you should be doing what you normally do on Fridays—attending end of the week meetings, powering through your to-do list to make Monday more palatable, planning the fun weekend ahead. I was lost.

That weekend I made a choice. I needed to bounce back—the pity party was SO over.

Even though I felt like I had been hit by a bus, I started updating my LinkedIn profile. With Mr. H’s incredible support, I finally decided to take the plunge and pursue a freelancing career.

Yep, I hired myself.

I picked up the healthy habits I had shoved aside during my emotional rollercoaster ride. I meditated, practiced Yoga, ate a big ass salad, drank lots of tea and water, and cooled it on the self-medication masquerading as indulgence.

Slowly, but surely I’m climbing out of a very unexpected dark hole.

It was challenging to get a Life Enthusiast post out—it took me longer than usual to format it, and I smiled big when I hit that publish button. I’m behind on reading my people’s blogs and I miss my third draft very badly.

But, I’m coming back…not as the person you all knew before. I’ve seen and felt too much this past week to go back. And, I don’t want to anyway. I want to look forward—I want to absorb the sunlight and deflect the darkness.

“Fear keeps us focused on the past or worried about the future. If we can acknowledge our fear, we can realize that right now we are okay. Right now, today, we are still alive, and our bodies are working marvelously. Our eyes can still see the beautiful sky. Our ears can still hear the voices of our loved ones.”   – Thich Nhat Hanh

The weekend before I got let go, I let go of all of my hair.

I wanted to make space for new things in my life. I didn’t know one of those new things was going to be severance. All I knew is that changes were coming.

I’m not exactly ready to say I’m happy this layoff happened. I am absolutely thankful for the experience and education I gained at my job, which are allowing me to go after a career as a freelance writer and content strategist. My boss took a chance on me and gave me an incredible opportunity. I’ll never forget that.

I’ll also never forget all of the beautiful people I worked with. I learned so much from them, enjoyed many awesome times, and they will always be a second family to me.

In the end, I learned that the modern-day human quest for stability and security can’t be found in a job. We can’t expect someone else to provide those qualities in our lives, and we can’t wait for them to come along and land right in our laps. They have to be found within us.

Have you ever gone through a drastic change that led to a whole new life?

P.S. Shameless plug…have some freelance work? Check out what I do on LinkedIn and talk to me!

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We get so caught up in this adult thing, and we get pretty good at it over the years. We condition ourselves to answer almost any question…questions we thought we could never answer.

I was a very anxious child, hell-bent on perfection and pleasing others. So when the time came for me to learn how to order something on my own without the help of my parents, the cash was a sweaty wad by the time I made it to the cash register.

I rehearsed my answer until I was practically insane to make sure I didn’t embarrass myself in front of the cashier at the pizza joint. You see, I had it in my mind that adults never screwed up—that they had their shit together.

Funny as hell to think about that now.

As you get older you learn to think on your feet, so you can act like you have your shit together even when you don’t. As adults, we have to make choices and answer questions constantly. Whether it’s a purchase we decide to make or an interview question we babble through, we start to think we can handle just about anything that comes our way.

But sometimes you get asked a question that stumps you. One you continue to think about long after it was spoken.

At a restaurant the other night Mr. H asked me, out of nowhere across the dimly lit air we shared, posed above the salt and pepper: What inspires you?

I blinked a couple of times. I’m pretty sure I grunted, unattractively attempting to form an answer, until finally I busied my lips with my pint glass. I folded.

What a question. It was just SO real.

I can handle all of these other crazy questions on a daily basis, but this one was really tough.

I suppose it’s because we don’t ask real questions very often. We don’t want to pry, we don’t want to go there—or we’re afraid to ask it because we don’t know the answer ourselves. Too many questions and answers are automatic in the modern world.

How are you?

I’m fine. And you?

Fine.

Imagine how different conversations would be if we asked meaningful questions. And sometimes a very simple question can have lots of meaning. I love to ask people what their favorite color is. I often use it as a conversation starter if I’m ever in an awkward group situation.

It’s a question that never fails to amuse and loosen up adults, because they probably haven’t answered it since they were a child—back when that innocent dialogue was commonplace. The answers are so fascinating, because the colors we are drawn to really say a lot about us.

Okay, so back to the inspiring question. After a few minutes I bumblef*cked my way through a couple of answers that kind of made sense. Something about living life fully and inspiring and helping others whenever possible.

It wasn’t a terrible answer. I mean, the delivery was terrible but it wasn’t what I really wanted to say.

Then, I landed on it.

What inspires me is reality…people being real and showing their vulnerability. I love to see grownups playing with their pets, exuding affection and acting like complete idiots. I love to see a husband look at his wife from across the room, entranced by her after so many years as if he was seeing her for the first time.

That kind of stuff. Real shit.

Anyway, it’s good to be asked a question like that from time to time. It makes us slow down this merry-go-round we ride on, so we can seek an answer.

So, I’ll ask you now. What inspires you? And for grins…what’s your favorite color?

The other night I was thinking about all the years I spent listening to music in the car. Just me—with the windows down, one arm dancing in the breeze, the beats driving me forward to the rhythms of the road.

In Southern California having music in the car was a must for me—as there was always one certainty, no matter how uncertain life seemed at the time. Traffic.

But no matter how late or pissed off I was, the radio was always right there with me.

Commercials were like the intermission before the show. They were annoying, sure. The constant drone of Trojan condom and disposable contacts ads wasn’t all bad. It was the build up before the music started again.

That was the greatest moment. That was when all the bullshit went away. It didn’t even matter if you liked the song or not. Remember that?

The ups and downs of the old radio experience were kind of lovely. By today’s standards, it was crappy. Now we have unimaginable options—with no build up, no anticipation.

There is so much instant gratification that it’s never enough. We are never content. We are stuck in the traffic of discontentment. In Yoga, one of the Niyamas is Santosha, which translates to “contentment.”

Often the things we think we need are just wants. Wants are manipulative, and they can fool us into thinking we will not be happy until we get that certain something.

I know that whole I’ll Be Happy When concept all too well. I think many of us do.

By fueling our desires in a constant frenzy, the opposite of the intended result transpires. We thought we were going to become happier after we got what we wanted, but it didn’t work. Or we were happy for a few seconds, then it vanished.

The other day a coworker of mine was running late, because he forgot to plug in his car. The week before that, a couple of the guys were discussing their new home automation systems.

I was floored by these conversations. It’s nothing against my tech savvy coworkers, but all I could think was: Damn, what is this? The Jetsons?

Kind of. Technology keeps on coming, and we latch onto the next big thing. We want life to be easier, quicker, customized to fit every possible “need.”

We are hunting contentment like it’s easy prey. Well, it’s not.

I fall into this mindset as well, get roped up by the ever-changing world we live in. Then I stop and notice. And for some strange reason—though I haven’t owned a car in seven years—recently I started missing my beat-up car radio.

The best times were beach trips with my girlfriends back in high school. We would sing and dance all the way home from the beach. There was sand on the floorboards and our skin was still hot from the sun. Our hair was crunchy and salty, and our muscles were exhausted from playing in the waves.

Traffic was a good thing then. It meant we could hang onto the beach a little longer, avoid responsibilities like chores and homework—those times of dumb innocence we would never feel again.

As adults we see traffic as nothing but a nuisance, and sometimes it can wreck our entire day. Where’s the appreciation for being nowhere and doing nothing? Where’s the singing and the dancing, because we don’t care?

Don’t we all miss those times…when things were so simple?

Anyway, you all know that I’m just another old soul. Or as I like to say…a vintage soul. I rant about technology, but I use it just like anyone else. I use it with a bit of reluctance, as I know convenience doesn’t equal contentment. At the end of the day, we have choices.

I dusted off my journal and wrote this blog post with a pen. It wasn’t quick and efficient, but it felt beautiful to write simply again—without staring at a bright screen while my fingers raced across the plastic keys.

I guess I’ll always be the nostalgic one, preferring to latch onto the past instead of the future. I refuse to forget the ridiculous joy I felt when a good song came on after a commercial break, and I turned up the radio.

It’s okay, you can be nostalgic here. Tell me about your favorite radio memory.

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