Late to Life

I had a job interview yesterday.  This is my last "college summer."  The last time I have to scramble for summer employment before impending fall classes engulf my time wholesale.  This time next year I'll be graduating and flying top speed into the workforce.  But now, as my graduation date approaches ever... so... slowly... I feel kind of stuck.

Truth is, I got a late start on life.

I graduated from high school younger than most - a respectable 17 years old, with plenty of opportunity to get a head start in college.  However, I had made other plans. As is common practice in my faith, I chose to devote two years of my life to preach, teach, and volunteer in an assigned location.  I'll write more about my experiences volunteering as a missionary in another post, but suffice it to say, my two years abroad, combined with the year and a half I took to save for my mission (yes, we pay our own way whenever possible) essentially destroyed any semblance of a head start.

Most of my peers in my graduating class of 2007 were finishing college when I was registering for my freshman year.  I try not to make comparisons, every life takes a different path.  But it's difficult not to feel behind somehow.

My interview didn't help.  This was a nice place offering a great job.  I pray I land the position, I would love to work there and it would give me tons of career-applicable experience.  Plus, it feels like a job.  I walked into the office building, greeted by the brooding stare of a burly security guard and the dazzlingly hygienic smile of a pleasant, blonde receptionist. A welcome equal parts intimidating and inviting, I was already overwhelmed.  The cavernous lobby lined with plasma screens and crisply printed promotional materials didn't help to quell my nerves either.

All the glass-paned, polished ambiance of professionalism brought those gnawing doubts hurtling back to me.  I was supposed to get a head start, I graduated young!  I could be 3 years into a career now instead of juggling part-time jobs (no one offers full-time if they can avoid giving health insurance benefits). I could have a bachelor's, an MBA, and be starting my own business instead of fenagling my class schedule so that I don't overwhelm myself again with 18 credits a semester.  I could be climbing the corporate ladder and watching my financial portfolio diversify rather than blindly searching for professors' soft spots and catering my design portfolio to their tastes.  I could move on from the "school game" and finally get my hands dirty.

Here, in the opulence of this lobby, was a taste of the life I was missing out on.  This was where I could have been 3 years ago, a successful, industrious provider. Someone my wife could rely on to cover expenses while she prepares for grad school.  Someone to alleviate pressure from her end and allow her to focus entirely on her studies. The key to happiness.  The solution.  The life of professional ambition, of career planning, of weekends and summer trips and Saturdays spent with my wife instead of my homework.

But I shouldn't regret my choice to volunteer.  I met wonderful people, saw foreign lands, learned a strange language, and expanded my horizons in ways college couldn't accomplish (and hasn't). Perhaps most importantly, I met my wife there, on the other side of the world.  It was a wonderful, enriching experience and I wouldn't trade it for the world, let alone a head start in the job market.

The coulds and insteads and rathers of life can drown you in a flood of woulda-coulda-shoulda.  The fact is, that life, the life you're missing out on, the life you pine after - it will always be there.  It's ambition's great mirage.

Timing has nothing to do with it.  Education and career happen in their own time, at their own pace.  I know a man who is a successful provider, husband and father who never went to college.  I have a friend who's been all over the world doing volunteer work after graduating from college; he's home and currently works at Starbucks.  Another friend of mine graduated the same year I did and is still taking writing classes as he prepares to compose what I fully expect will be the great American novel. Some end up in the CEO's chair. Others choose to stay home with the kids (and not just the mothers; stay-at-home dads are out there working hard, too).  Regardless of what your life's timeline is, I think as long as your moving forward, you're on the right track.

Maybe I'm not late after all.  I just took the scenic route.


S

In Between

This is going to be a little different.

Normally these posts are updates on the milestones in our lives.  I got a new job, we got a new house, she had a birthday, a promotion, a vacation, some inspired self-realization I'm compelled to share with everyone.

Not this time.

This time I'm celebrating.

This semester is nearly over and there is no respite in view.  This summer is going to only make life busier.  B. is taking more courses immediately after this semester ends, further shortening her summer.  She's desperately trying to master organic chemistry, statistics, genetics, calculus, anatomy, and countless other classes I can't even begin to fathom, all while working full-time in a high-pressure job.

Deadline has been the name of the game for me.  Lately I've averaged four or five hours of sleep a night as I scramble to illustrate books and projects before their impending deadlines, finalize the manuscript for my own children's book so I can move on to those illustrations and get published before that impending deadline.  I'm looking for more freelance work hoping that on the off chance someone does hire me I can find the time somewhere between deadlines.  Meanwhile, I just finished a major revision of my website, portfolio and resume and filled out nearly a dozen job applications for graphic design positions within biking distance throughout the area.

There's been a lot of buildup to impending milestones, but none of them have happened yet.  And when they do, I'm never that impressed.  My mind is usually focused on the next task.

But what has gotten B. and me through this insanity hasn't been the milestones or the promise of a check-mark on our cosmic to-do list - it's been the in-betweeners.

The little moments in between deadlines.  Between shifts at work.  Between filing applications and filing rejections.  Between paychecks.  The little gasps for air before we plunge back down into the abyss.

Sometimes we run.  B. and I go running at least three times a week, even if only for a mile at 11 at night.  We talk, we walk, we hold hands, we reacquaint ourselves with that button nose normally wedged in a book or those eyes normally glazed over staring at a screen.  We wade through the dead air, the dull mute of homework and listen to the silence instead.  It doesn't make us work better.  Homework isn't done any quicker.  The deadlines are still there, looming.  But I relish our in-betweeners.  So does she.  It has made a distinct difference in our moods and our marriage.

Oh, and sometimes we just make out.

The man with the five dollar face once said:

"We can complain that rose bushes have thorns 

or rejoice that thorn bushes have roses."

Stop reaching for the next slab of milestone.  Celebrate what's in between.


S

The Death of Handwritten

Quitting my creative writing class was a really difficult decision for me.  I'd like to think I don't quit easily on things, particularly when school is involved.  But I had a few days before the withdrawal deadline and I believed that I had gleaned the most beneficial portions of the class.  I had photocopied the pages required in the syllabus and returned the textbook before the return deadline at the beginning of the semester (now that's how you do college for cheap, kids!)  I had finished the poetry section and the fiction section, and the rest of the semester held only essays and discussions.

I had been phoning in the homework for a while, literally copying and pasting from the blog at times when I needed material in a pinch.  Somewhere along the line I realized that my writing class was keeping me from really writing.

I haven't written here in far too long.  I've missed this, my sanctuary of words and thoughts.  My class required daily entries into a handwritten journal of sorts to keep us writing everyday.  But leaving my keyboard and my ability to more readily self-edit for the pencil smudgery that is handwriting for lefties felt like - well, like camping; sure I could do it and make it just fine, but why settle for a sleeping bag when you own the softy down of a queen mattress?  A cheap composition notebook just doesn't suit me or my purposes.  And typing is comfier, sue me.

My classmates were all there for different reasons and I was the only one from my academic background and the only non-English Major.  I felt out of place surrounded by people who thought in words and turns of phrases and screenplays.  I'm a storyteller, but in that class I felt distracted from that goal.  I'm sure many would, have and will find the exercises prescribed in that class and others like it useful, and I did gain some occasional insight at times.  But I was looking for an intensive focus to build upon the skill set I had rather than an exploration of different genres and styles.  I've found what styles work for me and what don't.  If I went to a music store to buy a piano they wouldn't make me learn trumpet first.  I can find what I'm looking for elsewhere.

I've looked back on my earliest posts and tried to rediscover the fire that got me writing to begin with. The purpose of this blog is more than just a more detailed series of facebook statuses.  There's more to this than mere therapeutic journaling, I think.  This is the memorial of our early years as a couple.  This is where I come to pen our struggles, our anxieties, and our triumphs.  This is where we immortalize our flaws, the ones we try to grow out of over time. 

These posts and pages are where our friends, family and readers can look back with us and marvel at how we made it through.  I don't know what I'll write next, I never have.  There is no plan.  If something is noteworthy, I note it.

This is our notebook.


S

The Four W's - A Weekend of Firsts

I did something for the very first time this weekend. A few things, actually.


Wakey-wakey, lunch and breaky

I've eaten at all times of the day or night.  But I don't think I've ever had a mid-morning meal and given enough thought to it to call it brunch. B. and I went to brunch at a friend's house and enjoyed an increasingly rare respite from our day-to-day, home-to-work-to-school-to-work-to-home lives.  We caught up with some old friends and enjoyed a great meal.  Our weekend felt more like a weekend somehow because of that brunch.


"Well, this might as well happen..."

I've just sort of accepted that God challenges great men to help them achieve greatness,

but He challenges me just cuz it's funny. 

I don't mean to say I'm destined for the biblical curses of Job, but if there is some sort of minor mishap that could effectively ruin my day or distract or divert me from getting anything done on time, it's bound to happen eventually.  And I always follow up with a humorous report later.  He  gives me great material, I guess.  You'll recall my long trek across town to right a foolish wrong.  This was less dramatic and even less time-consuming, but still frustrating.

I've developed a habit of locking the door on my way out in the mornings.  This is great for security, although I'm prone to lock the door even when I'm not going that far.  Like the mailbox.  I was pleased to get a check I had been expecting from a freelance client, but my joy was soon snuffed out by the realization that my keys were in fact not in my right pocket as they usually are, but sitting on the kitchen counter.  I had locked myself out. 

I had no keys.  No way inside the apartment.  No way into the car sitting parked in our driveway.  What I did have was a bike.  And a wife with keys at work.  Six miles later (uphill, against the wind) I borrowed B.'s keys, cooled down with a vitamin water and made the much smoother downhill downwind trip home.  Biking will always be preferable to walking in these sorts of situations.

I'm actually relieved to have done it now.  Finally it's happened.  Somehow there's less apprehension about it now that the deed is done. 


Withdrawals

Not the kind you're probably thinking of.  Unless you're thinking chocolate.  Then... you're still wrong.  Darn those girl scouts and their delicious boxes of minty chocolate temptation.  No, for the first time in my collegiate career, I'm quitting.  I dropped a class.  It had just gotten to the point where it was more of a burden than a help, and at this point, so close to graduation, I can't afford to be distracted by courses that don't pertain directly to my career.  I'll write more about this later but suffice it to say I much prefer to write creatively than take creative writing.


Wisdom(?) 

An impressive "behold my profundity!" aphorism escaped my lips in the middle of Barnes & Noble a few days ago. 

Folks, this NEVER happens.  Anything remotely impressive I've ever said - I didn't actually say.  I either memorized a quote from someone super-deep or I wrote it down beforehand.  I'm a writer, not a speaker.  I didn't even think it was all that great, but B. pointed it out as rather clever.  So with her praise being really my only goal in life, I'm happy to share what she deemed wisdom.

She expressed concern over the tests she would have to take before and during grad school.  Those tests are expensive and extremely difficult.  I tried to console her and tell her that price wasn't something to even factor in, and that not passing the first time is no big deal.  There's no shame in failing.

"There's a difference between failing and being a failure," I remarked sagely. "Once you've stopped failing, you've done it - you've become a true failure."

And I honestly believe that.  I downloaded a student version of Maya a few days ago.  This 3d modelling software has already reduced me to thumping the keyboard like an ape more than once.  Failure is exciting.  I'd rather frame my rejection letter to my BFA program than the acceptance letter I received later.  You learn so much less from success.  Keep trying, keep failing.



And with that, I'll leave you.  How was your weekend?  What were your W's?




S

Comfort Level

For Valentine’s Day B. and I did something special.  I got my very first massage.  This was a huge step for me, personally.  I had resigned myself to living a life devoid of strangers touching me.  I always felt awkward about it.  Paying someone for pleasurable physical contact has always been a little too akin to prostitution for me.  Maybe it’s my warped sensitivity about gender roles; maybe I’m just an inherently awkward person.  But B. loves them, so with her in the room for moral support and assurance that I wasn’t embodying that pale creep with thinning hair and a pencil thin blonde mustache who haunts the nightmares of all women everywhere, we went in together.

 As we entered out dimly lit room with ambient noise wafting from a small stereo in the corner, our masseuses (B. gave me some playful ribbing that they were both women) discussed where we wanted them to focus, our tension spots, etc.  Then as they left the room they asked us to undress to our comfort level.  I momentarily regretted not bringing a parka or at least a turtleneck, but B. and I stripped down and quickly hopped into our beds.

The next hour is sort of a blur.  They quietly came in once we were decent and ready and began to work.  She worked out numerous knots I didn’t know I had.  My shoulders melted.  My spine liquefied.  I was a blob.  A semi-conscious, heavy-lidded, relaxed blob.  I didn’t know the massage extended past there, but as she dug her elbow into my legs, I melted even more. (I had run over 10k the day before)

The hour ended too soon, and we got dressed and limply noodled our way back to the car and headed home.  It was a strange sensation to feel so loose.  Zero tension in my back, my shoulders or legs.  B. felt it, too.  That night, however, I found it difficult to relax.  The mattress felt foreign under me.  The lumps and knots in my back no longer matched the topography of the springs underneath.  I tossed and turned and lay awake late into the night.  I was too relaxed to be comfortable.

This is my first semester in a long while where I haven’t maxed out my credit hours or tried balancing 6 classes with part-time work.  I’ve been told I’m a glutton for punishment.  This semester I really only have one class with a severe workload – a workload I set.  A new, experimental class was created this year, combining the talents of English, Graphic Design, Editing, Computer Science, Animation and of course Illustration majors.  Our goal: to create and publish children’s books.  At the beginning of the school year we all pitched story ideas, then voted on the most promising.  We hope to write and illustrate around ten books by April.

I’m illustrating three.  I also wrote one, though, so this truly is a labor of love.  People have given me a lot of incredulous looks when I tell them what I’m up to.  I must be insane, how do I ever relax?  Where do I find the time?  It’s a lot of late nights and early mornings, caffeine jolts and hours upon hours apart working or doing homework. 

But I’m comfortable doing it. 

B.'s no different.  She's up late along with me, trying to pass stats, genetics, insanely difficult chemistry, all while working full time in a less than desirable work environment.  But she loves school to a terrifying, borderline unhealthy level.  She's comfortable being an overworked student, as am I.

B. and I can’t seem to relax.  We’re incurable workaholics and if we’re not busy we’re not happy.  That’s where our comfort level is.  Some people can sit at home and do nothing all day; I don’t think that’s in us.

I guess my point is, some of us don't know how to relax and for some of us relaxation isn't relaxing.  If you like to be busy, be busy!  If you love relaxing all the time... well, I guess I'll just tell you now I will have fries with that, thank you.  Everyone has their comfort level.

Where's yours?


S