You're Not Too Old If You're Still Alive

I'm not sure what it is that prevents us from realizing we can mold our identities as we age. Perhaps it is a culture of youth worship, societal laziness or communal pessimism, but we get the message very early: You must decide who you will be for the rest of your life when you are a child.

I was ten or so when I became aware of this discouraging idea. I noticed that girls in my dance class who had been there since age 3 had a distinct advantage over me, even though I began at age 6. I didn't consider at that time that it was merely more time dancing and practicing had made them better dancers. They only had 3 years of a head start. Instead, subconsciously looking for an excuse to underachieve, I determined that only those who had been dancing since infancy had any chance of tap dancing enlightenment. I was too late. I would never be good. This message I absorbed is contradictory to the parental mantra "You can be anything you want" and Disney's inescapable "Believe in yourself and your dreams will come true." My mother was always telling me that I just needed to practice more, but honestly, who listens to their mother?



Of course, my mother was right. I was a child and quit dance class at 14 to pursue the more promising High School Track & Field career. No one ever questioned my worldview: succeed young or die a failure.

What I didn't know was that I could live my life differently. My quest for an identity, an occupation that thrilled me didn't end with my teens. In 2009, I realized that as long as I think, I am, and I can change directions, start a new hobby, seek a better career. So what if I didn't learn guitar in my teens? I'm starting now. My identity is not fixed, neither is my vocation.

I'll never be too old to learn something new as long as I'm alive.

Preparing for the Future - Living Now

Realizing that I, not my money, bills, employer, country or situation, am in charge of my employment is like discovering a new power.

It's easy to feel like a victim of circumstance. Sure, the economy basically imploded and I got laid off from my first job after college. As a newlywed and the major source of family income, I felt obliged to take the first job offered to me - because, hell, how many people are unemployed for only a week? Everyone urged me to accept. I listened to them against my personal objections and got stuck in a job that a child could perform. I was forced to accept and remain in this job because my family needed the money. I had no choice, right?

That's what I thought until this week. Every day I make the choice to stay here and continue along unchallenged, stunted, bored. The longer I'm underestimated, the worse it is for my soul, and the longer I stay in a job unrelated to my skills and interests, the worse it is for my career. It is not more impressive to stay with one company in a low level job than to show that I tried to find my true vocation.

I may not know what that vocation is (honestly, I'm completely clueless at this point), but as I continue to look, I'm convinced that I will get closer and be able to hear the call. It may be faint now, but it's not getting any louder if I plant my feet and plug in my earbuds and listen to The Beatles. (But, my god, "I Me Mine" is amazing, isn't it?)

If I ever want an enjoyable career, and if I want to be proud of myself right now, I need to change my attitude, work hard, scour my resources for opportunities, and finally use my power to be in control of my career and my contentedness. I can't let my fear of poverty snuff my desire to live and work well.


Stuck in a job you don't like? Screw your courage to the sticking place:
Seth's Blog "Take What You Can Get (?)
Salon "Working Too Hard"

Meanness In The World

There is so much meanness in the world. The only thing a person can do to fix it is to not contribute. I must try harder to be kind.

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Much to the impressed surprise of my coworkers, friends, and family, a crime has revealed something new about me.

I've lived in New York City in various neighborhoods for 4 years now. 2 years in Manhattan, 2 in Brooklyn. I've walked through the 'hood at 1am, wandered the project wastelands between wealthy streets alone, and waited for the subway on deserted platforms all in various states of sobriety and awareness. The only kind of harassment I've ever received is unwelcome pickup lines.

My office is in Harlem, one street away from the gentrified Morningside Heights. I often take my lunches in Morningside Park. On Monday, I went to have a very regular lunch half-hour on a bench in the sun. I called my mother, and we had our usual conversation about my niece and nephew. A large crowd of middle schoolers ambled by, shouting and goofing off. As the children reached the end of the park, suddenly two punk teens ran up to me, snatched my purse off of the bench and began to run away.

Everything that I did after that kid took my bag was instinctual. I didn't have a moment to process that I was being robbed, I didn't consider being scared, I didn't call for help. I didn't think at all.

My body took over. My mouth hollered a particularly loud obscenity without hesitation. My body leaped off of the bench into a full sprint after them. Then my lucky break - the kid with my purse tripped - and before my brain could question the wisdom of the action, my feet left the ground and I pounced on him. I didn't think about the pain of throwing myself on the pavement or the possibility of him holding a weapon. I tackled him with all my weight and made sure he couldn't pick my purse up. He twisted out from under me and escaped to join his cowardly cohort, who was several yards away before he turned around and saw me jump on his friend. As they ran out of the park and the still-shocked pedestrians looked on, my mouth screamed after them, "Get out of here! Get out of here!" and it wasn't til that night that I realized my throat was sore from my victorious cry.

Only when they had almost left the park did I regain logical function. My cell phone, still clutched in my fist, began to ring, and I rejoined civil society. The park came rushing back at once and I had to remember what I must do. Like my first car accident. A blur, a trauma, and then suddenly the world demands answers. I must give my terrified mother a brief reassurance. I must count my possessions. I must not ignore the old woman in the park repeatedly asserting that I am "a fighter." I must tell the people on the sidewalk that I'm okay. I must push through my shock. I must decide the next step. All at the same time.

I extricated myself from the conversations with the observers. A little shaken, more at my transformation than the robbery, I headed back to my office. I did not call the police, but someone told a passing cop about the situation. He drove up next to me, heard my story and did his duty of looking for the kids. I could not give him a detailed description. I couldn't remember anything except that they were skinny teens wearing hoods and jeans.

I returned to the office, received permission to go home, and clutched my purse tightly the whole way back to Brooklyn. I was almost at my stop when a real classy guy threatened to beat up an old man for not moving further into the train. I considered saying something to him, but realized that not even mentioning the example he was setting for his son would change his demeanor or elicit remorse. The only way to combat that everyday nastiness is to not be nasty, not even to those who treat you nastily.


I'm not upset about what happened. The robbers were unsuccessful and my involuntary ferocity has left me feeling more powerful and less careless.

Other Unexpected Joys

Recently I saw the move The Curious Case of Benjamin Button. I wasn't really crazy about it, and then I found out it was based on an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel. And my opinion didn't change. (Yes, I dislike Fitzgerald. No, I don't want to hear any arguments for him)

One scene from the film is stuck in my brain. It's not particularly original, but it just came along at the appropriate time. The married woman Benjamin has an affair with in Russia tells him that she regrets spending her youth waiting for something to happen. She regrets wasting her time, because you can't get wasted time back.

I wouldn't say it motivated me, but that scene is one of many events inspiring me to try harder to not waste my time watching TV. Even if I can't find a better job right now, I can at least spend my free time doing things that I enjoy, that add to my life instead of wasting my time. I don't want to reach middle age and realize that I never lived my life.

I'm eagerly awaiting a shipment of one foot square canvases to finally finish the painting project that I began inadvertently several years ago. On our second Valentine's Day together, Mr. Fuji gave me a thoughtful, encouraging, and unusual gift of two one foot square canvases and a few small bottles of paint. I did not appreciate the gift at the time. Two summers later, I decided to try my hand at painting. I've been drawing all my life, but I had never really painted on a canvas.

It was a summer between semesters and hot, as usual, in my parent's suburban home. I was alone that afternoon, and I spread out some newspaper on the living room floor. I planned out my painting carefully, sketching on a pad first, then experimenting with pastels for the color (which I adore using and smearing and mixing). I painted a symbol of childhood summers so simple that I was embarrassed to call it art. If you have ever been in any of my apartments, you've seen the two paintings. They are dear to me. They are not just images from my heart, but evidence of Mr. Fuji's unfailing faith in my abilities.

I have only recently been convinced that they "count." It took a lot of praise for them to convince me that maybe they could mean something to someone else. I always liked their simple joy, but never thought they could reach beyond my personal edification and be interesting to other people. Mr. Fuji also always loved them, but he was my boyfriend at the time and was kind of obliged to say they were good, so I suppose I didn't quite trust his opinion. It was when his father, an internationally respected artist, finally saw and complimented my art that I was encouraged to continue painting.

I painted my family's Christmas gifts this past holiday season, but I didn't get a chance to continue my series. I wanted the gifts to be more personal, but painting brought the itch back. I will be painting. I wonder if finishing the series in colors will get these images out of my mind.

Reality Bites

There isn't enough distraction to keep my introspection at bay for long. I can watch 5 hours of Grey's Anatomy, go out for sushi with my husband and my father, chill at bars, bridal showers, parties with my old House... but when I sit here at my desk with a saw of some kind whirring incessantly behind me and the rain pattering on the skylight, I can't stop myself from thinking.

I've always loved watching TV, but I don't think I've ever used it to distract myself from reality before. As a child I used it as an excuse to stay up later, as all kids do. In high school I used it to procrastinate, as all teenagers do. In college, it contributed to my sleep deprivation, as is the case for most college students. As an adult, I use it to distract myself from my frustrating occupation and pacify my growing discontent. As most adults do, perhaps?

Unhappiness keeps me from doing the things that make me happy. What a defeating cycle.

I'm not entirely unhappy. I've had a lot of great days, and I'm constantly thankful for Mr. Fuji and his amazingness. I spend 11 hours, 5 days a week, unhappy. But I am hopeful. I don't think I should publicly broadcast why just yet (since I can't remember if this blog is private or not). I may just be posting about it soon. I hope.