Amonie
After a brief absense (I'm sure, for some, it was all too brief), I return with yet another musing:
Shortly before Thanksgiving, I accepted a new job -- a full-time, paycheck earning job. One consequence of accepting a full time, paycheck earing job is – and this is so important it ought to be explained in detail before you accept any job; in fact, it should be printed on the job offer, just beneath the salary information so you can make an informed decision about the consequences of your responsibility – that I now sit home alone every Friday night.
The philosophers among us are struggling with: "If you take a full-time job, then you sit at home on Friday night." They are quick to suggest that, perhaps and just perhaps, I have some physical imperfection or some emotional disorder or maybe just a social disease. After all, they argue, millions have full-time jobs and, buddy, they aren't sitting at home on Friday nights (or even on week nights).
I assure you I'm not sitting at home because I'm incapable of scrounging a date from the thousands of single women that just happen to reside within the city limits of my thriving metropolis. Were that the case, I'd be depressed as well as concerned. Instead, full-time employment has taken something from me, something that the Gods gave me before I came to this world, something that I need to find happiness, something instilled in mankind to assure its survival far into the future.
You see, I've lost the will to date.
* * * * *
A word of introduction for those who have not read my musings. When last I visited this island of sanity amidst the insanity filled waters of the internet, I had two jobs. In the first (which I gave up easily and without a thought), I wrote things for lawyers. This is a talent I acquired after spending unbelievable amounts of my parents' money just to squandering three years in a minimum security but maximumly painful environ known as Law School. Don't be fooled, my friends, the only difference between three years in prison and three years in law school is you don't have to pay to go to prison and you get a better legal education.
In addition to my legal writing during the day, I prowled the darkened stacks of my local municipal library by night. That's right, I was a librarian. Yes, I am a man. The first job I did for money; the second I did for love. Books, like writing, bring me joy.
Otherwise, I live by myself. That is, if you don't count the Leprechauns, the Gnomes, the Dwarves and the Trolls that have lived beneath my bed since my childhood. The Werecats, a recent addition, left after we ran out of kitty litter. Thankfully.
My parents live just far enough away that they can't drop in whenever the urge strikes them, but close enough that I can get to them when I need to borrow a buck. Or twenty. Or fifty.
Okay, you're probably thinking this wasn't much of a life, but it was mine and I enjoyed it. It offered little in the way of expensive electronics or antique furniture, but the food was edible, the beer was cold and I could write whenever I wanted. It was probably the closest thing to paradise that I'll see in this lifetime.
More importantly, I dated. I dated for the same reasons I worked at the library. Well, not all the same reasons (after all, I loved working at the library and dating, at times, is sexual torture). But mostly, I dated to avoid becoming a recluse. The world's worst introvert, I'm always a locked door away from becoming a character in a Faulkner novel.
Then I got a job and it all came to an end.
* * * * *
The first thing to go, of course, was the job at the library. For one thing, the money at my new job (although less than I was making writing briefs) was still enough that I couldn't really justify the second job. Besides, I wanted some time to write. And since my new job required that I physically present myself at a place of employment, I wasn't in any immediate danger of becoming homebound. As much as I hated doing so, I turned in my library pass and surrendered the key.
The next thing to go was my writing. It was a subtle change, a kind of fading, like traversing the world in a ship, crossing horizons without knowing it. I just woke up one morning and thought: "I'm not writing anymore." And if you're a writer (it's kind of in my blood, like leukemia or AIDS), you have to write. When you don't, the world around you just fades to gray. It's kind of like watching the color go out on your televison.
The third thing to go was my life. Like my writing, it passed away quietly, dying in the night. My days at work were long and I returned home mentally and physically exhausted. Day after day, I found myself on the couch, watching . . . yeeks! . . . television. I watched the news. I watched David Letterman. I watched the late movie. Then, during a paid commercial break, I realized my life was gone.
Under the circumstances, dating didn't stand a chance.
* * * * *
So what happened?
The French philosopher and sociologist Emile Durkeim coined the phrase Anomie to refer to a loss of direction which occurs within a society during times of extreme change. At such times, people tend to loose their sense of familiarity and purpose. Confused and disoriented, they begin to die inside because their lives are no longer about living. They exist to endure until they loose even their will to live.
And I suppose they don't want to date, either.
I shouldn't be surprised. After all, when I worked at home, I had a window (granted, it overlooked the parking lot but it was still a window). I wrote on a real rock maple table that I acquired when a law office changed locations (next to my ancient laptop, it's the most expensive thing in my house). I listened to music. I drank coffee and tea at will. Sometimes, when no one was around (which was all the time), I'd grab a book and read for awhile or surf the ‘net or maybe just write a quick musing.
Now, I work in a cube. I know, I know – they are now called something idiotically vague, like an ultra-modern work-space or a modular efficiency unit. As if we were all scientists and engineers working to bring in the space shuttle. "Excuse me, Martha, but shuttle is on fire and I must get back to my modular efficiency unit."
And it's gray, of course. Because some clever designer with Ph.D in something other than imagination once discovered that grey goes with anything. Anything. You can have flaming orange carpet with little purple turtles on it and lime green window dressings and our modular efficiency units won't clash at all. Yes, you can suffer eyeball burning migraines from the rest of your surroundings but our units will give you a compete sense of calm. Or apathy. Or indifference.
Another reason I've lost the will to date is the people that surround me. Which comes as a complete and unexpected surprise because – you got it! – I'm writing for a living.
I've always entertained the thought that writers, like other artists, were more imaginative and creative than, say, your average employee of Jiffy Lube. So, when I took a job writing scripts for online training programs and movies, I naturally assumed I'd be working with fun, creative people who would poke fun at their job. Kind of like when I was at the library, right?
Hah!!
Once you get past mile after mile of The Lord of the Rings posters (if you didn't know any better, you might just think this was the only movie ever made), you suddenly realize these people take their jobs very seriously. Educating the local deli employee on the nuances of operating a cheese slicer is something akin to curing cancer. And imagination? The trolls beneath my bed sport more imagination than some of these people.
A conversation, just to give a glimpse of the seventh circle:
The woman who sits across the isle from me (who has a M.A. in creative writing, thank you very much) inquires about my weekend. "It was fine," I said. "I went out and saw Hero."
"Isn't that a Dustin Hoffman movie?" she asks.
"No," I replied. "It Yimou Zang's new movie."
"Oh." And after a minute: "Is that a foreign film?"
Hmmmm . . .
At Alcoholics Anonymous, they teach you that recognizing the problem is the first step towards the cure. Well, I now know I have a problem. Every day when I walk through the doors of my company, walking down row upon row of cubes, past the awe-inspiring images of Elijah Wood, I am reminded of my problem. Yes, I see it clearly and in sharp detail.
I must fight – I must. I cannot let myself end up like them.
Let the dating begin!!
The Shadow One
Life is like a gift from your grandmother -- it's cheap, unreturnable and never what you wanted
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