For those that like to receive the Merrys and Happys of the holidays mattering not from whom it's cast, Happy (belated) Valentine's Day. For that matter, depending on the state in which you reside or school district you attend, Happy (belated) Lincoln's birthday. With that done, on to the task at hand.
You know when you finish Thanksgiving (Happy very belated) dinner, and let us presume there was a turkey involved, and you feel sleepy, lethargic, unmotivated and patently useless, among other things? That's about as my entire month of January went. It even rolled a bit into February. This is not normal for me. As much as I relish the December season, or at least the anticipation part up to the 25th of the month, I am essentially done with the whole celebration before the New Year rolls around. That's not to say my lights aren't still lit up in the evening, but I'm already turning my sights and thoughts into the winds of spring.
This time, the changing of the calendar guard found me in a entirely new place, literally and figuratively, than had been the case for quite a few years.
The crux is my continued effort to find regular employment. Yes, I know, me and the other 9, 12 or 16 percent of the population (dependent on the state in which one lives and/or the news source one subscribes to). The point is my Januarys of the past were full of hopes, dreams and the coming of baseball. This time around it was just a muddled mess of effort with no result, which in turn led to a mundane existence and finally a jaded and cynical global view. By global I mean whatever I can see from under the rock that's within the tiny bubble I had created to define a life. I was in a state of perpetual bummed.
"Where is bliss?" I would cry out. "Why is no one responding to the hundreds of resumes I have sent to the ends of the ethernet?" I must be worthless, too old, not hip enough in the not-so-subtle nuances of social media, definitely not hip at all in the subtle ones. I must be trapped in the 80s. Fortunately, I have a little voice attached to a big hand that would smack me across the noggin hard enough to jar those unhelpful thoughts loose before they could permanently adhere themselves as so many rock-sucking limpets. Stress still kept me from enjoying restful slumber, but I knew which way was up. More or less. When you're under water and you exhale, it's relatively easy to see the direction in which the air pockets are headed. For me, it was more like trying to chase smoke in a windstorm.
I've done, and am doing the networking thing. I've limited the online job search because everybody and their book publisher says it's just short of wasting your time. Although a member of LinkedIn for some time, I've spent more time updating, polishing and joining, including one group that looked promising but every other post comes to me in what I think is German. Seriously. There was no indication of that when I joined. They could be talking about that great, talented guy in Walnut Creek and here is the perfect job for him and I would never know. Danke!
But it got me thinking. Have you ever felt as though you belonged to another era? Like the 50s, hanging with Fonzie? I sometimes wonder if I would do better with a different set of rules, a climate of attitude that is perhaps gone forever but resides in my soul. Everything I know about life prior to the 60s (1960s, let's get that straight right now) is from books, movies, television and the occasional story from those who lived it. And even then it's hard to fathom at times. When someone is talking about their involvement in a war (any war, pick one), it is impossible for me to imagine the horrors of it. Even seeing our more recent conflicts on the internet, on television and in magazines, there is no way I can provide any empathy because I haven't been there. It sure looks bad, but I'm bright enough to know those images and stories are an infinitesimal slice of what it must be like.
Anyway, would I have been able to carve out a life in the Old West? Would the pervasive attitude of the times conviced me to lie about my age and join the ranks for the Great War or World War II? Could I be happy with the comparative innocence of mid-twentieth century necking, not to mention the actual use of the word? I feel a kinship with those times, but I don't know why. Young but alive in the 60s and 70s, I don't have the same attraction to sit-ins, communes and disco. Maybe because I was alive.
Is it that the grass is always greener somewhere I'm not? Certainly in times of strife I'm certain that's the case. And maybe I had given in to the idea that it was easier to lie on my patch of January weeds, dream a little woe-is-me dream and wait for opportunity to knock, or at least to try and sell me a Honda.
But ultimately that's not who I am. Little voice, big hand, bigger (smack!) reminder, no limpets. I've managed to pull myself out of the January tryptophan coma, done some reassessing, made some changes and taken risks. I've seen The King's Speech twice. Barring the privileged monarchy backstory, it's a good romp regarding perseverance.
And I've started looking for a good lawnmower.
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