Our CFO has three CDs which he likes to alternate bi-weekly and which have become a form of mid-level office torture that feels pretty extreme these days. It's one thing to not like your job. It's another thing entirely to not like it, find out that it's possibly going to become obsolete at the hands of the same machete-wielding employment Grim Reaper who's cutting his way through all Manhattan office buildings and then be thrown into a weird sort of needing it/hating it/questioning why you even care about something that has given you acne, a drinking problem and anger issues in the first place conflict--all accompanied by the easy melodies of a.) Barbra Streisand in concert b.) Lionel Richie or c.) Genesis' Greatest Hits. The things is, he doesn't even switch them out. He'll just play one, all day long, over and over, for weeks at a time. Working across from him feels like being trapped in a retirement community's elevator with a ringing phone and a coffee maker.
As my personal hero Ellen Griswald would say, "under the circumstances", I have chosen to manage my stress in the following ways:
1.) By eating two bags of spicy Asian cracker mix, which is guaranteed to produce at least three canker sores before I'm outta here at 5:00.
2.) By using a paperclip to pick away at my perfect manicure, freshly painted yesterday with OPI Moscow Nights, a dusky, chocolate shimmer that, when chipped, makes my fingertips look as though I've dug them into someone's skin and begun to rip past the muscle. Freudian desire, perhaps.
3.) By reading the lengthy and pretentious accounts of visits to my dream Punta Cana resort on tripadvisor.com. Travel research is my weapon. The minute I see "10:00 a.m. conference call" in my email inbox, I go right to Google Maps and pick a destination. It's faster than morphine--a mantra that slips right into my veins and up to my brain: 'you are not trapped.'
4.) By trying on and wiping off every lip gloss in my desk drawer and then analyzing the color in my little gold antique mirror. Frost makes me look old. Pink makes me look cheap. It's decided, then. I pretty much can't wear lip gloss.
What I'm coming to realize is there's a sort of freedom in the intolerable. The absurdity of functioning too far beyond your limits feels like breathing inside a snakeskin right before it falls to the ground. But the unbearable itch of shedding a life that's too small does eventually give way to a brand new skin. Keeping this truth in my pocket as things begin to unravel is money in the bank. And yes, I think things are gonna have to unravel and possibly even break into a million little shards at my feet before I can build myself a bigger glass palace. But it's gonna be okay. If I get a slick new snakeskin me outta the deal, then I'm in.
As my personal hero Ellen Griswald would say, "under the circumstances", I have chosen to manage my stress in the following ways:
1.) By eating two bags of spicy Asian cracker mix, which is guaranteed to produce at least three canker sores before I'm outta here at 5:00.
2.) By using a paperclip to pick away at my perfect manicure, freshly painted yesterday with OPI Moscow Nights, a dusky, chocolate shimmer that, when chipped, makes my fingertips look as though I've dug them into someone's skin and begun to rip past the muscle. Freudian desire, perhaps.
3.) By reading the lengthy and pretentious accounts of visits to my dream Punta Cana resort on tripadvisor.com. Travel research is my weapon. The minute I see "10:00 a.m. conference call" in my email inbox, I go right to Google Maps and pick a destination. It's faster than morphine--a mantra that slips right into my veins and up to my brain: 'you are not trapped.'
4.) By trying on and wiping off every lip gloss in my desk drawer and then analyzing the color in my little gold antique mirror. Frost makes me look old. Pink makes me look cheap. It's decided, then. I pretty much can't wear lip gloss.
What I'm coming to realize is there's a sort of freedom in the intolerable. The absurdity of functioning too far beyond your limits feels like breathing inside a snakeskin right before it falls to the ground. But the unbearable itch of shedding a life that's too small does eventually give way to a brand new skin. Keeping this truth in my pocket as things begin to unravel is money in the bank. And yes, I think things are gonna have to unravel and possibly even break into a million little shards at my feet before I can build myself a bigger glass palace. But it's gonna be okay. If I get a slick new snakeskin me outta the deal, then I'm in.
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