I'm really gratified by the response to yesterday's post. A bunch of people have reached out to me already, which I greatly appreciate. I figured I'd might as well strike while the iron is hot and keep the blog momentum going.
Hopefully, I won't need to keep posting cries for help to maintain this level of interest. (I've gotten about 80 unique pageviews the last 2 days, which is nearly unprecedented for this blog.) I've had many bouts of depression and anxiety in my life, but I've never been suicidal, so I don't think y'all need to worry about that.
A big factor in my emotional trainwreck is my inability to find a meaningful, rewarding job. Since I left the corporate world over a year ago, I've only had 1 interview with a non-profit, and that was for a temp job. In the months before my departure, I had 1 phone interview with another non-profit.
I've come to the conclusion that I have no idea how to negotiate the job market. It's like I have no shot at any job that would meet my standards for providing tangible benefits to humanity without driving me crazy with stress. Maybe I'm being too picky, although I've certainly lowered my standards on the second point, and I'm becoming more flexible on the first. (I recently signed up with one of my old temp agencies.)
I'd really like to suspend my moral standards for a while, frankly. I'm beginning to think my conscience is way too sensitive to the corruption in CorpWorld. When I worked in health insurance, I beat myself up for being part of a system that profits from pain and suffering. When I worked in finance, I beat myself up for being a cog in the machine that's sucking the life out of the global economy.
But is all that guilt justified? I may not like everything those companies do, but it's not like the insurance company and the financial company never paid out for their customers. They helped a lot of people. Maybe they could've helped more people, but...
This is the wrong line of reasoning. It just feels like rationalization. Maybe if I were more practiced at making the pro-corporate argument I could ease my conscience back into the cubicle. As things stand, though, I'll have to find other grounds for selling out.
Through this principled rejection of corporate jobs, I feel like I'm emotionally martyring myself for nothing. Who exactly am I helping with this one-man strike? The worst part is I have no community of like-minded people to support me. That's what makes it hard, because I feel so alone in this moral stand, left to weather the headwinds of society on my own.
At this point in the essay, I need to temper my self-righteousness with a reality check. I don't really know if it was the guilt or the stress that drove me to quit those jobs. My position with the insurance company was cushy. I was there for 5 years and only left because of my own emotional issues. The other jobs I've had have been stressful.
If I'd found another job as easy as the one with the insurance company, I might've stuck with it. But my conscience probably would've eventually forced me to quit. Considering the misery I've experienced in the year-and-a-half since I quit my last corporate gig, I wonder if leaving CorpWorld was the right thing to do.
I think the real problem is I haven't had the guts to take the necessary steps to escape CorpWorld. All those paths seem to require leaving my comfort zone, either the physical comfort zone of the Twin Cities or a more nebulous mental comfort zone that prefers safety to confrontation.
When I was mowing lawns for seniors this summer, I thought I'd found an escape route. Unfortunately, my back couldn't sustain the workload of lifting the mower in and out of the car trunk. (I also wonder whether I could've stuck with it if I believed in lawns.) But it was an interesting, edifying experience that I should cover in the next blog post to lighten the mood.
On a brighter note, the global stock market (mini-)crash. Some might call it schadenfreude, but I think the rich have it coming, and we could all use a wake-up call when it comes to the vicissitudes of finance and the economy.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Sunday, August 23, 2015
S.O.S.
I should probably write this while I'm treading water in the Ocean of Anxiety that has recently engulfed me. When I go under, I don't have much energy or inclination to dive even deeper inward, as writing requires. It also requires social isolation, something I've gotten way too much of the last several years.
You may consider this yet another cry for help. Just when I think I can't fall any farther, a new trap door opens in my brain and I tumble into deeper depths of anxiety.
This most recent rough patch began a month ago when I decided to quit my lawn-mowing job. This was necessitated by the worsening condition of my back. It seemed I would do great damage if I continued, so I threw in the towel.
This was complicated by my parents' impending 2-week vacation. Suddenly, I was overcome with anxiety at the thought of being home alone. This summer I was reduced to one friend after a falling-out with my other friend. (In this context, "friend" refers to someone I see on a regular basis.)
With the help of a 99-year-old neighbor, phone calls with my sister and the Fringe Festival, I got through those 2 weeks, but there were many rocky parts. Ironically, the anxiety grew after my parents returned.
I'm stuck in an emotional Catch-22. My parents are the only people left I can really count on for consistently available emotional support. But living with them fills me with shame, to the point that I have to repress it and it manifests as anxiety.
This is a First World Problem of the highest order. On the other hand, it seems to highlight the decrepit state of communities in the U.S.A. I've had a hell of a time trying to make new friends in the last few years. One problem is I don't feel well-suited to the task. Another problem is that few people I want to hang out with seem well-suited to it either.
I blame middle school. That's what equipped me with the Great Stoneface and my deadpan demeanor. It was armor against bullying, a trade plied by virtually everyone at my middle school, including, occasionally, myself.
It's horribly depressing that the memory of that madhouse still guides my behavior 23 years later. I can't let it doom me to a life of misery. But I can't do it alone. If you have any fondness for me, now would be a good time to show it.
Thank you.
You may consider this yet another cry for help. Just when I think I can't fall any farther, a new trap door opens in my brain and I tumble into deeper depths of anxiety.
This most recent rough patch began a month ago when I decided to quit my lawn-mowing job. This was necessitated by the worsening condition of my back. It seemed I would do great damage if I continued, so I threw in the towel.
This was complicated by my parents' impending 2-week vacation. Suddenly, I was overcome with anxiety at the thought of being home alone. This summer I was reduced to one friend after a falling-out with my other friend. (In this context, "friend" refers to someone I see on a regular basis.)
With the help of a 99-year-old neighbor, phone calls with my sister and the Fringe Festival, I got through those 2 weeks, but there were many rocky parts. Ironically, the anxiety grew after my parents returned.
I'm stuck in an emotional Catch-22. My parents are the only people left I can really count on for consistently available emotional support. But living with them fills me with shame, to the point that I have to repress it and it manifests as anxiety.
This is a First World Problem of the highest order. On the other hand, it seems to highlight the decrepit state of communities in the U.S.A. I've had a hell of a time trying to make new friends in the last few years. One problem is I don't feel well-suited to the task. Another problem is that few people I want to hang out with seem well-suited to it either.
I blame middle school. That's what equipped me with the Great Stoneface and my deadpan demeanor. It was armor against bullying, a trade plied by virtually everyone at my middle school, including, occasionally, myself.
It's horribly depressing that the memory of that madhouse still guides my behavior 23 years later. I can't let it doom me to a life of misery. But I can't do it alone. If you have any fondness for me, now would be a good time to show it.
Thank you.
Saturday, August 15, 2015
Circumnavigation
I completed my first-ever circumnavigation of the Mall of America yesterday. I've walked around the inside of the Mall many times, but never before had I walked around the outside. It was an interesting journey, if only because the exterior is so barren and bereft of people compared to the interior. Macy's has two identical, impressive entrances around the corner from each other. L.L. Bean also has a nice, imposing portal with a Paul Bunyan-sized boot. (The irony is I didn't even know L.L. Bean had a store in the Mall.)
For half of my journey I was at the bottom of canyons formed by the blank, 5-story wall of the Mall and the just-as-tall-and-reserved parking ramps on the east and west sides. It was a very warm, sunny day, and only about half of my path led through the shade. There were 2 young, pale women sitting in the sun speaking a language I would cautiously call "European." Their fair complexions were in danger of turning a ruddy hue if they stayed in that spot much longer.
I had to flout the traffic laws to complete my quest. The traffic signal on the north side explicitly forbids pedestrians crossing in any direction. I avoided eye contact with the drivers as I walked by their cars. Perhaps it was my status as a scofflaw that made me sheepish, although I've noticed that, as a pedestrian, I often feel inferior to car drivers and passengers. They have a right to stare at me, but I must avert my gaze lest I invade the privacy of their horse-less carriages.
My illicit detour was caused by the construction of the newest, yet-to-be-finished addition to the Mall, a flying buttress of gleaming, jet-setting sophistication branching out from the original square. Even though I'm sure I'll eventually be disgusted by the opportunities for conspicuous consumption therein, for now it looks downright perty.
Once inside, I was surprised by the abundance of shoppers (and browsers). A Friday afternoon in August wouldn't seem to be a big shopping day, yet there were plenty of people milling about and plenty of families in the Nickelodeon-themed theme park. Of course, the Mall is more of a tourist destination than a mall, even for us Minnesotans.
The rest of my day was less leisurely. I played phone tag with a temp agency, but that frustration actually bore fruit. The lady said there was a 6-month data entry gig. To apply for it, she just needed me to email her an updated resume, and then she'd send me an Excel test to show I had at least a basic understanding of the program.
"Great!" I thought. Now all I needed to find was a functioning WiFi network, but this task proved to be shockingly difficult. I scoured the Mall and came up empty. (I should point out that I had no patience to wait in line at the various Starbucks and Caribou Coffee's. I didn't have much faith in the speed of their service or their WiFi.) I drove to Eagan and found another Caribou, but my browser kept crashing, so I hit the road again.
After squandering the entire afternoon in search of internet access, I finally headed back to the vicinity of Uptown and found an operational network at a coffee shop I've visited a few times before. The resume was sent off quickly, and the Excel test was pretty much aced, but by then it was 6 o'clock. The temp agency lady had asked me to finish it that day, so I'm not sure if she meant by the close of business.
Whatever. I was relieved just to have managed to get online and ace the Excel test without having a panic attack. We'll see how I handle a possible return to the corporate world. I suppose I can console myself with the thought that it's just to tide me over until I can finally fulfill my destiny as an organic farmer.
For half of my journey I was at the bottom of canyons formed by the blank, 5-story wall of the Mall and the just-as-tall-and-reserved parking ramps on the east and west sides. It was a very warm, sunny day, and only about half of my path led through the shade. There were 2 young, pale women sitting in the sun speaking a language I would cautiously call "European." Their fair complexions were in danger of turning a ruddy hue if they stayed in that spot much longer.
I had to flout the traffic laws to complete my quest. The traffic signal on the north side explicitly forbids pedestrians crossing in any direction. I avoided eye contact with the drivers as I walked by their cars. Perhaps it was my status as a scofflaw that made me sheepish, although I've noticed that, as a pedestrian, I often feel inferior to car drivers and passengers. They have a right to stare at me, but I must avert my gaze lest I invade the privacy of their horse-less carriages.
My illicit detour was caused by the construction of the newest, yet-to-be-finished addition to the Mall, a flying buttress of gleaming, jet-setting sophistication branching out from the original square. Even though I'm sure I'll eventually be disgusted by the opportunities for conspicuous consumption therein, for now it looks downright perty.
Once inside, I was surprised by the abundance of shoppers (and browsers). A Friday afternoon in August wouldn't seem to be a big shopping day, yet there were plenty of people milling about and plenty of families in the Nickelodeon-themed theme park. Of course, the Mall is more of a tourist destination than a mall, even for us Minnesotans.
The rest of my day was less leisurely. I played phone tag with a temp agency, but that frustration actually bore fruit. The lady said there was a 6-month data entry gig. To apply for it, she just needed me to email her an updated resume, and then she'd send me an Excel test to show I had at least a basic understanding of the program.
"Great!" I thought. Now all I needed to find was a functioning WiFi network, but this task proved to be shockingly difficult. I scoured the Mall and came up empty. (I should point out that I had no patience to wait in line at the various Starbucks and Caribou Coffee's. I didn't have much faith in the speed of their service or their WiFi.) I drove to Eagan and found another Caribou, but my browser kept crashing, so I hit the road again.
After squandering the entire afternoon in search of internet access, I finally headed back to the vicinity of Uptown and found an operational network at a coffee shop I've visited a few times before. The resume was sent off quickly, and the Excel test was pretty much aced, but by then it was 6 o'clock. The temp agency lady had asked me to finish it that day, so I'm not sure if she meant by the close of business.
Whatever. I was relieved just to have managed to get online and ace the Excel test without having a panic attack. We'll see how I handle a possible return to the corporate world. I suppose I can console myself with the thought that it's just to tide me over until I can finally fulfill my destiny as an organic farmer.
Wednesday, July 15, 2015
Giants of Basketball Style: Lawrence "Long Socks" Moten
I'd like to take a timeout from the usual subject matter of this blog to pay tribute to a true Giant of Basketball Style: Lawrence Moten. Despite barely making a ripple in the NBA, Moten still holds the men's Big East career scoring record. He poured in the points for the Syracuse Orangemen (now just the "Orange") from 1991 to 1995, inspiring an adolescent me with his unconventional game and fashion.
The early and mid-90's were not a time when those who wore knee-high socks were looked upon with favor. I faced this prejudice as a member of my 6th grade traveling basketball team in '89-'90. My refusal to push my socks down and meticulously shape them into a "casual" appearance isolated me from my peers. (Well, that and the total lack of confidence.) Still, though, I persevered in my lonely, principled stand until the following year, when I began middle school and immediately repressed everything that made me stand out.
At least I could take comfort in seeing Lawrence Moten on TV, rocking the knee-highs all alone and scoring with ease. He looked so cool with those long, white socks accentuating his slender, 6'5" frame. As a chunky, 5'11" white guy, I knew I would never look that cool in those socks, but still I kept a pair or two through high school. By the time I got to college, I had the confidence to regularly pull them all the way up and stand alone on the court (in style terms). Without the shining example of Lawrence Moten, I doubt I would've had the courage to make that bold fashion choice. So here's to you, Mr. Moten, and your amazing socks!
Thursday, July 9, 2015
Near Misses
My back has been in revolt since yesterday afternoon. That's when the lumbar region tightened up, rendering moot the idea of doing yoga. I'd already done the full regimen of lower back stretches in the morning. Such are the dangers of lifting a lawn mower into and out of a car trunk about 20 times a week. (My only job right now is mowing lawns for seniors as a nominally independent contractor who gets all his clients from a non-profit.)
Since I can't work out today, I have more time to write, so I can fill y'all in on my latest romantic misadventures. The title of this post is a spoiler, though. These are only tales of blown opportunities, which have always comprised the lion's share of my love life. Hopefully, I'm learning from my mistakes, or this story will get old real quick.
The first incident was a few weeks ago at Galactic Pizza in Uptown. I rarely go in there, so I figured I'd check out their dining experience on a Wednesday evening. I sat on a padded bench with a bunch of tables along it, like an old-fashioned diner. A while after I arrived, a girl sat down at the end of the bench, two spots from me. However, almost immediately after sitting down, she picked up and moved to my other side, right next to me.
Instantly, I'm thinking, "Jackpot!" And, yes, that's because she looked very cute. What followed, though, was an extremely frustrating half-hour of near-flirtation. In my peripheral vision, she appeared to be glancing at me, but every time I turned to face her, she looked away. She was also very fidgety, which I took to be a sign of intense interest and also, perhaps, a shy, nervous disposition. Since this is a disposition to which I'm also subject, I tried not to count it against her.
I accepted the fact that I would have to make the first (direct) move. But there was a young woman and her mother sitting within earshot, and I was quite self-conscious about hitting on a woman in front of such an audience. (Maybe I'd be less hesitant to hit on women if it weren't called "hitting on." Why the violent imagery? It's hard enough to do without the implication of assault.)
The only line I could think of was the oldest one in the book: "Do you come here often?" That made me especially sensitive to the presence of the other people, but, even if I'd come up with a perfect line, I doubt I would've been anymore eager to use it.
After paying the bill, I lingered over my glass of water and notebook. (I'd been writing before my food came.) A burst of courage/desperation came on as I realized that the clock was ticking down, but I couldn't do it. I got up and left, turning to look in the window as I walked by. Of course, by then, when it was too late, she was staring right back at me.
Charlie Brown has a word for this feeling: "AUUUGHHH!!!" It was so frustrating, and she was so cute, that, for just the second (maybe third) time in my life, I posted a "Missed Connection" on craigslist. I even put a picture of myself with it. That's not an easy thing for me to admit, but, like all us confessional comedians, I'm hoping the humor of it will justify the public humiliation. (I also have to admit that I found many of the other Missed Connections hilarious, although those people seem to be in much more dire emotional straits than I.)
The second, and final, incident took place over Pride weekend in downtown Minneapolis. I decided to take in the Brave New Workshop's latest revue. Again, I was alone (a recurring theme in my work and life) and sitting behind a bachelorette party. However, this wasn't a stereotypical bachelorette party. The women were quite well-behaved. The only sign of rowdiness came during the improv set, when one girl made some loud (PG) suggestions for the performers.
One of the party girls caught my eye. I glanced at her throughout the show, but I never caught her looking at me. Afterward, I was walking along Hennepin and her party was behind me. In fact, the girl I had my eye on was directly behind me and accidentally (apparently) kicked my foot. She apologized and, without looking back, I brushed it off. We stopped at an intersection and she repeated her apologies. I turned around to reassure her and she gave me the arm-touch (by which I mean she touched my forearm).
That was the "Eureka!" moment. A few seconds passed while I contemplated my next move. Unfortunately, while I was contemplating, her group headed off in another direction. If not for that momentary delay, I could've easily attached myself to their merry band. But after that I would've had to give chase, a less-than-appealing proposition for a solitary man.
Discouraged, I continued to the elevators in Mayo Clinic Square (formerly Block E) to return to my car. Rather than take them down to the parking garage, though, I mustered the courage to go back out into the night in a long-shot attempt at salvaging something meaningful from that evening. There was a self-consciously unrealistic hope of tracking down the bachelorette party, but really it was just a way to convince myself that I hadn't totally wussed out (again).
I walked down First Avenue toward the Warehouse District, passing by the packed bars and clubs and the people trying to get into or out of them. Most of the people looked to be in their 20's and very physically attractive. But eye candy was all that scene had to offer me. Some casual sex would've been nice, but I had no interest in picking up any of those girls. The noise was deafening wherever I went, and few of the women looked like they were interested in the same things as me. (Of course, considering my preppie attire, I probably didn't look like I was interested in any of the things that I'm interested in. Except sports.)
I've never actually engaged in casual sex, and one of many explanations for that is the bullshit you usually have to go through to get there. Even at the end of the night when I'm usually wallowing in regret, I didn't feel that bad about missing the boat with the bachelorette party girl. She'd sounded a few sheets to the wind already, and drunk people are not my favorite people to be around. Also, "Bachelorette Party" is one of the deepest circles in my personal Hell, so I wasn't really chomping at the bit to hang out with them.
The first situation at Galactic Pizza was by far the better scenario. At least I've gotten to a place where I can accept the possibility that such a cute girl would be interested in me. Now all I need is the additional confidence (and wherewithal) to strike up a conversation.
Since I can't work out today, I have more time to write, so I can fill y'all in on my latest romantic misadventures. The title of this post is a spoiler, though. These are only tales of blown opportunities, which have always comprised the lion's share of my love life. Hopefully, I'm learning from my mistakes, or this story will get old real quick.
The first incident was a few weeks ago at Galactic Pizza in Uptown. I rarely go in there, so I figured I'd check out their dining experience on a Wednesday evening. I sat on a padded bench with a bunch of tables along it, like an old-fashioned diner. A while after I arrived, a girl sat down at the end of the bench, two spots from me. However, almost immediately after sitting down, she picked up and moved to my other side, right next to me.
Instantly, I'm thinking, "Jackpot!" And, yes, that's because she looked very cute. What followed, though, was an extremely frustrating half-hour of near-flirtation. In my peripheral vision, she appeared to be glancing at me, but every time I turned to face her, she looked away. She was also very fidgety, which I took to be a sign of intense interest and also, perhaps, a shy, nervous disposition. Since this is a disposition to which I'm also subject, I tried not to count it against her.
I accepted the fact that I would have to make the first (direct) move. But there was a young woman and her mother sitting within earshot, and I was quite self-conscious about hitting on a woman in front of such an audience. (Maybe I'd be less hesitant to hit on women if it weren't called "hitting on." Why the violent imagery? It's hard enough to do without the implication of assault.)
The only line I could think of was the oldest one in the book: "Do you come here often?" That made me especially sensitive to the presence of the other people, but, even if I'd come up with a perfect line, I doubt I would've been anymore eager to use it.
After paying the bill, I lingered over my glass of water and notebook. (I'd been writing before my food came.) A burst of courage/desperation came on as I realized that the clock was ticking down, but I couldn't do it. I got up and left, turning to look in the window as I walked by. Of course, by then, when it was too late, she was staring right back at me.
Charlie Brown has a word for this feeling: "AUUUGHHH!!!" It was so frustrating, and she was so cute, that, for just the second (maybe third) time in my life, I posted a "Missed Connection" on craigslist. I even put a picture of myself with it. That's not an easy thing for me to admit, but, like all us confessional comedians, I'm hoping the humor of it will justify the public humiliation. (I also have to admit that I found many of the other Missed Connections hilarious, although those people seem to be in much more dire emotional straits than I.)
The second, and final, incident took place over Pride weekend in downtown Minneapolis. I decided to take in the Brave New Workshop's latest revue. Again, I was alone (a recurring theme in my work and life) and sitting behind a bachelorette party. However, this wasn't a stereotypical bachelorette party. The women were quite well-behaved. The only sign of rowdiness came during the improv set, when one girl made some loud (PG) suggestions for the performers.
One of the party girls caught my eye. I glanced at her throughout the show, but I never caught her looking at me. Afterward, I was walking along Hennepin and her party was behind me. In fact, the girl I had my eye on was directly behind me and accidentally (apparently) kicked my foot. She apologized and, without looking back, I brushed it off. We stopped at an intersection and she repeated her apologies. I turned around to reassure her and she gave me the arm-touch (by which I mean she touched my forearm).
That was the "Eureka!" moment. A few seconds passed while I contemplated my next move. Unfortunately, while I was contemplating, her group headed off in another direction. If not for that momentary delay, I could've easily attached myself to their merry band. But after that I would've had to give chase, a less-than-appealing proposition for a solitary man.
Discouraged, I continued to the elevators in Mayo Clinic Square (formerly Block E) to return to my car. Rather than take them down to the parking garage, though, I mustered the courage to go back out into the night in a long-shot attempt at salvaging something meaningful from that evening. There was a self-consciously unrealistic hope of tracking down the bachelorette party, but really it was just a way to convince myself that I hadn't totally wussed out (again).
I walked down First Avenue toward the Warehouse District, passing by the packed bars and clubs and the people trying to get into or out of them. Most of the people looked to be in their 20's and very physically attractive. But eye candy was all that scene had to offer me. Some casual sex would've been nice, but I had no interest in picking up any of those girls. The noise was deafening wherever I went, and few of the women looked like they were interested in the same things as me. (Of course, considering my preppie attire, I probably didn't look like I was interested in any of the things that I'm interested in. Except sports.)
I've never actually engaged in casual sex, and one of many explanations for that is the bullshit you usually have to go through to get there. Even at the end of the night when I'm usually wallowing in regret, I didn't feel that bad about missing the boat with the bachelorette party girl. She'd sounded a few sheets to the wind already, and drunk people are not my favorite people to be around. Also, "Bachelorette Party" is one of the deepest circles in my personal Hell, so I wasn't really chomping at the bit to hang out with them.
The first situation at Galactic Pizza was by far the better scenario. At least I've gotten to a place where I can accept the possibility that such a cute girl would be interested in me. Now all I need is the additional confidence (and wherewithal) to strike up a conversation.
Thursday, June 25, 2015
Pumping Irony
I'm no Joe Piscopo, but I would like to be in shape (someday), so I work out pretty regularly. Recently, I've started using free weights. This would have the added benefit of making me look super-cool if I were lifting significant amounts of weight. Unfortunately, I'm not, so it has taken some guts (and humility) for me to move from the "machine zone" to the free weight area at my gym.
The Machine Zone is for the civilians, those people who want to be in shape, but don't wanna put a lot of thought into it. There's also the Cardio Zone for people who just wanna be skinny. The free weight area, however, is for those who are truly dedicated to the craft of body-building. Their level of dedication is sometimes frightening, but you can't question their commitment. (You can only question whether they should be committed.)
Through brute strength, they have "raised the bar" (get it?) for entry to the free weight area. Most people are too intimidated to venture into that "sanctum sanctorum" of physical fitness for fear of having their relative weakness exposed in public. But not this guy! I've proudly stridden into the domain of the not-at-all-doughy and displayed my lack of strength next to those brawny behemoths.
Seriously, though, it takes some gumption to do an incline chest press at the gym when you're only lifting the bar. Even on a regular bench press I've just been putting one 2.5-pound weight on each side. It's kind of embarrassing. One question for the equipment manufacturer: Why do you have to make the bars so freaking heavy?! I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation, but, frankly, I don't want to hear it.
So far, no one's made fun of me or kicked sand in my face and run off with my best girl. Therefore, I think it's safe to say that, like many of life's obstacles, this barrier is self-imposed. Nor is the free weight area an exclusive club that confers social privileges to its denizens. In other words, if I wanna get laid, I'm still gonna need confidence and social skills.
The Machine Zone is for the civilians, those people who want to be in shape, but don't wanna put a lot of thought into it. There's also the Cardio Zone for people who just wanna be skinny. The free weight area, however, is for those who are truly dedicated to the craft of body-building. Their level of dedication is sometimes frightening, but you can't question their commitment. (You can only question whether they should be committed.)
Through brute strength, they have "raised the bar" (get it?) for entry to the free weight area. Most people are too intimidated to venture into that "sanctum sanctorum" of physical fitness for fear of having their relative weakness exposed in public. But not this guy! I've proudly stridden into the domain of the not-at-all-doughy and displayed my lack of strength next to those brawny behemoths.
Seriously, though, it takes some gumption to do an incline chest press at the gym when you're only lifting the bar. Even on a regular bench press I've just been putting one 2.5-pound weight on each side. It's kind of embarrassing. One question for the equipment manufacturer: Why do you have to make the bars so freaking heavy?! I'm sure there's a perfectly reasonable explanation, but, frankly, I don't want to hear it.
So far, no one's made fun of me or kicked sand in my face and run off with my best girl. Therefore, I think it's safe to say that, like many of life's obstacles, this barrier is self-imposed. Nor is the free weight area an exclusive club that confers social privileges to its denizens. In other words, if I wanna get laid, I'm still gonna need confidence and social skills.
Wednesday, June 10, 2015
Delusions of Grandeur
In my youth, when inspiration struck me, when it really pierced me to the heart, plunging its spear to the core of my being, I was sometimes overcome by the feeling that God was speaking through me. "I am your vessel, O Lord!" I would exclaim (in my head). "Do with me what you will!" But then, a few days later, I would read what I wrote and think, "Well that sucks."
Such is the outrageous hope (and arrogance) of the young artist. Or so I'd like to believe. I'd hate to think I'm the only one who has harbored such extravagant delusions of grandeur. But these flights of fancy are necessary (fingers crossed) to give many artists the courage for the giant leaps into the unknown that great art requires.
My forays into the void have largely been fueled by that supreme (some would say "delusional") self-confidence. Of course, the grander my delusions, the more vulnerable they are to puncture. The work of which I'm most proud is also the work I can least bear to hear criticized. It's a paradox that has kept me from sharing much of my writing.
But what kind of confidence is popped by the tiniest needle? Not a terribly useful kind, that's for sure. It would be better to call it "self-importance" rather than "self-confidence." I invested too much of my sense of self-worth in my art. The truly self-confident artist would submit their work for review and use the feedback to refine their craft.
I just wanted people to tell me how good (and great) I was. The art was merely a device to cultivate external validation.
Funny how my insecurity manifested as an artistic Messiah Complex: "The world needs to hear this! No longer can I keep these works of genius to myself! I was put on this earth to share my vision with Humanity and lead Mankind to a glorious new Golden Age!"
Recalling the proportions of those fantasies, I wonder about the depth of my pain. Is that what inflated my delusions? Or was it just the arrogance (and ignorance) of youth?
Such is the outrageous hope (and arrogance) of the young artist. Or so I'd like to believe. I'd hate to think I'm the only one who has harbored such extravagant delusions of grandeur. But these flights of fancy are necessary (fingers crossed) to give many artists the courage for the giant leaps into the unknown that great art requires.
My forays into the void have largely been fueled by that supreme (some would say "delusional") self-confidence. Of course, the grander my delusions, the more vulnerable they are to puncture. The work of which I'm most proud is also the work I can least bear to hear criticized. It's a paradox that has kept me from sharing much of my writing.
But what kind of confidence is popped by the tiniest needle? Not a terribly useful kind, that's for sure. It would be better to call it "self-importance" rather than "self-confidence." I invested too much of my sense of self-worth in my art. The truly self-confident artist would submit their work for review and use the feedback to refine their craft.
I just wanted people to tell me how good (and great) I was. The art was merely a device to cultivate external validation.
Funny how my insecurity manifested as an artistic Messiah Complex: "The world needs to hear this! No longer can I keep these works of genius to myself! I was put on this earth to share my vision with Humanity and lead Mankind to a glorious new Golden Age!"
Recalling the proportions of those fantasies, I wonder about the depth of my pain. Is that what inflated my delusions? Or was it just the arrogance (and ignorance) of youth?
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